“You need to know, Victor, that I did not do what they say I did. I loved my wife. I could never have done such a thing. You must believe me.”
But I didn’t believe him, did I? And what I didn’t believe was not that he didn’t kill his wife, because that early in my involvement in his case, how could I know such a thing? Or that he loved her, because who was I to peer into another man’s heart? No, what I didn’t believe was that he could never have done such a thing – could never have slipped into his wife’s apartment and shot her through the neck and left her on the floor to die as the blood gushed and spattered – and I didn’t believe his earnest, pleading words because I felt the violence in him.
We were in a small, windowless conference room at Graterford Prison, a bleak old complex that sits on a rise overlooking the Perkiomen Creek. The main walls at Graterford are thirty feet high, which is about as high as prison walls go, and considering who was inside, the worst of Philadelphia’s criminal population, every foot was welcome. François’s overalls were maroon, the conference room was slate gray, the air was stale. My partner, Beth Derringer, and I were seated across from François at a metal table, bolted onto the floor so it couldn’t be raised on high and used as a weapon. Just then I was glad for the precaution.
“It doesn’t matter what you did or did not do, Mr. Dubé,” I said. “And it doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m not here to pronounce judgment. That’s already been done by twelve of your peers.”
“They were not my peers,” he said. “They were fools, and they were wrong.”
“A jury is like an umpire at a baseball game. Even if the pitch is a foot outside, if he calls it a strike, it’s a strike. Do you understand?”
“I do not know baseball,” said François Dubé. “All I know is the truth.”
“The truth of the thing, whatever that is, doesn’t matter. The law said you were guilty. The law sentenced you to spend the rest of your life in this prison. The law gave you the right to appeal, and you exercised that right, and your appeals were all denied. The law says you are screwed.”
Maybe I was coming on too strong, maybe I should have shown him a little more sympathy. I mean, there he was, locked away in that hellhole with a life sentence shackled around his neck. He was about my age, he once had a life outside those thirty-foot walls that I would have envied: a restaurant of his own and a reputation as the city’s hot young chef, a pretty wife, a young daughter. His fall had been spectacular. I’m a lawyer, my instinct is to reach out to those in the deepest of troubles, and he certainly qualified. But there was something about François Dubé that was keeping my empathy at bay, or maybe it was just that I had enough problems of my own right then, including something seriously wrong with a tooth, to get all worked up about his.
“I expected innocence to matter in America,” said François Dubé with undisguised bitterness. “But when the Supreme Court refused to hear my case and my lawyer said all my chances were finished, I wrote to you. There must be a way for you to help.” He searched my face and then Beth’s. “Is that not why you’ve come?”
“We came because you paid us,” said Beth. “This meeting is exploratory only. We haven’t agreed to get any more involved in your case.”
“You will not help?”
“Based on what we could glean from the newspaper reports, we don’t see any immediate grounds for a new trial,” she said. “You need something on which to base the request. Are there new DNA results?”
“No,” he said.
“Has a new witness come forward?”
“No.”
“Is there a piece of previously undiscovered forensic evidence?”
“Nothing like that,” said François.
“Do you have something you want us to examine?”
“Everything.”
I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Which means nothing,” I said. “There has to be something new that will convince the trial judge to go through it all again. What should we tell him?”
“That I did not do it,” said François Dubé.
“Innocence is not a basis for a new trial, Mr. Dubé. You claimed innocence at your original trial and failed.”
“I did not fail,” he said. “My lawyer failed. He was terrible.”
“So you want us to claim ineffective assistance of counsel?” said Beth.
“Will that get me free?” said François, his face suddenly lit with hope.
I shook my head. “That and a quarter will get you fifteen minutes on a meter, not a new trial. Your lawyer was Whitney Robinson, right?”
“A doddering old fool,” said François. “His idea of a strategy was no strategy.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Whitney Robinson, besides being a dear friend of mine, is a crackerjack trial attorney.”
“Maybe at some point in his career, but not for me. For my case he was too old, too distracted. Almost senile. He retired right after the Supreme Court turned its back on my hope. It is his fault I am here.”
I felt for my sore tooth with my tongue. Ouch. Yeah, sure, blame the lawyer, blame the jury, the judge, the D.A., blame everyone except the guy who shot his wife point-blank in the neck. I had seen her picture in the newspaper accounts. Leesa Dubé had been young and beautiful, with a marvelous set of teeth. And then she married François.
“Let’s go over the facts,” I said. “From what I understand, the murder weapon was registered in your name.”
“But I left it with my wife when I moved out. For her protection.”
“It was found, wrapped within a shirt of yours, covered with your wife’s blood, on the floor of your closet.”
“I do not know how it got there. The police, maybe. The detective was a lying bastard.”
“Your fingerprints were found at the crime scene.”
“It was my apartment, too, before I moved out. Of course they would be there.”
“You had no alibi.”
“I was alone, asleep. Is that a crime?”
“And an eyewitness spotted you coming out of your wife’s building the night of the murder.”
“He was mistaken. It was not me.”
“Even the best lawyers, including Mr. Robinson, are limited by the evidence available to them. But the truth is, Mr. Dubé, no one cares about the reasons you lost, just that you did. To get another trial now, you need new evidence, new test results, a new witness. You need something fresh, something new and startling. The legal standard is very high.”
“That is why I need your help. To find it. I read about you in the paper, that thing with the Supreme Court justice and the boat. And one of your clients works with me in the kitchen. He speaks most glowingly about you.”
“But that he’s here should clue you in to the fact that I’m not a magician,” I said. “I can’t create evidence out of thin air. If you don’t have anything I can take to the judge, there is nothing I can do.”
“Can you at least take a look at my case?” said François. “Can you at least see if you can come up with something?”
“Mr. Dubé, that would be a waste of everyone’s time. To be honest, you have the time to waste, but unfortunately we do not. Unless you have a compelling piece of new evidence, there is nothing we can do.”
“I need your help, Mr. Carl. I am desperate. I have a daughter. I have not seen her for three years. My wife’s parents won’t let her near me.”
He glanced at Beth with glistening eyes. She stared back for a moment and then placed one of her hands encouragingly over one of his.
“It’s okay, Mr. Dubé,” she said.
“Call me François, please. And you are Beth?”
“That’s right. How old is your daughter?”
“She is four now. I have not seen her for three years, since my arrest. It is breaking my heart.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Beth.
“I have not hugged my daughter for three years, Mr. Carl. I am asking you as a father. Can you help me, please?”