The Innocence Project

Chapter One

Prologue

If only I had said something, she would still be alive. As I track her killer, this is the thought that haunts me most. Not fear nor grief but frustration and rage over my impotence in the face of danger.

It is interesting how quickly friendship bonds strengthen in an environment of duress. It happens in the military, during basic training and even more so in combat. You have to trust immediately. That sort of trust requires vulnerability. There is nothing like stress to make one vulnerable. That is the microcosm of law school. Stress and intensely formed friendships. During our first semester, Miranda and I had spent almost all of our time together both in and out of school. I felt closer to her than my own sister. The events that lead to her death lined up in a row…like dominoes. The first one to fall was an invitation to participate in the Innocence Project.

Chapter 1

“Look to your left. Now your right. One of these people will not be here by semester break. Our job is to weed out the misplaced.” The words sounded tinny, as if coming from an old radio placed far away. With an inelegant gush, my lungs forcibly took in oxygen and exhaled dioxide. To my left and right, eighty-nine first year law students were trying not to faint.

“I don’t think he meant “misplaced”…do you?” the words came on a whisper. The finger quotes snapped me back into place. Rapidly blinking, it took a moment to fully appreciate who was speaking to me. Blond hair, blue eyes with a crooked smile offset by symmetrical dimples. Mirth and mischief wrapped in a black pashmina.

“No, I think he meant…weed out the dumbasses.” My lips twitched with either amusement or anxiety. Perhaps both. It was a heady mix in the tight confines of the lecture hall. The tinny sound of the professor continued. I could no longer make out words. Only the promise of release kept me upright, a few more seconds and I would be out in the hallway. An official law student, first day of lectures complete. Oddly, I hadn’t looked forward to dismissal from class this longingly since high school. As the seconds ticked on, other students came into focus. The tinny sound ceased, laptops went into bags, and the masses lurched out of their aisles and down stairs to the hallway. The afternoon section of the law school class of 2016 was free.

The locker was blue with chipped paint emanating a strong scent of bleach. I took the smell as a good sign. Recently cleaned. Not so good sign, I couldn’t remember the lock combination. I was, yet again, taken back to high school. The last time locker combinations were relevant. A gentle tap on the shoulder roused me from a standing and staring trance.

“Are you Themis?” a short and hesitant young woman managed to ask.

“Yes. But, everyone calls me T.K. For Themis Kavanaugh.” I went back to staring at the locker. My car keys were inside.

“I’m Constance Greene, your locker partner.” She deftly moved around and unlocked the locker. Salvation in a pantsuit. Looking down, my Chuck Taylors mocked me. Maybe should have gone a little conservative day one. Oh well.

“Nice to meet you.” At least I could remember manners, if nothing else. “Thanks. I had forgotten the combination.”

Constance peered at me over chunky black reading glasses. “It is 9-24-89.”

“Yes! That’s it.” Jubilant, I wrote the code on my hand. “How’d you like the first day? It wasn’t what I was expecting.” Not really wanting to admit that my imagination had concocted a scene wherein we were all moving about discussing only cases and saving the world for the masses. Future Supreme Court justices untouched by everyday concerns like locker combinations and panic attacks.

Looking into the locker, Constance had her back to me now. I noticed that her slight shoulders heaved a bit and a strangled sob escaped. Swinging around, she grabbed my wrist. “Let’s drop out. I can see that we aren’t cut out for this. Why wait for confirmation? Some of our tuition will be refunded if we leave today.” Wild eyed with a vise like grip, she had me wedged into the locker door.

Several thoughts were going through my mind. As usual, the least relevant and useful made it out of my mouth. “What do you mean ‘we’ aren’t cut out for law school? Why we? What about me says that I can’t hack it?” I was trying for haughty offense but really was scared that she had figured me out in one glance. That I didn’t belong, not really. I was some poor savant let in to balance the quotas.

Her grip loosened. “I..I’m sorry. It’s just that I wasn’t sure this was the right move for me and you seemed so…well, so out of place.” Constance finished and leaned back into the locker for support. Tears were falling now.

“I am so sorry. Have to go…this isn’t for me.” Grabbing her shiny leather briefcase and car keys but leaving behind her books, Constance stifled a sob and maneuvered her way through the other hapless 1l’s gathered at their lockers. I never saw her again.

Slack-jawed and dizzy, I was once again staring at the blue locker. Constance had shut the door.

“Damn it.” That didn’t seem strong enough to cover the current situation. “Damn it all to hell.” Better.

A laugh that started low and rumbling began to grow until all of us in the row of blue lockers were buckled over in hysterics. Glancing up, I saw mirth and mischief smiling at me. The sort of smile that starts in your eyes and radiates comfort.

“You wrote the locker combination on your hand.” She said while turning to her locker which was next to mine.

“Right.” Letting out a shaky breath, I swirled the tumbler on the lock.

“My name is Miranda. Miranda Howe.”

“Like Miranda warning, nice. I’m T.K.” I grinned while the locker door sprung open.

“What’s it short for?” Miranda asked while defying laws of physics with the number of large textbooks being shoved into her slouchy designer bag.

“Themis Kavanaugh.” Not nearly as many books were fitting into my backpack.

“Themis, like the goddess of justice. Excellent.” Miranda was now attempting to get the bag onto her shoulder. No small feat.

“My parents had lofty goals for me, I suppose. Not a great name for the middle school years though.” An involuntary shudder went through me. Whether from remembering then or now, it was difficult to say.

“Middle school is like Lord of the Flies, someone’s head is on a stick everyday.” Grunting with the effort of carrying her bag, Miranda looked directly at me. “You look like you belong to me, maybe even more so than the rest. See you tomorrow.” The crowd in our locker aisle had thinned. Miranda carefully made her way to the large glass doors that beckoned and teased with scenes of the world outside.

My stomach grumbled loudly. Two male students looked my way. The blush formed from my feet and traveled to the tip of my head with amazing speed. Shoving criminal law and contracts textbooks into my backpack, I made it out onto the grassy hill in front of the school before collapsing. On the first day of realizing my dream, I had been put on notice that faculty were weeding their law school gardens and my locker mate had outed me as someone who clearly didn’t belong. The grassy slope provided a vantage point to watch happy undergrads walking in clusters, completely and blissfully unaware of the choices that were to come. Choices to follow dreams or fulfill obligations. Choices that took life from unending possibility to a narrow scope with finite end.

“TK, you are twenty-five not seventy-five. Get ahold of yourself.” Mumbling to myself seemed a better choice than having a breakdown on the lawn. I grabbed my backpack and headed to the library. I was a law student and had reading to do. No matter what anyone said.

Chapter 2

The anxiety of the day before had not entirely passed. The reading assignment for today’s classes shifted the anxiety from a general feeling to something quite specific. Generally, the class was questioning whether graduation from law school remained an achievable goal. Specifically, I was questioning why briefing cases was so damn important. The reading alone nearly killed me but to restate the facts, procedural history, and rationale for the holding added a fiendish layer of complexity to the assignment. Not to mention, I had to figure out what a “holding” was…the ultimate decision in the case that would stand as precedent for any future cases.

Sitting at the long desktop that our row shared, I was trying to find an available plug for my laptop.

“How’d the reading go last night?” Miranda asked while leaning over my immediate neighbor. A pale young man who was clearly in the “no aluminum in my deodorant” camp. Phew.

“Would it be so hard for these judges to use plain English? Using fancy code language doesn’t make anyone smarter. Just more annoying.” I responded in what could be an irritated tone.

“I know, right? I had the trifecta of a case-book, legal dictionary and Wikipedia pages all working at full tilt last night. Do you think they are going to call on anyone today? Has the weeding commenced?” She laughed nervously.

“I heard this professor sat us in alphabetical order specifically to ask questions in some sort of order. A student or two a day.” My stomach was starting to make protesting noises. Maybe a pot of coffee that morning wasn’t the best idea. Was there such a thing as a hall pass in law school?

A hush fell over the students as the professor strode into the room. He was handsome in that way professors can be…all tweed, elbow patches, black hair graying at the temples and piercing blue eyes. I swear he must have a pipe hidden somewhere. He scanned the room with a surprising intensity. Our other professors had given us the merest of glances, as if to reinforce the notion we weren’t yet worthy of their complete attention. Professor Langley was different. He saw you.

“Welcome to criminal law first years. I am going to call you 1l’s because that is how it’s always been done. If you are lucky or cursed, depends on perspective, next year I will call you a 2l. With the ultimate prize in your final year, a 3l.” He said this almost kindly. I grew to learn that this was right before the sucker punch would land.

“Albert Wittenhall. Would you be so kind as to present your brief of In re. Winthrop?” Professor Langley asked the large and profusely perspiring young man in the first row. The sweat was not helping the suit he had worn.

Albert cleared his throat several times but seemed frozen. All of our collective fears coming true with each second that passed without an answer from Albert. Silence and sweat.

“ This is a case from the U.S. Supreme Court. The facts are as follows: Defendant, 12 years old, is charged with theft of $112 from a woman’s pocketbook in a locker. If an adult committed this act, it would be the crime of “larceny,” so it became necessary to decide whether the defendant is therefore a delinquent. The judge ruled, in keeping with §744(b) of NY Family Court Act, that the determination must be based on a “preponderance of the evidence.” This resulted in potentially six years of commitment (i.e., until he turned 18) in a “training school;” at least 18 months. I believe the issue is whether proof beyond a reasonable doubt is one of the essentials of due process. Isn’t that right Albert?” Miranda looked at him with a confident smile.

There are different types of silence; some so heavy it is difficult to stand under the longing or sharp and filled with malice, designed to make you bleed. I had never experienced the particular silence that engulfed the room after Miranda stopped speaking. It was the awed hush of 90 people simultaneously falling in love. Albert cleared his throat and went on to fill in the procedural history of the case and future ramifications. His suit might never be the same but his dignity would.

I couldn’t decipher the look on Professor Langley’s face. Shock and anger were apparent. Students weren’t supposed to answer out of turn. This was to be a free for all not a comrades in arms situation. Langley stared at her. Miranda was oblivious. She was following along with her eyes glued to the case book.

“Haaarumph.” Fake coughing seemed like a good idea to get her attention — to warn her.

“Ms. Kavanaugh, do you need something? A drink of water perhaps.” Langley’s blue lasers were now directed at me. An easy target, 90 people were not in love with me at the moment.

“No, I’m quite alright.” Came out more clearly than I expected.

“Good, tell me about the next case.” Could you catch flop sweat? Albert seemed to have passed it along. I managed to get through the case with no glaring errors and the class wound down in a haze of endorphins, adrenaline, and relief.

“Ms. Howe. I would like to speak with you.” Langley said over the din of students packing up to get to their next class. No one else seemed to notice but my stomach somersaulted. He was definitely upset. Miranda looked nonplussed and made her way to the podium. Fighting an instinct to stand beside her, I made my way toward constitutional law. And then it hit me, the other ingredient in Langley’s stare…it was respect. Maybe she would be alright after all.

Chapter 3

Miranda caught up with me at the coffee shop in the basement of the law school. It was a glorified cafeteria complete with lunchlady style waitstaff. Half the time, I expected Chris Farley to smirk at me behind glasses and a hairnet with Adam Sandler serenading. To my chagrin, they didn’t offer sloppy joes just coffee.

“Inside joke?” Miranda asked as she sat across from me. The fact that we were sitting at a cafeteria table complete with long attached benches forced me to laugh so hard that I snorted. Terrifically ladylike.

“No, just thinking about the SNL lunchlady skit. We seem to be living it down here.” I managed to get out.

“Oh man, I knew this place seemed familiar.” Miranda chuckled.

“Everything go okay with Langley?”

“Well, he wasn’t super happy with me at first. In fact, told me he would be watching me. Not in a nice supportive way.” She looked a little shaken while recounting this.

“But, I managed to convince him that it was for the best and that I meant no disrespect. A bunch of kissing up was required. Flattery, as they say, will get you everywhere.”

“How did you kiss up? Oh professor, the tweed you’re wearing brings out the blue in your eyes? Or, those elbow patches are so sexy?” I lilted while batting my eyes.

“Shut up.” Miranda spluttered coffee while laughing. “Actually, I steered the conversation to a project he heads up. Have you heard of the Innocence Project?”

“Rings a vague bell. Wasn’t it in the news awhile back? Group that takes on cases of wrongful conviction…they took on an infamous case. Who was it?” The details were on the tip of my tongue.

“Joe Portnoy. He was convicted of raping and murdering a twenty year old co-ed at Hampstead College.”

“That’s right. The College was up in arms about safety for forever after that case. Their admissions took quite a hit. So did the police department’s reputation.” I recalled. “Why would they take on that case?”

“Something was hinky with the d.n.a. testing. Not sure of the details but a fascinating case. I brought it up to Langley and complimented the group. Did the trick — distract and flatter. One-two punch.” A cheshire cat grin spread across her face.

“Well done. Maybe consider keeping a low profile for a bit.”

“Maybe. He invited me to one of the Project’s upcoming meetings. I think it was a personal challenge. Langley said if I had enough time to answer other people’s questions — I might have time to get involved.” She sounded equal parts defiant and curious.

“You’re crazy. We can’t even have jobs first year because of all the work. No way you will find time for that.” I responded. “Speaking of, have you read the torts cases for today? Want to go over them before class?”

The rest of the break was spent going over the details of cases in upcoming classes. Our group at the table grew to include three other women. Sarah, Malory, and Jane. This was the start of our study group. We decided to call ourselves the lunchladies.