Charley's Web

by Joy Fielding

“Do they share a cell?”

  “Actually, they’re among the few Florida inmates who get their own cells. One of the perks about being sentenced to death.”

  “Almost makes it worthwhile,” Charley noted sarcastically.

  “Of course, that’s only until the governor signs the death warrant. Then the prisoner is transferred to a ‘death watch’ cell, closer to the execution site.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Starke. Near Raiford, the men’s prison. North of Gainesville,” he added, in case she didn’t know.

  “I know where Raiford is,” she said, although in truth, she didn’t. “So, when is Jill scheduled to be executed?”

  Alex shrugged. “Probably in another twelve years.”

  “Twelve years?”

  “That’s the average length of time people get to spend on death row.”

  Charley debated jotting down this information, then decided against it. She didn’t want to appear too eager. Nothing, she reminded herself again, had been decided. “Because of the appeal process?”

  “Appeals, new trials, new hearings, court reviews, clemency pleadings—they all take time.”

  “And meanwhile, these women get to sit in their own, individual, air-conditioned cells.”

  “Death row isn’t air-conditioned,” Alex said flatly, a hint of irritation in his voice.

  “Aw,” said Charley, not bothering to disguise her own lack of sympathy.

  “You don’t think they suffer enough?” he asked.

  “They eat, they sleep, they get an average of twelve more years than they gave their victims. It doesn’t sound that bad to me.”

  “They also spend almost all their time in their cells, and have to be accounted for at least once every hour. Anytime they leave their cells, they’re in handcuffs, except in the exercise yard and the shower, which they’re allowed every other day.”

  Charley scoffed. “Jill made it sound as if she’d made a lot of friends.”

  “That was probably before they transferred her out of the general prison population. I think you’ll be surprised, Charley. Jill Rohmer is a very easy girl to like.”

  Charley wasn’t sure which unsettled her more—the idea that a convicted child murderer might be easy to like, or the way “Charley” had rolled seductively off the tip of Alex’s tongue. “Yes, I understand her victims thought the world of her,” she said, in an effort to keep that troubling thought at bay.

  “I’m just asking you to keep an open mind.”

  With that, the door to the interview room opened and Jill Rohmer stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 9

  In person, Jill was smaller than Charley had anticipated. Maybe five feet, two inches tall, with dark blond hair pulled into a high ponytail, dark brown eyes shyly downcast, small, bow-shaped lips, and a pleasant, heart-shaped face. Undeniably pretty, in a generic kind of way. Nothing too big or too small, no unsightly blemishes or irregular angles, no one feature that overshadowed the others, nothing that particularly stood out. Except maybe the garish orange T-shirt she wore, identifying her as a resident of death row.

  To Charley’s great surprise, the first word that came to mind when Jill walked through the door was cute. Betty as opposed to Veronica. Definitely nonthreatening. Even a little ordinary. Certainly there was nothing about her appearance to suggest the monster lurking within. Indeed, with her small bones and delicate frame, Jill Rohmer looked more like an innocent victim than a cold-blooded killer. If Charley had seen her on the street and been asked to guess her age, she would have said “sixteen.” Barely.

  “Hi,” Jill said softly.

  Even her voice was childlike, Charley thought. No wonder it had been so easy for her to gain people’s trust.

  “Jill Rohmer, this is Charley Webb,” Alex began, introducing them in the manner that Charley had earlier introduced Glen McLaren to her son. “Charley Webb…Jill Rohmer.”

  “It’s really nice to finally meet you in person,” Jill said, extending her hand.

  “Hello,” Charley responded, pretending not to notice.

  The hand retreated. “I’ve been a fan of yours for years. It was really nice of you to drive all the way out here.”

  “Your lawyer did the driving.”

  “Thanks, Alex,” Jill whispered, staring at the floor. “I know how busy you are.”

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Alex promptly pulled out a chair and settled into it.

  Charley sat down in the chair beside him, watching as Jill sank into the lone chair across the table and primly folded her hands in her lap.

  “You’re even prettier than your picture in the paper,” Jill told her. “So are you,” Charley responded grudgingly. It pained her that she could actually consider someone who had cruelly murdered three young children attractive.

  Jill’s face lit up instantly, her right hand moving to her ponytail, twisting it nervously between her fingers. “Thank you. They don’t let us wear any makeup in here. We can’t even color our hair.”

  “Your hair’s fine.”

  “I think it would look better lighter. Like yours.”

  “I don’t know,” Charley said, amazed to be chatting about anything so mundane. “This color suits you.”

  “Yeah? Well, okay. That’s good then. Is yours natural? It looks natural.”

  “It’s had a little help,” Charley admitted.

  “Really? You’d never know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ladies,” Alex interrupted. “Fascinating though this discussion truly is, I think we have more important matters to talk about.”

  Jill looked immediately chastised. She bowed her head toward her lap, her cheeks blushing a girlish pink. “Sorry,” she said.

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” Alex said quickly. “It’s just that we only have a short period of time, and I don’t think you want to waste it.”

  “Sorry,” Jill said again.

  “What exactly is it you want from me?” Charley asked, deciding to plunge right in.

  Jill lifted her eyes, stared directly at Charley. “Like I said in my letter. I want you to write a book about me.”

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you’re a great writer,” Jill answered immediately. “And great writers are always on the lookout for a great subject. Aren’t they?”

  “And that great subject would be you?”

  “All I know is I have a story to tell.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Murderers in and of themselves aren’t necessarily interesting,” Charley said flatly.

  “You’re saying I’m a murderer?”

  “You’re saying you aren’t?”

  “I’m saying there’s a lot you don’t know,” Jill said.

  “I know you were tried and found guilty.”

  “That’s because the jury never heard the whole story.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them?”

  Jill fidgeted in her seat, looked toward the ceiling. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Charley repeated. “Were you protecting someone?”

  “No.”

  “Are you afraid of anyone?”

  A slight flicker of hesitation in Jill’s eyes. Then, “Not anymore.”

  “You’re saying someone else was involved?”

  Jill slowly turned her head from side to side, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Maybe,” she whispered, so quietly Charley found herself leaning forward in her seat, and even then she wasn’t sure she’d heard Jill correctly.

  “Maybe? Does that mean yes?”

  Jill nodded slowly.

  “So why tell me and not the D.A.?”

  “The D.A. isn’t interested. He’s already got his conviction.”

  “And you’re prepared to tell me who this person is?”

  Again Jill nodded. “I’ll tell
you everything. I want people to know the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I’m not the monster they think I am.”

  “What kind of monster are you?” Charley asked pointedly.

  Jill’s eyes filled with tears.

  Charley looked away, fighting the urge to apologize. She hadn’t expected tears. Nor had she expected to feel anything but disdain for the convicted killer of three innocent children. “Why me?” Charley asked.

  “Because I admire you. Because I like you. Because I think I can trust you.”

  “Ah, but can I trust you?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course, you can trust me.”

  “You’ve already lied to me twice,” Charley said.

  “What? No!”

  Charley pulled Jill’s letter out of her purse, began reading. “‘The other prisoners have all turned out to be pretty nice—most of the women are here on drug-related issues—although for a long time, nobody would speak to me. But I’ve tried to be on my best behavior…always being pleasant and helpful, and now almost everyone has more or less come around. One woman…even told me she thinks I have a pretty smile. I think she might have a crush on me…. There are still a few women…who won’t have anything to do with me, but I’m working on them, and I feel their resistance beginning to wane.’” Charley lowered the letter to the table. “You want to explain that?”

  Jill looked confused, glanced pleadingly at her lawyer.

  “I told Miss Webb that prisoners on death row have their own cells, and rarely, if ever, socialize,” he said.

  “Yeah, but there are five of us, and our cells are side by side,” Jill said quickly. “We talk to each other all the time.”

  “I didn’t realize they sentenced women to death for drug-related issues. Even in Florida.” Charley’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “Well, no, of course they don’t. I was referring to the women I met when I first got here. Before I was sentenced. When I was still part of the general prison population.”

  “That wasn’t the impression you gave.”

  “I was just trying to give you an overall picture.”

  “So you lied.”

  “No. It wasn’t a lie. I just took a little ‘poetic license.’ Is that the right term?”

  “Is this also an example of ‘poetic license?’ ‘They keep the men and women segregated, although occasionally we manage to find ways of getting together. Hint: there’s way more than reading going on behind the bookshelves of the prison library.’ Did you think I wouldn’t find out that Pembroke Correctional is for women only?”

  “There are men here,” Jill said defensively. “Maybe not prisoners, but…”

  “Prison officials, guards, workers,” Charley rhymed off. “I know.”

  “I was afraid to be more specific in my letter because…well, you never know who might open it and read it.”

  “And you’re all busy having sex in the prison library you don’t have access to, since you’re only allowed out of your cells to shower and exercise.”

  The faint blush of pink reappeared in Jill’s ashen cheeks. “I had access to the library before I was transferred to death row. I saw things you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Why would I believe anything you tell me?”

  “You’re mad at me,” Jill said, her voice cracking. “I’ve disappointed you.”

  “I don’t care enough about you to be disappointed,” Charley said, knowing she was being cruel and deriving a certain satisfaction from it, although less than she expected.

  “You’re right,” Jill said, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. “I don’t deserve your interest or your time. I’m just a stupid girl who let herself get bullied into doing a bunch of horrible things. I deserve whatever happens to me.”

  “Who bullied you?” Charley asked, the question out of her mouth before she had time to stop it.

  Jill shook her head. “I can’t talk about that now.”

  “When then?”

  “Not till you’ve heard my whole story.”

  “Which Miss Webb has made very clear she isn’t interested in listening to,” Alex said, already half out of his chair.

  “Hold on a minute,” Charley said. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”

  “Are you?” Jill asked hopefully. “Are you interested?”

  Charley had to concede that she was. “But that doesn’t mean I’m on board,” she added quickly.

  “What can I do to convince you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You received my files and the transcripts of the trial?” Alex interjected.

  “Yes. Thank you for sending them over so promptly.”

  “Have you read them?”

  “I glanced through them.”

  “So you haven’t actually read them,” he stated.

  “No. I haven’t actually read them.”

  “So ‘glancing through them’ could be considered as a bit of ‘poetic license?’” he asked, arching one eyebrow.

  Charley found herself smiling. “I’ve been very busy, and your files are very…”

  “Thorough?”

  “Tedious,” Charley corrected.

  Jill laughed out loud. The laugh was big and boisterous, and her whole face was engaged. “She got you there, Alex.”

  “Yes, she certainly did.”

  “That’s how I know you’re the perfect person for this job,” Jill told Charley.

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re not afraid of anyone,” Jill explained. “You’ll stand up to anybody, even Alex.” She laughed again. “And you won’t let me get away with anything either. You’ll ask the tough questions, the right questions. You’ll be able to draw me out, get at the whole truth. And you’ll call me on any inconsistencies, like you did with my letter.”

  Charley was flattered in spite of her desire not to be. She’s pushing all the right buttons, she heard Glen say. Appealing to both your ego and your curiosity. She cleared her throat. “There can’t be any more inconsistencies.”

  “There won’t be. I promise.”

  “What will you do if I say no?” Charley asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where will you go? Who will you contact next?”

  “No one,” Jill insisted. “I told you that in my letter. You’re my first and only choice.”

  “You’re saying you’re prepared to take the story of what really happened to those children to your grave?”

  Jill sank back in her chair. “I hadn’t thought about that. I guess I just assumed you wouldn’t say no.”

  “Charley’s sister is a writer,” Alex said, as Charley’s back stiffened. “Did you know that?”

  “Of course I did. Her sister’s Anne Webb. She’s very famous.”

  “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with her work,” Alex said.

  “He’d never heard of you either,” Jill told Charley, dismissing her lawyer with a wave of her delicate hand. “Anne writes romance novels,” she explained, as if the two women were personally acquainted. “Not very good ones,” she added. “If you don’t mind my saying.”

  “You don’t like them?” Charley asked.

  “Not too much. They’re kind of silly. If you don’t mind my saying,” she said again.

  Charley was almost embarrassed to realize she didn’t mind a bit. “Can’t please everyone,” she said.

  “It’s just that she writes the same book every time out. You know. The names are different, but it’s essentially the same story. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl in the end. Everybody lives happily ever after.”

  “I guess that’s romance for you,” Alex observed.

  “Yeah?” Jill asked. “That’s never been my experience.”

  “Nor mine,” Charley agreed.

  “See. I told you we have a lot in common.”

  “I don’t think I’d go that far,” Charley said icily.

  “I didn’t mean…. Please don’t be insulted�
��. I’m really sorry….”

  “Stop apologizing,” Jill’s lawyer told her sharply. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply….”

  “She knows that,” Alex said more gently. “Don’t you, Miss Webb?”

  “Charley has another sister, Emily,” Jill offered. “She’s a television reporter. And a brother, too. I don’t think you’ve ever said what he does, have you?” she asked Charley.

  That’s because he doesn’t do anything, Charley thought. “He hasn’t quite found his niche yet,” was what she said out loud. “Actually, he used to date your sister. Did you know that?”

  “What?” said Jill.

  “What?” echoed Alex.

  “Amazing, isn’t it? Apparently they met at night school a few years back and went out a couple of times. I take it the two of you never met.”

  “I don’t think so. Pamela never brought her boyfriends home. Not that she had a lot of boyfriends. Wow. Some coincidence, huh?”

  “I’m not sure I believe in coincidence,” Charley stated.

  “Really?” Jill asked, her eyes growing wide with wonder. “You mean you think it’s like fate or something?”

  “I definitely don’t believe in fate.”

  “Really? What do you believe in?”

  “We’re not here to talk about me,” Charley said testily.

  “I believe everything happens for a reason,” Jill told her. “Even coincidences. If that makes any sense.” She giggled. “So, I think this is a sign. Like we were meant to be.”

  Charley hid the impulse to shudder. “Are you religious?” she asked.

  “Well, I was raised a Baptist, and my parents used to drag us to church every Sunday. But it was just so boring. I kind of got turned off. And Ethan, well, he just hated it. As soon as he was big enough to stand up to our father, he quit church altogether. Then I stopped. Only Pamela still goes.” She chuckled. “I remember when we were little, Pammy used to talk about becoming a nun. That would make our father so mad. One time he hit her so hard against the side of her face that she lost partial hearing in one ear. ‘We’re not Catholic. We’re Baptists, goddamn it!’ he shouted,” Jill said, then chuckled again.

  “You find that funny?” Charley asked.

  “Well, not the part where he hit her, of course. I don’t find that part funny. Just the image I have of him in my head, standing there screaming, ‘We’re Baptists, goddamn it!’ That’s kind of funny.”