wish I was a fly on the wall when you told him that,” he says to Jaime.
Joseph Nale is the district attorney of Manhattan, Jaime’s former boss, and not the sort to be favorably inclined toward any individual or organization dedicated to exonerating people wrongfully convicted of crimes. Most prosecutors, if they’re honest about it, aren’t fond of lawyers who make it their mission to fight the injustices caused by other lawyers and those they recruited as experts.
“I informed him I’d also been talking with some attorneys I know who work with the Innocence Project,” Jaime continues to explain.
“The one here in Georgia?” I ask.
“The national organization in New York. But I’m acquainted with Curtis Roberts, and I did ask him to do a favor.”
“So Leonard Brazzo wouldn’t know you were behind the invitation for me to meet with Kathleen Lawler. So I wouldn’t know,” I presume.
“I’m having dialogues with firms and in the process of narrowing it down,” Jaime says, as if she didn’t hear me. “Much of it depends on where I want to live.”
“I’m sure what happens in the Lola Daggette case will have some bearing on which law firm you pick,” I say, not so subtly.
“Obviously a large one that also has offices in the South and Southwest,” she replies, as she hands me a glass of wine and gives Marino a Diet Coke. “Red states are fond of executing people, although I don’t intend to have my home base in Alabama or Texas. But to answer your question about how I came to be involved in Lola Daggette’s wrongful conviction, she wrote a number of letters to the Innocence Project and a number of groups and lawyers who take on cases like hers pro bono. The letters were badly written, let me add, and were shelved until this past November, when an emergency stay of execution was denied by the Georgia Supreme Court, inspiring a legal review by various public policy organizations. Then earlier this year there was a botched execution here in Georgia that has caused a lot of concern about whether it was deliberately cruel.
“I was asked if I were interested in Lola Daggette’s case, as there seemed to be some utility in having a woman involved, I was told,” Jaime continues. “Lola’s not known to cooperate with men, and in fact is incapable of trusting a man because of the extreme abuse she suffered as a child at the hands of her stepfather. I said I would take a look. At the time, there was no reason to think there might be any link to you. I started reviewing Lola’s case before Dawn Kincaid attacked you.”
“I’m not seeing a link to Lola Daggette beyond her being in the same prison as Dawn Kincaid’s biological mother,” I reply. “Although if Dawn’s mother, Kathleen Lawler, is to be believed, Lola seems to have some sort of connection to Kathleen. An adversarial one.”
“Most of these cases reviewed by national litigation and public policy organizations involve people incarcerated in Georgia, Virginia, Florida, the red states.” Jaime ignores what I just said. “Many of these people are given life sentences or sentenced to death because of flawed forensics, misidentification, coerced confessions. And there aren’t many women on death row. Currently, Lola is the only woman on death row in Georgia, only one of fifty-six nationwide. And there aren’t many women attorneys with my degree of experience and track record taking on these cases.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.” I won’t let her get away with her self-serving rhetoric. “What it does further explain is your interest in having a presence in certain locales and why it might be wise to take a job with a big firm that has offices everywhere.”
“I have no dining-room table, I’m sure you’ve noticed, so we’ll make ourselves comfortable in the living room. Stay where you are, and I’ll serve.” Jaime carries in our food, and her deep blue eyes meet mine. “I’m glad you got here safely, Kay. I regret any inconvenience or confusion.”
What she means is she regrets any lies. She regrets finding it necessary to manipulate me into showing up to help her with a case that will make a name for her in criminal defense law if she succeeds in freeing Georgia’s most notorious killer, who happens to be the only woman in the state on death row. I don’t want to think there is no altruism involved, but I’m certain I smell ambition and other motivating factors. This isn’t completely about Jaime’s wanting to right a wrong, maybe not even mostly about it. She wants power. She wants to rise from the ashes after being forced out of office in New York City, and she wants sufficient influence to crush enemies such as Farbman and probably a long list of others.
“I shouldn’t drink Diet Coke,” Marino says, as he begins to eat. “Believe it or not, artificial sweeteners can make you fat.”
“I was determined to convey two things to you,” Jaime says to me, as she sits down on the couch with her plate of sushi. “You’d better watch yourself, because you and I both know it’s all about the case. It’s never purely about justice when cops, the FBI, sink their teeth into something. It’s the case. First, last, and always. Quotas, headlines, and promotions.” She reaches for her glass of wine.
“I appreciate the forewarning,” I reply. “But I don’t need your help.”
“Well, you do. And I need yours.”
“White sugar and fake sugar.” Marino glances up at me as he eats, the spoon loudly clacking against the side of the mug. “I stay away.”
“I have a feeling you’ve alienated Colin.” I state the obvious to Jaime. “He can be stubborn but is very good at what he does. He’s well respected by his peers, by law enforcement. He’s also a southern gentleman, and an Irish one at that, through and through. You have to know how to work with people like him.”
“I’m not used to being a pariah.” She is facile with chopsticks. “In fact, you might say I’ve gotten spoiled. Nothing more welcome in an ME’s office or a detective squad than a prosecutor. It’s jolting to find I’ve suddenly turned into the enemy.” She takes a bite of pickled ginger and a spicy tuna roll.
“You’ve not turned into the enemy. You’ve turned into a defense attorney, and I don’t think it’s fair to assume that those of us committed to seeking truth are only on the side of the prosecution.”
“Colin is offended that I intend to get Lola off death row and out of prison,” she says. “He has no interest in my contention that Barrie Lou Rivers is a compelling argument for the GPFW going out of its way to make executions exceedingly cruel. To inflict pain and suffering, and that’s what they’ll do to Lola, who was barely of legal age when she was locked up in that place. It’s all the more barbaric and outrageous because she’s innocent. Colin feels I’m questioning him.”
“And you are. But we’re used to being questioned.”
“He doesn’t like it.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like the way you’re doing it.”
“I could use a good coach.” She smiles, but her eyes don’t.
“I’m grateful you felt morally obligated to tell me that someone might be spreading lies about me, trying to get me in trouble with the Feds,” I tell her pointedly. “But this isn’t quid pro quo.”
“I don’t guess you got any Sharp’s hidden anywhere,” Marino says to Jaime, and he’s already devoured his shrimp bisque and half his french fries, invested in his dinner as if he hasn’t eaten all day.
Jaime dips another roll into wasabi and says to him, “I should have thought to pick up something nonalcoholic, I’m sorry.” Then to me she says, “I was determined to tell you exactly what’s going on before you find out in a way that’s legally and professionally not to your advantage, and the safest way to do this was to talk behind the scenes during the course of other normal things going on.”
“You told an inmate to slip me your cell phone number and instruct me to use a pay phone. I’m not sure that anything thus far constitutes normal things going on.” I try one of the scallops.
“Yes, I did give Kathleen that instruction.”
“And if she tells someone?”
“Who would she tell?”
“One of the guards. Another inmate. Her lawyer. Inmates do nothing but talk, given the chance.”
“I don’t know who would give a shit.” Marino is working on his barbecue shrimp, his napkin making a scratchy sound as he wipes his mouth. “It’s not people at the prison you got to worry about,” he says to me, as he opens another take-out packet of catsup. “It’s the FBI you got to worry about. It wouldn’t be a good thing if they knew Jaime’s informing you of everything they’re doing so they’ve lost the element of surprise by the time they finally show up to question you. I got to do something about my van. Maybe pick up a six-pack of Sharp’s while I’m at it.”
Marino’s right that the FBI wouldn’t like it if it were known that I’ve been forewarned. But it’s too late. The
