Bury the Lead

18



RANDY CLEMENS HAS the same look on his face every time I visit him, and today is no exception. Once again he has a plan, an idea, and he’s positive that his telling it to me will be the first step to freedom. He’s hopeful and enthusiastic, and those feelings are not tempered by the fact that every time he’s felt them before he’s been wrong.

Unfortunately, my job is to always break the bad news. But I secretly harbor my own faint hope, the hope that one day his idea for a new appeal will be brilliant, something I completely overlooked, and will result in his being set free. In a sadistic quid pro quo, it always falls on him to demonstrate that I am wrong, simply by telling me his idea.

He enters the visiting room, and his eyes seek me out from the other visitors and prisoners, talking to each other on phones through the glass partitions. He heads toward me, though pausing to warily eye the others on his side of the glass. Seeming to decide that it is safe, he sits down.

“Andy, thanks for coming,” he says. “I know it’s a hassle.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

He grins. “Yeah, right.” Then his voice gets lower, and the wariness returns to his eyes. “Andy, I’ve got something. Something that could get me out of here.”

I try to seem eager to hear what he has to say, but in reality I dread it. I can’t stand to shoot this man down again. “What is it?”

“I know why those women were killed.”

If you had given me a thousand guesses, I never could have predicted that was what he would have said. “What?”

“Andy, I can’t scream it out, you know? I know about the murders, and I want you to use the information to get me released. I tell them all about it, and I get paroled. They make deals like that all the time.”

“Did you know I’m representing the accused?”

The shock is evident on his face; he had no idea. “Oh, my God!” he enthuses. “This is great! This is unbelievable!”

I’m not quite ready to join in the euphoria. “What is it you know, Randy?”

Again he looks around warily, more understandable in light of what we are talking about. “It’s all about the rich one. The others were window dressing.”

“You mean—”

He interrupts me, shaking his head. “No, not here. But I won’t let you down, Andy. Just set this up, please. Give me ten minutes in a room with the DA, and your client is in the clear.”

“They’re going to want a preview before they meet.”

He shakes his head firmly. “Andy, I can’t now. Okay? I’ve heard things . . . please trust me, and please get this done. I swear on my daughter’s life . . . this is real.”

I’m not going to get any more; he’s calling the shots. And I do trust that he believes what he is saying, though I have strong doubts that he can deliver what he hopes. “Okay. I’ll get right on it.”

His relief is so powerful it seems to be seeping through the glass. “Thank you,” he says, and walks off. He looks around, seems to pause for a moment, and then hurries out of the room.

By the time I reach my car, I’ve decided what to do with Randy’s request. The DA’s office is the obvious place to go, but I’m not about to trust Tucker with it. There is too much chance he would bury the information, even if it turns out that the information does not deserve to be buried.

Instead, I call Richard Wallace. Richard originally prosecuted Randy’s case, but that is not why I choose him. Richard has always demonstrated total integrity. It’s a cliché, but in his case true: He is more interested in justice than victory.

I’m lucky enough to get Richard on the phone. I tell him I need to see him about something important, but I don’t overplay it. My belief is that this will turn out to be unsubstantiated jailhouse chatter and ultimately not amount to anything. He agrees to see me right away, and I ask that we meet at a nearby coffee shop. I don’t want to run into Tucker.

Richard is already at a table waiting for me when I arrive. We exchange small talk, after which I lay out what Randy told me at the prison.

“This should go to Tucker,” he says.

“I can’t, Richard, he’d never follow up. It would be detrimental to both my clients.”

Richard nods; he knows I’m right, and he’s trying to find another way. “I assume everything you’ve just said to me is unofficial? Off the record?”

I don’t know what he’s getting at, but he’s nodding his head, prompting me, so I nod right back. “Right,” I say, going along. “Totally unofficial and way off the record.”

“Suppose you officially come to me and tell me Clemens has something important to say, that it could involve the perpetrators of some serious crimes. But you don’t mention which crimes, or any other clients of yours that might be involved.”

I immediately see where he’s going with this. “Then you would have no reason to talk to Tucker. It’s the kind of thing you could and should handle on your own.”

He nods. “At least until I hear what Clemens has to say.”

I lean forward. “Richard, there’s something I want to officially talk to you about.” Feeling a little silly, I lay out the new version, and he agrees to arrange for Randy to tell his story. We schedule it for Monday morning, and Richard promises to set it up with the prison authorities.

Just before he gets up to leave, he says, “You know, the evidence was there, and I believe he was guilty, but the Clemens conviction never felt completely right. You know?”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”