We'll Meet Again

2

A week later, the collar of her all-weather coat turned up to cover her neck, her hands shoved in her pockets, her hair covered by her favorite ski hat, Fran waited in the cluster of media people huddled at the gate of the prison on a raw March day. Her cameraman, Ed Ahearn, was beside her.

As usual, there was grumbling; today it was about the combination of the early hour and the weather-stinging sleet, driven by gusts of icy wind. Predictably there was also a rehashing of the case that five and a half years ago had made headlines across the country.

Fran already had taped several reports with the prison in the background. Earlier that morning she had done a live report, and as the station ran tape over her voice, she’d announced, “We are waiting outside the gate of Niantic Prison in upstate Connecticut, just a few miles from the Rhode Island border. Molly Carpenter Lasch will emerge shortly, after having spent five and a half years behind bars following her manslaughter plea in the death of her husband, Gary Lasch.”

Now, waiting for Molly to appear, she listened to the opinions of the others there. The consensus was that Molly was guilty as sin, was damn lucky that she’d gotten out after only five and a half years, and who was she kidding that she couldn’t remember bashing in the poor guy’s skull?

Fran alerted the control room as she saw a dark blue sedan emerge from behind the main building of the prison. “Philip Matthews’s car is starting to leave,” she said. Molly’s attorney had arrived to pick her up a half-hour earlier.

Ahearn turned on the camera.

The others had spotted it too. “It’s a cinch we’re wasting our time,” the Post reporter commented. “Ten to one the minute that gate opens they’ll burn rubber. Hey, wait a minute!”

Fran spoke quietly into her microphone. “The car carrying Molly Carpenter Lasch to freedom has just begun its journey.” Then she stared in astonishment at the sight of the slim figure walking beside the dark blue sedan. “Charley,” she said to the anchor at the morning news desk, “Molly Lasch is not in the car but walking beside it. I’ll bet she’s going to make a statement.”

Strobe lights flashed on, tape rolled, microphones and cameras were jostled together as Molly Carpenter Lasch reached the gate, stopped, and watched as it swung open. She has the expression of a child seeing a mechanical toy operating for the first time, Fran thought. “It is as though Molly cannot believe what she is seeing,” she reported.

When Molly stepped onto the road, she was immediately surrounded. She was jostled as questions were shouted at her. “How does it feel?… Did you think this day would ever come?… Will you visit Gary ’s family?… Do you think your memory of that night will ever come back?”

Like the others, Fran held out her microphone, but she deliberately stayed to one side. She was sure that whatever chance she might have for an interview in the future would be ruined if Molly perceived her as the enemy now.

Molly raised her hand in protest. “Please give me a chance to talk,” she said quickly.

She’s so pale and thin, Fran thought. She looks as though she’s been sick. She’s different, and it’s not just about being older. Fran studied her appearance for clues. The once-golden hair was now as dark as Molly’s eyebrows and lashes. Longer than Molly had worn it in school, it was caught with a clip at the nape of her neck. The fair complexion was this morning the shade of alabaster. The lips that Fran remembered as easily smiling were straight and somber, as though they had not smiled in a long time.

Gradually the questions being hurled at her stopped until finally there was silence.

Philip Matthews had left the car and was standing at her side. “Molly, don’t do this. The parole board won’t like it-” he urged, but she ignored him.

Fran studied the lawyer with interest. This generation’s F. Lee Bailey, she thought. What’s he like? Matthews was of average height, sandy haired, thin faced, intense. The image of a tiger protecting its young flashed through her mind. She realized she would not have been surprised if he physically dragged Molly into the car.

Molly cut him off. “I have no choice, Philip.”

She looked directly into the cameras and spoke clearly into the microphones. “I am grateful to be going home. In order to be granted parole, I had to concede that I was the sole cause of my husband’s death. I have admitted that the evidence is overwhelming. And having said that, I now tell all of you that, despite the evidence, I feel in my soul that I am incapable of taking another human being’s life. I know that my innocence may never be proven, but I hope that when I am home, and there is some quiet in my life, maybe then a full memory of that terrible evening may come back. Until that time I’ll never have peace, nor will I be able to start to rebuild my life.”

She paused. When she spoke again, her voice had become firmer. “When my memory of that night finally began to return, even a little, what I recalled was that I found Gary dying in his study. Just lately, another distinct impression from that night has come to me. I believe there was someone else in that house when I arrived home, and I believe that person killed my husband. I do not believe that person is a figment of my imagination. That person is flesh and blood, and I will find him and make him pay for taking Gary ’s life and destroying mine.”

Ignoring the shouted questions that followed her declaration, Molly turned and ducked into the car. Matthews closed her door, hurried around, and got into the driver’s seat. Leaning her head back, Molly closed her eyes as Matthews, his hand resting on the horn, began to inch the car through the mob of reporters and photographers.

“There you have it, Charley,” Fran said into the microphone. “Molly’s statement, a protestation of innocence.”

“A startling statement, Fran,” the anchor replied. “We will follow this closely to see what, if anything, develops. Thank you.”

“Okay, Fran, you’re clear,” the control room told her.

“What’s your take on that speech, Fran?” Joe Hutnik, a veteran crime reporter for the Greenwich Time, asked.

Before Fran could answer, Paul Reilly from the Observer scoffed, “That lady’s not so dumb. She’s probably thinking about her book deal. No one wants a killer to profit from a crime, even if it is legal, and the bleeding hearts will love to believe that somebody else killed Gary Lasch and that Molly is a victim too.”

Joe Hutnik raised an eyebrow. “Maybe, maybe not, but in my opinion, the next guy who marries Molly Lasch should be careful not to turn his back on her if she gets sore at him. What do you say, Fran?”

Fran’s eyes narrowed in irritation as she looked at the two men. “No comment,” she said crisply.