Free False Convictions by Tim Green Page A

this?”
    “First of all,” Casey said, used to the curtness of judges, “thank you for meeting us.”
    The judge inclined his head, then wrapped his meaty hand around his cup cowboy-style before he took a gulp of coffee.
    Casey explained the situation with the hospital, then said, “I was hoping you could give us that order.”
    The judge cut the spongy cake with the edge of his fork and swabbed up some juice before nicking the dab of whipped cream
     and opening wide to get his mouth around the whole mess.
    “I’ll have to talk to the hospital first,” he said, through his food. “Is that it?”
    “Time out,” Jake said, stepping forward.
    The judge’s jowl worked like a piston as he stared without blinking. A bit of whipped cream danced up and down in the corner
     of his lip.
    “This is a judgment call on your part, right?” Jake asked the judge.
    Kollar squinted at Jake, then asked Marty, “Who is that?”
    Marty offered up his empty hands and his face flushed. “Jake Carlson. He’s with the TV show
American Sunday
.”
    “Of course it’s a judgment call,” Kollar said to Jake before taking another bite.
    “Okay, and you want to know all the facts, right?” Jake said.
    Kollar glanced at Marty again. “Which is why I’ll hear what the hospital has to say.”
    “Because one of the facts is the story that’s evolving here,” Jake said, leaning casually against the table with his elbow
     not far from the judge’s dessert. “We’ve got a black man who’s been in jail for twenty years. His trial was rushed and shoddy.
     The defense was a joke, with key witnesses no one ever bothered to find. Now, here we are today in the same small town trying
     to right a wrong, only the evidence is magically destroyed. Then, presto, we come up with another way to get some DNA evidence
     that can set our man free, but that same small town’s new judge wants to think things over.”
    “And your point?” Kollar asked, glowering.
    Jake shrugged. “Just makes a good story, that’s all. You might think, what would a TV network care about some small-town story
     like this, and you’d be right, but then I’d say to you that when Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson show up in Auburn, New York,
     to join forces with a philanthropic billionaire, we’ve got a headliner. Question for you is, what’s your role?”
    Casey watched rage seep into the judge’s face. He scooped up the last bit of cherries jubilee and chewed so intensely that
     even his Adam’s apple bobbed with the effort.
    Finally, he rose, towering above them on the dais, pointed his fork at Casey, and said, “Tomorrow morning at ten in my chambers.
     No reporters, just lawyers. I’ll listen and I’ll make my decision then, and it’ll be based on the law, not a black man with
     a megaphone. That’s it.”
    The judge flashed a dirty look at Marty and stomped away.
    “That was smooth,” Casey said when they reached Jake’s car. “You ever hear of the word
subtle
?”
    “He’ll think about it,” Jake said. “Believe me.”
    “Will you do it?”
    “Depends on whether he gives you the order,” Jake said, starting the car and pulling out onto the drive. “I’ve got some markers.
     Would I? Yeah, I suppose I would. Good for you, right? The publicity you want? Good for the Project? Good for your career?”
    “My career is fine,” Casey said.
    “But it never hurts,” Jake said, a small smile on his lips, his eyes on the road.
    “You think that’s what I’m about?”
    Jake shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, really. Everybody’s about the publicity to a certain extent.
     You learn little tidbits like that after a decade in television.”
    “I’m about tomorrow,” Casey said. “A judge’s chambers, an opposing counsel, and a legal strategy to kick their ass.”
    “Wish I could be there,” Jake said, “but I’ll be on my way to Rochester to interview your boy Graham.”
    “I’ll give you a