Sidney pushed a folder across the table. “Leslie and I were just reviewing everything. Here’s all our research to this point.”
Janet opened the folder and paged through the contents.
“I understand the skepticism,” Sidney said. “With the current popularity of true-crime documentaries, there can be an undercurrent of sensationalism. But in this case, I think you’ll see that our findings show a pattern of startling conclusions about how Grace Sebold’s case was originally investigated by the St. Lucian government, as well as new evidence we’ve turned up that disproves one of the central conclusions about the case. Specifically, that the weapon suggested at trial as being used to kill Julian Crist, according to forensic experts here in the U.S., could not have caused the injuries found on the victim. This Friday’s episode will tackle some of the other ‘evidence’ that was found in St. Lucia, including examining more closely the victim’s blood in Grace’s room and the so-called cleanup. It’s all incorrect, mishandled, misconstrued, and possibly fraudulent.”
Sidney pointed at the pages Janet was reading.
“Those are facts. Friday’s episode will also be facts. No skepticism. No pop culture. Speculation does play a role, however. And it comes from the idea that tourism represents the main source of income for St. Lucia,” Sidney said. “And in order to preserve this economic windfall, the detectives that ran the case succumbed to pressure of the St. Lucian government to find someone to blame, find them quickly, and put the future tourists at ease that St. Lucia was still a majestic and peaceful Caribbean island known for sunsets and beaches, not murder and mayhem.”
Janet Station paged through the documents. After a moment of silence, she said, “Can you stall on any of this? Just until we have a chance to look into it more thoroughly?”
Sidney looked at Leslie, who shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” Leslie said. “The documentary is real-time. We’re producing an episode each week. Whatever we learn, our audience learns.”
“And we’re under tight deadlines,” Sidney said.
Janet Station smiled. “I was instructed to ask.”
“It’s not too late,” Leslie said. “One of our citizens still needs our government’s help. Has, in fact, begged for it for ten years.”
“It will be in my report.” She slid out of the booth and stood. “Have a good Fourth of July.”
“You too,” Sidney said.
Janet Station walked out of the café and to the waiting SUV. She climbed in the backseat and the Denali took off from the curb. She dialed her cell.
“Hello?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
CHAPTER 30
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
“HERE’S THE GOAL,” JASON SAID. “I’M GONNA LIFT YOUR ASS OUT of that wheelchair, and you’re gonna use the rails to move said ass all the way to the other end. And you’re going to put pressure on the goddamn prosthesis. Do you hear me? You’ve got to start putting weight on that side of your body.”
“I could file a complaint about the way you speak to me,” Gus said.
“Do it. And make sure you hand deliver it to Nurse Ratchet.”
Gus cocked his head. “No thanks. I learned long ago, when I was still working, that if someone’s got you by the balls, you shouldn’t wiggle.”
Jason smiled. “Good decision. No more stalling.” He reached around Gus’s waist and grabbed the belt harness. Gus put his hands on Jason’s shoulders, and in a coordinated fashion, Jason pulled and Gus engaged the weakened muscles on his good leg, trying hard not to put too much pressure on his gimp right hip or the strange prosthetic device that connected his stump to the floor.
Gus groaned as he made it to his feet. “Son of a bitch.”
“You okay?”
A quick nod and another grunt with gritted teeth. “It feels weird.”
“But good to stand up, right?”
Gus was breathing heavily. “Yeah. But it also hurts like a son of a bitch.”
“Grab the railings,” Jason said.
Gus did so, gripping his hands around two parallel bars that ran out ahead of him and ended after ten feet. It could have been a football field. The rails would allow him to transfer as much of his body weight into his arms and shoulders as possible while he tried to walk for the first time since losing his leg. The rest of his weight would go onto his good leg; and when he felt brave enough, he was supposed to swing his gimp right leg and prosthetic forward and see what he could handle. The last time Jason got him onto the bars, Gus had given up without putting any weight onto his surgically altered leg.
“This far after surgery, you should be able to make it ten paces on the bars.”
“Haven’t made it one yet,” Gus said, out of breath.
“That’s ’cause you quit last time.”
“It hurts, you little shithead, that’s why I quit. And it feels weird to step on that goddamn peg leg.”
“You want to walk again, or get wheeled around for the rest of your life?”
“Walk.”
“Then get going. And scream all you want, it wakes this place up and makes people scared of me. I like it.”
Gus looked to the end of the bars. His weakened arms shook under the weight of his body.
“Jesus Christ. I used to be able to do thirty dips without a pause. Now I can barely keep myself upright.”
“Because you’ve been sitting on your ass for a month. Now move, Gus!”
He took a deep breath, lifted his gimp leg in front of him, and released a guttural groan as he took his first step in several weeks.
* * *
An hour later, Gus was resting uncomfortably in his hospital bed. It wasn’t technically a hospital, more like prison for the helpless and elderly, neither of which he considered himself.
“Here,” Jason said as he entered the room and handed him a thin case.
“What’s this?”
“My iPad.”
Gus lifted the flap and pressed the button to display the home screen.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Watch your show. The Girl of Sugar Beach. I downloaded every episode for you. You can binge watch over the Fourth. It’s a long weekend, so I won’t be around to torture you. This will keep you busy.”
Jason tapped the screen a few times until the promo appeared: a close-up of Grace Sebold’s face, with pale skin and gray-streaked hair, and the tagline You Only Know the Other Side of the Story.
“All you have to do is tap the screen and the episode plays. Tap it again to pause it. Go to the menu to find the next episode. Got it?”
Gus nodded. “Thanks. I owe you anything?”
“Keep working like you did today. That’s good enough for me.”
Jason typed for a moment on the keyboard near the foot of the bed, then closed Gus’s electronic chart.
“See you next week?”
“Is that a question?” Gus said. “Where the hell do you think I’m going?”
Jason nodded. “See you next week. Let the nurses get you up this weekend. You’ve got to start using the prosthetic. I’ll be back next Wednesday.”
“Hope the pain is gone by then.”
“Me too,” Jason said. “But fear not, we’ll find it again. Have a good Fourth of July.”
Gus pointed to the window. “Good view of the fireworks from here?”
Jason offered a crooked smile. “Doubtful.”
“Oh, well, there’s always next year. Maybe I’ll be up and around by then.”
“Shit. I’ll have you up and around next week. You’ll be dancing by Labor Day.”
When Jason was gone, Gus touched the screen. Eerie music filled his hospital room as the introduction to the documentary started.
“I’m Sidney Ryan,” the narrator told him. “And this is The Girl of Sugar Beach.”
CHAPTER 31
Friday, June 30, 2017
THE CITY STARTED TO EMPTY ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON. THOSE WHO worked Friday cut out ear
ly, and by 2:00 p.m., only a select few business people walked the streets of New York. Everyone else had scampered to bus stations or train stations for their ride out of town. Cars had been packed up and driven from the city, leaving behind long streaks of bare curbs where normally a bumper-to-bumper chain of vehicles sat perpetually parked and vacant. Nothing emptied the city more thoroughly than the Fourth of July, which was the following Tuesday.
Roughly one hundred hours of freedom were in front of the citizens of New York. Most of them, anyway. Sidney worked at the network studios until 4:00 p.m. Friday, keeping a skeleton crew of staff in town over the long holiday weekend to finish the next installment of The Girl of Sugar Beach. It was the first time she stayed in the city over the Fourth of July holiday, and as she walked the deserted streets on Friday, she could barely believe she was in Manhattan. It was early evening, a time when the boulevards were normally choked with foot traffic and the streets lined with honking cabs and bike messengers weaving through traffic. Instead, she walked peacefully down empty sidewalks and enjoyed the evening sun. She pressed her cell phone to her ear as she walked.
“What did she say?” Graham asked through the phone.
“She just said Washington was concerned. I’ve been through this before with D.A.’s, they want to know what you have so they can decide what kind of press they’re going to get. But this time I’m not an adversary, and a D.A. is not asking. A U.S. Attorney, appointed by the president, is poking around.”
“What’s the angle?” Graham asked.
“The U.S. government was not responsible for Grace Sebold going to jail. But they have a responsibility to help their citizens. It should only be in their best interest to help her if she’s innocent. Janet Station wanted to know if I could delay any of the information that’s coming about the blood and the so-called bleach cleanup. And about the prints on the oar and the blood on the blade, just until they had a chance to review everything.”
“I hope you told her to piss off.”
“Not quite, but I told her I had deadlines and there would be no delaying the documentary.”
“Good. No delays. Your audience is ravenous. The latest test audience is pulling for Grace Sebold’s innocence, polling at ninety percent. And the executive team met yesterday. They want the conclusion more displayed.”
“Really? Is that what the executives want, Graham? And this whole time, I thought I was producing this documentary.”
“You are. I’m just telling you what the higher-ups are looking at.”
“You saw the outline I submitted. I’m going to show her innocence the best I can, Graham. There are always gray areas with these cases. But I’m going to paint it the best I can to be black and white. I thought I had their full confidence, according to Ray Sandberg.”
“You do. They’re just confirming the direction of the documentary. We’ve been through this, Sid. This is network television, not a freelance film. They like to maintain control and make sure they know what’s coming.”
She came to the Liberty, which typically could not be approached at 5:00 p.m. on a Friday evening. With the mass exodus, though, Sidney found it comfortably populated with only a few tables taken. The hostess seated her and Sidney ordered a $14 margarita and fish tacos.
“When you say they,” Sidney said, “you’re talking about yourself. I hope you’re aware that I know that.”
There was a pause before Graham said, “I wish I’d have stayed in the city this weekend.”
“Trust me,” Sidney said, looking around the mostly-empty restaurant, “nothing’s going on in the city.”
“You’re there,” Graham said. “We could’ve spent some time together.”
“Listen,” Sidney said. “I’ll make sure my documentary continues to show that Grace Sebold may, in fact, be innocent. As was the original goal of the series. As was laid out in the original pitch. As has been promoted by all the advertising, and by Dante Campbell herself. Now get off the phone and enjoy your weekend in the Hamptons, check off your little boxes for your rich buddies, and tell them we’re all on the same page and that their precious little investment is going to turn out just fine.”
“I believe that was the definition of changing the subject.”
Silence.
“You’ve got the most-watched show in the country, Sid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Graham.”
“Luke’s special starts tonight.”
“Hence my blue-hair dinner at five o’clock. I want to get home to watch it. Have you seen any of it?”
“No. I missed the screening, but I heard it’s good.”
“I’m sure we’ll hear about it next week. Enjoy the weekend, Graham.”
She had two margaritas with her tacos, just enough to allow her mind to wander back to Graham’s suggestion that he should have stayed in the city with her for the weekend. Sidney knew where that would have led, and she’d spent too much energy untangling herself from the mess to tie herself back up. Their six-month affair had ended more than a year ago. They had met at a cocktail party when Sidney was working on her second documentary and gaining a name for herself. She was an aspiring producer and Graham Cromwell was a powerful network executive. They each knew of the other’s work, and conversation was easy. They casually dated for six months when Graham mentioned that Luke Barrington was looking for a producer. Sidney had just finished her second documentary and was considering her next project. Television had never been a consideration, but the exposure and experience of producing Luke Barrington’s top-rated show was enough to convince her. When she signed her contract with the network, she had a talk with Graham. Sidney tried for a clean break, but those never work. Instead, a messier three months passed where they were on-again, off-again until Sidney ended things for good when she sensed whispers in the hallways at work. That Graham was her boss was the perfect reason not to get involved with him again. It was actually the perfect reason not to get involved with him in the first place, but that ship had sailed. All she could do now was right her course and not turn back.
She took her margarita buzz to the subway. She was comfortably on her couch in time to catch the opening of The Girl of Sugar Beach. She had always been her worst critic, but had to admit that with Leslie’s editing and production, Geno Mack’s writing, and the special effect team’s magic, the opening was flawless. She watched the full hour, never once bored by the footage she had produced and put together. She made some mental notes about camera angles and lighting, noting that future scenes with the lovely Livia Cutty needed to be framed in grittier hues to bring out the haunting revelations the woman, who seemed to have been created to star in true-crime documentaries, brought to the screen. The closing music was perfect, the teaser promo for next week alluring, and when the credits rolled, Sidney allowed herself to feel proud.
Halfway through the project, with a building audience and a clear direction toward the finale, Sidney Ryan was finally feeling confident. The goal would be to show the possibility of Grace Sebold’s innocence, to lay raw all the inconsistencies that helped convict her, and, in the end, show the woman Grace had become. Sidney would offer her own conclusions, but ultimately Grace’s innocence would be left for the viewers to debate. She had an audience that rivaled Making a Murderer and that trumped Serial. The difference: Sidney believed she had an ending that would satisfy.
Sidney pulled her gaze from the television and looked down at the ratings spreadsheet from Monday morning’s meeting: The Girl of Sugar Beach—12.1M viewers/9.4 share.
Luke Barrington’s voice floated from the television, and his arrogant face filled the screen as his White House special began. Sidney hit the remote and the Bear’s face disappeared. She mixed another margarita and headed to her bedroom, where she picked up the novel from her nightstand and pushed away the nagging truth that she was alone on a holiday weekend.
CHAPTER 32
Saturday, July 1, 2017
SHE SLEPT IN SATURDAY MORNING AND ENJOYED A
NEAR-EMPTY SUBWAY car as she commuted to work through the vacant city. If Thursday was a purging of residents and Friday a slow trickle of those left behind, Saturday was the aftermath of Armageddon. A few stray cabs snuck quietly through the streets, and a police officer on horseback clicked along West Fortieth Street.
Sidney walked the twelve blocks from the subway instead of cabbing it, and enjoyed the wide-open streets and sidewalks. She grabbed two coffees from the Starbucks in the lobby and rode the elevator to the forty-fourth floor. Leslie was already on her computer cutting film that had been recorded the week before when Sidney visited Grace Sebold in St. Lucia.
“This footage is incredible,” Leslie said with a pencil long ways between her teeth and staring at the screen. Her hair was in a messy bun, she wore jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, and thick plastic glasses sat on her face in lieu of contact lenses.
“Morning,” Sidney said. “Here’s your coffee. You look . . . casual.”
“Did you shower?” Leslie asked.
“Foolishly.”
“This place is a ghost town. Who are you trying to impress?”
“I forgot how empty it would be. What are you looking at?”
“Your footage from St. Lucia. You took it on the handheld, but it’s great quality and we can do a lot with it. Plus, it looks . . .”
“Urgent.”
“Exactly. This is going to make a great episode. Even what you shot on your iPhone looks great. I made it a little grittier, just the way you like it. Check it out.”
Sidney sat down and looked at the computer screen.
Leslie had put together an animation of the crime scene as the St. Lucian detectives described it in the original report, coupling it with the ten-year-old footage taken by St. Lucian authorities. She touched the screen and a scene played out on the monitor. In it, a man stood near the edge of a bluff and a woman approached from behind. She raised a large boat oar and struck the back of his head. The footage was gritty and dark, with blue hues and grainy contrast.
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