"The original, unaltered home security footage from the night of Laura's accusation," Harrison whispered. "Bob had hidden it in a private digital vault. It shows the entire incident, Andre. It shows Laura locking herself in the room, fabricating the struggle, and calling the police while you were downstairs in the kitchen. It proved she lied, and it proved Bob knew she lied before he even took your case."
The wind from the harbor blew cold against Andre's face, but he didn't feel it.
"The state prosecutor has just filed an emergency motion to vacate your conviction," Harrison continued. "You're a free man, Andre. Legally, officially, your record is clean. The state is preparing a formal apology and a wrongful conviction compensation package."
Andre looked out at the gray, endless water. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just felt a sudden, deep warmth spread through his chest, like the first rays of spring sun hitting frozen ground.
"Thank you, Harrison," Andre said quietly.
"I'll send the paperwork to your local address," Harrison said. "And... there's one more thing. Marta is here in the office. She's been begging me for your number for three weeks. She looks bad, Andre. She wants to see you."
Andre was silent for a long time. The sound of the gulls screaming over the harbor was the only noise in the quiet yard.
"No," Andre said.
"Andre, she's your—"
"I don't have a daughter, Harrison," Andre said, his voice calm, clear, and completely devoid of anger. "She died twenty years ago in an orphanage. The girl you have in your office is Laura's daughter. Let her mother take care of her."
He hung up the phone, slid it back into his pocket, and picked up the piece of sandpaper.