Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [30]
And, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to know who’d framed him. Who’d destroyed his life and why. Why, dammit?
He hadn’t been sentenced to Quentin. He’d spent the bulk of his fifteen years in a secure area of Folsom, where the warden segregated cops like him from the general prison population. It was lonely, and he still wasn’t completely safe. There were multiple attacks on him, and he didn’t know if they were because someone had found out he was a cop, or if he’d racked up more enemies.
When Tom’s last appeal was denied, the warden at Folsom asked if he would like to do a final good deed. He was asked to transfer to San Quentin to befriend a killer who police suspected of murdering more than the eight young girls he’d admitted to. Tom agreed.
Terrence Drager didn’t tell Tom squat about the unsolved cases in the months Tom was in the North Seg talking to him. But after he was executed, one of the guards handed Tom a letter. “From Terry. Wanted me to give it to you after he went to hell. You’ll be joining him there in a few months.”
The letter was a list of locations. Twenty-seven locations, each identified only by a month, year, and the color of the victim’s panties. Tom retched at the information.
Tom sent the information to the Folsom warden. He hadn’t heard whether any of it panned out, or about when he’d be transferred back to Folsom. His work here was done, and even though the North Seg was safer for him than other areas of San Quentin, he didn’t feel secure.
Tom learned later that Oliver Maddox had identified himself as an attorney working for Tom’s counsel, which was the reason why they were left alone in the interview room. Tom’s hands and feet were shackled, and a chain secured him to the floor. He’d never get over the feeling of being a caged animal. And still, bulletproof glass separated Tom from Maddox. They spoke through closed-circuit phones.
On the other side of the glass was a boy—well, he was probably in his mid-twenties, but he didn’t look more than eighteen. He had close-cropped hair except for a long tail in the back, and silver wire-rim glasses. “Oliver Maddox,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“Your letter was interesting.”
Though the guard stood outside the door once Tom had been secured, Tom didn’t believe for a minute that the guards didn’t listen to the allegedly “privileged” conversations.
Oliver had sent Tom a letter asking for a meeting. Tom didn’t know the kid, but he identified himself as a new lawyer working for the Western Innocence Project. “I have reviewed all your case files and identified several oddities,” he had written. “I believe that you were wrongly convicted and would like to discuss a possible appeal.”
When Tom received the letter last month, he read it over and over in disbelief. After all these years, he had lost hope that anyone would learn what really happened that day.
It didn’t make him feel any better that God knew the truth. Tom had a few choice words to say to the Almighty, and expected when he said his piece he’d be spending additional time in purgatory, which certainly couldn’t be worse than prison.
But now, an outsider believed him. Believed he was innocent. He met with Oliver Maddox.
“I’m still working on getting to the governor,” Oliver said, averting his eyes. Tom wondered if Maddox was telling the entire truth. “I’m hoping he’ll not only stay your execution but release you.”
“Why?”
“I think once the governor sees the evidence, he’ll realize that you were framed.”
“I mean, why are you helping me?”
“I think you’re innocent.”
Tom stared at the kid. This stranger believed Tom hadn’t killed his wife and Chase Taverton. He was helping him for only one reason: