Don't Believe It

by Charlie Donlea

  “Really?” Graham said. “How did you pull that off?”

  “It’s amazing,” Luke said as he glanced quickly at Sidney. “I hired a producer that actually gets his calls returned. . . .”

  Graham nodded. There was little doubt the network had a solid star in Luke Barrington. He had been at the top of the prime-time ratings for more than a decade, and this summer’s Fourth of July special with exclusive access to the White House was sure to keep him there. As pompous and demanding as Luke could be to his staff and producers, Graham knew he was hands-on with this White House project. Graham had seen the content summary of the proposed special. Along with the White House tour—staged currently to show viewers the president’s first-person journey and morning routine, from waking in the East Wing to sitting in the Oval Office—Luke had a fascinating history of the White House planned, showcasing secret tunnels, safe rooms, and vaults. It was sure to draw a large audience. And now, with interviews confirmed with two former presidents, it was sure to be a ratings giant.

  “Impressive. We’re all looking forward to it,” Graham said. “Marketing and promotion have already started and will pick up this month. The four-episode special, Inside the White House, is due to premiere just ahead of the Fourth of July. Anything else to add?”

  Luke smiled and looked around the conference table. “Tune in.”

  “Okay,” Graham said. “Onto The Girl of Sugar Beach. Episode one aired this past Friday and drew one-point-two million viewers. Excellent start, Sidney. America is still interested in Grace Sebold.”

  “Are we classifying this as an excellent start?” the Bear asked. “My evening news program pulls in eight million viewers each night, and she didn’t even retain a quarter of my audience. I was her lead-in because we thought my viewers would make the jump.”

  “We knew there would be falloff,” Graham said. “The demographics of the two programs don’t match perfectly, so we may rethink the timing.”

  “Old people watch your show,” Sidney said. “We’re working to generate a larger audience in the eighteen-to–forty-four demographic.”

  “I’d suggest you work harder then,” Luke said. He looked back to Graham. “And she’s not finished with the investigation . . . so will the million viewers she managed still be interested at the end?”

  “My investigation is ongoing, which is why it’s called a real-time documentary, Luke. The excitement comes from discovering things as you go along. Since it’s not scripted and you can’t read it off a teleprompter, I don’t expect you to fully grasp the concept.”

  This brought a few chuckles.

  “We don’t have a lot of history to go on, since this is a new format,” Graham said. “But what history we have from other programs tells us that viewers enjoy this type of journalism, since they learn about new findings at the same time, or close to it, as the program itself.”

  “What if, God forbid, no new findings are discovered?” Luke asked in an overly dramatic tone.

  “We have faith that Sidney knows what she’s doing.”

  “Maybe so,” Luke said. “But a million viewers for the debut?”

  “They’re summer numbers. The comps are not against the most-watched prime-time dramas from spring. Comps are from this time slot last June, and The Girl of Sugar Beach did well. The network has backed this project, Luke. It’s a new concept for us, and we’re all pleased with the opening numbers.”

  Luke shrugged. “It’s safe to say that you can only go up.”

  “Luke, what’s the problem? You’re being a bit of an ass, frankly,” Graham said.

  “She left my show for this pet project. She carries at least an air of my reputation with her.” The Bear looked at Sidney. “So excuse me if I’m concerned about your ratings. Someone around here has to be.”

  Sidney offered him an ugly smile. “Thanks, Luke. Your concern is touching.”

  * * *

  Sidney wheeled her small case into the elevator a few minutes later.

  “He’s a serial misogynist and a complete asshole,” Leslie Martin said as soon as the doors closed. She was producing The Girl of Sugar Beach with Sidney.

  “I’ve got too much to do to worry about Luke Barrington,” Sidney said, pressing the button for the lobby too many times and much harder than necessary. “But goddamn, that man can smell blood in the water. We should call him ‘the Shark’ instead of ‘the Bear.’ He knows we were expecting higher numbers for the debut, even though Graham swore that only the production heads knew the projections.”

  “One-point-two is great for a premiere. And we pulled in a decent share of the eighteen-to–twenty-four demo.”

  “They wanted two million, as a conservative number. I’m woefully short. And they projected two million so that we could all jump for joy when the numbers came back higher than that.”

  “These things build with the story. Making a Murderer had three times the audience for the final episodes than it had for the early ones. Same thing with Serial.”

  “This is prime time, not a subscription service and not a podcast. All that matters are the ratings. They drive advertising. Advertising drives revenue. Revenue pays the bills and keeps the suits in their cushy jobs.” Sidney looked up briefly and watched the elevator numbers decline. An omen?

  She blinked away and shook her head. “Christ, Leslie, what if he’s right? Do we even have a story to build on?”

  “Of course, we do. We’re going to show inconsistencies. Raise doubt. Offer alternative theories. All of that will build suspense and intrigue. Did Making a Murderer prove Steven Avery’s innocence? Did Serial prove Adnan Syed’s? It’s not about guilt or innocence. That’s the hook, but the guts will be about Grace Sebold’s story. Who was she? How did this happen? People are still interested in her—we just have to tap into that interest. Forget about the Bear. The network is behind you and heavily promoting it. You’ve got Dante Campbell on your side and ads are running on Wake Up America. Previous episodes can be viewed online, so our audience will grow. Don’t wig out on me now. I need this job.”

  The elevator pinged as it reached the ground floor. “You’ve got a job, don’t worry about that.”

  The doors opened and they walked into the lobby, where the tinted glass of the façade blunted the morning sunlight. Herds of Monday-morning commuters crisscrossed on the sidewalk outside.

  “You know he’s working like a son of bitch just to score massive ratings with his damn White House special so he can bury us,” Sidney said. “Probably cashed in on a bunch of favors to secure those interviews.”

  “Why do we care?”

  “Because the goddamn Bear is trying to devour us, Leslie. He’s trying to put together a ratings tsunami that wipes The Girl of Sugar Beach off the map, so by the end of summer, no one has ever heard of it. Or me. And then he can show everyone on his staff that when they leave to do something on their own, you end up like Sidney Ryan.”

  “Well, let’s prove the blowhard wrong then.”

  Sidney shook her head. “Have you pulled the old high-school footage of Grace?”

  “Yeah. Her parents turned over everything they had. Hours of family videos, so we should be able to pull plenty of cuts from them.”

  “Good. Did you manage to find any material on Julian?”

  Leslie shook her head. “His parents wouldn’t return my calls, so all we’ve got are stock photos. Yearbook and limited Facebook content from 2007.”

  “Get me what you can. We’ll meet back here tonight to cut the draft of the next episode. Seven work for you?”

  “Perfect. The suits will be gone by then. I’ll bring the wine.” Leslie tapped Sidney’s Starbucks cup with her own. “Cheers. This thing’s going to be a hit, Sid. Screw Luke Barrington.”

  Sidney forced a smile and lifted her coffee, then wheeled her files to the curb to catch a cab.

  CHAPTER 16

  Monday, June 5, 2017

  SHE SLAMMED THE CAB’S DOOR AND WALKED TO THE CORNER RESTAURANT
in Midtown. Inside, she spotted a tall, athletic woman tapping on her laptop and knew from photos—and recent television interviews, including one with Dante Campbell—that she was looking at Dr. Livia Cutty, from the prestigious North Carolina Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Dr. Cutty was finishing a fellowship in Raleigh, and had come to Sidney’s attention, and most of America’s, during a high-profile missing person’s case involving Dr. Cutty’s sister.

  Needing forensic help with Grace’s case, Sidney could think of no one better than Livia Cutty. Coming off such a notorious case, Dr. Cutty’s involvement in the documentary could only attract attention. Cutty was still in the spotlight and Sidney, quite simply and selfishly, was hoping to share some of the warmth. It didn’t hurt that Livia Cutty was striking to look at and would play nicely on television. Sidney nearly retched at her last thought. Luke Barrington was rubbing off on her.

  She walked over. “Dr. Cutty?”

  The doctor looked up and smiled. “Yes. Sidney?”

  “Sidney Ryan, yes.”

  They shook hands.

  “Livia Cutty.”

  “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “Of course. The timing worked out perfectly. I’m in the city until tomorrow, trying to get things organized for next month.”

  Sidney knew that Dr. Cutty had recently accepted a position at the famed New York Medical Examiner’s Office, which would start later this summer.

  “Raleigh to New York will be quite a change for you.”

  “It will. But I’m really enjoying the city. This is my fourth time visiting.”

  “Find an apartment?”

  “I’m signing the lease later this morning. One more meeting with my soon-to-be boss tomorrow, and then I head back to Raleigh to finish my last three weeks of fellowship.”

  “And you start at your new position here . . . when?”

  “Officially September first. But I’ll have privileges, so I will be slowly getting my feet wet during the summer. Full-time in September.”

  “Allow me to welcome you officially to New York,” Sidney said. “I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

  “I’ve got an hour.” Livia gestured to the table and they both sat down. A waitress appeared and they ordered breakfast and coffee.

  “So here’s my pitch,” Sidney said. “I’m making a documentary about Grace Sebold. Remember her story?”

  “I do. She was the medical-school student who killed her boyfriend in Jamaica?”

  “St. Lucia, but yes. That’s the one.”

  “I was a junior in college when that happened. My entire sorority watched it unfold. The indictment, the trial, the conviction. We had viewing parties. It was like the O.J. Simpson trial in the ’90s, but instead of a famous athlete, it was a student just like us. It was, sadly, fascinating.”

  “It certainly captured the headlines back then. Grace has maintained her innocence for the past decade, and has also retained a cult following, even if she has fallen out of the mainstream. My documentary is a reexamination of the evidence that convicted her. I need an expert in forensics to help me root through the details.”

  “With the idea that she’s innocent?”

  “With the idea that there are many unanswered questions. Forensic evidence played a major role in Grace’s conviction. The prosecution argued that a boat oar, actually a paddleboard oar, was used to strike Julian Crist in the head, causing a skull fracture that rendered him unconscious and led to his drowning. Grace insists the oar in question weighed five pounds, perhaps more. And it was seventy-four inches in length, which is longer than she is tall. This was back a decade ago, before the resort upgraded their equipment to graphite and composite plastic. Grace claims it would have been impossible for her to lug that long, weighty oar up the Piton, where Julian was killed, retain the strength and coordination to swing it with enough force to cause Julian’s head injury, then transport it back down the rugged terrain and return it to the sports shed, where it was later discovered by detectives. At trial, there was some back-and-forth about whether the blade of the oar was a forensic match to Julian’s skull fracture, but the defense’s expert—a coroner with little homicide experience—was shredded on cross-examination.”

  Livia shrugged. “Sounds interesting. Where do I come in?”

  “Would you be willing to review the autopsy findings and discuss your opinions? On camera, of course, as I’ll need footage for the documentary. It’s airing during the prime-time lineup and currently follows Events, Luke Barrington’s news program, so you can expect decent exposure. If that’s something that interests you.”

  Livia nodded. “I’m certainly curious. Especially if you’re suggesting the forensics don’t match the crime.”

  “Well, I’m not sure. That’s why I need your help. I can pay you for your time. One hundred fifty an hour. I’m sure you’re worth much more than that, but that’s what I’m budgeted for. Log the hours, and you’ll be paid as an independent contractor.” Sidney pulled a thick file from her bag and pushed it across the table. “I’m gathering more each day, but this is what I have so far. Much of this is public record. Some, what’s on the thumb drive, came from Grace’s defense attorney here in the U.S., who kept not only everything from the trial, but also new information that has come along over the years. Crime scene photos, interviews, trial transcript, and everything from Julian Crist’s autopsy, which is what I’m mostly interested in getting your opinion on. And I wish I could tell you to take all the time you need, but, unfortunately, I’m under a tight deadline. How soon could you look at this?”

  Dr. Cutty flipped through the file. “I’ll take a look on my flight. My fellowship in Raleigh is just about finished, so I’ll have time to dig in when I get home. Can I call you next week?”

  Sidney nodded. “That would be perfect.”

  “When is the documentary set to air?” Dr. Cutty asked.

  Sidney smiled. Apparently, Dr. Cutty was not among the slightly more than (and disappointing) 1 million viewers who tuned in for episode one.

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday, June 5, 2017

  THE SEBOLDS LIVED IN A TWO-STORY COLONIAL IN FAYETTEVILLE, NEW York, just outside of Syracuse. Sidney pulled her car into the driveway as Derrick, her cameraman, grabbed his backpack from the rear seat. Sidney popped the trunk and surveyed the house while Derrick removed his lighting equipment. She noticed a ramp that ran up the front stairs and another that paralleled the steps leading to the back of the house. An obvious addition had been added to the home’s north side, where the aged brick gave way to newer cedar in a single-story supplement.

  The front door opened and Mrs. Sebold waved from the doorway.

  “You good, Derrick?” Sidney asked.

  Derrick gave a thumbs-up as he assembled his Ikegami and lighting props. Sidney walked to the front stairs.

  “It’s so nice to meet you finally,” Mrs. Sebold said as she embraced Sidney in a tight hug.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Sidney said as she returned the greeting.

  “You’ve got to help our little girl,” Mrs. Sebold said softly into Sidney’s ear. “You’ve just got to help her.”

  Sidney escaped from Mrs. Sebold’s clutch. “I’m going to do everything I can.”

  “It’s more than anyone else will do for us. Our own damn government won’t help us. Please come inside.”

  Sidney followed Grace’s mother into the house. The entrance doorway was badly scuffed, and what looked like bicycle treads marred the hardwood in the entry foyer. Mrs. Sebold noticed Sidney’s wondering eyes.

  “This is from Marshall,” she said. “Our son. He was just fitted for a new wheelchair and is not happy about it. He doesn’t like change. This is his way of showing us.”

  Sidney noticed scuff marks along the walls—deep, sideswipe gouges in the drywall.

  “Only in the last couple of years has he succumbed to a wheelchair. We knew the day would come, and we avoided it as long as possible. His mobilit
y was simply too compromised, so we took the therapist’s suggestion and had him fitted. He hates it, of course. The worry is that if he relies on the chair, he’ll lose his ability to walk entirely. Again, the situation is inevitable and change is always hard. We had him read Who Moved My Cheese. Didn’t help. So, please, excuse our home.” Mrs. Sebold pointed down the hall. “We can tape in the living room, if that works.”

  Sidney followed Mrs. Sebold into the room. “Yes,” Sidney said. “This will be perfect. You and Mr. Sebold can sit on the couch here. Derrick will set up the lighting and record from over here. Your son could join us, too.”

  Mrs. Sebold shrugged. “Maybe. It will depend on what type of mood Marshall is in. And please call me Gretchen.”

  Mr. Sebold walked down the stairs and into the living room.

  “Sidney, this is my husband, Glenn.”

  “Hi, Sidney. Thanks so much for what you’ve done for Grace,” Glenn Sebold said as he walked into the room. He shook Sidney’s hand.

  “I haven’t done much at all, I’m afraid.”

  “You’ve done more than you think. Since you agreed to shoot this documentary, Grace’s spirits have lifted considerably. I can hear it every time we talk, which is once a week. And I went down to Bordelais last month for a visit. It was the first time in quite a while that I saw a glimmer of my daughter, and not the stranger that place has turned her into.”

  Sidney was reluctant to accept the premise that agreeing to shoot a documentary could have such a profound effect on Grace’s well-being. She was reluctant, perhaps, because Sidney knew if it were true, it was because she had given Grace hope. And the problem with evoking hope was that it led one of two places: salvation or damnation.

  “I’m glad she’s doing better,” Sidney finally said. “I hope something positive comes of this.”

  Derrick had set up two umbrella pads on either side of the couch that would cast the Sebolds in the proper light. A camera perched on a tripod was positioned in front of Grace’s parents, who sat close together to show their united front. He held the Ikegami on his shoulder to get dynamic shots as he moved from side to side during the interview.