I pause, gauging whether this lie sinks in. “And if that’s true, what have you done? You’ve framed the mother of your own child, sent her to prison for life. You’ve sent your only daughter into hiding, misery and guilt. And you’re responsible.”
I fleetingly wish I’d listened more attentively in my college psych classes. I hope this isn’t pushing too hard. But there’s no time to ponder Maslow, or whoever it was. “Listen,” I say. “You leave. I’ll call the nurse, and after they wake Mother I’ll tell you how to find Gaylen. You and…” I play my ace, even though it’s counterfeit. “You and your daughter can be together.”
He barely considers my offer. “Right,” he says, sarcastic, rolling his eyes. “Then you set me right up for the cops. Not for a moment of the past twenty-five years have I forgotten. Not a moment of the past twenty-five years have I wavered. If I couldn’t have her, nobody could have her. I lived for it, worked for this, planned for this. I even … died for this.” He laughs, without a shred of mirth. “Dorie. She ruined my life. My only goal was to ruin hers.”
I can almost see the animosity, the tension, between us. Still holding Mom’s hand, I try to position myself in front of her, blocking his view. I can’t let him hear the silence. All the more reason I have to keep talking.
“And now you’ll never know how she really felt, will you?” I say. I’m taunting him, tormenting him, as the seconds tick away. “Do you know her mother forced her to marry Ray? Your Dorie told me that. And she was so upset when she got the word that you—died—she cried for weeks. Even little Gaylen remembers. You have it all wrong.”
For the first moment, I see him falter. He blinks, takes a hesitant step backward. He doesn’t answer.
“I know where Gaylen is,” I say. “Without me, you’ll never find her. And Dorinda will never tell you. You ruined her life—it’s not Dorie who ruined yours. You destroyed your own family with your selfishness and jealousy. Because you didn’t take the time to understand the girl you said you loved.”
I’m breathing hard, trying to stay in control. If I can make this deal, offer him his daughter back, maybe I’ll get my mother back. It’s my only play.
“Two minutes,” he says, pointing to the pills. “Pick those up. And I’ll find Gaylen myself, thank you very much for telling me she’s around here. And as for your mother dear, I would say—” he glances dramatically at his chunky silver watch “—I would say it’s possible my watch is wrong.”
I whirl to look at Mother, terrifyingly peaceful, quieter than quiet. Beyond asleep.
She doesn’t even blink when all hell breaks loose.
Klaxons, blaring. Alarms, screaming. A synthetic voice blasts through the room, loudspeakers repeating “Code Blue, Code Blue, Code Blue.” CC Hardesty wheels, staggering backward, as the door flies open, and a doctor, a team of doctors and nurses, all in white, careen a heavily laden crash cart into the little room.
With a shattering of glass and instruments clattering to the floor, the cart collides, crashes, directly into CC, propelling him across the room and toward Mom’s bed. I leap up, and I’m yelling, yelling, yelling as I spin the rolling bed table, hard as I can, hard as I can, hoping I smash him in the chest or neck or head or anywhere, anywhere that will bring him down.
I see him slide down the side of Mom’s bed. His fingers claw down the pink quilt. The yellow and white capsules roll, spilling away, bouncing onto the floor. Hardesty’s collapsed, motionless as Mom. He’s a white-uniformed ghost, returned from the dead. And now—
Now, I’m explaining, fast as I can, clearly as I can, exactly what happened. I grab the nearest doctor, his stethoscope almost swinging into my face as I corral him into action. “Call security, the cops,” I demand. “He’s given Mom some sort of, of overdose.” I know I have to be calm. I won’t even calculate about how much time has gone by.
I sweep up the yellow and white capsules from the floor, scooping so hard I burn my hand on the rug, until they’re once again in my palm, and display them, quivering, to the still-confused physician. “They looked like these,” I say. “Do something. Now. Please.”
Three blue-jacketed hulks of hospital security guards have joined the hubbub in the now-crowded room. They’re lifting Hardesty like a rubbery rag doll, his arms and legs not responding to their commands.
“Move it,” one orders. “You’re done.” Hardesty’s dazed, still staggering. I see handcuffs click into place.
Two nurses hover over Mom, taking her pulse, listening to her breathing.
“Here’s the problem,” one says. She’s holding up the dangling wires of Mom’s heart-rate monitor. “These had come off her finger somehow. No wonder we weren’t getting any vitals from her. We thought she’d flatlined.” The nurse puts the thick black band back into place around Mom’s finger. “Wonder how that happened?”
Doctors have called in a stretcher. One, two, three, they lift Mom from her bed. The stretcher is already moving out of the room by the time she’s settled. I’m stationed beside it, not leaving her side.
“Well, that was me,” I explain. We’re racing down the hall, me with one hand clamped to Mom’s stretcher. Her face is gray, or pale. All wrong.
“CC told me he’d disconnected the nurse call button. But I knew Mom’s monitor was still hooked up. So I grabbed her hand and gradually slipped off the wires. He never noticed the beeping had stopped. And as soon as you realized there was no signal … I knew you’d come. And I hoped it would be soon enough.”
We arrive at a wide silver elevator. A grim-faced doctor slams a key card though an emergency switch, and I hear the elevator on the way.
“You’ll need to wait down here, Miz McNally,” the doctor says.
“But—”
“Someone will be with you,” she interrupts. “Just let us do our work.”
I look at Mom, still, small, and deep in a drug-dazed stupor. I briefly calculate how long it actually took for them to realize there were no longer peaks and valleys in her heartbeat and respiration. Almost too long. I touch her hand. She doesn’t move.
The elevator doors slide open. And she’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Got your earpiece in? Can you hear the control room? Is anything happening at the gates?” Franklin’s shading his eyes with a hand as he squints across the parking lot. The imposing entrance gates of the women’s prison remain closed. They’re bars of wrought iron, topped with razor wire. Behind them, a concrete walkway leads to bolted wood double doors. Also closed. Two blue-uniformed guards are stationed in front of them, arms crossed over their chests, staring at the Channel 3 live shot van we’ve set up on a strip of grass on the public side of the gates. We’ve got one camera focused on the prison doors and one facing me.
“We’re taking this live as soon as she walks out,” Franklin says, for about the fifth time. He looks at his watch yet again. “You set? They’re gonna come through that door, and head straight for Will’s car.”
“I’m set, Franko,” I say. “And no matter how many times you look at your watch, it won’t make it happen any faster. The control room’s watching the front door. They’ll take the shot when they see her on camera and cue me through my earpiece. I can hear them. I’m set.”
I puff out a stream of air, channeling calm. Just three days ago, Mom and I were almost killed by a revenge-obsessed Romeo. Now, CC Hardesty is behind bars, no bail. Oscar Ortega himself had appeared in court, asking the judge to charge Hardesty with the murder of Ray Sweeney, vacate Dorinda’s conviction, and let her go free. Gaylen had sobbed through the entire proceeding. Will Easterly, red eyed and even more gaunt than usual, had actually—one of the few times I’d ever seen him do it—smiled when Judge G. West Saltonstall made his rulings. Tek Mattheissen was nowhere to be seen.
This morning Franklin and I are running on caffeine and adrenaline. We’d stayed up almost all night writing and editing our exclusive story. Part one of “Charlie’s Crusade: Justice for Dorinda” is going to hi
t the air tonight. Dorinda and Gaylen, who have promised to talk with us exclusively, will be in part two. But for tonight we have a touching interview with Will, admitting his alcoholism and his ineffective job as defense attorney, and dramatic “we told you so” bombast from Oliver Rankin. Thanks to Poppy Morency, we’re using new video of inside the Sweeney house, including some admittedly tabloid-worthy footage of the basement stairs. We’ve even got a brief interview with Joe B. from the nursing home. We’re showing the alibi video of Dorinda in the meds room—which turned out to be authentic, of course—and the time sheets, which were authentic, too. Plus that age-progression yearbook photo of the prom queen and her court. The simulated face that launched a real-life murder charge.
I smile to myself. Mom was right again. If she hadn’t forced me to meet with Dr. Garth, the picture that allowed me to recognize CC Hardesty would never have existed. I hope she’s watching this morning. And I know she wouldn’t miss it. She’s fine, with no ill effects from her could-have-been-lethal overdose, and apparently no memory of the pandemonium of three days ago. And that’s a good thing.
Back at the station, Kevin’s acting as if he’s heir apparent to Edward R. Murrow. Susannah’s acting as if this whole story were her idea. She blew out every other promo that was scheduled and ordered Charlie’s Crusade spots to run in every available time slot. Newsroom scuttlebutt says she’s been hired to handle Channel 3’s promotion full-time. That, I cannot face.
Of course, the newspapers and other TV stations know Dorinda’s been proved innocent. But they also know it’s because of us. It’s a slam dunk, out-of-the-ballpark scoop.
Now, if all goes as planned, in a few moments we’ll be going live as Dorinda Keeler Sweeney becomes a free woman again. Franklin is up at the prison gate, checking with the guards. He’s impatient to get the show on the road, I know. I smile to myself. Not as impatient, probably, as Dorinda. And I know Gaylen’s inside with her. They’re going to walk out together.
“We’re ready to go.” Walt, in position behind his camera, interrupts my thoughts. He twists a knob on the side of his tripod to lock the camera back into place and looks over at me. “McNally?” he says.
What now? Something else broken? It’s his coffee break time? “Yeah?” I reply warily. Walt’s a chronic complainer. I’m expecting the worst.
“Gotta hand it to you,” he says, not looking at me, fiddling intently with something on his Sony. “You pulled this off,” he says. He gestures with his head toward Franklin. “You and Parrish. The real deal.”
I couldn’t be more surprised. I’m sincerely touched. “Walt,” I say, nodding, “that means a lot. Coming from you.”
“Yeah, right,” he says. He cocks his head and puts a finger to his ear, apparently listening to instructions through his earpiece. “Control room wants to know if you see anything happening. Your earpiece in? Talk into your mike, they can hear you.”
I look at the tiny microphone clipped to the jacket of my splurgy new Italian suit, purchased, with crossed fingers, hoping for such an occasion. “Nothing’s happening that I can make out,” I say into my lapel. “Franklin’s checking.” I look to see if anything’s changed, but he’s still up at the gate. The officers are still in their “I know nothing” postures. But Franklin is gesturing, pointing to me.
The door begins to open.
And it closes again.
“What?” I demand. “What did the guards say? What’s the timing?”
“Stand by,” Franklin orders. “Stand by,” he says into my lapel, then starts waving his arms in front of Walt’s camera.
“They see you in the control room,” Walt says. “If I were you, I’d get out the way. You’re in Charlie’s shot.”
Franklin leaps out of camera range. And then the prison door opens again.
Walt touches his ear again, listening. “Five seconds,” he says, pointing a finger at me.
“We’re live,” I hear through my ear. “We’ve got the Dorinda cam live,” the director back in the control room says. “And your mike is hot. Go!”
“This is Charlie McNally, live with breaking news from the front gates of the Framingham women’s prison,” I begin. I’ve been doing live shots for more than twenty years. I’ve described horrific fires, chaotic election nights, devastating floods. I’ve been soaked by hurricanes and blasted by snowstorms, harassed by drunken college kids and confronted by enraged politicians. I handled all of it, as it happened and mostly without a hitch, on live television. Part of the job.
But I’ll admit, right now, my heart is racing. There’s no snow, no rain, no screaming crowds. One woman, accompanied by her daughter, is about to walk out of prison and into the sunshine. And I’ve never felt more challenged to come up with just the right words. To do them justice.
“What you’re seeing now is…” I hesitate. The door was halfway open, but now it’s stopped, waiting, freeze-framed. And then, it opens again. And there they are.
“What you’re seeing now is Dorinda Keeler Sweeney, who just yesterday was granted her freedom. As you know, she confessed to killing her husband, North Shore politician Ray Sweeney, three years ago. But we have learned…” I pause, watching Dorinda, in low heels and a sleeveless shift, shoulders back, head high, and carrying a purse for the first time in years, walk slowly away from the looming red brick walls. “We have learned, her confession was a complete fabrication. She sacrificed her own freedom to protect her daughter—whom she mistakenly thought was guilty—from being charged with the murder. That’s who you see, holding her arm, walking out with her. Her daughter, Gaylen Sweeney.” I pause again, deciding to allow the audience a beat to take in the enormity of the moment without hearing my voice over the whole thing.
“Dorinda and Gaylen Sweeney will now have to attempt to get their lives back, to make up for three years of lost time and devastating miscommunications. A mother who thought she was protecting her daughter from a life sentence in prison. A daughter haunted by the possibility she’d killed her own father. Three years of sorrow. Three years of sacrifice. Now it all ends, here in Framingham, on a sunny July morning. A mother and a daughter, free and safe. And starting over.”
* * *
A lumpy silhouette rises in the window of the news director’s office. Humpty Dumpty, improbably, crosses my mind. But Kevin’s called me in, so I’ll know the reality soon enough. I can see Susannah in her usual perch on the couch talking to Mr. Dumpty. Kevin’s behind his desk listening. I smile my way across the newsroom, satisfied with our live coverage, psyched with our scoop, and accepting compliments from my fellow reporters.
Tonight, part one of Charlie’s Crusade hits the air. The ratings are going to be off the charts. Dorinda and Gaylen are in seclusion at some apartment Oliver Rankin’s provided. According to Will, they’re never more than a few feet apart.
I arrive at Kevin’s door. Humpty turns around. It’s Oscar Ortega.
Susannah gets to her feet and starts to say something, but Ortega takes over.
“Ms. McNally,” he says. He points me to a chair, as if we’re in his own office. “Thank you for coming in.” As if he were the one who called me. Susannah goes to Kevin’s office door, closes it and silently takes her place back on the couch. Kevin hasn’t opened his mouth. And I can’t read their faces.
“We have a situation,” Ortega begins. “We’re tracking the actions of Tommy—strike that—CC Hardesty, over the past few weeks. Let me show you.” He bends down to click open his briefcase.
A flurry of possibilities explodes in my head and I try to assess what could possibly be wrong. The judge ruled Dorinda should be released, nothing can change that. We know CC is guilty. He told the cops he’d put sleeping pills in Ray and Gaylen’s drinks. He’d confessed to entering the Sweeney house and pushing Ray down the stairs while Gaylen slept. And he said it was “easy.” That confession is going to stick. Not to mention his attempted murder charges for drugging Mom and threatening me. That’s going to stick, too.
Ortega pulls out a thick manila file folder and spreads it open on Kevin’s desk. From inside he extracts several pieces of white paper, held together with a red paper clip. “This is the police report you filed, after that day in the state archives,” he says. “You said someone—” he refers to the report “—followed you? Chased you? And attacked you?”
“Exactly,” I say. And now he’s going to tell me my assailant was Tek. I knew it. I always figured it was Tek and wondered whether he was just going to get away with it. I prepare to hear the real story of that frightening morning in the archives, wondering how Franklin and I can incorporate it into our Dorinda investigation.
And Ortega doesn’t know the half of it. “Situation”? Now I’ll finally get a chance to confront him about the bogus photo array. His “situation” is about to get worse.
“So are you saying you know who that was?” I ask, more than prepared for the answer. This may also explain the noticeable absence of Ortega’s usually ever-present chief of staff. Tek wasn’t in court for Dorinda’s hearing, even though he was the lead detective on the case. And he’s not here now.
Oz purses his lips and leans back against Kevin’s desk. Kevin scoots his chair away, his personal space invaded by Oz’s physical bulk and commanding presence.
“We do,” he says, putting the police report back into the file. “But you should know you’re out of danger now.”
I open my mouth to ask where Tek is and whether he’s being charged with anything, but Oz keeps talking.
“Mr. Hardesty had been tracking you for almost two weeks now,” Ortega says. “It was him in the archives. He followed you there. When Tek headed for the file room and you weren’t with him, Hardesty decided to—as he put it—get that television bitch off his back.”
He glances at Susannah. “No offense. When that didn’t work, apparently you used your shoes? Very resourceful. Nevertheless, when that didn’t work, he just kept on your trail, and waited for his chance.”
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