“Why are you interested in the Richardson case?” the Chief asked. “The kid confessed.”
“He did, but we think he might be innocent,” Jesse said and then explained why.
“That’s unbelievable,” the Chief said.
“Incredible,” Burke agreed. “But doesn’t the Justice Project need to have actual evidence of innocence in order to take on a case?”
“Dan’s right,” the Chief said quickly. “We’ve got a fundraiser coming up. How do you think people are going to react when they find out you’re using their money to follow a hunch?”
“Relax, Ed. We haven’t officially taken on the case.”
“It still doesn’t look good. You’re using Justice Project resources—phones, office space. And Matt and Sonya are out in public as representatives of the Justice Project.”
“Nobody’s going to care about that.”
“You’d be surprised at what gets people’s noses out of joint.”
“The fundraiser’s not for another month and a half,” Jesse pointed out. “Either Matt and Sonya will have come up with something by then, and we’ll be able to officially take on the case, or they’ll have run out of leads. One way or another, it’ll be over by then.”
One way or another, Matt thought. It would take one of those miracles he’d stopped believing in for him and Sonya to come up with something.
“I have an idea for the fundraiser,” Burke said. “We should auction off a state championship sweatshirt signed by Matt and the rest of the team. I bet we could get a thousand dollars for it.”
“Great idea,” the Chief said enthusiastically. “I would bid on that myself.”
“Can you take care of getting the players to sign it?” Jesse asked Matt.
“No problem. I’ll leave it at the school office and send the guys an email.”
Sonya shook her head in bewilderment after the three men and Angela left for lunch. “A thousand dollars for a football jersey? There is something seriously wrong with this town.”
“I agree,” Matt said. “It’s worth at least two thousand.”
Matt had just ordered a meatball sub at the sandwich shop around the corner from the office when an attractive girl wearing a Snowden Adventure Camp Staff T-shirt joined him at the deli counter.
“What can I get you?” the server asked.
“I’m here for a pickup. Caitlyn.”
The woman disappeared into the kitchen. Matt and Caitlyn smiled at each other.
“How’s camp?” Matt asked.
“I haven’t lost any kids yet, but it’s only my second day, so I guess I shouldn’t be too cocky.”
Matt laughed.
“I’m Caitlyn.”
“I figured. Matt.”
“Do you work around here?”
“Down the street at the Justice Project. It’s an organization that defends the wrongly convicted.”
“I walked by it on my way here. I wondered what it was all about. That must be really interesting.”
“It is,” Matt said, as the server reappeared holding two brown paper bags, one small and one large. She gave the small one to Matt and the large one to Caitlyn.
Caitlyn turned, anticipating they would leave together.
She was hot, she was friendly, and she was going his way. Any normal guy would have jumped at the opportunity. Normal being the operative word. Matt remained rooted in place.
“See you later,” Caitlyn said after a few awkward moments.
“See you,” Matt said, suddenly engrossed by the contents of the deli counter. He waited until Caitlyn had left the shop before he walked to the cash register. He felt about two feet tall.
On his way back to the office he noticed a man with a baseball cap staring at him from across the street. “What the fuck are you looking at?” Matt shouted.
SEVENTEEN
“The one thing we have going for us is that there are a lot of potential witnesses the police didn’t speak to,” Jesse said the next day, after Matt and Sonya told him what they had learned or, more accurately, how little they’d learned from the case file.
“Where should we start?” Sonya asked.
“Start by talking to the neighbors who were living there at the time of the murder. You can get a list from the records department at city hall.”
“I’ll help you write up the request,” Angela said.
“Tell Ralph we need the Richardsons’ phone records for the day of the murder,” Jesse told Angela.
“Who’s Ralph?” Matt asked.
“Ralph Chadwick. One of our investigators. Get him to charge his time to one of his active cases,” Jesse told Angela. “We need to keep Ray’s case off the books.”
“And the Chief off our backs,” Angela added.
An hour later Matt and Sonya were walking up the stone stairs to city hall. Sonya pushed open the heavy wooden door. It took a moment for Matt’s eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. Dark wood paneling lined the walls of the foyer. The faded wood floors were in serious need of a new coat of stain. The gloomy atmosphere underlined the daunting nature of their mission.
The records department was on the third floor. Matt was huffing and puffing by the time they arrived, and his leg was killing him. Time to hit the pool, he told himself. The surgeon had told him to start swimming—it was the only form of cardio he could do, and it would strengthen his leg—but swimming had to be the most boring exercise in the world, and Matt wasn’t exactly motivated. But it was either that or turn into the Michelin Man.
A severe-looking woman sat at a desk on the other side of the service counter, tapping away at her computer. She wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the words State Champions. Matt reminded himself to drop off a sweatshirt at the school for the players to sign for the silent auction.
They waited for a couple of minutes before the clerk served them. “We’re with the Justice Project,” Sonya said, handing the woman her business card. Matt did the same. It was the first time he’d used it, and he felt like an impostor. Kids didn’t have business cards. He half expected the woman to laugh.
“We need a list of residents—” Sonya began.
“All requests have to be in writing,” the woman interrupted.
Sonya handed her the letter Angela had prepared. The woman clipped the business cards to the letter, returned to her desk, put the letter in a tray and started tapping away again.
“Excuse me,” Sonya said. The woman looked up. “How long is this going to take?”
Longer than it would have if you hadn’t asked, Matt thought. The woman shrugged and returned to her keyboard.
“Nice job,” Matt said as they sat down on a bench.
“Like you could do better.”
Matt stood. “Call my phone when I give you the sign.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just do it.”
He went to the counter and surveyed a collection of informational pamphlets, choosing one at random. There was no reaction from the clerk. Sonya gave him a sarcastic thumbs-up. Matt held his hand to his ear, thumb and pinky extended, as if it were a phone. Sonya rolled her eyes, but she took her phone out of her bag and punched in Matt’s number.
Matt’s phone rang. “Hello,” he said. “Coach Bennett! What’s up?” The woman’s head swiveled toward Matt at the mention of the Falcons’ head coach. “No. I didn’t get it. What email address did you send it to?…I don’t use that one anymore. Send it to Matt underscore Barnes at gmail dot com…Great. See you later.”
He put his phone away and started reading the pamphlet. The woman examined the request letter with Matt’s business card.
“You’re Matt Barnes,” she said stupidly.
“Guilty.”
“My son is going to be so excited when I tell him I met you. He’s your biggest fan. Would it be too much to ask for your autograph?”
“Not at all.” Matt gave her his most winning smile. He smirked at Sonya, who made a gagging motion as the woman rooted a
round in a desk drawer. She pulled out a program from one of the Falcons games and gave it to Matt.
“What’s your son’s name?” Matt asked.
“Jerrold. J-e-r-r-o-l-d.” Matt signed the program and gave it back to her. “Maybe I should put this up on eBay instead of giving it to him,” she joked. Matt laughed obligingly. The woman pointed at the request letter. “I’ll take care of this right away.”
Fifteen minutes later Matt and Sonya walked out of the records department with two printouts, one with the names and addresses of the Richardsons’ neighbors at the time of the murder, and a second with the names and addresses of the people who lived there now.
“No comment?” Matt asked.
“About what?”
“About how seriously screwed up this town is.”
“Go Falcons.”
EIGHTEEN
Matt dragged himself out of bed on Sunday, cursing Sonya for insisting that they get to the Richardsons’ neighborhood first thing in the morning.
She had shown absolutely no interest in negotiating when Matt suggested that a noon start would be ample. “Suit yourself,” she said. “I’m starting at nine. You can join me. Or not,” she added, a comment Matt had interpreted as a challenge, although it was equally possible she didn’t care.
He put on a pair of jeans and his green-and-gold Falcons football jersey with his number on the front and his name on the back. Judging by his experience at the records department, it might help open some doors.
Sonya was standing by her Civic. It was already hot, even though it was still early. Sonya wore a sleeveless summer dress.
She looks great, Matt thought. Morgan’s a lucky guy.
She glanced at his football jersey. “Man, I can’t wait to get out of this town.”
“How did you do in the orienteering competition yesterday?” Matt asked after they got in the car. He pushed the seat as far back as it could go, so he could stretch out his leg.
“I finished second.”
“How about Morgan?”
“Fourth.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“How so?”
“Most guys don’t like getting beat by their girlfriend, even if they wouldn’t admit it. Morgan must be very understanding.”
“She is.”
For a moment Matt thought she was joking, but the serious look on her face convinced him otherwise. “Nobody knows, except for a few close friends,” Sonya said, “so I’d appreciate your keeping this to yourself.”
Matt nodded solemnly. He wasn’t surprised Sonya didn’t want to tell anyone she was gay. Personally, he didn’t give a hoot, but Forest Hill was a conservative school in a conservative town. Sonya had taken a lot of flak for challenging football’s position at the center of Snowden’s solar system when she’d tried to get more money for girls’ sports. She’d have taken a lot more if people knew she was gay.
“Have you told your parents?”
“I’m working up to it. My dad’s old school. Having a gay daughter won’t fit with his worldview.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’ll be okay with it. But I haven’t told her, because I don’t want to put her in the position of keeping a secret from my dad.”
“You’re going to have to tell them sooner or later.”
“I know. I’m going do it after graduation. College graduation.”
Matt laughed. “I guess I’ve lived a sheltered life. I don’t know any other girls who are gay.”
“Oh yes you do.”
They parked across the street from the Richardsons’ former home on Huntington Terrace. The house, like all the others in Cooley Park, was a modest two-story red-brick dwelling with an attached single-car garage. There wasn’t a terrace in sight. Whoever named the street was trying to make the working-class neighborhood sound a lot more upscale than it actually was.
A young boy with a Mohawk haircut was riding his tricycle in the driveway while his mother watered the flowers that lined the path to the front door. Matt looked at the peaceful scene without seeing it. In his mind’s eye he was inside the house, staring at the lifeless bodies of Walter and Gwen.
“I’m glad we don’t have to go in there,” Sonya said, as if she’d read his mind.
Matt nodded. They would learn nothing by going into the house. Everything they needed to see was in the crime-scene photos.
Jesse had suggested they retrace Ray’s steps before they started knocking on doors. They headed for the alley behind the house. It was lined with weeds. Sonya stopped partway down. “This is the house,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“I counted. It’s the eighth house in.”
Matt smiled. He might as well get used to the fact that Sonya was always going to be one step ahead of him.
Sonya leafed through the crime-scene photos until she found one of the rear of the house. They compared it to the scene in front of them. The back door had been replaced by sliding glass doors, the garage had a fresh coat of paint, and a new swing set dominated the small backyard. Otherwise everything was the same. The same rickety wood fence separated the house from the alley, the same concrete path led from the rear gate to the back door, the same diamond-shaped window graced the back wall of the garage.
“The Linsmore is two blocks that way,” Sonya said, referring to the bar where Ray had watched the Lakers–Celtics basketball game. She pointed in the direction she and Matt had come from. “Ray comes down the alley and goes through the gate. He sees the limo in the garage, so he knows his dad is home. He’s wondering what to do when he sees that the back door has been kicked in. He sees his father lying on the floor in the living room. He runs inside.”
Matt broke in. “I don’t understand how Walter could have sat down and drunk an entire beer without noticing that the back door was kicked in?”
“Maybe he thought Ray faked the burglary, like Jesse suggested.”
“If that was the case he wouldn’t have cracked open a beer. He would have gone to see what Ray had stolen, and the burglar would have killed him before he had the beer.”
“Maybe he was concentrating on something in the newspaper.” Sonya pointed to the photo of the Snowden Sentinel on the kitchen table. “I’m like that. When I’m reading, I blot out everything else. It drives my sister crazy. She has to call my name ten times before it registers. Anyway, what does it matter?” she asked. She resumed her narrative. “Ray sees that his parents are dead. He panics and runs out of the house and down the alley toward Delaney.”
Sonya headed off. Matt lurched after her. A step behind.
“The houses on both sides have good views of the alley,” Sonya noted. “That’s a plus.”
“Only if somebody happened to be looking out at the exact moment the killer was in the alley. What are the chances of that?”
“Somebody must have seen something.”
“The glass is always half-full, huh?”
“That’s better than thinking it’s always half-empty.” Sonya’s eyes flickered to his leg.
It’s not half-empty, Matt thought. It’s bone-dry.
The alley ended at Delaney Heights. The street had obviously been christened by the same person who named Huntington Terrace: it was as flat as the prairies.
Delaney was a major thoroughfare, lined with apartment buildings and small businesses. It was full of pedestrians. Once the real killer got here, he would have melted into the crowd.
Ray had turned left and gone down to the river. Matt and Sonya turned right. It was time to start knocking on doors.
NINETEEN
When they got back to Huntington Terrace, Sonya handed Matt a spreadsheet. “This has the names and addresses of all the people who lived in the neighborhood back in the day. The ones in red still live here. We can google the ones who’ve moved away.”
Matt looked at the list. There were 163 names on it. He gazed down the street. It was a hive of activity. People walking on the sidewalks, tend
ing to their gardens, washing cars in their driveways, sitting on their porches.
It’s showtime.
They knocked on four doors before somebody answered. A lumpy woman stared out at them, a sour expression on her face.
“Mrs. Parker?” Sonya asked.
“I don’t care what you’re selling. I’m not interested.”
“We’re not selling anything,” Sonya said quickly. She gave the woman her business card. “We’re with the Justice Project. We’re looking into the Ray Richardson case.”
“The boy who killed his parents? What are you looking into that for?”
“We think he may be innocent,” Sonya said.
“Innocent!” Mrs. Parker scoffed. “They should have strapped that monster into the electric chair.”
“Do you remember where you were that day?” Sonya asked, apparently deciding to forgo the golden opportunity to debate the death penalty.
“How am I supposed to remember where I was twenty years ago?” The woman started to close the door.
“Could we speak to Mr. Parker?” Sonya asked.
“Sure, but you’ll need a hell of a long-distance plan.”
Sonya gave her a puzzled look.
“He died four years ago.”
The door closed in their faces. “This is going to be fun,” Sonya said dryly.
Donna Mills across the street looked annoyed when she answered the door, but that changed as soon as she saw Matt in his football jersey.
“You’re Matt Barnes,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “But I guess you know that. My husband, Terry, and I are big fans. We never miss a game.” Her face grew somber. “We were so sorry to hear about the accident.”
Donna didn’t have any information to contribute. She and Terry and their two kids had been at a movie. She found out about the murders when they came home and saw their neighbors congregated outside the Richardson house.
“Sorry I can’t be more help.” Donna turned to Sonya. “You look familiar too. You’re one of the cheerleaders, aren’t you?”
“Go Falcons!” Sonya said perkily.
“You were right,” Matt said as they walked away. “This is going to be fun.”
The Justice Project Page 7
