Face Time

CHAPTER 9

“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…

“I was lead investigator on that case, thought you knew that,” he says. “Assumed that’s why you came to see me. They tell you at the Swampscott PD that I was with the Ortega campaign now? “That smile again. Lower wattage.

I see the red Stop figure has turned to a green Go. Mattheissen makes no move to walk.

“Know that case inside and out,” he continues. “Deadly Dorie. Confessed. Now I hear, Rankin’s people are poking around. Sent you, did they?”

Here’s where the interview ends, I predict. But, surprising me, Mattheissen stays put, so I persist. I need to make sure he’s aware Franklin and I are on our own. And the best way for a reporter to talk to a cop is to be honest. For as long as you can.

“Not at all, Mr. Mattheissen. The CJP did contact us, of course. People who want stories investigated do that all the time.” I turn on my most winning expression. “People constantly hit you up, too, when you were on force?”

He raises an eyebrow, acquiescing, so I continue. “It’s all about the truth. Wherever the story goes, we go. I just want to see the photo that was used. We have a right to see it. And if Dorinda Sweeney’s innocent, well, I’m sure you’d want to know that, too. Right?”

“Look, Charlie. I can call you Charlie? You want pictures. I get that.” He looks out over Boston Common, the historic expanse of well-kept trees and lush grass that opened in 1783. It’s been green-and covered with tourists-ever since. The light changes back to red as we stand on the busy corner, horns honking, trucks rattling, air conditioners in the top floors of the brownstones beside us humming and plopping drops of condensation on the concrete sidewalk. Mattheissen checks the crosswalk light. Still red.

“Names of the witnesses?” he says, turning his attention back to me. “Photo array? All in the files. Archives. Could take some time.” He puts his sunglasses back on, discussion over. “Might want to make a public records request.”

Damn. Time is exactly what I don’t have. And if I make a formal records request, all kinds of bureaucratic quicksand could delay our story until next July.

Briefly touching Mattheissen’s arm, I give my last-ditch pitch. Power-broker wannabes love to show their power. I play damsel in distress.

“Look, Mr. Mattheissen. Can you help me with this? You’re really the only one who can cut through the red tape.” Even I’m gagging, but Mattheissen’s demeanor seems to soften. Come on, Tek, make my day.

“Nothing to hide,” he says. He seems to be weighing his options. “Public documents. Closed-case evidence like that’s in the archives though, deep storage, in the new building. No way to get them today.”

And tomorrow, I remember with annoyance, is Saturday. Monday will be the Fourth of July, when every state office in the country will be closed. Tuesday is my inescapable appointment with Dr. Garth. I’m certainly not going to mention that. Plus, Mom would pop her stitches if I canceled the appointment she was so pleased to arrange because I had some other silly commitment. Like my job.

The light goes green. This time, Mattheissen picks up his briefcase.

“Charlie?” he says.

“Wednesday,” I say quickly. I’ll use the unavoidable delay to make it appear I’m being flexible and cooperative. “So you’ll have time to contact your people at the archives. So how about Wednesday? I could meet you there.”

“Ten a.m.,” Mattheissen says, stepping into the white-striped crosswalk. “At the state archives in Dorchester. Front desk.” He takes two more steps, then stops in the middle of Beacon Street. Rows of cars idle on either side of him, ready to hit the gas as soon as the light changes. He turns to me, ignoring the traffic. His eyes are hidden behind those glasses, but his smile is amped to the highest power and aimed straight at me. “Maybe we can have coffee afterward.”