Staring at me, eyes welling, Dorinda slowly takes the receiver away from her ear and, still holding it, drops her arm to her side. As if to make sure she doesn’t hear any more. Then, even more slowly, she brings the black plastic phone back to her face. For one moment I get a glimpse of the girl who once danced and curled her hair. I can almost see the memories unreeling in her mind.
“I think of him every day. He was…” She shrugs. “He was my first love, what can I tell you? He was wild. Possessive. My mother thought he was-a bad egg, she called him. Made him all the more desirable, of course. He was Romeo in the Swampscott spring play, when I was Juliet, did you see that in the yearbook? A born actor. He would call me Juliet all the time, swear he loved me just as much. When I got the phone call from the Navy that he’d been killed…”
Suddenly, her eyes turn resistant. “What about him?”
Now here’s the part in the soap opera where the organ music swells, and they cut to the tease of tomorrow’s show. The announcer’s voice intones the questions: Is Gaylen actually the boyfriend’s daughter, conceived in one stolen night of passion before a loveless forced marriage? How will the hapless reporter, desperate for answers, find a way to ask such a delicate question? And what-big organ chord here, da-dummmm-will be the answer? Wait until tomorrow’s episode of-
Except this hapless reporter doesn’t have until tomorrow. I have now.
I can feel my foot jiggling under the counter. All I have to go on here is town gossip and a hunch that makes this a story for Danielle Steel instead of Diane Sawyer. Two choices here. Ask. Or don’t ask.
“Dorinda,” I begin. I pause. Suddenly the phone receiver feels sticky. I switch ears and begin again. “Dorinda, forgive me. I just have to check all the facts. In researching what happened that night-”
“I told you what happened,” she snaps.
I hold up a hand, apologizing. “I know,” I say. “Just let me ask you two more questions. Three. Was CC Hardesty-”
Dorinda bursts into laughter, the alien sound ricocheting off the cinder-block walls. I stop, surprised into silence.
“Was he Gaylen’s father?” she says. “Is that your question?” She shakes her head, as if she’s hearing a familiar story. “Wish I had a nickel for every time someone tried to ask me that. I know it’s what everyone thinks. I’ve heard the gossip, too, you know? I’ve lived it. But no, Ray Sweeney is Gaylen’s father.” Her mouth twists, regretting. “More’s the pity.”
“Did CC know Gaylen was born? Did he ever come back to town? Could he have seen her when he did?” A thought skitters through my brain. “Did he ever meet Ray? He had to know him, right? CC spray painted the sidewalk with your names.”
“Never came back that I knew of,” Dorinda says. “His family’s long gone. No reason to.”
“Except to see you,” I say.
“But he didn’t,” Dorinda replies. “And then he was killed.” She looks past me, and I turn to see what she’s watching. A blue-uniformed guard points meaningfully to the clock on the wall beside her, then gives me the wrap-up signal.
Dorinda taps on the Plexiglas to retrieve my attention. “I’m sure your heart’s in the right place. I know you’re a good person. That’s why I told Will I’d talk with you. But stop wasting your time with me, all right? You should try to help someone who needs you.”
And then she hangs up the phone.
WHAT HAVE I LEARNED? I interview myself as the guard leads me through the long dingy hallway back to the outside. Do I think Dorinda is guilty? Yes. Maybe. No. But if she faked the time sheets and the video, after killing her husband, that means it wasn’t even an accident. She planned it. No wonder she confessed. First-degree murder is life without parole. With her plea deal, at least she has a chance to get out in fifteen years.
I turn to the guard, who’s silently escorting me. She’s an imposing package, broad-shouldered and stocky, with tiny graying dreadlocks tucked under her cap. Her wide black belt carries metal D rings for clanking pass cards, a tiny flashlight and a silver whistle. The embroidered name over her breast pocket says Off. Delia Woolhouse. Might as well give it a try. I hold out a hand. “Officer Woolhouse? I’m Charlie McNally, from-”
“Didn’t even need to check your name on the sheet, Miz McNally. Know who you are from the tube,” the guard says. Her tough exterior melts as she stops and bestows a wide smile, shaking my hand. “You tough, girl.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You, too. And call me Charlie. Could I ask you-”
“Walk,” the guard instructs. She points the way. I walk.
“Does Dorie have any other visitors?” I say. “Have you seen anyone here?”
“Not many,” the guard replies. “I’m in charge in this block, so I’d know.” She pauses, thinking. “Her pastor from that Unitarian church in Swampscott, for sure. And the battered women’s counselor from the place in Lawrence. ’Bout it.”
I sigh. Great. A church and a woman’s shelter. Two places where anyone who knows anything is sworn to secrecy. Still, it’s better than nothing. “What place in Lawrence?” I ask.
Officer Woolhouse grabs a metal handle, then drags open an expanding metal grate, leaning her whole body into the motion. As the grate collapses, it reveals a massive sliding steel door behind it. The guard pushes a square aluminum plate on the wall and the door begins the grumbling mechanical progress that will put me again on the outside.
“Don’t know,” the guard says. She lifts her hand in farewell, then points the way back into the sunshine. “Shouldn’t have told you what I did.” She grins again. “It’s off the record, Miz-Charlie. Just like they say on Law and Order.”
CHAPTER 19
“Not only does she insist she’s guilty, but it seems like she planned it. And then she tried to cover it up.” I try to prevent my voice from rising as I replay my infuriatingly unrewarding prison interview to Franklin, Oliver Rankin and Will Easterly. The CJP conference room, headquarters for what Rankin annoyingly keeps calling Team Dorinda, is beginning to feel more like the loser’s locker room.
“I’m thinking our story is just about down the tubes,” I say. I can’t even begin to imagine the meeting where I’ll have to explain this to Kevin and Susannah. I tilt back in my upholstered chair, clamping both hands to my head in defeat. “It’s a house of cards. Collapsing on all of us.”
I point to Rankin. “You, Oliver-if Dorinda is guilty, the CJP is going to take a real hit if Oz decides to nail you over taking her case. Will, it’ll look like you’re frantically trying to regain your reputation, but it may just highlight your embarrassing past.” I shrug and snap my chair back to the table, propping my chin in my hands. “As for me and Franklin, we’re just-ah. I don’t even have words for this disaster.”
“Did she tell you how she killed him? How she managed it all? You saw how delicate she is.” Will’s pacing, staring at the floor, not waiting for any of us to answer. He yanks open his tie with a frustrated intensity and wheels to face us. “You know she’s innocent. This whole thing stinks. Something, or someone, is driving her to this. To have confessed.”
“Gaylen, you mean,” Franklin says. “I agree. I think our next step is to find her. I’m still not convinced Ray was her father, by the way. Remember, that guard told Charlotte about the church and the women’s center, and I’m wondering if they might know where she is.”
Something stirs in my brain as Franklin explains our ideas for locating Gaylen, but it skitters away before I can retrieve it.
Oliver Rankin’s confident voice interrupts my thoughts. “Fruit of the poisonous tree,” he says. “We don’t have to prove who actually killed Ray Sweeney. We just have to show the investigation was botched. Or that Dorinda was coerced into a confession. By the police, or person or persons unknown. This is about getting her a new trial, folks.”