I slipped out of my office and took the back hallway to the restroom. Oddly, I wasn’t nervous about talking to any of them, except Mr. Rowland. The man was in the middle of grieving for his daughter and probably felt a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders when he heard Jack was dead, believing my husband was the one who killed her. I understood the feeling. Even though Jack’s death was accidental, due to a previously unknown allergy to penicillin, I still wanted answers. Finding out exactly what happened to him was next on my agenda, after today’s conference.
Washing my hands, I made the mistake of looking at my unrecognizable reflection in the mirror. Gaunt, pale, black circles the size of saucers under my eyes. Dull, gray hairs seemed to have sprouted up everywhere overnight. I looked twenty years older. Mom and Regina were right—I was starving myself to death as grief ate away at me. I made a mental note to fix a healthy meal tonight—something with a lot of protein—and force myself to eat it. I should have listened to them sooner. I was about to walk into a meeting and try to convince two people who were adamant of his guilt that Jack was innocent, and I looked like a walking corpse.
I walked back to my office and dug through my bag, clutching my evidence to my chest. I said a silent prayer and headed to the conference room, steadying myself for the battle I was about to wage, cloaked only in the shield of faith and love.
Roger, Mr. Rowland and Mr. LaFont were already seated around the oval conference table. The air of the room shifted when I walked in. The quiet mumbling between the three powerful men stopped, and intense anger bubbled under the surface of Mr. Rowland. The old saying If looks could kill never rang more true. The electrical charge of his anger was so strong, the small hairs on my arms and neck stood erect. Breathe. You can do this. For Jack.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Thank you for coming,” I said, my voice sounding much more confident than I felt. I moved to the open seat next to Roger, unsure as to whether I should pass my condolences along to Mr. Rowland or not.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to make that decision because Detective Knowles sauntered in right behind me and barked, “All right, everyone is here. No time for beating around the bush. Why did you call us all down here, Mr. LaFont?”
Bertrand smiled, his chicklet teeth gleaming across the room. “Why, Detective Knowles, I thought I made that very clear on the phone. A miscarriage of justice has been done, and we brought you here to help us rectify it. To help us not only clear an innocent man’s name, but find a killer who is still at large.”
Before the detective could sit down, Philip Rowland interjected, “I’m only here because Roger insisted I come. I don’t appreciate this little game, whatever the reason. I’m in the middle of dealing with the loss of my daughter, brutally slain by your husband, Mrs. Dickinson,” he growled, his enormous sausage-like finger pointed at me. “My wife and I are still trying to come to terms with her death, and now you want to rip open the wound that’s still in its first stages of scabbing over and pour a bucket of salt on it? It’s simply deplorable. Downright deplorable.”
“Philip, please,” Roger soothed. “I’ve been your lawyer and your friend for over twenty years. You don’t really think I would put you through this if we were just running on hunches here, do you?”
“I’m not sure what to think anymore, Roger. For God sakes, I just buried my only child less than two weeks ago,” Philip said, slamming his fist on the table. “Less than two weeks!”
Please Lord, give me the words. Open their eyes and hearts to the truth. “Gentlemen, please. This situation is difficult for all of us. Mr. Rowland, my heart aches for your loss because, believe me, I understand the crushing grief of losing someone you love. Serena’s life was cut short by the hands of a brutal killer, but it wasn’t my husband.”
The room went deathly silent as Philip Rowland locked eyes with me. Intense hatred shot from them, the grief and anger consuming him. For a moment I thought he might come across the table and attack me. Had I been a man, he probably would have. I held his gaze, unwilling to let his anger dissuade me.
Detective Knowles sat down at last. “So, Mrs. Dickinson, instead of wasting any more of our time and causing more pain to a grieving father, show us your purported evidence.”
Roger piped up, “There is no need for adding fuel to an already volatile situation, Detective. Please, all that we are asking is five minutes. Let Melody and Mr. LaFont speak and show you what they’ve found.”
“You’ve got two minutes and then I’m gone,” Philip Rowland hissed. A large vein that meandered from his left eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline throbbed with fury. His fingers were interwoven so tightly together that they had turned white from the pressure. I read the look behind his eyes; he wished they were around my neck.
My fingers shook as I placed the photographs I brought from home on the table. I slid one set over to Mr. Rowland, the other to the detective. Mr. LaFont produced still copies of the surveillance video, one set labeled A of Jack when he arrived at the hotel, and B is the set when the perpetrator exited the elevator, and a close-up picture taken at the lingerie store, labeled C.
“If you’ll look closely at the body shape, style, girth, and height of the man in picture A, you’ll see he is bigger than the one in picture B by at least one full inch and probably twenty pounds. Note the height difference in comparison to the flowers on the table. Jack stood six foot one barefooted. You’ll notice that between the two images, in the B image the man is a little over one inch shorter. The flower stalks are visible above his head, whereas in the first picture, they are not.”
Detective Rowland at least feigned interest in looking at the photos, but Philip Rowland’s eyes never left my own. His ruddy face was now glowing red, like he had been in the sun all day. It looked like he was going to explode at any second. If I didn’t hurry up and get to the other image and the affidavit of Mrs. Preston, I was afraid he would storm out, so I continued.
“Now, if you notice the picture labeled C was taken at the lingerie store. Mr. LaFont was kind enough to have it enlarged. I ask you all to look carefully at the skin on the hand holding the underwear. Jack had a scar from a burn that covered nearly all the skin on the back of the same hand. The pictures I placed here in the middle of the table are recent photographs of Jack, clearly showing the scar. Now, if you’ll—”
“Enough!” bellowed Mr. Rowland. The power and timbre of his deep voice made me jump. He stood up so fast his chair flew out behind him and fell over with a loud thump. “I’ve heard enough. Roger, I can’t believe you thought this drivel would be worth my time. You brought me here to look at altered photos and listen to the wife of the man who killed Serena ramble on about her pathetic fantasies? I’m done.”
“Philip, listen, just sit down—”
“There’s other evidence as well, Mr. Rowland, if you’ll just—”
Mr. Rowland cut both lawyers off by addressing Detective Knowles. “If you so much as think about reopening this case and try to drag me and my wife through this sideshow song and dance, I’ll have your badge and you won’t be able to find a job guarding a portable toilet. Screw this, I’m done. Oh, and Roger,” he added, turning his attention away from the detective, “our friendship just ended. If you wish to keep me as a client, then get rid of her. Because the next time I come in here and see her, I may forget she’s a female.”
Mr. Rowland stormed out, the sound of the door almost being ripped off its hinges resonating throughout the room. Three sets of eyes moved from the door over to me. Roger looked like he was going to be ill as he stood up, excused himself and went after his friend. Mr. LaFont looked a bit stunned, while skepticism and disgust graced the face of the detective.
“Well, that could have gone a bit better. He didn’t even give us a chance to show him the—” my lawyer began, and Detective Knowles interrupted.
“What did you expect, Mr. LaFont? For him to stand up and shake your hand for telling him he can’t pu
t this nightmare behind him yet? Please. He’s right. These pictures aren’t near enough to dispute the solid evidence we have against Mr. Dickinson.”
“You have his DNA from a consensual sexual act, Detective Knowles. Recall during your interrogation with my client, Mr. Dickinson readily admitted to being in the room and having sex with Ms. Rowland. You have the emails and text messages exchanged between the two of them from the last several months where it is very clear that they were engaged in an affair. He also admitted he fled the room in a panic soon after he was told about the pregnancy. His recollection of events is supported by the video evidence. And yet I recall two more pieces of information you seem to have forgotten. One is that he had no defensive wounds anywhere on his person, nor marks on his hands. Judging by the injuries Ms. Rowland sustained to her face, the perpetrator would have at least had a few scraps or cuts on their hands, especially after the blow to her mouth. Even while wearing gloves.”
“Are you suggesting—” Detective Knowles seethed, but Mr. LaFont ignored him.
“And two, correct me if I’m wrong, but the articles of clothing you obtained from Mr. Dickinson’s residence—I bet you dollars to donuts when the tests results are in, there will be no blood found. The photos taken from the Dickinson household show no immediate evidence of blood.”
Detective Knowles rose from his chair, his anger rising with him. I decided I needed to intervene before a full out brawl ensued.
“Please, Detective. No one here is trying to undermine your investigation of the case. I’m his wife for Heaven’s sake and even I had initially believed he was guilty based off what I saw in those photos and all the other evidence. But after I calmed down and looked through the pictures with less emotional eyes, that’s when minor inconsistencies began to pop up. To be honest, in the back of my mind, I thought it just might be wishful thinking on my part, you know, to force myself to believe Jack was innocent. Swallow the story so I could live the rest of my life without going insane thinking I’d been married to such a monster.
“But, when my neighbor across the street came over and told me this,” I said, sliding a copy of the sworn affidavit of Mrs. Preston in front of him, “I realized I’m not some rambling mad widow who refuses to believe she lived with a dormant killer. I’m the widow of a man wrongfully accused and incarcerated for a murder he did not commit. I am asking, no, I’m begging you, to look at what we have brought to you with an open mind. If you do, I guarantee you will come to the same conclusions we have, and realize Jack was innocent.”
I could see the conflict battling behind the detective’s eyes. He was both drawn and repulsed to the piece of paper in front of him. The law enforcement side wanted to view the new evidence, damning to his credibility or not, but the human side of him wanted to walk away with his ego still intact. The room was silent while the war raged on inside him until a winner emerged. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bertrand was frozen in his seat, eager to speak but savvy enough to know better. I was damn near chewing a hole through my bottom lip to keep my own voice silent and my gaze steady with the detective’s.
The cop side won and Detective Knowles averted his angry green eyes away from me and down to the paper. I watched his eyes scan the page, his face betraying his doubt, his brow furrowing with concern as he flipped the pages and continued reading. He reached the end, and I couldn’t read his face.
Please, please let him see. Soften his heart, Lord.
He looked deliberately at me. “The memories of an eighty-year-old woman, plus these pictures, aren’t enough. They don’t negate the solid evidence and I’m certainly not going to approach the prosecutor with this so-called new evidence. As I said earlier, the case is closed. Mrs. Dickinson, I’m sorry for your loss, but it’s time you moved on. Forget about this fairy tale and get on with your life. Good day.”
I tried to hold the tears at bay, at least until the detective exited the room. It didn’t work. They burst from my eyes like a levee had just broken, splashing down on the conference table in silent drops. I hated myself for being weak, for letting my emotions get the best of me. Bertrand noticed and followed the annoyed detective out the door and into the lobby.
The room blurred as my tears continued to fall. I slumped down in the seat and let them come. This had been our one chance to get everyone on board, to present them with what we’d found, and it just blew up in our faces. Not only would none of them ever listen to any of us again, but from the sound of things, I might be out of a job. If Mr. Rowland was serious about wanting me fired, I couldn’t imagine Roger would stand up for me. I was, after all, just a paralegal. I didn’t bring any revenue to the office—Mr. Rowland did. Huge money. Money talked and people listened, and if Roger listened, I would be living with Regina quicker than I thought.
I closed my leaking eyes and prayed, God, why? You showed me all these things, yet no one will listen to me—or any of us! If this isn’t the road you want me to travel, I understand. But I believe it is, and it seems divine intervention is going to be necessary to make them see.
A surge of peace washed over me, enveloping me like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. It might have been my mind’s way of keeping me from sinking into a nervous breakdown, or it may have been the voice of an angel or even God himself, but I clearly heard in my mind, “Oh ye of little faith.”
I clung with all my might to the words, beseeching the Lord to keep me strong.
“You’re still here? Goodness Melody, you need to go home. It’s been a very long day.”
I hadn’t been working for the last two hours while I sat at my desk. A stack of untouched paperwork sat on my desk, and I couldn’t get my brain cells in line to concentrate on them. I had been staring out the window in a comatose-like haze as my mind spun through scenarios of what I needed to do next. Overwhelmed with too many choices and unsure which direction to take, my body took over and forced me to remain motionless until my brain slowed down.
I glanced at the clock and saw it was after eight in the evening. I rubbed my tired eyes and apologized to my worried boss, “I’m sorry, Roger. I sort of zoned out. I didn’t notice the time. You’re right, I need to go. Can’t seem to get the work juices flowing. I’ll be back early in the morning to finish up the filings and work on dictation.”
“No, you won’t,” Roger said, lowering himself into the chair in front of my desk. He looked just as tired as I’m sure I did. My pulse quickened, terrified his next words would be to say I was fired.
“You will go home, get some rest, and do exactly as I told you before: take some time off from work. I’m not trying to be rude, but Melody, you look like at any moment you are going to collapse. You have pushed yourself too hard, too fast. We will manage without you for a while. You need to concentrate on taking care of yourself.”
“Is this your polite way of firing me?”
Roger gave a small smile, his bloodshot eyes never leaving my own. “Melody, of course not! If I didn’t want you in my employ any longer, I think you know me well enough to realize that I would just flat out tell you. As I have said before, you are an invaluable asset to this firm and I can’t imagine trying to train someone new to handle all the things you do. You will have a job here for as long as you wish.”
I couldn’t stop the heavy sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. I think that’s why, subconsciously, I didn’t go home. I was waiting for the bombshell of losing my job to hit. You know, after what Mr. Rowland said…”
Roger sat forward and leaned against the edge of my desk, his right hand held up to shush me. “Wait, are you saying you have been here all this time because you thought I was going to come in at the end of the day and let you go? Just because some client bellyached about you? Come now, Melody. If I let employees go every single time a client voiced concerns about them, I would be working here alone. Philip may be a big client and my friend, but he doesn’t dictate what I do, how I do it, or who I enlist to help me accomplish my tasks. Besides
,” he said, leaning back in the chair again, “I don’t cave into pressure, no matter where it’s from. And I surely don’t like being threatened. Philip was just blowing off angry steam, as I’m sure you can imagine. We dropped a big pile of…you know, on his doorstep today. Can’t really say I blame him, considering the subject matter.”
“Thank you, Roger. That is a huge relief. Yes, I was worried. Terrified, actually. Losing my job would just be the final thin wafer necessary for my brain to explode.”
Roger chuckled. “You and Monty Python. Have you ever gone even a week without quoting something from those silly movies?”
I felt the heat rush into my cheeks. “Doubtful. Jack and I both loved the wry British humor.”
“Listen, Melody. You tried your best today. I know you are in full press mode to clear Jack’s name, and really, I understand your motivations. The evidence you showed us all earlier today does give rise to his innocence. Hell, if I had a client walk in here with that much information that would easily provide reasonable doubt, I’d never lose a case. But, and please don’t take this the wrong way when I say it, I think you need, at least for now, to refocus your sites. Clearing Jack’s name is a personal thing for you, and it might take a long time to see it to fruition. The case I believe should garner your full attention is what happened to him at the jail.”
Shocked, I argued, “I am not giving up on my quest, Roger. A lawsuit against the county is not my number one priority at the moment.”
“It needs to be. Think about it, Melody. Jack’s death at the jail was from negligence on the part of the staff. His guilt or innocence does not play a role in that fact. However, with the documentation you have and the obvious missteps by the staff, you have enough ammunition to aim straight at the coffers of the county. Bertrand is already chomping at the bit to move forward. If you will allow us to take on the case, then I can almost guarantee you the county will cave and throw a load of cash your way to keep it from going to trial. They will have no problem settling to keep things under the rug. Again, not trying to overstep my bounds here, but I imagine finances are dwindling fast for you now that Jack’s income has dried up. Filing a suit against the county is the quickest way to replenish your bank account.”
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