Face Time (8 page)

He looks at me questioningly. I wave him to answer. The interruption will give us all a chance to regroup. Especially me.

“Parrish, Action News.”

Susannah turns her attention to Franklin. So do I.

He tucks the phone into his shoulder, picks up a pencil and opens his spiral notebook.

Still listening to whoever is talking, he holds it up to show me the word he’s just written: WILL.

I look at Susannah, whose semi-snarky expression telegraphs
I told you so.
Fine with me. If she’s right that would solve a lot of problems.

Franklin continues the frustratingly impossible-to-gauge one-sided conversation. I can’t see his face. His only reactions are murmured and emotionless “mmm-hums” and “okays.” He writes again, then holds the notebook up a second time.

It’s two letters.

NO.

Ethan
Margolis has sent Mom even more peonies. I can see she’s had the newer ones placed on her nightstand. The older ones, still in full pink-and-white glory in their frosted-glass vase, have been relegated to the dresser. A suburbanista in tight jeans hosts some interior decoration show Mom has on, volume off, brandishing paint swatches and gesticulating mutely at a lineup of couches. The chrome-and-glass heart-respiration monitor beeps softly as Mom gives me a play-by-play of her day.

Tiny welts of blue-black bruises now underscore her brown eyes. Even the frozen peas haven’t successfully held down the unavoidable puffy eyelids, overplumped cheeks and angrily red still-healing lips.

“Does it…hurt?” I have to ask, taking my assigned seat by her bedside. “It looks like it might.”

Mom shakes her head, wincing after her first motion. She carefully pats the pink blanket covering her, indicating where her thigh would be. “A little,” she admits. “The lipo. And the tummy thing. Those, I must admit, are making me a bit more uncomfortable than I might have expected. But you know, they’re making me take these pills, four every four hours, and so it’s not so bad.”

Then she holds up her left hand, waggling her fingers and points to the multi-carat rock sparkling dazzlingly on her ring finger. “Here’s my secret,” she says. “Every time I feel like complaining, I simply think—it’s all for Ethan and me. It’s all for the wedding, and our honeymoon. Then I ask myself, is it worth it? And, of course, it is.”

She pats the blankets again. “Hello, size eight,” she says, almost to herself. “I can’t wait till they let me have a mirror. And when all the bruises are gone, Ethan will get his first look at his bride-to-be.” She looks up at me. “Your appointment with Dr. Garth is soon, right? This week?”

I’m happy to see her happy, of course. And Ethan is a perfectly nice guy. It would be silly for her to be alone the rest of her life. I wrap my arms across my chest, stopped, for a moment, by the realization that unless I can untangle the Josh and Penny situation, it’s more likely that
I’ll
be alone the rest of my life than she will.

“When do I get to meet your Josh?” Mom asks. “And his little daughter?

She’s reading my mind, of course. I’m not even surprised. Maybe she could explain to me how I’m supposed to turn sullen into sunny, and bread balls into domestic tranquility.

“Have you ever seen him drunk?”

Now I’m surprised.

“Drunk?” I ask. I can’t even imagine where she’s going with this. “Him? You mean—Josh?”

Mother nods. Even puffy, I can see she’s wearing her “pronouncement” expression. Like Rumpole. She who must be obeyed.

“Before you marry anyone,” she says, reciting gospel, “you must see him drunk, sick and with his mother. If not mother, then offspring.”

I can’t help it. I’m fascinated. Where does she come up with this stuff?

“Drunk?” I repeat. “Sick. And—offspring? Offspring?” I’m about to laugh, but I know Mom will not be amused.

“Drunk, so you can see whether he becomes affectionate. Or angry. It’s undoubtedly going to be one or the other,” she says. “Drunk reveals your true personality, without any filter. Sick—same thing. Is he needy? A complainer? And how they treat their mothers and children is how they’re going to treat you. They can’t hide or pretend, that’s their true colors.” Mom reaches over, and almost pets the petals of one fluffy white peony. Peonies are her wedding flowers. I know she’s thinking of Ethan. And maybe, Dad. “Trust me on this, Charlotte.”

Reluctantly, I admit—to myself, of course—she may have something here.

“Well, Moms, is this your own philosophy? Or something from your pal Oprah?”

“It’s from your Gramma Nell,” Mother says, flickering a glance heavenward. “I promised her I would pass it along to you when I thought you needed to know it. And from the look on your face when you speak of your Josh, I decided it’s time for you to know it.”

I wonder if Dorinda Sweeney had ever seen Ray drunk, or sick, or with his mother, before she married him. I wonder if her mother, Colleen Keeler, cared as much about her daughter’s future as my mother seems to about mine. By all accounts, she forced Dorie to marry him. For money and security. What if Colleen hadn’t felt pressure to make sure her daughter made the “right” decisions? What if Dorie had said no? And no question, Dorinda saw Ray with their own daughter. Maybe she didn’t like what she saw, somehow. What if that’s when Dorie finally fought back? Took action to protect her only child? But from what?

“You know the story we’re working on about the woman who supposedly murdered her husband?” I say. “Protecting her daughter—if he was inappropriate, or something—that would be a motive, mightn’t it? From a mother’s perspective, I’m wondering, how far would one go to keep a daughter safe?”

Mom reaches out her hand, placing it gently on my arm. The lines of the heart monitor attached to her wrist and finger stretch along with her movement. “Charlotte, sweetheart, I’m surprised you’re even asking. A mother—”

Bing bong.
A bell rings and the door to Mom’s suite swings open. “Hello, Mrs. McNally. And—hello, Charlie.” A white-coated attendant pushes a wheeled tray into the room. On it is a single white rose in a vase, several china plates with steam spiraling though the holes in their silver covers, and a white cloth napkin wrapped with a twist of pink and white ribbons.

“Dinner for one, I’m afraid,” the attendant says, his face concerned. “Did we order for two?” He pulls a pad from a shirt pocket, checking.

I stand, gesturing
no problem.
“I was just going,” I say, leaning down to give Mom a careful kiss on the one silvery-blond patch showing through the bandages stretched around her head. I gather my tote bag and purse, then turn back to Mom as the obviously moonlighting movie star begins to remove the plates’ covers.

“Drunk, Josh passes the test,” I say with a smile. “We all had a lot of champagne last Emmy night. But don’t tell him I told you. Sick? Not yet. And with Penny?” I pause, remembering. “She idolizes him, that’s for sure. And he’s wonderful with her. Adores her. He’d do anything for her.”

I stop, realizing what I’ve just said. What if Dorinda’s guilty?

“G
UILTY
. O
R NOT GUILTY
. It just makes the whole thing more interesting,” I say, trying to believe it. Franklin and I are in my Jeep, on the way to Swampscott again. We’re headed for The Reefs, the bar where Ray Sweeney had his final tequila. If we have time, we’ll hit the nursing home to check out their taping system. My turn to drive.

“So Dorinda turned down our request for an interview. We can ask again.” I go on. “I refuse to give up on this story.”

The morning sun disappears as we enter the narrow gloom of the Callahan Tunnel, fritzing our all-news radio station into static. I snap it off. The tunnel is not my favorite. I finally remember to remove my sunglasses, which allows me an even clearer view of the cracking and soot-streaked Cold War era tiles lining the tunnel walls. I keep picturing the billions of gallons of Boston Harbor sloshing menacingly above us. I would have preferred taking the bridge, where at least you can see the water. What makes this trip even more unpleasant, I’m beginning to envision Franklin and me as victims in a pretty diabolical political plot.

“Just a thought,” I say. I’m trying to make sure I know where the emergency exit doors are located without letting Franklin know I’m doing it. “What if—what if this is all some sort of a trick? By say, Oscar Ortega and his cohorts? To make the Constitutional Justice Project look bad and his campaign look good? See what I’m getting at? You know they loathe Oliver Rankin and all the CJP stands for.”

I’m also monitoring the life-threatening zigzag of a pack of teenagers, all wearing Red Sox caps, who seem to think their convertible deserves both lanes of the tunnel. As a result, I can’t see Franklin’s face, but his voice sounds skeptical.

“You mean, trying to lure Rankin and Will Easterly to champion Dorinda’s case—then lower the boom later? Prove she’s guilty and make the CJP look soft on crime? That’s quite a conspiracy theory, Charlotte. And how about that surveillance tape?”

Still watching the teen-mobile, I lift my latte from the cupholder in the console, and take a lukewarm sip. The more I think about this, the righter I am.

“That could be part of it. Let’s just play out the scenarios, both ways. First, say the tape is fake. Doctored, somehow. Planted. It didn’t cross your mind that it was pretty darn—convenient?—that just as Oz announces his candidacy, a blockbuster piece of evidence shows up in Rankin’s hands? And remember, those people in the bar identified her from the police photos. If she was in the bar arguing with Ray, she wasn’t at the nursing home. Dorinda’s actually guilty. The CJP looks like idiots, backing a guilty murderer, and Ortega looks like a winner.”

“On the other hand,” Franklin says, “if the tape is real, Dorinda is innocent. Oliver Rankin and the CJP come out heroes, and Ortega—”

“Not to mention you and me, Franko,” I interrupt, putting my latte back. The teenagers swerve to the other lane. “Here’s the potential disaster. If the tape is fake, and we fall for it? Put something wrong on the air? We’re going to look like idiots, too.” I shake my head gloomily, imagining it. “Oz takes down the liberal do-gooder lawyers and the liberal do-gooder reporters, all in one election-sweeping swoop.”

We finally come up out of the tunnel, thankfully back into sunshine and fresh air. I buzz down my window to hand my money to the toll taker. A lanky-haired woman with sagging shoulders looks up, languidly, from a tiny black-and-white television that’s flickering Regis and Kelly inside her glass-booth domain. She does a double take, then slides the half window wide open, leaning head, shoulders and both arms outside to accept my three dollars. She holds on to the three bills without taking her eyes off me.

“Aren’t you—that McNally? On television?”

“Yes, I—”

“I had Danny DeVito in my lane once,” she says with a face-crinkling smile. “And that cooking lady. But you’re one hundred per cent my favorite. You always get the bad guys. And you still look one hundred per cent terrific.” She pulls a piece of paper from a drawer and hands it through the window. A Bic pen follows. “Sign this for me? Put, from Charlie McNally to Edythe. With a
y
and an
e.
”

I takes me a second to figure out how to spell Edith with a
y
and an
e
. By that time, several cars have pulled up behind us and are honking their impatience at whatever is stalling the flow of traffic. Which is us.

I hand her the paper, properly autographed, and she waves us through.

With a glance in the rearview mirror and a newfound determination, I yank the Jeep across two lanes of highway. Instead of heading north, I turn right into the twisting streets of East Boston, planning my strategy for a U-turn. Not only of our car, but of our morning plans.

“Forget about Swampscott,” I say. If I have to go back into the damn tunnel, so be it. That toll taker expects me to get the story, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Franklin’s grabbed what he calls the “Charlie strap” as the Jeep careens around the cloverleaf exit. “Good Lord, Charlotte,” he says. “This is why I don’t like you in the driver’s seat. Mind telling me what’s going on in that brain of yours?”

“The bar can wait. The nursing home can wait,” I say. “We need to find out if Dorinda’s innocent. We need to find out whether Dorie was really in the bar. And I know one way to do it.” The more I think about his, the righter I am. “We need to go to Oscar Ortega’s office. Into the lair of the Great and Powerful Oz.”

“Appointment?”

Apparently the flame-haired sentinel behind the expanse of government-issue wood and metal desk doesn’t feel it’s necessary to waste a whole sentence—subject, verb, object—on two strangers who have entered her kingdom. Taped to the file cabinet behind her is a curling-edged cartoon of three Shmoos, holding their Shmoo-tummies and laughing. Their thought balloon says “You want it when?” I’ve always wondered why someone would post their flip and trivializing attitude about their jobs in plain view of their visitors. Not to mention their bosses. Over my desk, there’s a quote about persistence.

I use my friendliest, most amicable tone. “We don’t have an appointment, no,” I say. “But as I said, I’m Charlie McNally? From Channel 3? And we were hoping Mr. Ortega, or one of his staff, might give us a moment.”

“We tried to call,” Franklin adds, glancing at the lineup of flashing red Hold buttons on the receptionist’s phone. “But the line was always busy.”

“McNelly. TV. No appointment.”

“McNally,” I say. I wish we had called. But he’s a public official and I’m the public. Someone has to talk to me.

The receptionist raises one finger, as if putting me on hold, and then uses it to punch a few buttons on her phone. She swivels in her chair, halfway turning away, and cups her hand over the tiny receiver microphone in front of her mouth. She listens, then turns back to us.

“Consuela Savio will be out in a moment,” she says. She glances at her watch, then turns back to her computer. “Take a seat.”

Franklin and I head for a yellowing plastic couch. Its original color was probably somewhere between leftover mashed potato and aging mustard.

“I’m starving,” I whisper to Franklin. The upholstery creaks unhappily as the two of us sit down. The cracking plastic instantly pinches the backs of my thighs. I shift position, trying to tuck my black skirt more securely between me and the attacking couch. “We should have gotten lunch.”

“Read a magazine, distract yourself,” Franklin says, turning over the selection on the low wooden table in front of us. “Here’s one you probably missed.
‘Law Enforcement Product News.’
”

“Give me that,” I say, taking it from him. “That’s not a real magazine.” It is. I flip through the pile nearer to me, seeing if I can go one better. “Wait here’s one for you.
‘Consolidated Municipal Infrastructure.’
Read it. Know it.”

I’m starting to get impatient with reading obscure publications when I sense someone standing over us. I quickly put down
Police Chief
and stand up. Franklin does, too. I’m not short, but my view is of a column of pearl buttons on a silver charmeuse blouse. The tiny buttons are clearly strained to the limits of their overburdened threads struggling to keep them from popping into the conversation.

“Well, Charlie McNally, of course I recognize you. And this is?”

If this is Consuela Savio, she probably spells her name in all caps. She has big hair, big shoulders, big lipstick. And somehow it all works. I can picture her in the beauty pageant, tiara’ed and teary, while the losing contestants whisper
—“Her?”
There’s a lot to be said for unabashed sex appeal and I’m betting Consuela says it all the time. I’m sure that could be a plus for a public relations mouthpiece. But her come-hither technique is not going to work on me. And, though she may not know it yet, certainly not on Franklin.

“My producer, Franklin Parrish,” I say, making sure I’m looking up at her face. “We’re just doing some research on a story and were thinking that…”

Consuela, all smiles, focuses on Franklin. This’ll be amusing.

“Frankleen,” she says, ignoring me. “Have we met?”

“As Charlie was saying,” Franklin says, ignoring her question and coming around from behind the coffee table. “We’re researching a story. And hoping to talk to Mr. Ortega. It’s about—Dorinda Keeler Sweeney. Can you tell him we’re here?”

Consuela’s face darkens. She glances disapprovingly at the receptionist, whose faltering skills have clearly let in two troublemaking gate-crashers.

“The attorney general is in a meeting,” she says, making sure, with studied inflection, that we know this is not true.

“That’s fine,” I say agreeably, opening my tote bag and pulling out a manila file. I glance at Franklin, attempting to telegraph my tactics. Reporter gambit: the bluff. I clear my throat, make my voice a little louder. “We’ll just talk to you, then, about the possibly questionable procedures in the Sweeney arrest. Then you can pass the word on to the A.G.” I look around the lobby, inspecting the five or six other waitees, all of whom by this time are not even pretending not to be listening. “Shall we discuss it here in the lobby?”

Consuela flickers a glance at the folder. She has no idea it holds copies of potential maid-of-honor dresses Mom sent me. I know she’s wondering what we’ve got. And if it’s bad, she doesn’t want everyone else in the room to hear a reporter spill the beans during the heat of a political campaign.

Suddenly she’s no longer a contender for Miss Congeniality.

“All right, Ms. McNally,” Consuela says. She smiles to the waitees, silently signaling there’s no
60 Minutes
confrontation coming up. “You can both follow me.”

We’re in.

We walk down a dingy hall, Franklin giving me a surreptitious thumbs-up. Consuela creaks open the door to a conference room and waves us inside. Judging from the hazy windows and discolored slant-slatted blinds, it must have been home to years’ worth of smoke-filled meetings and confabs. Gray and grayer upholstered chairs, sagging and mostly threadbare, are twisted randomly away from their places as if a rogue burst of wind gusted through and departed. A few paper clips are scattered on the conference table, a scarred wooden monster that swallows up most of the room.

Consuela closes the door with a little more force than necessary, the silk blouse stretching perilously across her broad back. She whirls to face us. “What’s this all about?” she says. Her lilting touch of Hispanic accent has disappeared along with her PR niceties. “You two know better than to show up like this. This is the attorney general’s office. You want something, you call in advance.”

She holds up a thumb and forefinger, almost touching. “I’m this far from calling your news director, asking
him
what the hell is going on.”

Though Consuela doesn’t invite us to take a seat, I do anyway. I put my tote bag between me and the increasingly agitated flack, hoping it will feel like a potential mysterious arsenal of documents. When Franklin also sits down, leaning back in the swivel chair, Consuela has no choice but to join us.

“The photos used in the Dorinda Sweeney case,” I say. I keep my voice uncontentious and pleasant. “The ones police showed to the witnesses in the bar. We’d like to see them.”

“Not a chance,” Consuela sputters with the absurdity of my request. “They’re sealed. The court sealed all the evidence after your Miss Sweeney confessed to murder in the second degree.”

I feel Franklin swivel in his chair, then see him stop himself by putting his palms on the table. He looks at his hands, then at Consuela. His voice is almost apologetic. Franklin the gentleman. “I’m afraid that’s incorrect,” he says. “I’ve checked with the court clerk. The docket file is not sealed. We were told the evidence is being held by your office.”

Consuela considers this, but only briefly. “Those photos are private,” she says, moving on to her second attempted excuse. “Property of the attorney general’s office.”

It’s hard to hide my smile, so I unzip a side pouch of my tote bag to refocus her attention. This is good news in the making. If she’s putting up roadblocks to the photographs, there must be some reason she doesn’t want us to see them. Which means I want to see them even more.

“Ms. Savio.” I say, looking back up at her, “Property of the A.G.’s office? That’s simply not true. As a matter of fact…” I pause, rummaging though my tote bag. I find what I’m looking for, and hold it out to her. “As a matter of fact, while we were waiting for you, I found this copy of
Police Chief
magazine on the coffee table in the waiting room.”

I hold it out to her, hoping she won’t accuse me of petty larceny. She doesn’t make a move to take it, so I place it on the conference table. Not guilty.

“There’s a whole feature article about police lineups. I leafed through it while we were waiting. It includes a lot of background about photo array evidence. You know?”

I look at her encouragingly, as if I really want her to answer. She doesn’t say a word, but gives me a bitter little gesture to continue.

I flip open the magazine and point to a page. “After conviction, photos are public records. You have to keep them. And you have to let us see them.” I shrug, to let her know it wasn’t my idea, it’s law enforcement reality. Which, of course, we both already know.

“You have to,” I repeat.

“In some cases, that may be correct, Char-lie,” Consuela says. I can hear the sneer as she drags out my first name. “But in this one, you’re wrong. She confessed. It’s a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.” She looks at me challengingly, wondering if I’ll fall for excuse number three.

I won’t. “Consuela, look. We can go back and forth over this all day. Or not. But whichever. Your office will have to hand over the photos.”

“You said in the lobby—you indicated you had some documents.” Consuela is not going down without a fight, and has fallen back on the “change the subject” method. “You said this was about the Sweeney arrest.”

“It
is
about the Sweeney arrest,” Franklin says.

The room goes quiet.

I watch Consuela’s chest rise and fall as she calculates her next move, her buttons even more in jeopardy. Without exchanging a glance, Franklin and I know we’ve won this battle. We also know we don’t need to say another word. All we have to do is wait.

“I’ll get tech,” she says. And with a flounce of curls, she sweeps out of the room.

“Tech?” I ask, watching the conference room door click closed.

“Perhaps the lineup photos are JPEG files on computer disk,” Franklin theorizes. “She’s got to get the techies to burn us a copy. But Charlotte, talk to me about those pictures. I thought we were here about the tape.”

“Well, here’s what I was thinking,” I say. “And that
Police Chief
magazine made me all the more suspicious.” I hop onto the conference table and stare down at the institutionally neutral carpeting, examining the shadowy patterns cast through the window blinds.

“Remember, Rankin and Will said the witnesses in the bar identified Dorinda from her picture.” I pause and look back at Franklin. “Let me ask you. What’s your understanding of how they got that ID?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by
how,
” Franklin says. “The police showed witnesses a picture of, well, I suppose, it would be pictures, plural, of Dorinda, and a few other people. To see if anyone picked her out. The usual. A lineup.”

“Correct,” I say, nodding. “But has anyone told us they used a lineup? Anyone ever said that word? Maybe we just assumed it, because that’s what the cops are supposed to do. But what if they just showed one shot, a photo of Dorie? Because they suspected her, figured it was her, so might as well confirm it?”

There’s a sharp rap on the door, then whoever’s knocking opens it without waiting for our response. I scoot myself down from the table, briefly wondering how long whoever is out there had been out there.

A taut trip wire of energy strides in. Shoulders courtesy of Gold’s Gym. Suit courtesy Signore Armani. Attitude courtesy Clint Eastwood. His hand, still white-knuckle tight on the doorknob, claims all this as his territory, and us as his prisoners. A thin black cord around his neck shows off a daunting array of what must be security clearance badges. I read one bold-lettered name tag as our visitor snaps out his introduction.

“I’m Tek Mattheissen,” he says. “You two have a lot of nerve.”

A
BLAST OF EARLY
-
SUMMER
sun hits us as we take turns revolving out the front door of the air-conditioned building. Chief of Staff Tek Mattheissen’s long strides force me to trot a few steps to keep up with him in a two-block march to the statehouse. Oscar Ortega’s number-two man had an appointment “in the corner office,” as he put it, making sure we’d infer it was with Governor Landsman. He only had time for a “walk and talk,” he’d said, between the A.G.’s office and Beacon Hill. Franklin headed back to the station. I agreed to the on-the-move discussion.

Unfortunately for my strappy city sandals the two-block walk is entirely uphill. This is forcing Mattheissen to do most of his “walk and talk” going forward and glancing backward at me straggling and puffing along.

“So as I explained,” I say, finishing my recap of the encounter with Consuela, “we’d just like to see the photo you used for the witness identification of Dorinda Sweeney.” I wish I had a better view of his face. I wonder if he picked up on
photo.
I wonder how he’ll try to weasel out of showing me what’s in their files.

“Are you familiar with the case at all?” I ask. “Because we’d also like the names of the witnesses involved.” I’m deeply regretting this interview method. I’m sweaty, I can feel my T-shirt clinging to my back, and I’m certain the shoe-chewing Boston cobblestones have claimed another pair of victims. I sneak a glance at my heels as we, thankfully, reach the corner of Park and Beacon Street, where the outline of a red figure on the pedestrian signal instructs us to stop. An ungainly turquoise-painted open-air tour bus marked
Beacon Hilda
chugs by us with its load of visitors, heads all turned toward the statehouse across the street. I can hear the driver’s voice booming about “oldest statehouse in the country” and “gold-leaf dome.”

“Know something about it?” Mattheissen turns to me as I finally get to stop walking. He puts his narrow leather briefcase down on the sidewalk and peels off his Euro-chic sunglasses. His eyes are slate, the color of smoke and flint, and his gaze is intense. He’s all edges, no curves. That makes it all the more shocking when he smiles. Not only because it’s the first time he’s done it, but because it transforms him. In a good way.
Mattheissen, Tek Mattheissen.
I can easily picture him delivering the lines, sleek and Bond-like, as the leading man.
License to…