“That’s when he told me that they’d found the knife with my fingerprints on it. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe they thought I killed my parents. It wasn’t until later, after I pleaded guilty, that I realized there were no bloody shoeprints on the stairs, so it couldn’t have happened the way Chartwell said it did.”
Maybe not, Matt thought, but that didn’t rule out Jesse’s scenario—that Ray had staged the fake burglary before he left the house.
Corinne was taking a picture of Antwan and his father in front of the beach backdrop. Matt wondered if one day Antwan would believe he and his dad had actually been to the beach.
Ray continued with his story. “Summers said he would do whatever he could do to get me as short a sentence as possible, but that if I didn’t confess, it was out of his hands. When I refused, he got really frustrated and walked out of the room. Then Chartwell took over. He said this was my last chance to help myself. He said if I didn’t confess, I’d get the death penalty. I told him I wasn’t going to confess because I didn’t kill my parents. Then he jabbed me in the shoulder with his finger”—Ray touched his left shoulder—“and said, The needle’s going right there, asshole.”
“Imagine someone saying that to an eighteen-year-old boy,” Jolene said angrily.
“The next morning my lawyer told me the district attorney was offering a deal. If I pleaded guilty, the DA would recommend I be eligible for parole in fifteen years. If I didn’t, he’d ask for the death penalty. I asked my lawyer what I should do. He said it was my decision but that there was lots of evidence against me, and it would be very difficult to win the trial. I took the deal. It killed me to stand up in court and say that I’d murdered my parents, but it was the only way I could save my life.” Ray shook his head. It was clear the decision still didn’t sit right with him, even after all these years.
“I don’t understand,” Matt said. “You’ve been in prison for twenty-one years. Why aren’t you out on parole?”
“Because the boy’s a damn fool,” Jolene said.
“Let’s not go through that again,” Ray said.
A voice came over the PA. “Visiting hours end in five minutes. Visiting hours end in five minutes.”
Matt steeled himself for the walk of shame, but Ray’s next words made him forget all about his limp.
“I can’t get parole unless I admit to the parole board that I killed my parents, and I won’t do that. I did it once and I’ll never do it again. Never. Even if it means staying in prison for the rest of my life.”
Holy shit. Bill Matheson’s words popped into Matt’s head: They can have my body, but they can’t have my soul.
Ray patted his grandmother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Gram. I can’t. I just can’t.”
“I know,” Jolene said, tears welling in her eyes. “I know.”
Ray stood and thanked Matt and Sonya for coming, but he didn’t say anything to indicate he harbored even the slightest glimmer of a hope that they could help him. He hugged his grandmother goodbye and joined the lineup of prisoners at the door leading to the cells.
Jolene watched as Ray disappeared through the door. “Stubborn as a mule,” she said. “Just like his father.”
Matt studied her lined face. She’s been coming here twice a month for the past twenty-one years, he thought. Twelve hours on a bus for a two-hour visit. And unless he and Sonya could prove Ray was innocent—which was about as likely as Matt winning a gold medal in the hundred-meter sprint—she would be doing it for the rest of her life.
And then Ray would have nobody.
FOURTEEN
All the seats were taken when Matt got on the bus the next morning. A woman his mother’s age stood and offered him her seat as he wobbled toward her. He brusquely moved past her as the other passengers watched the drama unfold. I don’t want your pity, he silently screamed. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
Day two of the rest of my life.
By the time Matt got off the bus, the sky was heavy with black storm clouds. His mood matched the weather, and the stares he attracted on the two-block walk to the office did nothing to improve it.
“Morning,” Sonya said when he arrived.
Matt grunted.
“You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Sonya appeared to be considering a reply when Jesse and Angela arrived.
“How did it go with Ray?” Jesse asked.
He and Angela were as amazed as Matt and Sonya had been when they learned that Ray had chosen to stay in jail for the rest of his life rather than lie about killing his parents in order to get parole. “No wonder Bill Matheson said he was innocent,” Angela said.
Innocent and out of his freaking mind, Matt said to himself. Just like Bill.
“But this still doesn’t mean we can put an investigator on the case,” Jesse said, beating Sonya to the punch. “You guys are going have to come up with some evidence before we can do that.”
“I know,” Sonya said. “But now you believe he’s innocent, don’t you?”
“Let’s put it this way. I’ve never come across a case where a guilty person has refused parole. Did you get the authorization?”
Sonya handed him the letter Ray had signed, authorizing his former lawyer to give the case file to the Justice Project.
“Who was his lawyer?” Angela asked.
“Doug Cunningham,” Jesse answered, pulling out his cell phone and punching in a number.
“Doug took a table at the fundraiser, so don’t forget to thank him,” Angela said.
Jesse nodded. “Hey, Doug. Thanks for buying a table, man. I really appreciate it. I’ve got you on speakerphone. I’m here with Angela and my two interns, Sonya Livingstone and Matt Barnes.”
“The Matt Barnes?” Cunningham asked.
“The Matt Barnes,” Jesse echoed.
Who no longer exists, Matt said to himself.
“Hi, Matt. I know everybody says they were at the game, but I was actually there. Great stuff.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. The game. It was all anybody ever talked about. If he never heard another word about it, it would be too soon.
“We’re calling about one of your old cases,” Jesse said. “Ray Richardson.”
“Haven’t heard that name in a long time.”
“What did you make of the case?”
“I don’t know. The whole thing was over in a couple of days, but Ray just didn’t seem like the kind of person who could kill his own parents. Then again, if he was loaded up on drugs, who knows? I have to admit I breathed a huge sigh of relief when Lonnie put parole on the table. I was dreading the trial. I didn’t think we had much chance of winning, not with all the evidence against him. Once Ray fled the scene, his goose was cooked.”
“Lonnie as in Lonnie Shelton, our esteemed state attorney general?” Jesse asked, putting sarcastic emphasis on the word esteemed.
“He was the DA here in Snowden back then,” Doug said.
“If Lonnie was going to win the case anyway, why offer Ray parole?” Jesse asked. “He’s built his career on his support for the death penalty. Did you see his press conference after the Aylmer Valley Slayer was executed? If he’d had his way, it would have been done in public. Why give Ray a break?”
“Don’t quote me on this, but I always thought he and the Chief made a deal. The Chief was in the middle of an election, and it was a tight race. His character had become a campaign issue. There were rumors he was playing around with other women. That kind of behavior doesn’t sit well with folks in this town. Ray’s case was front-page news, and every story mentioned that his father worked for the Chief. It wasn’t the kind of publicity the Chief was looking for.”
“What was in it for Lonnie?” Jesse asked.
“The Chief supported him the next year when he ran for state attorney general. I can’t prove they made a deal, but I don’t thi
nk it was a coincidence. What’s Ray up to these days?”
“He’s still in prison.”
“The parole board turned him down?”
“He never applied.”
“Why not?”
“He won’t admit he’s guilty.”
“You got to be kidding.”
It was unanimous, Matt thought. Everybody believed Ray was innocent. And it was up to him and Sonya to prove it.
FIFTEEN
Matt’s dad was at the kitchen table when Matt got up on Tuesday morning.
“How was the retreat?” Matt asked.
“It was a joke. Four days of team-building exercises led by a complete moron. Last night we sat around a campfire and sang ‘Kumbaya.’ I kid you not. As if that’s going to help anybody sell more insurance.” He shook his head in disgust. “How are you doing?”
Matt shrugged. His dad nodded sympathetically. Matt was glad he didn’t try to make him feel better by saying something stupid like everything’s going to be okay.
“How did it go at the prison?” his father asked.
Matt filled him in on the case.
“If I was Ray, I’d admit to the murders on national television if it meant getting out of jail,” his dad said.
“Me too.”
“Those rumors about the Chief weren’t just rumors,” his father said when Matt told him about the suspected deal between the Chief and the DA that had spared Ray from the death penalty. “I know that for a fact, because he came on to your mother.”
“What?”
“It was at the opening of the community center on Dawson, just after we were married. I wasn’t there, but your mom told me about it afterward. The Chief told her she was the most beautiful woman in Snowden and invited her to the Regency Hotel to ‘have lunch.’” He made air quotes with his fingers.
“What a sleazebucket!” Matt said.
“Yeah, but I can’t fault him for his taste. Your mom was the best-looking woman in town.” He got to his feet. “Time to hit the salt mines. See you at dinner.”
“Doug Cunningham sent over the Richardson case file,” Angela told Matt when he arrived at the office. “I put the box on your desk.”
Matt grabbed a coffee and dug in. The box contained a number of file folders, each with a label: Police Reports. Witness Statements. Forensics. Crime Scene Photos. Plea Bargain Agreement.
Matt started with the witness statements. There were only a few, because the investigation ended when Ray pled guilty. Only one witness had anything to report—Ella Didrickson, one of the Richardsons’ neighbors. She saw Walter drive the limo into his garage at around four o’clock on the day of the murders. Fifteen minutes later she saw Gwen park the Richardsons’ car in the driveway and then go into the house through the front door.
Matt moved on to the crime-scene photos. The first photo showed the black sedan in the garage. Matt noticed that it didn’t have the Chief’s vanity license plate. He was puzzled for a moment until he remembered that Walter had taken that car in for repairs. The car in the garage was the replacement he had picked up from the limo company near Jolene’s apartment.
The next picture was an eight-by-ten-inch print of Walter lying on a blood-soaked carpet, in front of the glass cabinet showcasing the model cars that Matt had seen at Jolene’s house. The next picture was also of Walter. And so was the next. And the one after that. The police photographer had taken pictures of Ray’s father from every conceivable angle. He’d done the same with Gwen, who was lying facedown partway up the stairs.
There was nothing in the photos Matt hadn’t seen dozens of times on TV without batting an eye, but it was different knowing that these victims were real people who had been alive a few short hours before the photos were taken. He tried to imagine how Ray must have felt, coming home and stumbling onto the gruesome scene. Anybody would be freaked out, Matt thought. And it would be even freakier if your mind was fried by drugs. No wonder he’d panicked and fled, even if that did “cook his goose,” like Doug Cunningham said.
The next photo showed the back door. It was splintered where it had been kicked in. The doorframe dangled from the wall. The following picture was of the kitchen table. The empty bottle of beer that had aroused the attention of the police stood on the table beside a copy of the Snowden Sentinel and Walter’s chauffeur’s cap. Close-ups of the three items followed. The beer was a Rolling Rock, the same brand Matt’s dad favored.
Walter’s coat was draped over a chair that faced the back door. How could he have sat there and drunk an entire beer without noticing that the door had been kicked in? Matt asked himself. No wonder the police had been so suspicious of Ray’s story.
A nagging thought intruded. Could it have happened the way Jesse suggested? Did Ray commit the burglary and fake a break-in before he went to Mike Miller’s apartment? Matt imagined Walter sitting at the table, staring at the broken back door as he drank his beer, his anger building up. He would have been furious by the time Ray came home from the bar after watching the basketball game. Walter was a lot bigger than Ray, and Ray would have been paranoid because of the drugs. Matt could see how Ray might have grabbed a knife to protect himself. But if that had been the case, Ray would be out on parole, wouldn’t he? A guilty person wouldn’t turn down the chance to get out of jail.
Matt had finished with the photos and was starting in on the autopsy report when Sonya arrived.
“Is that the case file?” she asked Matt.
“Yeah. I’m done with the stuff in the box.”
The autopsy report was full of incomprehensible medical jargon, but the pathologist’s conclusions were in plain English, and they held no surprises. Walter and Gwen had both died from multiple stab wounds. There were no surprises with the forensics either. Ray’s fingerprints were on the knife. His parents’ blood was on the clothes he was wearing when he went to the police the day after the murder. And the bloody shoeprints in the kitchen and living room were his.
“You can take this too,” Matt said after he finished reading the report. He placed it on Sonya’s desk. She was staring at one of the crime-scene photos, a horrified look on her face.
“You okay?” he asked.
She looked up at him, an anguished look on her face. “Can you imagine finding your parents killed like this and then having the entire world believe you were the one who did it?” Matt shook his head. “We’ve got to find out who did this so we can get Ray out of jail,” Sonya said.
“We will,” Matt assured her. He kept his doubts to himself. As a general rule he believed honesty was the best policy. But sometimes it was just too damn cruel.
SIXTEEN
Two men were talking to Angela and Jesse when Matt came out of the washroom. He instantly recognized the older of the two, a distinguished-looking man with a craggy face and a full head of silver hair—the Chief, the sleazebucket who had made a move on his mom.
It took a moment to place the Chief’s companion, a bald man with an ear stud. It was Dan Burke, husband and chief of staff to the current mayor, Jamie Jenkins. Matt had met him at a reception that Jamie had held for the team after the state championship.
Matt made his way toward the two men. They both kept their eyes squarely on his, as if they hadn’t noticed his limp.
As if.
“These are our summer interns, Sonya Livingstone and Matt Barnes,” Angela said.
The sleazebucket clapped a friendly hand on Matt’s shoulder. Matt resisted the urge to shrug it off. “This young man needs no introduction. December 6,” he said, referring to the date of the championship game. “The greatest day in the history of this town.”
Matt grunted.
The Chief turned to Sonya. “Any relation to the judge?”
“He’s my father.”
“Please give him my regards.”
“Jamie and I want to host a cocktail party after the fundraiser,” Dan Burke said, “to encourage some of our more affluent supporters to pony up.”
“That�
�s very generous of you, Dan,” Jesse said. “Please tell her how much we appreciate it.”
“If you need any help twisting arms for donations, give me a call,” the Chief chimed in, eager to let everyone know he still had clout in Snowden even though he was no longer mayor.
“Do you remember Ray Richardson?” Sonya asked suddenly.
“Ray Richardson?” the old man said uncertainly. “Why is that name familiar?”
“His father, Walter, was your driver,” Burke said.
“Of course.” The Chief shook his head sadly. “That was a real tragedy. Walter used to bring the boy around from time to time. He seemed like a nice kid.” He shrugged. Go figure.
“I was probably the last person to speak to Walter that day,” Burke said, “aside from—” He stopped in midsentence.
Matt finished it. Aside from the killer.
“Walter had to take the car to the garage for repairs. I told him the Chief had meetings all afternoon and probably wouldn’t need him, but I asked him to call me after he picked up the replacement car, just to make sure. When he called, I told him he didn’t have to come in.” The look on Burke’s face said it all. If only the Chief had needed Walter.
“Did you know Ray?” Sonya asked.
“No. I’d only been working for the Chief for a couple of months when it happened.”
“If I’d known you were more interested in my eighteen-year-old daughter than my plans for the city, I would never have hired you,” the Chief teased.
“We told you we were dating. It just took us a while to get around to it,” Burke joked in return.
Matt did the math. Burke would have been around thirty when he started working for the Chief. No wonder he and Jamie had kept their relationship a secret. Sleazebucket could laugh about it now, but he wouldn’t have been laughing back then. Not that he was one to talk. The age difference between him and Matt’s mother was a lot greater than the age difference between Burke and Jamie.
The Justice Project Page 6
