Frowning, he released Riley. “When I get back, we will continue this discussion.”
He watched her nod. Befuddled, he walked down the steps to the waiting Sony.
He thought with his proclamation of love, the wall she had erected around her heart would crumble. It hadn’t.
Matter of fact, she seemed more distressed. Just when he thought their relationship couldn’t get more complicated, it took a turn to downright confusing.
* * * *
Kincaid never liked doing interviews in prison. Barbed-wire fences, armed guards, the clanking of the gates. The inmate interviewed was always trying to press his own agenda. Moreover, Kincaid found it challenging to get them to focus on his questions.
The warden had allowed the interview to take place in the visiting area. It was quiet, being it wasn’t a visiting day. McNeil had set up the lights and readied to film the exchange. Now, they waited.
The gate clanging shut announced Harrison Taylor’s appearance. Kincaid watched Taylor walk beside the guard through a barred window to the door. Patiently, Taylor stood until the guard uncuffed him. Only then was the door opened and Taylor was allowed entrance.
Kincaid stood and offered his hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Taylor. I’m Josh Kincaid. Thank you for consenting to this interview.”
The brawny black man nodded and sat. Gone was the wide-eyed innocence of youth Kincaid had seen in photos of the trial. Most notably, Taylor had shaved his head and had a tattoo on his neck. His muscles bulged beneath his prison uniform, giving credence that he spent hours working out each day.
The warden had said Taylor had completed a degree in liberal arts and had helped other inmates with their studies.
“A smart guy. Intelligent. He learned the ropes of prions life pretty quickly. Killing a cop gave him credence with the inmates. He used it to his advantage.” Warden Sheehan grimaced. “Not high on our list of nice guys, but he wouldn’t be here if he was citizen of the year. On the whole, though, he hasn’t given us a lot of trouble.”
Taylor gave him a firm handshake and sat.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr. Taylor,” Kincaid began. “Ignore the lights and look directly at me. If you can keep the answers relevant to the questions, I would be appreciative. Short and concise would be the best. Try not to ramble.
“Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“I hope you understand, I don’t do interviews. The only reason I consented to this one was because of my sister.”
Sister? Other than his grandmother, Taylor hadn’t any other relatives. But was he talking of Riley? Did they still consider themselves family? Kincaid shook his head. No, she would have told him. Why would she have kept that from him?
“Josh?”
Dismissing the distracting thought, Kincaid nodded to McNeil and took his seat. “I’m ready.”
McNeil gave him the signal, and then pointed to him to start.
“I would like to get a little background,” Kincaid said to Taylor. “You’re Harrison Taylor, thirty-one-year-old inmate, serving life without parole for the killing of Officer Gregory Steiger. Did you know Officer Steiger?”
“No.”
“Can you explain why you were down in Chicora-Cherokee the evening of April 24th?”
“No.”
Looking up from his notes, Kincaid stared at Taylor, who stared back at him. Kincaid lowered his iPad.
“Did you kill Officer Steiger?”
“No,” Taylor said staunchly.
“If you can’t remember, how do you know?”
“I know! I never did drugs…ever. And I damn sure would never have shot anyone.”
“Why then did you take the plea deal?”
“I didn’t have a choice. It was either the plea deal or the death penalty.”
“Then why did you now proclaim your innocence?”
“I didn’t. Grandma did.”
“You have a lot of people working in your corner now after your grandmother offered the reward. It has called attention to your case. She has worked for years just to find something…anything to set you free.
“I’ve looked over your case and have several questions. I’ll ask you again,” Kincaid pressed. “Why plea out when Jack Ashcroft thought he could win the case hands down? He didn’t seem to have any doubts in your innocence.”
“What would you have had me do? I was just fucking eighteen years old,” Taylor snapped. “I just lost my dad…I had a fuckin’ public defender who didn’t know his head from his ass.”
Kincaid typed something, and then looked back up. “I don’t believe you. You pleaded innocent when Jack Ashcroft defended you. Believed in you.
“You’re right…you were only eighteen. A confident athlete—usually that means arrogant and cocky. Not someone who would have simply given up.”
Taylor offered nothing to Kincaid’s assessment. He held his head in his hands
Then, Kincaid pointed his finger at Taylor. “Are you a loyal person, Mr. Taylor? Jack Ashcroft did a lot for you. Or did you turn your back on the man who raised you? Did you betray him?”
“Stop it!” Taylor demanded. “Stop it. This interview is over.”
The guard stepped toward Taylor. Kincaid shook his head and held his hand up to halt the guard’s progress. Turning his attention back to Taylor, he continued, “Tell me why, Mr. Taylor. Tell me. Because there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why did the district attorney offer you a deal?”
Breathing heavily, Taylor looked up. His eyes burned. “Why are you doing this?”
“I want the truth, Mr. Taylor. Why would the district attorney offer you life when the public wanted you dead? You killed a cop in the line of duty.”
Taylor shook his head and said in a low voice, “Don’t do this.”
“There had to be something. What was it? I ask you because if you think it will stay secret now, it won’t. I know there is something. I’ve been looking into this for a while. I won’t stop looking and I’m not the only one.”
“You don’t know what you are doing.”
“I’m getting at the truth. Why did they make the deal with you?”
A tortured look crossed his face.
“I’m not against you, Mr. Taylor. The more I look into your case, the more I’m convinced a grave error has occurred. I have a copy of the original drug report when you first arrived at the hospital after the shooting.
“Your level of cocaine was high, but did you know that you had a benzodiazepine, one called flunitrazepam, also known as Rohypnol? On the streets it’s called a roofie. It would be suggestive that someone gave it to you.
“You couldn’t have been conscious with levels that high. Which would mean you were unconscious during the shooting. The physical reenactment showed that it was highly improbable that even if you could have fired a gun, you weren’t close enough to have fired the fatal shot.”
Running his hand over his bald head, he asked, confused, “There is evidence of my innocence? Drug levels that confirmed my blackout?”
“Jack Ashcroft was confident he was going to get you off before he died. I don’t think he would have played fast and loose with your life. If he thought you guilty, he would have been trying to make a deal similar to the one you got.” Kincaid took a deep breath. “Tell me why you took the deal.”
Harrison shook his head. “I didn’t know about the report or I wouldn’t have taken the deal. I was told that it came back with cocaine.” He halted and stared directly into Kincaid’s eyes. “Riley said to trust you. Why should I?”
For a moment, Kincaid said nothing. Riley had talked to Taylor. What the hell? Finally, Kincaid nodded. “If you want the truth to come out, then yes. You need to trust me.”
Taylor lowered his gaze, as if remembering caused him pain. “My public defender, Ward Arrington, came to me and told me that if I kept quiet, then the district attorney would offer me life without the possibility of parole. I wouldn’t die.
“Arrington had an
other lawyer with him. One from the Ashcrofts. I knew him because he had come to see Jack on occasions. Ellis…Ellis Dean. The guy told me that the police had enough evidence to fry me. He suggested I take the deal. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Slowly, the realization swept through Kincaid. The way Ashcroft took care of the boy. Taylor’s slipup—my dad…my sister.
“Jack Ashcroft was your father? The Ashcrofts wanted to keep it out of the news so they put pressure on the district attorney…” Kincaid spoke out loud.
Damn it to hell! Of course the Ashcrofts did. It would have never done to have a murderer in the family.
“So Riley is your real sister?”
“Yes,” Taylor conceded. “I told her to stop, but she is so stubborn. She’s going to get herself killed…coming up with this asinine plan. Her and Sony…”
“What plan?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the world of journalism, the interview with Harrison Taylor was considered a brilliant success. Kincaid had broken through Taylor’s icy exterior and uncovered ground-breaking news.
But Kincaid’s world crashed down around him. The realization that Riley…Riley had lied to him. Misled him. Used him.
His whole body ached. He felt as if someone had stabbed him in the stomach.
He looked down at his watch. It was getting late. The sun was about to set.
Mark wanted to air the story immediately. Kincaid talked sense into his boss. Sources needed to be confirmed. Bases had to be covered to break the news.
“We don’t have to say that Taylor is Ashcroft’s son,” Mark argued. “Just that Taylor believes he is.”
“Patience, Mark,” Kincaid urged, but he had only a temporary postponement. Mark wasn’t going to allow him to sit on the news long.
Kincaid had to speak with Riley. There was more to the story than Taylor being Ashcroft’s son. He would be damned if he didn’t get the truth he deserved.
His phone lit up with a text…an address. He didn’t have to guess. Riley wanted to meet.
As he turned in to the driveway of a small brick ranch, he saw Riley’s car and parked behind it. He only hesitated a moment before he made his way to the front door.
Before he knocked, it opened. He was greeted by a petite, elderly black woman—the elusive Tillie Taylor.
“Come in, Mr. Kincaid. We’ve been expecting you.” She backed up to allow him to step inside.
The house was modest, but comfortable. It had an open flow, with the living room merging into the dining room. To his far left was a large high-definition television hanging on the wall; to his left, the kitchen.
He sat down on a plush, beige couch. Already a pitcher of lemonade sat on the coffee table, along with cheese and crackers.
“Please, make yourself at home.” Tillie smiled broadly and took a seat on a well-worn recliner. “I suppose I need to apologize for not getting back with you before now.”
“So you received my messages.”
“Yes,” she said simply, reaching over for a cracker with shaking hands. “You have questions for me?”
“Where is Riley?”
“I asked her to talk to you first.”
“Are you going to keep up this ruse?” His eyes narrowed with a scowl. He was pissed at anyone connected to this story. “I only came here this evening to hear if you have a semblance of an excuse.”
Gone was the smile on her face. Her lips tightened. “You’re upset at the slight deception, but I assure you it was done only as a last resort. What would you do if your grandson was rotting in jail for a crime he didn’t commit?”
“I investigate the truth, Mrs. Taylor. It’s hard to find the truth when the premise itself is a lie.”
“Oh, I see. If I came to you and told you that Harrison was innocent, you would have taken the story.” She made no effort to hide the cynicism in her words. “As I believe you have discovered, Harrison is innocent. We were desperate.”
“You can’t expect me not to reveal this ruse? It’s fraud.”
“Fraud?” Tillie questioned. Her chin angled upward mutinously. “You don’t know what we have gone through. The years of one disappointment after another.”
“Your grandson pleaded guilty. What did you expect would happen?”
“He didn’t have a choice.” She rose and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “He was the innocent scapegoat in this whole mess. If…if you want to hear what it was like then, I will tell you, but only if you come down off your pedestal, preacher. It’s a long way down when you fall off.”
Good point. He breathed out deeply. “Go ahead.”
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“At the beginning.” His voice was hard, his features drawn in reluctant resolve.
Tillie’s eyes narrowed against a slew of painful memories. She began, “My daughter, Kelsea, moved to Boston and took a job as a receptionist at Lincoln and Sullivan Law firm. That’s where she met Jack Ashcroft. Foolishly, she had an affair, a fling…whatever you want to call it with him. She became pregnant.”
“Harrison was the child?”
Tillie nodded. “Kelsea didn’t tell me who the father was. Said it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be part of her son’s life. She said she hadn’t even told the man. She feared he would have demanded she have an abortion. That wasn’t an option for Kelsea. She decided to keep the baby and raise him by herself.
“I told her she wouldn’t be alone. We would do it together. We did, until that awful night.” Tillie choked up. “Harrison had just turned two. Kelsea worked the day shift down at a law office downtown. I worked overnights at Palm Court Nursing Home as a CNA.
“Since we only had one old car, an old Chevy, I usually took the bus, but it was storming outside. Kelsea’s best friend from high school, Anne, was over visiting and offered to stay so we didn’t have to take Harrison out in the weather.
“Less than a mile from the nursing home, a car pulled out into the street. With the rain coming down so hard, he didn’t see us. He hit us, forcing the car into a light pole. Kelsea was killed instantly. I was in the hospital for months. Didn’t have anyone to look after little Harrison except Anne.”
“Anne Ashcroft?”
“Anne Carver at the time, Riley’s mother,” Tillie confirmed. “While I was recovering, social services threatened to put Harrison in foster care. Anne wouldn’t have any of it. She knew Harrison’s father’s name and went to Boston to find him.
“She came home married to Jack Ashcroft.” Tillie shrugged. “She never told me that Mr. Ashcroft was Harrison’s father. I suspected it. The way Anne maneuvered Harrison into the family and then after she passed, Mr. Ashcroft kept us on.
“A couple of years ago, Riley was going through Harrison’s papers for the fifteenth hundred time, trying to find anything to help Harrison out. She found a paternity test results in his Bible. Harrison confirmed it on our next visit.
“Turns out Mr. Ashcroft told Harrison on his eighteenth birthday. Was even going to acknowledge him publically. Adopted him, Mr. Ashcroft did, to make it all legal.”
“Do you happen to have any legal papers to prove this claim?”
“I have everything.” She tilted her head back toward the hall. “In my bedroom. I will get it for you if you want.”
“It would be helpful.”
Kincaid watched her stand with great difficulty. Quickly, he stood and offered his hand. She refused and slowly made her way down the hall.
“She is having a good day today. Please don’t tell her you’re going to ruin it.”
His throat went dry. He turned to see Riley in the doorway.
She had said the words as if she hadn’t done a thing wrong. Her eyes flamed at him, challenging him.
He struggled to keep hot and wanton memories from resurfacing. He didn’t have time to play games.
“I’m not the one who ruined anything. I don’t think you can say the same.”
“If you are looking for a
n apology, you’re wasting your time,” she said. “But I do owe you an explanation,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “Come take a walk with me.”
* * * *
Riley walked ahead of him. She had taken him out back to the small, fenced-in backyard. She went over to the canopy lawn swing and sat. He leaned against one of the support bars.
“When did you discover she has Parkinson’s?”
“That obvious?” she asked, but there was no denying the truth. Slowly, she gave a nod. “Six years ago.”
“So, she can’t even work.” He scoffed. Disgusted, he pressed, “No one questioned her assertion. She fooled everyone?”
“Everyone took her on her word, like you did,” she bitterly reminded him. “It was a chance we had to take.”
“This whole scam was your idea.”
“It wasn’t a scam. It was a necessity.”
“A necessity? Please explain, because for the life of me I don’t see it.”
“We were at the end of our rope. Do you know how it feels to know an innocent man is in prison and there is nothing…nothing you can do? The only thing that can save him is to find the killer.”
“That’s what you wanted me to do?”
“Not you per se, but a reporter. Someone who could access information we couldn’t. Police reports. Medical records. Everywhere we turned, we got shut down. No one wanted to help a cop killer.
“We had exhausted every possibility. Lawyers couldn’t get an appeal because of the plea deal. We hired private investigators. That’s when we reconnected with Sony, but our money was going out faster than I could send it. Everything…everything was so expensive.”
“Expensive. Coming from a girl who’s about to inherit millions?”
“Millions? I don’t have millions,” she said with more than a trace of cynicism. “You haven’t dealt with my family. You don’t think that they will come up with something to keep my inheritance from me?” She shook her head. “I won’t see a penny of it? You don’t know me. After Daddy died, I grew up poor. Poor. Do you know what I had to do to support Meme?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) Page 21
