All the Dying Children

by James Halpin

  CHAPTER 26

  Friday, August 16, 2019

  4:37 p.m.

  The exodus was over. As the end of the workday drew near, the county employees had filed out of their cubicles and offices in droves, heading for the time clocks downstairs. Their march was perfectly synchronized so that each employee hit the clocks at the precise moment. Two minutes after closing time, the upstairs corridors of the cavernous courthouse were desolate.

  Daly sat alone in a padded mahogany chair outside the courtroom, resting his head against the wall with eyes closed. After five days of trial, the lawyers had finished delivering their impassioned closing arguments. Now, twelve men and women sat at a long table in a cramped deliberation room discussing the fate of Dr. Radcliffe. They had been in there since lunchtime, sustained by delivered pizza and frequent smoke breaks, but the few questions they brought back to Judge Perry did little to reveal which way they were leaning.

  It had been an exhausting week for Daly, sitting through the trial he could not cover. He had been accused of subverting the case and then learned the prosecution most likely would never pursue an arson case against Radcliffe.

  Robert Phillips had broken the news to Daly after the first day of trial. Investigators had gotten search warrants for Radcliffe’s phone records, but they just showed his phone was at home the entire night of the firebombing. Radcliffe, of course, refused to speak to them about it. The only useful evidence the police found was a grainy surveillance video from a gas station a few blocks from Daly’s house that showed a car entering the neighborhood shortly before the fire and then speeding away moments later.

  The video was so bad that the police themselves were torn about whether the car was a black Lexus LS like the one Radcliffe drove or a black Toyota Avalon. Phillips delivered the bad news with apologies, but there had been no sincerity in his eyes.

  On top of all that, Daly had been ripped apart and publicly humiliated by Melissa Cooper. Daly had made a point of not reading the papers the day after the episode on the witness stand. But it was clear that just about everybody else had. His acquaintances were their normal pleasant selves, but he could feel their eyes following him as he moved through the courthouse. He’d gotten a few text messages of support from friends, and John Richardson had even called him into his office just to say he could take whatever time he needed if he had to deal with any issues. What issues, specifically, he didn’t say.

  But it absolutely broke his heart when Lauren called him up from her new dorm room in Stanford, California. She had never been much for following the local news, but the article had popped up in her Facebook news feed. She had read all about how her father was torn apart on the stand, made to look like an incoherent alcoholic.

  “Daddy, you know that’s not true,” she had said. “People who know you know that’s not who you are. I know what happened at the fire, and I know that Mr. Gillespie said all those things, because you heard it.”

  Daly held his head in his hands as he thanked her. Inside, he felt the hatred festering. It was a self-loathing he’d held onto for years, since the day Jessica was killed. He felt brooding animosity at himself knowing that he could have prevented her death if he’d just been a little more patient or a little more apologetic. If only he’d had enough self-control to turn down a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, the whole thing would probably have ended much differently.

  The irony didn’t escape Daly that the root of his torment — the bottle — was now the crutch he relied on to dull his pain. He knew it was a problem.

  But. Always but.

  Putting the brakes on the booze was never a problem, at least in the short term. But on days Daly thought about Jessica, it was the only thing that numbed him enough to stop blaming himself.

  At least until morning.

  Drinking brought Daly restless, dreamless sleep, and that was just what he wanted most nights. So what had been the occasional beer or glass of wine before Jessica’s death had turned into a nearly nightly habit. He’d take a deep, long pull on his beer and quickly feel the weight lifting. With each sip of the cool, bitter liquid, Daly could feel the boozy warmth rising inside him. His problems faded and his weariness receded. His normally taciturn behavior vanished like Dr. Jekyll. But he was no Hyde. No matter how his head swooned, or how the room began twisting in the darkness of night, Daly kept control. For to him, the only thing more important than the bottle slept just down the hallway in the next bedroom. He knew how fragile it was and how easily he could lose it with the simplest of mistakes. So he never got behind the wheel after more than a drink or two. He never let on that he was slowly drinking himself to death.

  Which was, it seemed, his eventual goal.

  So to Daly, it was never a problem. He continued getting up on time in the mornings, getting Lauren to school and showing up at work on time. Hell, some mornings he might start the day still feeling fine from the night before, but he was always on point. He did his job and he did it well, and no one ever questioned him about the glazed weariness in his eyes.

  His secret habit being aired out in open court had been a reality check for Daly.

  When he heard his daughter try to defend it, the thought of putting the business end of a .38 Special to his temple flashed through Daly’s mind.

  Just like Jessica.

  He shook away the thought and turned his attention back to Lauren.

  “Listen, don’t worry about that. It’s just what lawyers do. They have to try and discredit anyone who testifies against their client,” Daly said. “Anyway, that’s going to be your job someday, isn’t it?”

  “I know, Daddy,” Lauren said. “But I’m not going to be so miserable about it.”

  “She’s just doing her job,” Daly said. “Anyway, how are things with you? You just about finished being a freshman yet?”

  “Almost. I’ve got finals in two weeks.”

  “Have you decided what you’re doing for the summer?”

  “I still don’t know. I really like it out here: The weather, the energy, the people … I was kind of thinking about staying here,” Lauren said.

  “What’s his name?” Daly said.

  “What?”

  “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Daddy, it’s not like that.”

  “So you’re not seeing anyone then?”

  “Well, not exactly ...”

  “I knew it! So who is this man who makes you want to miss seeing your own father?” Daly asked.

  “His name’s Josh,” Lauren said, laughing. “He’s just a guy I met in history class. You’d like him. He’s a writer at The Stanford Daily.”

  “Well, now I know he’s not going to be able to pay down whatever student loans he’s taking,” Daly said. “Anyway, I wish you would come back here. I miss you. I haven’t seen you since Christmas break.”

  “I know. I was thinking I’d come visit at some point. I just wasn’t planning to stay the whole summer.”

  “Okay. We can talk later. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Daddy,” Lauren said.

  Sitting alone on the third floor of the courthouse, Daly played the conversation back in his mind. He was glad that she was settled in and was happy, but he felt nothing but guilt that she felt the need to defend him — and his habits. A good father would never do that to his daughter, he thought. None of this would ever have happened to a good father ...

  “Erik?”

  A voice pulled Daly out of his tailspin. It was Emily Hayes, an attorney with the Public Defender’s Office. Daly had interviewed her a few years earlier for a story about how staffing shortages were affecting the caseload. They had struck up a rapport and remained friendly, mostly gossiping about other people’s cases when they bumped into each other at the courthouse.

  “Hey,” Daly said. “What are you doing up here?”

  “I just came
to check this out. The jury still out?”

  “Yeah. They’ve been deliberating about five hours so far. No end in sight,” Daly said.

  “Could be a late one.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Are you okay? You look a little … gloomy,” Emily said.

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” Daly said. “I was just thinking about my daughter. And this whole goddamned week.”

  “I saw the articles,” Emily said. “It was pretty brutal.”

  “The worst part is my daughter saw the articles too. I just … I don’t know. I feel terrible,” Daly said, rubbing his temples.

  “How about I buy you a cup of coffee when this is over?” Emily asked. “It would probably help to have someone to talk to.”

  Daly turned and looked at her, surprised by the invite. They frequently spoke in the corridors of the courthouse and Daly had always viewed her as a potential source. Now, he saw her just a little differently, like the moment a glint of sunlight reveals a hidden coin.

  Was she asking him on a date? Or just trying to be kind?

  Daly had been out of the game for so long that he’d nearly forgotten how to play.

  There was no denying Emily was an attractive woman. She was a few years younger than Daly and had flaming red hair, parted in the middle, that flowed in waves to her shoulders. Her sharp hazel eyes seemed to smile perpetually at the world, and her lips were always painted deep red, a stark contrast to her pale skin. She was beautiful, but also a smart attorney who kept Daly guessing. She seemed to be a walking contradiction — she was a defense attorney who supported the death penalty and a gun rights advocate who supported abortion. Conversations with her were always interesting because Daly was never quite sure where she would go next.

  The thought of getting to know her better sounded quite intriguing.

  “Coffee sounds great,” Daly said.

  * * *

  After more than six hours behind closed doors, the jury forewoman hit a buzzer and signaled a verdict with a bell that echoed through the cavernous courthouse. Deliberations had gone on for too long for the prosecution to feel at ease, but not long enough for the defense to get overly optimistic.

  During the deliberations, the jury had asked several questions and had sought clarification on the difference between murder and manslaughter. The prosecution took that as a good sign because it meant the jury had not ruled out criminal culpability entirely, even if the jurors were still divided.

  Jurors had also requested to see some of the evidence again, particularly a note Gillespie had left on his desk prior to taking Daly hostage and several emails recovered from his computer.

  To Daly, neither item seemed fatal to Radcliffe’s case. The note Gillespie left showed he planned to die, and that his chosen method was suicide by cop. But it was a rambling mess conceived by a panicked man who was not thinking clearly. In the note, Gillespie apologized for what he described as “hurting the children” and said he should have known better because of “things that were done to me.” The note was full of euphemisms and passive language, leaving it to anyone’s guess who he felt was to blame.

  His emails were not much better. There were a number of exchanges with Radcliffe, but it was apparent from the tone that they were speaking about much more than was being written in the messages. They were clearly being careful and never mentioned anything about children or pornographic videos.

  Only one exchange seemed, to Daly at least, to implicate Radcliffe in something more nefarious than making a harmless white-noise app. It came after they had been discussing the plan to form Sleep Song, LLC, while they were talking about designing the actual app.

  “We’re going to need to be able to overlay several tracks for this,” Radcliffe had written. “Do some research and figure out what software can do that.”

  It was far from a smoking gun. But it did demonstrate two things: That Radcliffe was in charge of the operation, and that he wanted to have multiple sounds playing at the same time.

  It wasn’t much, but Daly hoped that combined with his testimony it could be enough to put Radcliffe away. He had looked into Radcliffe’s eyes that day outside his practice and had seen the desperation. The look of a wild animal caught in a trap. The look of a man who was capable of anything. The look of a guilty man.

  If Radcliffe walked, Daly didn’t know how he would be able to live with himself. He knew Radcliffe was guilty — and guilty of much more than simply the crimes alleged in this trial. This was a dangerous man who needed to be locked up in prison.

  Daly sat outside the courtroom full of anxiety as he watched the parties file in to learn the verdict. Some people were making small talk or whispering their thoughts about the case, but most observers were solemn. When the last of the attorneys had entered the courtroom doors, Daly got up and followed them inside, taking a seat on the pew at the back of the courtroom. The room was eerily quiet and filled with electricity.

  Radcliffe sat at the defense table, wildly bouncing his knee up and down. This moment was, by far, the most important moment of his life. He knew he had everything to lose. The chances of winning an appeal are remote. A conviction here could mean dying in prison.

  This was it. This was Radcliffe’s judgment day.

  Presently, Judge Perry’s assistant opened the chamber door and escorted the judge out, crying out for all in the courtroom to rise. When he reached the bench, Judge Perry took his seat, simultaneously telling those in the courtroom to be seated.

  “I understand the jury has reached a verdict,” Judge Perry told the attorneys before turning to his tipstaff. “Let’s bring in the jury.”

  The courtroom doors swung open and the jury began filing in, most members taking a keen interest in the floor tiles as they made their way between the tables where Radcliffe and Robert Phillips waited.

  Everyone in the room watched the jurors intently, looking for any sign of the decision they had reached. The jury was opaque.

  When the jurors had taken their seats, Judge Perry asked the forewoman to stand.

  “Madam forewoman, has the jury reached a verdict?” he asked.

  “We have, your honor,” said the forewoman, an overweight middle-aged woman wearing a lumpy sweater and thick-rimmed glasses.

  “You may publish it to the court,” Judge Perry said.

  The woman cleared her throat before reading.

  “In the matter of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. Marvin Radcliffe, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty of causing suicide as criminal homicide.”

  From the gallery came an audible gasp as family members with gaping mouths and raised eyebrows absorbed the news with disbelief. Radcliffe bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes and squeezing his fists in a slight expression of victory.

  Radcliffe’s eyes lit up and he nodded his approval to Melissa Cooper as the forewoman continued to say he was also not guilty on the criminal conspiracy charges.

  But his hopeful expression quickly faded as the forewoman finished reading the verdict slip, convicting him on four counts of involuntary manslaughter.

  With those words, the courtroom erupted in chaos. Radcliffe, deluded into expecting a victory, nearly jumped out of his seat, prompting the sheriff’s deputies standing guard over him to grab him by the shoulders and slam him back down into the chair. Women sitting with the victim’s families began sobbing uncontrollably, while a man — Daly thought it might have been Jack Foster — shouted into the courtroom.

  “This isn’t over!” the voice shouted. “May God have mercy on your soul!”

  Judge Perry began banging his gavel and demanding order in the courtroom, to little effect. Deputies raised their arms, palms out, ordering audience members to stay seated and quiet. At the prosecution table, Robert Phillips brought a hand to his temple and closed his eyes, rubbing his head as though a terrible headache was approa
ching.

  Another voice shouted something incomprehensible from the crowd of dozens of victims’ relatives seated in the gallery, and Judge Perry again hammered his gavel down on the mahogany sounding block.

  Then, without warning, Emma Nguyen’s father Vu leaped to his feet, vaulted the banister separating the gallery from the front of the courtroom and lunged at Radcliffe. A tuft of black hair hung over his forehead, obscuring from most observers a look of wild, murderous rage in his eyes. He nearly had a hand on the back of Radcliffe’s neck by the time the first deputy was able to grab him and halt his advance.

  Vu Nguyen collapsed to the courtroom floor as the deputies piled on top to restrain him. Screaming and thrashing violently, he struggled against their weight in a futile effort to break free and exact revenge upon his daughter’s killer. When his screaming subsided, it was replaced by the sound of fevered panting, then gasping.

  Those closest to the fray could faintly hear the sound of Vu Nguyen sobbing uncontrollably.

  CHAPTER 27

  Saturday, August 17, 2019

  12:15 p.m.

  Daly sat at a small table outside a coffee shop in the warm afternoon sunshine along the main drag in Wilkes-Barre, sipping a black French roast. A light breeze fluttered napkins on the tables and sent wisps of the waitress’ hair into her face as she tried scribbling drink orders onto a small worn pad. A few clouds slowly drifted across the deep blue sky, occasionally casting light shadows over the streets as they passed. It was the kind of welcoming summer day that brimmed with possibility. Parents brought their children to the parks. Teenagers cruised the strip in freshly polished borrowed cars. Hustlers in grimy tee-shirts roamed Public Square, looking to score some dope or some drama.

  Down the street, Emily Hayes was making her way toward Daly, giving him a smile and a wave as she neared.

  “Hey!” she called out.

  “How’s it going?” Daly said, rising to greet her. “What are you having?”

  “Umm … I’ll take a latte,” she said to the approaching waitress.