Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  I look at Franklin with a smile. “Freedom of the press,” I say, pointing to the poster. “That’s you and me, kid. Let’s go get that evidence.”

  * * *

  “Would you like to see it again?” Oliver Rankin asks. “Our staff here watched the tape several times, and we feel the evidence is clear and incontrovertible. Agreed?”

  Without waiting for our answers, he pushes the rewind button on the video cassette player, then turns to face Franklin and me. We’re seated in leather club chairs arranged in front of a television set that glows in the darkened conference room. The executive director of the Constitutional Justice Project is shorter than I’d expected, but other than that he’s the fashionisto everyone described: carefully suited in subtle pinstripes and elegantly groomed. He’d choose Denzel to play himself in the movie version, I bet. Or Wesley Snipes.

  “Indisputable,” he says. He points at me. “Once your viewers see that footage, Dorinda Sweeney’s life will change forever. The judge will have no option but dismissal.” He leans back on the ledge of the carved wooden cabinet, a lofty antique sideboard that turned out to be stacked inside with an elaborate array of state-of-the-art audio and video equipment.

  “And then we’ll prove, once again, the power of the truth,” Rankin continues. His tone amplifies toward oratory, as if he’s delivering the closing argument in a jury trial. “That the cynical, ends-justify-the-means methods employed by unscrupulous cops and prosecutors to manipulate the justice system cannot, will not, be tolerated.”

  Franklin and I exchange glances. I know Rankin’s a zealot, tenacious and passionate. According to research Franklin showed me, Rankin’s favorite cousin, years ago, had been convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. Rankin battled his way relentlessly through the courts, working to prove his cousin was a victim of mistaken identity and get him released from prison. A shaky alibi emerged, then a DNA test and a new trial. Soon after, Rankin prevailed.

  Now, supported by his incessant fund-raising from lawyers, movie stars and political activists, Rankin’s CJP has masterminded the exonerations of more than a dozen innocent people. He’s obviously convinced Dorinda Sweeney is his next victory.

  His self-confidence is reassuring. But we can’t put a story on the air unless we’re sure it’s solid. Commandment One of journalism: First, don’t get it wrong. So now, on one hand, I’m wary. Tapes are easy to fake. On the other hand, that video could be journalism dynamite. I’m making a valiant effort to marshal my objectivity.

  “Yes,” I begin carefully, fidgeting a little in my chair, “that tape appears to be—”

  “Watch again,” Rankin interrupts. He pushes the play button again. “As they say in law school, slam dunk.”

  The tape flickers back into life and we all stare at the screen again. First color bars, then a block-numbered countdown, and a screen of black. Then, we see an empty room, smallish, lined with glass-fronted cabinets and rows of shelves and drawers. The camera is apparently mounted high in a corner, so when the door opens, we see only the top of a woman’s head as she enters the room. The tape is supposed to be in color, but it’s off, as if someone’s improperly adjusted the settings, or the tape may have been reused so often it’s deteriorating. As a result, the woman’s skin appears vaguely green. She’s wearing workaday slacks, flat shoes and some sort of smock—blue? green?—covering her clothes. At the bottom of the screen, time-coded numbers flash by, ticking hours, minutes and seconds. A date stamp is burned into the upper right corner of the screen. Three years ago, I calculate. May.

  The woman’s dark hair, which the skewed video settings mutate to look distractingly purple, is pulled back in a ponytail. She appears unhurried, briskly familiar with the room, and has a set of keys clipped to an official-looking ID badge around her neck. At one point, she looks up toward the camera. At that moment, Oliver Rankin pushes Stop. The action freezes.

  Rankin loosens his intricately patterned silk tie and allows himself a brief smile. “Every time I see it, it gets better and better. Dorinda Keeler Sweeney, at work, the night of the murder. Look at the date, then the time code,” he says, pointing to the screen. “Sixteen minutes after three in the morning and there she is, indisputably, on her overnight shift at the Beachview Nursing Home, half an hour away from her house. According to the coroner’s death certificate, at that time her husband Raymond Jack Sweeney was certainly dead at the bottom of their basement stairs. Drunk as a lord on tequila, head bashed in by an iron, bleeding to death in a pile of laundry. Pictures don’t lie.” He gestures at the screen. “This is alibi with a capital A.”

  He looks at us for confirmation. “Gotta love it.”

  They say when a story is too good to be true, a good reporter looks for the holes.

  “Mr. Rankin,” I begin.

  “Oliver,” he corrects me. He flips on the overhead lights, snapping the room fluorescent bright. Closing the television into the cabinet, he gestures for Franklin and me to take a seat at the long oval conference table.

  “Oliver,” I say, tacitly agreeing that we’re on the same team. That worries me a bit, since a reporter can’t take sides. But aren’t we always on the side of the truth?

  “This tape is beyond compelling,” I continue, gesturing to Franklin for confirmation. “But I must ask you—when Ms. Sweeney confessed, why wasn’t this tape used to impeach her statement?”

  “I can answer that.” A voice from the doorway. Quiet. Firm. We look up to see a lanky pale whisper of a man, gray hair a bit too long, cheekbones a bit too high, suit a bit too off-the-rack. Threadbare, I think, but that may just be in comparison to the dapper Rankin. He’s smoke to Rankin’s fire, but the intensity in their voices matches perfectly.

  “Will Easterly,” Rankin says. “Meet Charlie McNally, and her producer Franklin Parrish.” Rankin smiles. “Will was Dorinda Sweeney’s court-appointed lawyer.”

  “Court appointed? So you were with the Suffolk County Public Defenders Office?” Franklin asks. “Did you know…”

  While the guys are bonding, my brain is churning out a list of questions. So many, so fast, I’m certain to forget them. I pull out a chair at the long conference table and start writing them in my reporter’s notebook. Motive? Money? Alibi? Battered? Other suspects? Evidence? Why tape not used? Why confess?

  * * *

  The polished rosewood conference table in front of Rankin is strewn with newspaper clippings, Will’s notes, and the few files he kept. Picking up one page after another, Rankin’s revealing the history of the murder and the local scandal: small-town girl, just graduated from high school, pushed by her single-parent mother into marrying the mother’s ambitious boss, a local mover and shaker, a man she didn’t love.

  I wish he’d just hand over the darn clip file so I could read it myself, but the flamboyant Rankin seems eager to put himself center stage.

  “The Prom Queen and the Pol,” Rankin declaims. He holds up a two-page photo spread with one picture of Dorie, in a tiara and an unfortunately puffy prom dress. There’s another of B-movie big-shot type Ray Sweeney gaveling a Swampscott town council meeting. There’s also a photo of a beribboned little girl, holding her father’s hand and clutching some sort of stuffed animal, marching in the town’s holiday parade. The caption, Rankin points out, says it all. “Ray Sweeney and his daughter Gaylen Marie back in happier times.”

  “Dorie’s not with them,” I observe, reaching across for the clipping.

  “My point exactly,” Rankin says. He slides the clip away, back into the folder.

  Rankin’s newsreel continues, a jury-worthy performance of trumpeting headlines, news clips, memories and legal commentary. When Dorinda Keeler Sweeney actually confessed to killing her husband of twenty-some years with their college-student daughter asleep upstairs, it seemed there was hardly room in the paper for anything else. One gossipy neighbor—the apparently libel-ignoring Swampscott Chronicle reported—was actually quoted as saying “Him and Dorie had nothing in common. Just the daugh
ter. And everyone knows how Ray was with women.”

  Will Easterly holds up a yellowing news clipping, its oversize block letter headlines blazing Deadly Dorie Admits: I Did It. “Deadly Dorie,” Will says bitterly, shaking his head. “Those headline writers should rot in hell.”

  I wince, knowing Channel 3’s coverage of the story back then was probably just as sensational. “Again, though,” I say, turning a page in my notebook and trying to change the focus. “She confessed. Did you ask her why?”

  Will tosses the clipping onto the table. “Here’s the rest of the story,” he says. He pauses, as if composing himself, then runs both hands though his graying hair. “Back when I was assigned Dorie’s case—”

  I have to interrupt. “I’m sorry, Will, but I wanted to ask you about that.” Money. One of the questions on my list. “Wasn’t Ray Sweeney financially well-off? Why would Dorie need an appointed lawyer?”

  “She didn’t want a lawyer at all,” Oliver Rankin answers. “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts assigned Will to her case. Someone says they don’t need legal advice, that’s their call. But the courts aren’t comfortable if there’s no lawyer standing by to make sure the defendant’s rights are protected. And if they plead guilty, having a lawyer ensures they did it knowingly and voluntarily. Without coercion from the police, or pressure from someone else. And that was Will’s job.”

  “Which I blew. Big-time,” Will says, standing and putting his palms on the table. He looks right at me, his face weary, the picture of defeat. “And that’s why you’re here, Charlie.” He stops, pursing his lips, then starts again. “I had a problem back then. A big one. I hadn’t started going to meetings, hadn’t admitted I was an alcoholic. When I got Dorinda’s case, I didn’t even ask how her confession was obtained. When I asked her why she confessed, she said, ‘Because I’m guilty.’”

  He sits back down, picks up the green glass bottle in front of him and swishes the water back and forth, staring at it.

  “I just bought her story. I didn’t ask the right questions. I didn’t check the evidence, I didn’t lift the phone to investigate. Now I know I need to take responsibility for my actions, and I’m responsible for what happened to Dorinda. I have to make it right,” he says, his voice taut. “I just hope it’s not too late.”

  I guess his explanation makes sense. And why look a gift story in the mouth? But that’s exactly what I have to do. “But why—?” I begin.

  Rankin interrupts me. “And that’s where the videotape comes in.” He slides the cassette across the table toward Franklin, who stops it one-handed. “Before Dorie confessed, police told the proprietors of Beachview Nursing Home, where Dorie worked, to preserve their surveillance tape for the night of the murder. It’s a small place. Dorie’s the only employee on the graveyard shift in her section. Often it was just her and the sleeping patients. But after Dorie confessed, the tape was no longer needed. The police never asked for it.”

  “I remembered it might still exist,” Easterly picks up the story, his voice earnest. “I knew that might be my ticket to justice for Dorinda. A solid alibi.” He locks his eyes onto mine. “Somewhere in my alcohol-soaked brain, back then, I knew she might be innocent. She was…”

  He pauses and looks away, perhaps into the past. “She was not a murderer. Now, I need to try to prove it. Of course, if she hadn’t been on the tape, that would have at least put my guilty conscience at ease. But there she is. Not guilty. Step Nine—‘Make direct amends wherever possible.’”

  Franklin, chin in hands, stares at him, transfixed. I realize I’m holding my breath. It’s as if Will has made a confession of his own.

  Rankin, however, is brusque, all business. “And that’s it, right from the source,” he says. He continues to tick off his points, one finger at a time. “Will asked the nursing home to search for the video. They found it, still in some file cabinet where they’d locked it three years ago. He convinced them to let him have the tape, and there she was. Will’s worked with us on other cases, so yesterday he brought it straight to me.”

  I’m captivated by Will’s quiet passion, his obvious deep belief. But still, I’ve got questions. “Will?” I begin, quietly. “Then why did she confess?”

  Will throws up his hands, looking frustrated. “I don’t know. Maybe she wanted him dead. Maybe she knows something. Maybe someone is blackmailing her. I don’t know,” he says. “She still insists she’s guilty. But now, this tape proves she wasn’t there. She didn’t do it.”

  I can’t know what the rest of them are thinking, but I’m picturing Dorie locked inside the redbrick fortress of MCI-Framingham, the oldest women’s prison in the country. Innocent, terrified, and trapped behind bars for three long years. It’s the story I’ve dreamed about since J-school. I can save her.

  “Will she agree to an interview?” I ask. My list is growing. Find witnesses. Get police report. Where is daughter? Why confess? “Dorie has to go on camera. And we’ll need a copy of that tape. We need to have it authenticated. And—may we take these clippings? We’ll need to look at them.”

  “It’ll take two weeks, maybe more, to get this story pulled together,” Franklin adds. “But the interview with Dorie is key.”

  “Once she hears we have the tape, I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you,” Will says. “And we can find out why she confessed. My guess, the police pushed her into it.”

  I nod, ticking off another question on my list. “You think they threatened her? Said she’d certainly be convicted, got her to make a deal for a lesser sentence?”

  “Happens all the time,” Rankin asserts. “All the damn time.” He slides back his chair from the head of the table and begins to pace, pointing at each of us, as if he’s in charge of Franklin and me, too.

  “Will, you call Dorinda. Charlie, of course take those clippings. And your copy of the tape. Let us know what you find out. Franklin, leave your number with my secretary in case he needs to get in touch with you directly. I’ll get my staff to do some digging, but you two are the front lines of Team Dorinda.”

  I smile noncommittally. Team Dorinda? Situations like this are always sticky. Tricky. Franklin and I don’t work for the CJP, we work for the truth. We’ll follow the story whether it leads where Rankin and Easterly believe it will—or whether it doesn’t. If it turns out Dorinda is guilty, we might even go with that story instead.

  It’s a fragile equilibrium.

  I gather up the newspaper clippings, sliding them into their manila file folder and tucking them carefully into my tote bag. I can’t wait to read them all thoroughly, focusing to see if I can put the story together in a different way. In a way that means Dorie’s innocent.

  Rankin and Will Easterly are moving toward the conference room door. “Oscar Ortega will be ripping some poor sucker for this one,” I hear Rankin mutter, patting Will on the back as he guides him through the room. “Governor’s chair? I don’t think so.”

  I look up, surprised. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” I say. “Did you say Oscar Ortega? Would be … unhappy? Could I ask why?”

  “Of course,” Rankin replies, changing his tone, affable again. “I thought you knew. You’ll see it when you read the articles. Oz was lead prosecutor in the Sweeney case. The A.G.’s office had jurisdiction because Sweeney was a public official. Oz wrapped up the case with that confession, now he touts it as one of his big successes. He says his law-and-order team is so powerful, miscreants simply surrender.” He pauses, then gives a sardonic smile. “If Dorinda’s innocent? There goes the law-and-order campaign.”

  The four of us arrive at the elevator and I push the button. Then, because Franklin’s not watching me, I push it again. We hear the click and swish as the mechanism clicks into life. Ha. I wish Franklin had been looking.

  “I’ll call Dorie right now,” Will says. “I’m sure she’ll talk with you.” He holds out a hand, shaking mine, then Franklin’s. “If you can get to the truth, you’re going to save her life.”

  “I—we—” I begin.
“Please don’t get her hopes up,” I urge him. “It would be tragedy on tragedy if she begins to rely on us, and then it doesn’t happen.”

  The elevator arrives, and Franklin and I step in. “Thank you so much,” I say. “We’ll let you know what we come up with.”

  The polished stainless steel doors begin to close, but then Rankin steps forward, clamping one confident hand into the opening. He forces the doors apart even as the elevator mechanism struggles to slide them together.

  “You two are going up against the Great and Powerful Oz. You know that, correct?” he asks, pretending the elevator isn’t fighting back. “Not afraid of him, are you?”

  Before either of us can respond to his challenge, he lets go of the door and it slides shut.

  * * *

  “I knew there was something,” I whisper to Franklin. We’re alone in the elevator, but it feels right to keep my voice low. “Maybe that’s what this is really about. Ortega.”

  Before Franklin can reply, we stop at the twenty-fifth floor. A harried-looking woman tapping a BlackBerry gets on. She pushes 21. We wait, impatient for privacy.

  Four floors down, the doors close us into seclusion again. “I mean, Will’s obviously obsessed with Dorie,” I continue. “What if Rankin’s obsessed with Oz? And if Rankin and Easterly hate Ortega, maybe they think—”

  I stop as the doors open again. Two young women step on, deep into comparing the nail polish colors showing through the openings of their peep-toed pumps.

  I decide to risk it.

  “If they think you-know-who being innocent can derail the campaign of ‘that guy,’” I continue, talking in code, “maybe they’re leaking the story to make him a loser. And manipulating us into helping.”

  Franklin nods. “But we can’t leave her up the river. We can’t tell her, like, ‘It’s June. We’ll come back in November, after the election, when it’s less complicated.’”

  “But if we go back upstairs, and say, hey, we’re concerned…” I glance at the girls. Oblivious. “They’ll just give the tape to someone else. And we’ll be—you know.” Screwed, is what I don’t say out loud. If Rankin and Will give the story to another reporter.