“Noah didn’t confess to Dio Cornwall,” Murphy says. “I talked to Dio after I found this letter on my uncle’s computer. Chief James told him he would get a better sentence if he lied about Noah confessing to him—and a worse sentence if he didn’t. He gave Dio information so Dio could tell a convincing lie to the prosecutors. Everything my uncle admitted to in this letter, Dio confirmed to me.”
“I see.” Brody nods. “And what about Noah’s so-called confession to the chief himself?”
“It never happened.” Murphy shakes her head. “He lied to everyone about that. He lied to his lieutenants. He lied to prosecutors. He …”
She pauses, clears her throat, the first sign of any emotion at all from her.
“He lied to me,” she says.
A thrill courses through Noah, tears filling his eyes. He wouldn’t let himself believe it. This roller coaster, this sensation of free-falling through the air, this entire terrifying journey through a system with murky rules and mysterious procedures—he’s never been able to trust it. Not even coming here today. He wouldn’t allow his hopes to rise, only to crash to the ground again.
But now. Now it’s happening.
“If I may ask, Detective,” says Brody. “Why did you come forward? This man was your uncle. You could have easily brushed this aside.”
Jenna Murphy, eyes cast downward, shakes her head. “Because it’s not supposed to be like this,” she says. “It’s supposed to be about justice, not winning. Because deep down, even my uncle understood that, which is why he wrote that letter.”
Noah begins to tremble uncontrollably, the tears streaming down his face. So many times he gave up hope, so often he wanted to die. He thinks of Paige, who can’t be here to see this, and squeezes his eyes shut, crying harder than he ever remembers crying.
His lawyer’s arm comes around him, while Noah hears the voice of the prosecutor, Sebastian Akers, reminding the court that the prosecution, through Detective Murphy, brought this information to light, that the prosecutor is just as concerned with the proper administration of justice as anyone.
And then someone else is talking. The judge, the Honorable Robert Barnett, known as one of the county’s toughest judges.
“Listen, Noah,” his lawyer whispers to him.
Noah raises his eyes, his vision blurred by the tears, the catch in his throat leaving him speechless.
“Based on the material that’s been submitted to the court, as well as the testimony today,” says the judge, “and the lack of any objection from the State, there is only one conclusion this court can reach. The defendant has been the victim of a blatant miscarriage of justice. The defendant’s Article 440 motion is well taken.”
The judge removes his glasses and looks at Noah, pausing first, considering his next words.
“Mr. Walker, the State of New York owes you an apology. You have spent nearly a year of your life under this cloud. And I understand you have suffered greatly while incarcerated—incarcerated for a crime that, it is now clear to me, you did not commit. I only hope that you won’t let this ordeal consume you with bitterness and anger, that you can find something positive out of this experience. If I could give you back the last year of your life, I would. But I can’t. All I can do now is find, as a matter of law, that your convictions cannot stand.”
Noah, emotionally overloaded, shaking, manages to nod in response.
“The defendant’s motion is granted,” says the judge, banging the gavel. “The defendant’s convictions for the murders of Melanie Phillips and Zachary Stern are hereby vacated. The defendant shall be discharged from custody immediately.”
44
THE GATE OPENS, and Noah Walker strides through it, looking around as if he’s entering a new world. It may feel that way to him. Prison, from my experience on the other side of the bars, at least, is a universe unto itself, especially for the lifers. The loss of hope is a powerful toxin, like being dead while alive.
I’ve sent a lot of people to Sing Sing, murderers and rapists and even some drug dealers, but there’s nothing fun about doing it. If I could run the world, I’d find another way to treat most of these criminals—most of them, not all of them—but we find widespread solutions to widespread problems in this country, so we just build big prisons and stick everyone inside them and, for the most part, forget about them once they’re gone.
Noah stops short when his eyes come to rest on me where I’m leaning against my car. He looks different—not just the short prison haircut, which makes him look younger, but also something in his eyes, more relaxed, even refreshed.
“They said I had a ride,” he says.
“That’s me.”
He looks at me, considering.
“Don’t look so happy,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Hey, I’m not putting a gun to your head.”
“No, you did that once already.” He has a small bag with him, things he brought into the prison. He walks over and gets into the car.