Face Time

CHAPTER 23

“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 hit 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.

And then the door begins to open.

Franklin runs, watching to make sure he’s not in the camera shot, as fast as he can back to the live truck. I’ve got my eye on the prison door. 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 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.”

Susannah gasps and puts a hand to her mouth. Even Kevin looks concerned. But I’m skeptical. “Wait a minute,” I say. “That’s impossible. The case is three years old, certainly CC left town afterward. Where was he? And how on earth could he know, from wherever he was, that we were working on this story?”

“There was only one person in Swampscott Hardesty kept in touch with. She didn’t know he was reincarnated as Tommy Bresnahan, of course, and he hadn’t seen her for years. They just communicated, sporadically, by postcard, then e-mail. And a phone call on her birthday.”

“Who?” I ask. I run through the list of possibles in my head and cannot figure out who might have been CC’s confidante. “Everyone thought he was dead.”

Oz continues as if I hadn’t interrupted. “But when you asked her about him, she e-mailed right away. He had told her he wanted to disappear. Asked her, years ago, to keep his secret. Very dramatic. And she did. Of course it was all innocent on her part. She had no idea he’d killed Ray Sweeney, and she told him everything you said. Which wasn’t much, but enough to let him know you were working to exonerate Dorinda. And that brought him right back into town. He wasn’t on your tail every second, he told us, said he didn’t need to be, once he found out where your mother was.”

“Who?” I demand. Not Poppy. Pink-fingernailed Myra Matzenbrenner? Not Rosemary at the shelter, certainly.

“Marybeth-” he checks a file “-Gallagher. Remember her?

It takes me only an instant to remember that day at Swampscott High, the day I was searching for the yearbook.

“The librarian,” I say. I rewind my brain, trying to recall what she told me. Was there anything I should have suspected? But, from what I can remember, she never even hinted she was still in touch with CC. I mean, he was supposed to be dead. I shake my head. “She’s the last person…”

“She’s been the librarian forever,” Ortega says. “And back when CC and Dorinda went to Swampscott High, she was also the drama coach. She was the one who picked the two of them to play Romeo and Juliet, she told us. Apparently that was the beginning of a ‘special relationship,’ she called it.”

Romeo and Juliet. Of course. And in her mind, perhaps, the librarian was playing Friar Laurence, the confidant who kept Romeo’s secret. Like Romeo, CC was not dead, just pretending. Marybeth Gallagher probably thought it was romantic. But she should have remembered how that story ended. A tragedy.

Oz is still talking, outlining their investigation. “But once Hardesty realized the case was under scrutiny…” He shrugs. “He had to come back and make sure the coast was clear. And that no one could identify him as the person who was bartender that night.”

The puzzle pieces fall into place. “DeCenzo,” I say, solemnly. “Claiborne Gettings.”

“Hardesty came into DeCenzo’s bar right after you did,” Ortega says. He sighs. “And too bad Gettings picked right now to come home for a visit. Hardesty nailed him, too. We think he tracked him to some bar, got him drunk, and, well…we’re still investigating that one. But-”

Kevin picks up his phone and starts punching in numbers.

I’m, suddenly, flaringly, mad as hell. “My mother,” I say, glaring at Oz. “And me.” My mouth is dry and my fists are clenched. I stand up, though I didn’t plan to, and point to Oz. “Franklin and I told you Dorinda wasn’t guilty. Will Easterly knew it. Rankin knew it. We told you there was someone else out there. But you just dismissed us. And threatened to report us to the FCC. For what? Reporting the truth?”

Kevin looks up, concerned. “Charlie?” he says. “This is the attorney general…”

I’m aware that I’m crossing the line, but I’m too enraged to be polite. I plop back into the chair just to appease Kevin, but I’m still furious.

“You and Tek decided it was more important for you to protect your reputations as crime busters, right? Make your way to the governor’s office? So you law-and-order types allowed two more people to be killed. Actually, almost four. Why aren’t you guilty of murder, too?”

Kevin and Susannah stand up, and start talking at the same time.

“Charlie,” Kevin says, making the time-out sign. “We need to talk about this like reasonable-”

“She’s upset,” Susannah interrupts, her ropes of pearls clanking against her notebook. “She doesn’t mean-”

Oz waves them both off and shifts his position on the desk. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look defeated. “We have to make decisions, the best we can,” he says. His voice has lost its luster. It’s hollow and grim. “Law enforcement is not an exact science. It’s evidence, and instinct. And in this case…”

I know what he’s going to say next. I wish I could put my fingers in my ears so I don’t hear it.

“She confessed,” he says.

There’s a tap at the door. It’s Franklin, notebook in hand. Kevin waves him in. “Kevin, you called?” Franklin says. He looks between me and Ortega, then to Susannah, then to Kevin. Then back to me, his forehead furrowing. “What.?”

“It’s big,” is all I can think of to say. “CC Hardesty, boy Romeo. Jealousy, obsession, rage and murder.”

“Susannah,” Kevin begins.

“Right,” Susannah replies. She’s flipped open her cell phone, and speed dials a number. “It’s me,” she says into the phone. “I need promo studio C, asap. New Charlie promos, airing tonight.” She snaps the phone closed, and points to Franklin and me, back and forth. “You’re both working late, correct?”

You bet, I say silently. “And we’ll need a camera,” I tell Susannah. “For the exclusive interview with Mr. Ortega.”

I look at him, challenging. “Correct?”