For a moment, the only sound is a soft swish as Franklin turns the pages of the employee time sheets. Just as I had done, he folds one page over to the next, comparing signatures.
“Still, ‘could have done it’ doesn’t mean ‘did do it,’” he says, looking at the time sheets. “More to the point, if she did, why didn’t she make a big deal about it? You’d have to think police checked them. And yet they still arrested her. And she confessed.”
“But if detectives had the time sheet and held it back—that’s huge.” I’m beginning to see a glimmer of hope for our story. And for Dorinda. “Law enforcement misconduct like that, withholding exculpatory evidence. That’s enough on its own to get Dorie a new trial. Rankin and Will are going to love … wait a minute.”
I lean back in my chair, then grab on to the desk when the chair tips back precariously farther than I expected. I carefully let go, keeping a toe on the floor and trying to keep at least my physical equilibrium. Our search for answers is only unearthing more questions. I’m beginning to realize why they call it a deadline. The reporter’s career is on the line, and if she fails, her career is dead.
“Will Easterly,” I say. Even though he’s the one who’s brought us this story, we’ve never really checked him out. His background. His connections. His motives. “I know he told us he was trying to redeem himself for his negligence in Dorie’s defense, but why didn’t he think to examine this book? I mean, it’s the definition of reasonable doubt.”
“Vodka, I’d say,” Franklin replies. “Or whatever his alcohol of choice was at the time. As he told us, he was probably so buzzed back then, or hungover, he just didn’t think of it.”
“And of course,” I say, my voice bleak, “let us not forget the two words that continue to haunt us—she confessed. And after that confession, no one was looking for evidence of anything.”
The door to the Client Services office clicks open, and I look up, expecting to see Amelia giving us a time’s-up. But it’s not just Amelia.
A battleship in a pin-striped suit, lapels wide and electric-yellow tie even wider, takes up all the space in the doorway. Amelia is attempting to peek over his shoulder, but all I can see are her feet, on tiptoe, and the top of her head.
“This is Mr. Bellarusso,” I hear Amelia say, as she darts her head back and forth, up and down, trying to be seen around the apparently immovable object blocking the view. “Head of our security.”
Mr. Bellarusso reaches over to crush my hand, then Franklin’s, giving Amelia just enough room to sneak by and enter the office one shoulder at a time. “Mr. Bellarusso wanted to make sure—”
“Joe,” he says, interrupting. “Joe B.” Joe Bellarusso wears an American flag as a lapel pin. His pink scalp shows through his thinning colorless hair, and when he claps one hand onto the door frame, his sports coat opens to reveal the straps and pouch of a shoulder holster. Empty. “Charlie McNally, right? Do for you?”
I translate this to mean that he’s asking what he can do for us, and actually, there are a few things I’d like to know. I point to the logbook and turn it to face him.
“Did the police ever look at these time sheets? After Ray Sweeney’s murder? Or maybe recently?” I’m wondering if Oscar Ortega’s office, knowing Rankin’s on their case, might have gone back over their investigation, retracing their steps to make sure they crossed all the legal T’s. Tek Mattheissen had been lead cop for the Swampscott PD. If the Sweeney case blows up, his past and his future would both be on the line.
“A Detective Masterson, name like that, looked at the time books. His partner Clay Gettings looked, too. Back then,” Joe B. says. He takes out a tiny spiral-bound notebook from his inside jacket pocket, gives his thumb a lick and uses it to turn over the pencil-covered pages, one at a time. “Insurance company fella. Just the other day. And it’s Mattheissen, not Masterson.” Joe B. closes the notebook and tucks it back in place.
“You worked here?” I ask. “Time of the murder?” I’m starting to talk like Joe B.
“How about the tapes?” Franklin’s talking at the same time.
Bellarusso lumbers to a row of cabinets lining one wall and slides open one floor-to-ceiling door. Behind it is a row of tiny television screens, most of them turned off. The one in the upper right corner, however, is showing, live, the same view of the meds room we saw in Rankin’s office. And the one next to it shows what must be the back door of the building.
Bellarusso gestures to the array of screens. “Course, we’re not up to speed on this,” he says. “Right now, we still got just the meds room and the back. We keep them for a week, then tape over them.”
“It’s a cost-saving measure,” Amelia puts in. “We simply don’t have the money to expand our security system. It’s always on the list,” she says, “but something else always seems to come first.”
“And the tape for the night of the murder…?” Franklin asks, looking at Mr. B.
“I yanked it,” he says. “Couple of days after the arrest. Locked it away. Only been on the job a week, just moved up here. Figured they’d need it for the trial.” He shrugs. “Then, you know.”
“She confessed,” I say. I hate those words.
“Yep. First week on the job, this happens.” He smiles, a cherub on steroids. “Never a dull moment.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I slide Dorinda’s time sheet across the conference table toward Will Easterly, offering it as if we’re sharing. But I’m really testing him. I had confided my latest suspicions to Franklin on our way to CJP offices. Unfortunately for my paranoia, Franklin couldn’t come up with a convincing reason that I’m wrong.
Franklin’s off feeding his e-mail addiction, and then he’s going to call the Swampscott PD, seeing if he can track down Mattheissen’s partner. My job is to see if we’re dealing with a hoax.
I’m worried that Will Easterly is a plant—a fraud—paid off, maybe, by the D.A. to trap us. What if Will forged the time sheet? He’d certainly have enough of Dorie’s signatures to copy with all the legal documents she must have signed. What if Will was the “insurance guy” Joe B. mentioned? Went in “just the other day” and tucked in an alibi? Down on his luck, gets signed up by the Great and Powerful Oz to bait the do-gooder Rankin into championing a losing case. And takes Franklin and me down as collateral damage in their battle for political power.
I watch Will’s reaction. If this time sheet existed at the time of the murder and he hadn’t looked for it, it’s a jaw-dropping dereliction of duty. If he had looked back then and it wasn’t there, it’s a jaw-dropping complication.
“Damn it.” Will rolls his chair away from the table, knocking into Oliver Rankin, who had been looking over his shoulder. Rankin steps back, surprised, as Will stalks toward the closed door. I see his fists are clenched, his head lowered. He reaches for the doorknob—is he going to leave? And what will that mean?
Then he turns, facing us. His fists are so taut I can see the blue veins on his pale hands. He swallows, holding his chin high. “Step Ten,” he says. “Continue to take personal inventory and when we are wrong, promptly admit it.” He shakes his head, looking rueful, one lock of lanky gray hair falling onto his forehead. “Funny how there’s a step for every occasion. And this one—well, hell. I thought I was on the right road, you know? Getting the tape? One step forward in my recovery. Now this. One step back.”
Rankin drapes an arm across Will’s shoulders, an almost affectionate gesture I wouldn’t have predicted. “It’s all a process, Will. And it’s a process you initiated,” he says. “And Charlie and Franklin found the time sheet. It’s just another proof Dorie is innocent, is it not? Don’t be so harsh on yourself. This is not a step back, it’s forward.”
He turns Will’s chair around, gesturing his colleague to sit down. “Let’s focus on what this can mean. And how to use it.”
“I know. I’m being selfish.” He pulls away from Rankin. “It’s not about me, it’s about Dorie,” he says, but he heads for the door
again. “I need some water. Or coffee. Can I bring you…?”
Rankin and I shake our heads, no. Will leaves, closing the door behind him. Is he really going to get water? Or to call someone? Rankin’s CJP could be in real jeopardy if Will turns out to be a—what? Double agent? I don’t have much time to float my suspicions, but for the sake of the CJP and of our reputation, I have to try.
Rankin’s picked up the time sheet and is holding it to the light, looking at the back, then the front again. It’s now or never. I perch on the conference table and outline my theory, quickly as I can.
I hop down and walk to the still-closed door, still talking, and stand in front of it as I wrap up my impromptu presentation. I’m my own early-warning system. If the doorknob clicks, I’ll step away and quickly change the subject.
Rankin started shaking his head, disagreeing, when I was halfway through my first sentence, and he hasn’t stopped since. It’s like talking to a pin-striped power-tied bobble-head doll, except this one is now talking back.
“I ’preciate your candor, Miz McNally,” Rankin says. He’s suddenly cordial, as if I’m a juror he’s trying to charm. “But you must know we don’t enter into these cases without thoroughly vetting every aspect. Our reputation is, of course, at stake every time.” He smiles, confident and untroubled. “Don’t worry yourself about Will. His story is solid. Of course the time sheet’s upset him. It’s just another reminder of his shortcomings.”
“But what if—”
“You’re a good reporter,” Rankin interrupts. “I admire your caution. But we’re full speed ahead here, no doubt in my mind. We can trust him, Charlie. If we’re going to defeat Oz, we’ve got to derail his law-and-order platform. Without flinching. I’ll need to make a copy of this time sheet for our files, so—”
“Defeat Oscar Ortega?” My turn to interrupt. That’s not what I thought the goal was. And Franklin and I can’t afford to get nailed in some political crossfire. “I thought this was about Dorinda. Listen, Mr. Rankin, we’re not about politics, we’re about the truth.” I sound a little like a made-for-TV movie about crusading reporters, but then, I am made for TV. “Crusading” reminds me of Susannah, which reminds me of the promos, which reminds me if this story blows up, we’re the first casualties.
The doorknob clicks, and I take two quick steps away, glancing at Rankin, hoping he’ll understand the subject is closed. At least for now.
Franklin and Will come in, each holding two bottles of water, apparently deep into a discussion of their own.
“But what about the eyewitness identification?” Franklin is saying as he hands me one of the bottles. “According to the paper, witnesses all picked out her picture. Pointed out Dorinda as the person arguing with Ray Sweeney in The Reefs Bar. At half an hour after midnight. According to the time sheet, she was at work. Can’t be two places at once.”
“Just a minute,” Rankin says, joining their conversation. He takes a bottle from Will. “Here’s something else we need to confirm. ‘Picked out’ her picture? From an array of photos?”
I fill them in on my meeting with Tek, set for tomorrow at the archives. “That’s what I wonder, too. We should find out exactly how it went down,” I say. “If the photos are in the D.A.’s case files. But from what I recall, the witnesses were describing just one picture.”
I nod, confirming my own memory. Then I remember one more thing. The article in Police Chief. I look at Rankin, then Will. “They’re not supposed to do it that way, is that what you’re getting at?”
“Correct. Indeed they are not,” the CJP director says. “Police are not supposed to do a ‘show up,’ where they just show one picture—that’s suggestive, and often causes witnesses to assume the person must be guilty. As a result, they pick them out. They’re supposed to do a serial lineup—show different pictures, one at a time. Include people who could not have been on the scene. Not even including, necessarily, the one the police think is guilty. If we can prove they showed a bunch of drunk and tired people, late night, in a bar, just one photo, Dorie should get a new trial right there.”
“But bottom line, a photo is a photo, right?” Franklin says. “No matter how they show it? Do we know if any of the witnesses actually knew Dorie? Did they say, yes, that’s Dorinda Sweeney? Or yes, that’s the person I saw?”
“And what if police said her name? Said she was the wife?” I ask. “People might assume—”
“You could fill this room with the studies proving the unreliability of witnesses’ memories,” Rankin says. “And eyewitness ID is often wrong. It’s almost impossible for police not to telegraph the answers they want. People remember what they think they should remember and, even more dangerous, what they’re led to remember.”
“Close your eyes,” I instruct Franklin. I’m remembering something else from the article.
“Do what?” he says. “Can’t you just tell me whatever it is while I have my eyes open?
“Indulge me,” I say. “Close them. Tight.”
Franklin puts his bottle of water on the conference table, then picks it up, centers a napkin underneath and puts it down again. After looking at me skeptically, he slowly closes his eyes. He manages to still look skeptical. “Okay, they’re closed,” he says. “Now what?”
“Is my jacket black or brown?” I ask. “Keep your eyes closed.”
“Um, black.” Franklin answers.
“Open ’em,” I say, glancing at Will and Rankin. “It’s blue.”
Franklin, eyes now open and hands on hips, looks perplexed. “That wasn’t one of the choices.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You chose black because I suggested it as one of the choices. Not because you remembered seeing it.”
The room is silent for a moment. All this talk of photos and lineups and what a witness might or might not say. What the police might or might not have done. Tek is supposed to show me the case file with the actual photographs tomorrow anyway. It’s really only about one thing. Dorinda Sweeney. And there’s only one person who can get me to her.
“Will,” I say, hoping I’m not taking a fatal step into journalistic quicksand. “I’ve got to talk to Dorie. Let me ask her about the time sheets.” I bite my lip, contemplating an unpleasant option. Without an on-camera interview, our story is dead. Is it worth it, to go in with just a notebook? Newspaper reporters do it every day. Easy for them. I wish Franklin and I could discuss our next move, but there’s no time.
“Off camera, even,” I say. As I say the words, I know I may be setting myself up for trouble. It’s in the top-ten dilemmas of television journalism. “Tell her—I won’t even quote her unless she agrees.” Off the record, worse and worse.
This could be the last card we have to play. From the concern apparent on Franklin’s face, he knows it too. I shrug, acknowledging my unilateral last-ditch effort and hoping I haven’t given away the farm. “It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”
“I sure hope so,” Franklin mutters.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ten minutes until I’m supposed to meet Tek. I’m parked in front of the fortress-fronted state archives building, a haphazard sprawling boondoggle that looks like it was designed by committee.
Franklin had no luck working the phones yesterday, so he’s at the Swampscott PD checking on Tek’s old partner—the one Joe B. mentioned—and seeing if he can get a copy of the 911 call Dorinda made after finding her husband’s body at the bottom of the basement stairs. Or where she says she found it. Maybe we’ll hear something on that tape, something police missed.
I check to see that my cell phone is on, just in case Will calls to give me the good news about a visit to the Framingham women’s prison. Tucking the phone back into my tote bag, I check for pad and paper in case I need to take notes. Quarters, in case the copier is one of those ridiculous pay-in-advance numbers. And lipstick, in case Tek is as ruthlessly handsome as I remember.
Then I smile. This visit is all business. Pleasure comes later. I’m driving to the Ca
pe tomorrow night to catch up with Josh, and Penny, and grill lobsters on the beach. My smile of anticipation fades as I imagine another audition in front of my preteen nemesis. I lock the door of my Jeep and step into the present. Story now, Penny-worry later.
I’m walking on tiptoe, trying to prevent my black leather sling-backs from getting chewed up in the too-wide spaces between the bricks on the pathway leading to the entrance of the archives building. I decided to wear jeans, in case it’s dusty or I have to sit on the floor, but I know I look better in higher heels and figured there’s no need to sacrifice style. With a click and a whoosh, the imposing glass doors automatically slide open, then swish closed behind me. A blast of air-conditioned chill replaces the July morning.
A marble-topped counter, waist high, stretches the width of the lobby. An ungainly metal detector, stuck in like an afterthought, blocks the entrance to the rest of the building. Behind the desk, a massive painted mural extends floor to ceiling, someone’s garishly outsize and perspective-challenged take on local history. Lobster boats, a galloping Paul Revere, the Mayflower and a huge codfish. The committee probably designed that, too.
And there’s Tek. Waiting for me. Black T-shirt, black jeans, his array of security badges around his neck, sunglasses on top of his head. He’s his own silhouette, stark and sleek in front of the color-saturated walls. He’s leaning on the counter, proprietary and serene, oozing ownership.
I give a casual wave, all business, as I walk toward him. I instantly hear my heels echoing through the cavernous lobby, so I go back to my tiptoe technique. The journey to the desk seems to take days. Though I’m keeping my expression upbeat, I’m regretting my shoe choice with every clackety step. Why does this guy make me so self-conscious?
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