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“Story of a lifetime,” Franklin says, looking pleased with himself. “You know how you’ve been bugging the Constitutional Justice Project to let us in on one of their wrongful conviction cases? Do it up big, inside info, evidence, interviews?”

“Of course,” I reply. A tentative smidge of hope emerges. Maybe this will be a good surprise after all. “And so…”

“Well, Brenda Starr, apparently your phone calls convinced ’em. Remember Deadly Dorie? Notorious husband-murdering Swampscott mom? Up the river for life?”

“Yeah, sure.” I nod. “Three, four years ago? Bashed her husband with an iron or something, then pushed him down the stairs. But she confessed, right?”

“Wrong,” Franklin says. “Well, she did confess, but tonight we got a call from the CJP. We’re getting the inside dope. She’s innocent. They’ve got new evidence proving she didn’t do it. And it’s all ours. Exclusive. They want you, my Emmy-winning friend, to do the story that gets her out of prison.”

T
WO GLASSES OF CHAMPAGNE LATER
, I high-five the air as I trudge up the last flight of stairs to my apartment, the third floor of a restored old Mount Vernon Square brownstone on the flat of Beacon Hill. My live shot was a success, we have our ratings story, and we’re going to get an innocent person out of prison.
Not bad for one day.

I can hear Botox meowing as I unlock the door. She curls her tail through my legs as I enter, purring for attention. I reach down to pet her sleek calico fur and see, as I predicted, she’s made a little shredded paper nest out of the mail again. That’s to punish me for coming home so late.

“We’ve got a hot one, Toxie,” I tell her. I dump my purse and tote bag onto the dining room table, pushing aside a pile of unread copies of
Vogue
and
The New Yorker,
and hang my black suit jacket on the back of a chair. I wonder, for the millionth time, why I spent so much money on antique dining room furniture I only employ as a magazine depository and an extra closet. I glance around my place, just reassuring myself everything’s where it should be. Which of course it is. The navy leather couch, plump taupe-and-white upholstered chairs, elegant Oriental rugs. Splurgy curtains hang over a curving bay window that, if you look in just the right direction, reveals a snippet of the Charles River. I do love it, but I’m hardly ever in it.

“We’ve got a hot one, Dad.” I salute the framed photos on my wall-covering family gallery as I head down the hall. Dad always loved a good story and I wish he were here to hash this one over.

The message light on my bedroom phone is blinking red. I push the playback button, then flip my black leather sling-backs into the closet, and twist my arms around to unzip my slim black silk skirt. I stop mid-zip as I hear the message. I’ve known Josh for, what, eight months? But still, just hearing the warmth in his voice feels like an embrace. “Hi sweets,” I say to the phone. My skirt drops, forgotten, to the floor.

“Caught you on the news,” the message continues. “How’d that happen? I thought you were with your mother. Anyway, you looked hot. But then…” His voice gets softer. “You know I always think you look hot.” I can picture his hazel eyes giving that full-of-meaning twinkle, his unruly pepper-and-salt hair falling out of place. The moment I first saw him I thought “Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch,” and I still think so. A sexy Atticus. Atticus with abs. Atticus with…

“Shall I make this an obscene call?” he continues. Now he’s using what I secretly call his “Charlie voice,” making me deeply wish we were together tonight. “Ask if you’re wearing that little black lace number? Okay, no. But listen, it would be nice if we could talk about it in person, wouldn’t it? So, sweets, dinner Thursday, right? We’ll hit Legal Seafoods or something, since Penny’s now informed me she’s a ‘fishatarian.’”

There’s a pause, and I hear him sigh. “She’s off in her room now, still wide-awake, says she has to ‘talk’ with Dickens. Her stuffed dog, not the author.” Another sigh. “Anyway, I, uh, miss you. Talk to you tomorrow.”

The message clicks off, but his voice still hangs in the air. My darling Josh. Though I’ve never called him that out loud. I sigh, consider clicking my wilted skirt onto a hanger, then toss it into the dry clean pile.

Be careful what you wish for,
my mother used to warn. As a little girl I’d always wondered why wishing was so dangerous. Now, I admit, I’m wishing for a future with Josh. Which means a future with his little girl. Which means, I’d suddenly be an English professor’s wife and somebody’s mom.
Be careful what you wish for.
Maybe Mother was right again.

I throw on my favorite old Rolling Stones T-shirt, and pad off to brush my teeth, Botox trailing behind me. Well, one thing for sure. If I’m ever somebody’s mom, I’m sure as hell not going to tell my daughter she needs a face-lift.

“I
have no idea what you’re worried about,” I say, giving the elevator button another jab for punctuation. The lobby of the office building is chilly and marbleized, and people with briefcases and scowls bustle past us, intent on their own destinations. Our destination is thirty-one floors up. “Of course she’ll do the interview, Franko. If Dorinda Keeler Sweeney wants to be a free woman again, why wouldn’t she?” I give the button another poke. “Come
on,
” I implore it.

There’s a lot to learn in the next few hours. And tonight there’s dinner with my darling Josh. And Penny, the newly minted fishatarian.

“The elevator is not going to arrive more quickly no matter how many times you push that button, Charlotte,” Franklin instructs, setting his cordovan leather briefcase on the floor. “And as for Dorie, I hope you’re right. If we get her to talk on camera, the story is blockbuster. Without her interview…well, let’s just say our brand new consultant from the Coast is not going to be too happy.”

I pause, mid-push. “You told her? You already told Susannah we’re researching this story?” We still have a lot of digging to do, and I never like to promise anything until I’m sure it’s a cinch. That way you don’t disappoint people with bad news, you only make them happy with good news.

Franklin gives his briefcase a little kick, looking crestfallen. He runs a finger around the neck of his starched oxford shirt.

“Well, she cornered me in the control room last night. Asked me if we had a July sweeps story yet. It was fun to be able to say yes.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I reassure him. Probably fine. Maybe fine. I just don’t want to be the one to inform Susannah Smith-Bagley—hired-gun ratings guru and so-called news doctor just assigned to “young up” Channel 3’s image and snag more viewers—that our big story fell through.

“Well, sorry, Charlie.” Franklin sounds uncharacteristically nervous. He never calls me Charlie. “Oh, sorry, I know y’all hate the tuna ad line. But…”

The elevator doors swish open, and gentleman Franklin gestures me to go first. I lean against the brass railing inside, calculating the potential damage. It’s not the best outcome that he revealed our possible scoop too early. Still, what’s done is done.

I shift my bulky tote bag from one shoulder to the other in a doomed-to-failure attempt to prevent my charcoal-gray linen suit from wrinkling. Nobody’s perfect, I decide, and Franklin’s about as close as it comes. “No biggie,” I tell him again. I hope I’m right.

Franklin pushes “31” and we ride up a floor or two in silence.

“It’s kind of daunting, isn’t it?” I ask, changing the subject. “That we could have the power to help an innocent person get out of prison? But what if she trusts us to get her exonerated and then we can’t? Which would be worse? To fail? Or not even try?”

The lights on the elevator numbers slowly count upward, making a soft ping every time we pass the next floor.

Franklin nods, considering, then he makes quote marks in the air. “‘Effecting positive change’ to ‘keep the system honest.’ That’s what they tell you in J-school. It’s a lot different when you’re actually doing it. When a real person’s future is at stake.”

The pings stop and the elevator door slides open. This time, I gesture Franklin to get out first.

“We’ve handled tough stories before. We can handle this one,” I say. “If it’s bigger, that just means it’s better. We’ll get the interview and then knock Susannah’s socks off.”

The elevator door closes, leaving us in a conservatively carpeted entry hall. I know this space is donated, a gift from a celebrated law firm hoping to reap do-gooder points by putting a pro bono face on its pro-business practice. The words “Constitutional Justice Project” are spelled out in bold brass letters affixed to the dark-paneled wall over the reception desk. Matching mahogany side tables, flanked by tweedy upholstered wing chairs, are carefully stacked with
The New Republic
and
Harper’s.
Each has a No Smoking sign in a silver picture frame.

The room’s focus is unmistakable. On one high-ceilinged wall, illuminated like gospel under a row of pin spots, there’s an oversize framed copy of the Bill of Rights.

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.”

“W
OULD 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: 05-19-04.
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 Beach-view 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?

T
HE 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 daughter. 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.’”