Chapter 7 Willow
Willow
“You’re making quite a dent with these files.”
I lift my head from the stacks of papers I’ve sorted through since I started volunteering at Pennsylvania Wrongful Conviction Center a week ago.
Gordon, as he’s insisted I call him, stands in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. Shifting my eyes from him to the numerous boxes around the room, I heave a sigh.
“Not a big enough one,” I say.
Gordon pushes off the doorframe to sit in a chair across the long conference table from me. “I gotta say, I’m surprised you haven’t brought me any cases you think warrant another look.”
“To be honest, I’ve had six set aside to do just that.”
He arches a brow. “What stopped you?”
“I did a little more research on the cases and realized that they were the same as ninety-nine percent of the cases we’re asked to take a look at.”
“And that is?”
“Pure bullshit,” I blurt before slapping a hand over my mouth. When my boss chuckles, I lower my arm and smile sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be, Willow. It’s a pretty accurate description. The majority of the letters we receive from inmates are exactly that… bullshit. We have to find that one percent, that needle in a stack of needles that deserves our time and effort.”
“Well, when I come across it, I’ll let you know.”
He taps the table as he stands. “Good. In the meantime, I’ve got an interview tomorrow with a potential client, and I’d like you to join me.”
“You would?”
“Yes. Since I have you as our first line of defense against the bullshit cases, it makes sense that you’d get to see the kind of case that I’ve deemed worthy of a fresh look.”
Excitement hums in my veins. “Count me in.”
Gordon flashes a kind smile. “We’ll leave at ten. The interview is at one, but it’s quite a drive to the prison. We’ll grab lunch on the way, and I’ll give you a rundown of the case.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He looks past me at the clock I know is on the wall. “Look, it’s almost seven. Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow could be a pretty long day.”
If I thought the car ride to the prison would give me the opportunity to talk to Gordon, I was wrong. He’s been on the phone the entire time, and as much as I hate to eavesdrop, it’s impossible.
“I know it’s a long shot,” he snaps to the woman on the other end of the call. “But this guy’s only hope is if there’s DNA that can be tested.”
“Mr. Humphrey, we’ll do our best, as always. Just don’t—”
“Get my hopes up,” he finishes for her. “Yes, Melinda, I know.”
“Give me twenty-four hours to see if I can pull a viable sample from the beer bottle you sent. I’ll be in touch.”
Melinda disconnects the call, and Gordon shoves a frustrated hand through his silver hair. After a few minutes, he glances at me.
“You sure this is how you want to spend your free time?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply without hesitation.
“Don’t get me wrong, Melinda and the lab do an incredible job, but it’s very frustrating when you know that the freedom of a man hangs in the balance of what they do or don’t find.”
“And without new DNA evidence, exoneration or a new trial is highly unlikely.”
“Exactly.”
An hour and a half into the drive, we stop for lunch at a small diner, and Gordon provides the details of Billy Jones’ case.
He’s twenty-one years into his life without parole sentence for the rape and murder of a nineteen-year-old college student.
He was convicted based on circumstantial evidence and the witness identification of an elderly janitor.
Billy has maintained his innocence from the moment he was arrested, and his story hasn’t changed once.
When we arrive at the prison, we go through security, and Gordon introduces me to a few of the guards, as well as the warden. Everyone seems friendly enough, and I’m surprised at how kind they are to Billy when he’s brought into the interview room.
“Mr. Jones, I’m Gordon Humphrey, an attorney with the PWCC,” Gordon says, shaking his hand. “And this is Miss Crane, one of our volunteers.”
“Please, call me Billy. And it’s nice to meet both of you.”
Gordon doesn’t waste any time before getting to the point of our visit.
“As I said when we spoke on the phone, I think there’s a good case for a new trial, especially with the advancement of DNA processing.
That being said, I want you to tell us what happened all those years ago.
I’ve read the case file, but I’d prefer to hear the details straight from you, if you’re comfortable with that. ”
“Of course,” Billy replies. He darts his gaze from Gordon to me. “I apologize in advance for some of the details. They aren’t exactly polite in mixed company.”
I smile at him, endeared by his genuine thoughtfulness and how well-spoken he is. “No need to apologize, Billy. Nothing you say will offend me, I promise.” I lift my notebook and pen. “Do you mind if I take notes while you talk?”
He shakes his head as he takes a deep breath.
“It was my sophomore year at Penn State, and a Friday night. I went to a party in one of the dormitories. There was a lot of alcohol, and I got drunk like most everyone else. At some point, I passed out in one of the rooms. When I woke up, my head was pounding, and all I wanted to do was get to my own dorm room, which was across campus. I left, and on the way out, I passed a janitor in the hall. I didn’t think anything of it at the time because there was always one scheduled in the mornings.
Anyway, I got to my dorm, took a shower, and crawled into bed to sleep off my hangover.
I didn’t have my eyes closed for more than five minutes when one of my buddies started pounding on the door.
That’s when I found out that Miss Baker had been raped and murdered.
Apparently, her body was found in the room I’d passed out in.
It came out at the trial that her throat had been slit with a razor blade, and she’d been sodomized with a beer bottle, postmortem. ”
“Damn,” I mutter, and Gordon flashes me a silencing look. “Sorry.”
“I have a few questions,” he says to Billy. “Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if the janitor was ever questioned as a person of interest?”
Billy shrugs. “As far as I know, the police only ever considered him a witness.”
“But,” Gordon says, flipping through the case file he brought. “He was the one who found the body, correct?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Okay,” Gordon says, scribbling a note in the margin of the page. “And you didn’t notice Miss Baker’s body when you woke up? Didn’t hear anything throughout the night?”
“No. I’m ashamed to admit, I was very drunk.”
“Had you taken any drugs?” I ask.
Billy looks away. “No.”
“Billy, this won’t work if you’re not honest with us,” Gordon tells him, his tone admonishing. “I understand if you never told the police back then. You were a scared kid. But this is a fight for your life, and we can’t help if you keep things from us.”
Billy stares at the table where his cuffed hands are attached to a hook. “I took a few Xanax. It was the end of midterms, and I’d barely slept that week because I was studying so much.”
“And you were never drug tested as part of the investigation?” I ask.
“No. The cops arrested me a few days later, so I guess it was too late.”
For the two hours, Gordon and I ask questions, and Billy answers. Most are for clarification, and some were simply never asked during the initial investigation. By the time we leave, my mind is buzzing with all the ways Billy was fucked over by the system.
“So, did you learn anything?” Gordon asks me when we're on the road home.
“Our justice system sucks ass,” I quip angrily.
“In some cases, like Billy Jones, yes, it does,” he confirms. “But it’s not all bad.”
I turn in the passenger seat to face him. “How so?”
“It’s the justice system that allows for appeals and for PWCC to even be an option for inmates.”
“True,” I concede.
“Look, this job is hard, and it will take a toll on you if you let it. Find a way to focus on the good that we do because if you don’t, it’ll drag you to the deepest pits of Hell.”
I think about the letters in my closet, about the man who’s haunted my thoughts since I was fourteen. And I think about Billy Jones. The PWCC can do good for both of them.
“I can do that,” I say quietly.