Don't Believe It

by Charlie Donlea

  Graham’s subtle gesture was a reminder that Sidney was not creating a documentary to be optioned for distribution, but was instead kowtowing to network executives to get her project approved. If she could hurdle this initial obstacle, Graham promised she’d have more creative control going forward. And so, with a broad smile, Sidney had spent the morning with the administrators, sales managers, and general bureaucrats of the network’s news division, listening to the suggested edits to the pilot episode of The Girl of Sugar Beach. And now, after these final tweaks, the documentary’s maiden episode was slated to air in the beginning of June.

  The summary she had screened in the media room a week before had enough content for four one-hour episodes. Sidney’s goal over the next couple of weeks was to find enough material, and new and relevant evidence, for the next four installments. And then, somehow, create a conclusion that would span the final two episodes and turn up enough proof to show that Grace Sebold is not as guilty as the world believes.

  It was a tall task, and not for the first time, Sidney considered that she had bitten off more than she could chew. And there lay the dilemma of trying to break into an industry: When your pitch is so strong that people like Dante Campbell start to believe in you, along with their confidence comes the pressure to deliver. Today, after a year of reviewing Grace Sebold’s case and reading the hundreds of letters she and Ellie Reiser had written to her, after researching, interviewing, and creating the rough cuts of the opening episodes, and after her official pitch, Sidney was no longer chasing this project. The documentary was a go. Now she was chasing relevance. Now it was time to deliver. Her first deadline felt like a tightening noose around her neck, which was why, when she looked up from her computer to see Luke Barrington strolling into her office, she let out a long sigh.

  “What do you need, Luke?”

  “It looks like you need more than I do. You need a story, and I’m not sure you have one.” The Bear’s voice echoed off the walls of her office.

  “Thanks for your concern. I’ll manage.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Have a story?”

  “Yes, Luke. I have a story. And work to do, so . . .”

  “You know,” Luke said.

  Sidney heard his deep, fake voice begin, as if he were imparting some piece of wisdom to his audience.

  “This thing of yours. This crusade to help victims of wrongful conviction . . . it’s noble. It’s quite a niche, but is it sustainable?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Sustainable. Can you make a career out of it? You see, my career is the news. Politics, which has forever been and will forever be.”

  “I guess you’re covered then. But I don’t like politics.”

  “I’m not worried about my career.”

  Sidney smiled. “Don’t worry about mine, either, Luke. I might be just a feeble woman, but I can manage just fine. And I don’t like being harassed.”

  He offered a condescending laugh. “I’m not harassing you. I’m trying to help you. Are there actually that many wrongfully convicted people out there? Are you going to save them all? One after another?”

  “Right now, I’m only worried about one of them. And I’m under deadline, Luke, so give me some privacy.”

  “Where does it come from? This crusade of yours?”

  “It comes from three successful documentaries. I know you’re not going to acknowledge anyone’s success besides your own, but my interest comes from the fact that I’ve done this three other times with great success.”

  Luke puckered his lower lip and tilted his head to the side like a dog that heard a high-pitched whistle. “I’d classify the success as moderate more than great, but that’s neither here nor there. And I was only asking to discover your influence. Many people ask me mine.”

  Sidney went back to her edits without taking the bait.

  “You seem like you’re busy, I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Perfect,” Sidney said.

  “If you need any advice, let me know.”

  This caused Sidney to smile. “Luke, you’ve never made a documentary series in your life, even though you slapped your name on the one I created for the network last year. Why would I ask you for advice?”

  Now Luke smiled. “Not on how to make your documentary, sweetheart. But perhaps you’d like advice on how to find an audience. I’m quite versed at that.”

  Sidney rolled her eyes and went back to her computer as the Bear mercifully left her office. Even after he was gone, she could hear his plangent voice reverberating in the hollows of her office.

  “Where does it come from? This crusade of yours?”

  She went back to her editing, but forgot what she was attempting to accomplish in the current clip.

  “Damn it,” she said as she pushed the laptop aside.

  She glanced to the edge of her desk, where a lone envelope rested. She had been avoiding it since it arrived two days before. Finally she reached for it and tore it open, pulling out the letter, which was creased sharply in thirds. When she unfolded the page, a small square of tissue paper rested inside, also folded neatly.

  Sidney paused at the discovery, examining the pouch before carefully pulling apart the tissue. When she did, several crescent-shaped fingernail clippings fell onto her desk. She dropped the tissue and let out a long, defeated breath.

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Friday, March 31, 2017

  BALDWIN STATE PRISON WAS LOCATED IN MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA. Some of the worst offenders of Georgia’s most grievous crimes end up at Baldwin, a male-only prison. Over the years, Sidney had made her share of visits. She had gotten to know a few of the guards, who joked about which convict she was going to set loose. It had been six months since her last journey to Georgia, and she wasn’t sure why she chose this weekend to visit Baldwin. She blamed Luke Barrington. The voice that whispered from the dark corners of her mind, telling her that The Girl of Sugar Beach was too difficult a project to pull off, also played a part. And like a ten-year-old running from the playground, Sidney ignored the thought that she was seeking condolence on this trip to Baldwin. It was too pitiful to consider, so she pretended it wasn’t true.

  She went through the now-habitual routine of signing forms, showing ID, walking through metal detectors, standing crucifix-like while a guard ran a wand up and down her body, and allowing a polite female guard to pat her down to check for drugs and weapons. After thirty minutes, she was allowed to sit in a waiting room with a half-dozen other visitors. Leslie Martin, her coproducer, had sent video footage she was hoping to include in the pilot, and Sidney spent her time watching the clips on her phone and making notes. Eventually a staff member slid the glass partition open.

  “Sidney Ryan.”

  Sidney looked up from her phone and raised her hand.

  “You’re up, darlin’,” the woman said.

  Sidney walked to the door next to the glass partition and pulled it open after the woman buzzed it unlocked.

  “No camera crew?” the woman asked.

  Sidney smiled. “Not today.”

  The woman pointed down a row of booths, where glass barriers separated visitors from inmates.

  “Number six.”

  “Thanks,” Sidney said as she headed down the row. She was always careful to pay no attention to the other visitors sharing this intimate time with those that were locked away. She kept her eyes down and stared at her feet until she was seated in her booth. Only then did she look up at the glass divider. Sometimes he was seated there, waiting. At other times, he appeared from a side door as a guard walked him to the booth.

  Today she waited nearly five minutes for him to materialize. The orange suit he wore looked far too big. His skinny, pale arms leaked from the sleeves like wilting vines. He offered a subtle smile as he sat down. She knew inmates learned only that they had a visitor, not the identity. He picked up the phone and placed it to h
is ear. Sidney did the same.

  They stared at each other without saying a word. Sidney blinked a few times and finally spoke.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Thursday, June 1, 2017

  ON THE FIRST THURSDAY IN JUNE, AS TEMPERATURES IN MANHATTAN began to surge and humidity hung heavy in the air, the hospital room was cool. Too cool, in fact, for the nurses, but kept at the frigid temperature by the room’s sole resident for two simple reasons. One: He despised being hot, and his body overheated in a flash. Always had, since the age of fifteen. And considering he wasn’t able to bathe himself yet, the last thing he needed was to wallow in sweaty sheets and a foul-smelling T-shirt. And two: He knew the thermostat set at sixty-one degrees pissed the nurses off. And, well, to hell with them.

  The blinds were closed and the last he remembered was the final remnants of the summer evening spilling through the boxed edges of the window. Physical therapy wiped him out by seven o’clock each evening, causing him to doze the nights away, only to wake alert and restless at three each morning. This was something else that angered the nurses, since he pressed the call button as soon as he woke to ask for assistance to the bathroom. He didn’t piss in bed, he’d told the nurses more than once. And the other act was completely out of the question.

  They didn’t like his defiance, his contempt, or his generally curmudgeonly attitude, and the nurses had let him know.

  “I’ll add you to the long list of folks in my life who feel the same way,” he had told the head nurse who staged an intervention-type sit-down with him two days after his arrival. “I’ll even do it today if you’d just help me to the john.”

  What pissed him off most about being in this place was that he had no control over his environment. Helplessness had never been part of his character. He simply didn’t buy into the premise. He had lived his life by taking control of situations, and lying in this hospital bed had stolen not just his dignity, but his authority as well. To ram this reality home, the nurses played the game of making him wait for half an hour before they appeared each morning. He was sure most chumps in this place soiled themselves during the wait, or filled the clear plastic container that stood on the breakfast table and then lingered like cattle for their keepers to come and congratulate them on such a fine accomplishment before dumping their waste in the toilet.

  But he was new to this place, having just been delivered after surgery a little more than a week before, and the nurses hadn’t quite figured out that he wasn’t like most chumps. Once he recognized the purpose of the waiting game, which he took as a nonverbal way for the nurses to explain to him how things worked, he turned the predawn hours into a real treat for everyone yesterday when he purposely capsized the breakfast table in his attempt to make his own way to the toilet. The chaos sent nurses sprinting into his room to find him sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Lil’ help would be nice,” he had said.

  They were not amused.

  That was yesterday morning and the witches had adapted their strategy this morning. He noticed now as he opened his eyes in the darkened room that they’d moved the breakfast table to the other side of the room; and while he slept, the plastic receptacle had been tucked between his good hip and the side rail of the bed. They may as well have attached a sticky note: Up yours. He almost appreciated their tactics.

  The glowing windows were dark now, the first clue that he’d been asleep for at least a few hours. The next was the pressure in his bladder. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, the wall clock told him it was just past 3:00 a.m.

  He pressed the call button and waited. He took a deep breath, adjusted in bed to take the stress off his bladder, and considered that he might have no choice this morning but to use the plastic receptacle. He watched the clock tick along until the minute hand crept past the nine. He knew that’s what they wanted—to walk into his room and discover that they had broken him. A broken man he was, there was little doubt of that. But beaten? Not a chance. He didn’t piss in bed, simple as that.

  The IV and port came out first with a surge of pain up his arm. The tubes in his nose next, and the sticky buttons on his chest after that. One of them—he couldn’t tell which, since he’d ripped them all in such quick succession—created a hell of a racket with alarms beeping and blasting. The nurses were there in a blink, two of them bolting through his door.

  When they saw him alert and awake, they started their scolding.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Morelli?”

  “I’m not playing your game,” he told them. “I pressed that button forty minutes ago.”

  “We have other patients to take care of,” the nurse said as she assessed the damage, picking up the loose IV. “You could’ve hurt yourself pulling this out.”

  “At three in the morning? You’re not so busy in the middle of the night that you can’t at least check on me. I have to take a leak. I’m not asking you to fluff my pillow. If I could make it to the bathroom on my own, trust me I’d do it.”

  “There is a urinal right here,” the nurse said, holding up the plastic container.

  “And I told you I’m not using that. It’ll take five minutes out of your shift to help me to the john. Have some goddamn compassion!”

  The nurse pulled the wheelchair over, while the other grabbed him under the armpit. “It’s such a joy to have you here, Mr. Morelli.”

  He grunted as they lowered him into the chair. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said.

  * * *

  The following evening, Friday, was the start of the weekend staff. Although he hadn’t seen any of them yet, he knew they had arrived for the 7:00 p.m. to 11:00 a.m. shift. He would never admit it, but the regulars were making his life miserable. He hoped for a better crew this weekend. Even made a quick vow to be more tolerable.

  His hip was on fire from physical therapy, and the pain was preventing him from dozing off to sleep like he normally did at this time of evening to escape the pain. He pressed the call button and was surprised when a nurse appeared a minute later.

  “What do you need, Mr. Morelli?”

  Gus opened his eyes. “Oh, I didn’t expect you so soon.”

  “I’m Riki. I’ll be your nurse tonight. And again on Sunday. What’s up?”

  “My leg hurts from therapy.”

  She checked the log next to his bed. “Where’s the pain? One to ten?”

  “Eight.”

  “Your last morphine was six hours ago. I’ll give you another dose. Your doctor approved it every four to six hours for the first week post-op.”

  “Thank you.”

  Riki returned a minute later, pushing a tray draped with white sterile paper. A syringe and vial rested on top. She peeled open the syringe and speared the needle through the top of the vial, drawing out the morphine. As she adjusted the port on his arm, he twitched lightly at the pain.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” Riki said, looking at Gus’s arm. “You’re all bruised. What’ve they been doing to you? Beating you up?”

  Off to such a good start, Gus felt it unnecessary to explain that his tantrum the previous morning was the cause of his purple arm.

  “Nah,” he said. “I had a new gal. She did the best she could.”

  Riki shook her head as she examined the port. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Never great with needles, he looked up at the television screen to keep his eyes occupied. He saw a woman’s face filling the screen.

  “See,” Riki said. “You didn’t feel a thing.”

  A direct avenue into his blood supply, the morphine had an immediate effect. Though he stared straight at the television, Gus struggled to hear as the morphine pulled him away.

  Riki drew the needle from the port and dropped it back onto the cart. She looked up at the television as she peeled off her latex gloves. “Oh, I’m excited to watch this. It’s about that girl who killed her boyfriend in St. Lucia. Remember that?”

  Gus blinked his eyes. He heard the nurse’s
voice, but her words didn’t fully register.

  The nurse finished cleaning up, keeping her gaze on the television. When she looked back at Gus, his eyes were in a stoic haze, unblinking as he stared straight ahead.

  “She was convicted years ago,” Riki said, pointing at the television. “Now she says she’s innocent. The documentary is supposed to be good. Supposed to show that maybe she didn’t do it. At least, that’s what a few of the spoiler websites are saying. Tonight’s the first episode.”

  The nurse looked down at her patient. He was staring at his hand, like it belonged to someone else, opening and closing his fingers into a tight fist.

  “Yep,” Riki said. “That’s the morphine. Makes you numb. How’s the pain?”

  “Gone,” Gus said in a far-away voice.

  “Good.”

  Riki picked up the remote and changed the channel to the Yankees game.

  “Here, this seems like it’s more up your alley.”

  Gus leaned back into the pillow and stared up at the game. The Yankees were winning in the bottom of the eighth. “You’re a sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Monday, June 5, 2017

  THE CONFERENCE ROOM WAS FULL BY NINE O’CLOCK ON MONDAY morning. Steam spiraled from ceramic mugs resting in front of each of the twenty-two people seated around the table, filling the air with the smell of hazelnut. Morning sunlight spilled through the forty-fourth-floor windows and shone off the mahogany. Graham Cromwell brought the meeting to order. He talked about the coming weeks of programming.

  “Luke has two specials planned for this summer. The first will begin next month, covering the history of the White House. We’ve confirmed the president’s participation with one prerecorded interview, as well as a personal walk-through of the Oval Office. This, obviously, is a huge honor and speaks to Luke’s influence.”

  “It’s not just the current president, Graham. Over the weekend, my producer confirmed that the previous two presidents have also agreed to participate in the special. We’ll interview them at their private residences. I’m off to Texas later in the week to conduct the first interview.” Luke smiled. “I mean, why stop at one if they’re all on board?”