The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  Jack was on his feet. "We'd better cut this short, Duncan."

  Barstow stepped in front of Diedre and reluctantly ascended the platform. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, but I got no choice."

  Duncan stared at him, a look of confusion on his face. "Just a minute, folks," he said with a forced laugh. "It seems our sheriff has some urgent business with me."

  Barstow pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and frowned at it. "Duncan McAlister and Jackson Underwood, I have warrants for your arrest on the charges of conspiracy to cover up a crime, conspiracy to commit arson, attempted murder, and, in your case, Mr. McAlister, aggravated child molestation." He tried to speak quietly, but the words caught in the microphone and floated clearly out across the square. For a minute no one moved; no one even breathed. Then, as if on cue, cameras began clicking and the television crew started running, shouldering through the crowd for a better vantage point.

  Diedre watched as her father's face went white as paper. "Is this some kind of joke?" he spluttered. "It's all a mistake—it's some kind of stupid mistake."

  Barstow stuffed the paper back into his pocket and retrieved two pair of handcuffs from his belt, one of which he tossed in the direction of his deputy, who stood beside Jack with one hand gripping his upper arm.

  "I'm sorry, sir, it's no mistake." He pulled Duncan's hands behind him and secured the cuffs. "You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed—"

  "I know my rights, you fool!" Duncan yelled, the veins in his neck bulging out like knotted ropes. "I got you that badge! You never would have been elected without my support, and I demand—"

  He stopped suddenly, and the only sound to be heard was the whirring of video cameras and the popping of flashbulbs. His eyes locked on Amber, who now stood beside Diedre with an arm around her shoulder.

  "You!" His voice, when it came, was a choked, strangled sound.

  Diedre turned her head and looked at Amber. The expression on her face was not one of satisfaction, as Diedre might have expected, but one of unutterable sorrow. "Yes, Daddy," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Me."

  "Why?" he croaked. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because it's time," she said resolutely. "Time for the truth."

  The reporters had honed in like heat-seeking missiles, and now crowded around Diedre and Amber. "What truth is that?" a reporter from the Asheville television station asked, thrusting a microphone toward Amber. "And what is your connection with the mayor of Heartspring?"

  Amber's eyes followed the two handcuffed men as the sheriff led them off to the waiting patrol cars. "Duncan McAlister was my father," she said quietly. "Once, a long, long time ago."

  39

  The People's Court

  Duncan McAlister paced back and forth across Jack Underwood's living room, glancing at the headlines of the local newspapers scattered about and watching the evening news with a sinking feeling in his gut. He might be out on bail, but being confined to this house wasn't much better than being behind bars. Still, he wasn't about to show his face in public.

  Because of the high-profile nature of the case, the indictment had come speedily, and the trial was set to begin exactly five weeks later in Superior Court in Asheville. Meanwhile, the court of public opinion had already rendered its decision. The case was tried on the six o'clock news every night, and reprised at eleven. Newspapers were swept up in the feeding frenzy—even one of the national tabloids had a small story on him, calling them "Mayor Duncan Molester and his attorney Jack Underbelly." Still photos and ten-second film loops showed the Mayor of Heartspring being carted away in handcuffs.

  Long before the first gavel fell, Duncan McAlister and Jackson Underwood were declared guilty on all counts.

  It was just the kind of story that roused people's passions and incited their righteous indignation: an honored public figure with his entrails exposed. Hiring a thug to go after his own daughter. Conspiring with his lawyer to conceal a crime. Abuse of power. Betraying the people's trust.

  And the charge that raised the loudest outcry was the one that had been thrown out in the initial indictment: aggravated child molestation.

  The judge—much to Duncan's dismay, a woman—didn't seem to have much doubt that he had, indeed, molested his older daughter, and that his younger daughter, Diedre, was the fruit of that abominable act. But the statute of limitations had expired, and she had to adhere to the letter of the law. The rape charge was thrown out; on the other charges he and Jack were going to trial.

  In the end, it didn't matter much whether or not Duncan was brought to trial on the rape. The damage had been done—the truth had already gotten out. Less than thirty-six hours after his arrest, Oliver Ferrell called for a vote at a hastily convened Town Council meeting, and McAlister's position as mayor of Heartspring was abruptly terminated.

  So much for being innocent until proven guilty, Duncan thought.

  Even after they had made bail, Duncan stayed sequestered in Jack's house. On the rare occasions when he did go out, no one in town would speak to him, except for a few who muttered insults whenever he got within earshot. Former supporters turned away without a word; women clutched their children protectively when he walked by. The bas-relief plaque that was supposed to have been installed at the courthouse door had mysteriously disappeared, and his office—what was left of it after the authorities had taken his computers and files—had been vandalized.

  Duncan began to panic.

  Jack continued to tell him that he had to remain calm, to exude an attitude of innocence, to stay above it all. But Jack's office had been taken apart piece by piece as well, and there was enough information in those files to send them both to jail for the rest of their lives.

  Their attorney was an old pal of Jack's from law school, now practicing in L.A. Brash, tenacious, and notorious for winning acquittals for guilty clients, T. J . O'Malley had been a middleweight Golden Gloves champion in his youth and had been dubbed by the media as "Boxer." O'Malley liked the nickname; he claimed it was a tribute to his ability to deliver a one-two punch on cross-examination. In truth, it was a reference to his annoying habit of uttering Muhammad Ali-type predictions about the outcome of his trials. Ali might have been O'Malley's hero, but instead of "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee," O'Malley came up with lines like, "Any shadow of doubt, and my client gets out."

  According to Jack, Boxer O'Malley also had a ruthless taste for bloodletting and a reputation for fancy courtroom footwork. But Duncan feared that even "the greatest" couldn't dance around the evidence forever.

  Diedre sat on Carlene's couch, wedged in on both sides by the cats, Calvin and Hobbes. Hobbes, the gray one, should have been called Harley—he weighed about twenty pounds, and his constant purr mimicked the rumble of a large motorcycle. Sugarbear, jealous of the cats' proximity to her human, kept bringing a tug toy for Diedre to throw for her and pawed impatiently at Diedre's legs when she didn't pay enough attention.

  "Carlene," Diedre asked for the third time when her friend passed through the room, "are you sure you're okay with us staying here? Amber and I could get a hotel; it's a terrible imposition."

  "Nonsense." Carlene shook her head. "The guest room would just sit here empty, and besides, I like having the company. Now, if you start demanding that I get up and cook waffles and eggs every morning—"

  Diedre raised one eyebrow. "I know, this is a B no B—Bed, no Breakfast."

  "You got it." She glanced at the clock on the VCR. "Want to go out for dinner tonight?"

  "Amber's taking a nap. I'll check with her when she gets up, but probably yes. As soon as the news is over. It's nearly six."

  Diedre picked up the remote and clicked on the local news. It barely mattered what channel she chose; everybody was carrying the story. The whole world, it seemed, now knew that her father was a rapist—
albeit an unconvicted one—and that she was the product of that abuse. The list of his other crimes, the ones he had actually been indicted for, took a backseat to sensationalism when the mayor of the Most Desirable Small City in the Carolinas was confronted with his long-lost elder daughter and accused of forcibly fathering the younger one.

  Watching the news was rather like witnessing a head-on collision—she knew she shouldn't look, but she couldn't seem to help herself. And there she was again, standing with Amber, watching as the sheriff led their father away in handcuffs.

  Diedre couldn't blame the reporters. It was news, and by television standards it was a ratings gold mine. Still, every time she saw it, her stomach clenched into knots and a black hole opened up inside her, threatening to swallow what was left of her soul.

  She and Amber talked about it incessantly, late into the night as they lay sleepless in Carlene's guest room. The judge had cleared the court calendar and set a quick trial date, but the trial itself could go on for months. Every day Diedre felt more drained, more depressed. Amber insisted it was all part of the process, coming to grips with a terrible truth such as this one, but her assurances didn't help much.

  Elise Glass had told them that the prosecution's chances of winning were good. In exchange for a reduced sentence, Shiv Willis would testify. So would Amber. And even though the rape charge was not on the table and any testimony about it would be excluded, jury members would nevertheless look at Amber and know what had been done to her. They would think of their own preteen daughters and granddaughters. They would hear how Duncan McAlister and his lawyer had conspired to terrorize Amber—how they had falsified documents and taken her newborn child from her. How they had committed her to a mental hospital and threatened her if she ever talked. How she had almost been killed in the fire that was designed to ensure her silence.

  It would all come out as part of the public record. But even if her father were eventually convicted and sent to jail, even if she had that closure, it wouldn't be over. Not for Diedre.

  She had gone looking for the truth—about her sister, her father, herself. And she had found it.

  But how in God's name could she ever learn to live with it?

  40

  A Question of Guilt

  The conference room, located a few doors down the hall from the D.A.'s office, seemed stiflingly hot. The ceiling fan overhead wasn't moving; somewhere above him, Duncan could hear the droning buzz of a fly bouncing off the wall.

  The place obviously doubled as a library; except for an open rectangle to accommodate the single door, all four walls, from floor to ceiling, were lined with shelves holding ponderous legal tomes. But the rectangular, windowless room—Duncan estimated it at twelve-by-fourteen feet, tops—wasn't nearly large enough. There was barely enough space to pull out a chair and sit at the table without bumping into the bookshelves behind. Every time he moved the slightest bit, he knocked into something. He was beginning to feel as if the walls were closing in on him.

  "Where is she?" Duncan ground his teeth and drummed his fingers on the scarred wooden tabletop.

  The "she" in question was the assistant D.A., a woman named Elise Glass, who was obviously trying to make it in a man's world because she couldn't get a man. A homely, flat-faced woman with dishwater hair and, in Duncan's estimation, barely above average intelligence, Glass had telephoned Boxer O'Malley yesterday afternoon and proposed a meeting, the subject of which she had refused to reveal. O'Malley was pretty sure she wanted to cut a deal, since she obviously—in O'Malley's words—"didn't have squat" in the way of evidence.

  But if Elise Glass were running scared, her actions this morning certainly didn't indicate it. "She called this meeting, and so far she's kept us waiting—" he glanced at his gold wrist watch, "twenty-five minutes. Doesn't she know that I'm—"

  Duncan was about to say, that I'm an important elected official with a town to run, but he stopped himself. The fact was, he no longer held public office, no longer had urgent business demanding his attention, no longer could claim anything, in fact, of what had once been his life.

  Jack put a hand on his arm. "Take it easy, pal. Calm down. You know the drill. She calls us here, keeps us on ice, tries to psych us out. It's a power play."

  Duncan stared at Jack. Since when had his attorney started talking like a B-grade private detective in the movies?

  "Don't tell me to take it easy!" Duncan shot back. "Don't tell me to calm down!" He rolled his chair back from the table and hit the bookcase so hard that the volumes above him shifted and threatened to come down on his head. He jerked at his collar, dislodging the top button, and loosened his tie. "It's sweltering in here."

  Jack dragged a sweating pitcher of water from the center of the table and poured a glass full. "Look, Duncan," he said, cutting a glance at O'Malley, who sat at the far end of the table, "this is exactly what they want. They want us to be nervous, to get rattled. But we've got nothing to be rattled about. The only proof they have hinges on CeCe's testimony about the molestation. And that charge has already been thrown out." He pushed the water in Duncan's direction. "Take a deep breath,now, and when the D.A. gets here, try to keep your mouth shut and let Boxer do the talking."

  Duncan nodded, drained the glass, and poured another. "Okay. I'm— I'm all right." He took a few short, shallow breaths. But he wasn't all right. He felt as if a million tiny spiders were running up and down along his nerve endings. The room was getting smaller by the minute. And then, just as he feared he might start climbing the walls, the door opened.

  Duncan looked up. Elise Glass entered, carrying a cardboard file box and wearing an ill-fitting navy pantsuit. Two other figures followed close on her heels and seated themselves on the opposite side of the table. Diedre and . . .

  Her.

  Duncan felt his insides lurch. He had seen her in the square, on the morning of his arrest, but except for that brief glimpse, he hadn't laid eyes on his elder daughter for more than twenty years.

  He remembered it as if it were yesterday—the wild, disbelieving look she gave him, the fear in her eyes, the way her dark, wavy hair tumbled around her face. She had been—what? Fifteen, sixteen? Barely grown, still with that gangly, coltish appearance.

  But old enough. Old enough to give him what he needed. Old enough to bear a child. Old enough to know to keep her mouth shut.

  He glanced in her direction again. She wasn't a child any longer. She was a woman, older than Cecilia had been when it first happened. She could have been Cecilia, for that matter, sitting there with her hands folded in her lap, avoiding his gaze. The wife who had withdrawn from him, despised him. The wife who told him she hated what he had become.

  It was her fault. Everything was her fault. . .

  Amber hadn't been in a room with her father for more than two decades, and seeing him now, up close, shook her to the core. What would he do? What would he say?

  She could feel his eyes on her, scrutinizing her; she reached to straighten her collar. But her hands, still bandaged, moved clumsily, and she dropped them back into her lap.

  She ventured a glance at him out of the corner of her eyes. He was older, beefier, his face red, his eyes bloodshot. A thin sheen of sweat shone on his upper lip, and his tie had been loosened and lay crookedly below his Adam's apple. Not the man she remembered as being a meticulous dresser, scrupulous about his appearance.

  With Daddy, it had always been about appearances. Keeping up a good front, making other people believe you were smarter or richer or more savvy than you really were. He had always been smooth; she'd give him that much. He had pulled himself out of that swamp of poverty and disgrace into which he had been born by sheer force of personality and an iron will. Even his marriage to her mother, Amber believed, had been a calculated act designed to improve his image.

  And it had worked. He had made it—until now.

  Diedre, Amber noticed, had not so much as glanced at him since they entered the room. Now she nudged Amber and whispered, "
Look at him. He looks awful."

  "I thought so, too. But I haven't seen him in twenty years."

  Diedre shook her head. "Something in his eyes. He was always so composed, so in control. Now he looks like he's coming apart at the seams."

  The defense attorney had begun speaking, and they fell silent. "Well, Ms. Glass," he said, emphasizing the Ms., "we're all assembled, as requested. This is your meeting. I'm listening."

  Elise Glass reached into her box and removed several thick file folders, clapping them down on the table. "These are records from the office of your client, Mr. Underwood. After a thorough investigation, aided by a former legal assistant of Mr. Underwood's, we have uncovered a trail of evidence that points to your clients' collusion in falsifying legal documents—namely, the birth certificate of Diedre Chaney McAlister. We also have information on a cash payment made to one Silas B. Willis, a convicted felon known as Shiv, for various criminal acts."

  "Pamela Langley?" Jack burst out. "Pamela helped you? I'll kill her, I swear—"

  "If I were you, Mr. O'Malley, I would advise my client not to further incriminate himself."

  "Shut up, Jack," O'Malley growled.

  But Jack wouldn't shut up. "It's a bluff, Boxer," he insisted. "I fired Pamela Langley, so she'll say whatever they want her to say. They can't prove a thing without Shiv's testimony, and they can't find him."

  "Mr. Willis is in custody even as we speak," Elise corrected smoothly. "He has agreed to testify, and he'll say enough to put your clients away for, oh, at least seven to ten. On each count." She smiled briefly. "An aggravated child molestation conviction would have gotten Mr. McAlister thirty, but by the time we're done, it'll add up to about the same."

  Amber watched as her father's face went an odd shade of gray. He tugged at the knot of his tie and exhaled heavily.

  "If you're so certain of your case," O'Malley said, "why are we here?"

  Elise's gaze flitted to Amber and Diedre, then back to the defense attorney. "Mr. McAlister's daughters have endured a great deal of suffering at his hands—particularly Amber Chaney, the elder daughter. They need closure and resolution. They don't need to be further abused by the trauma of a trial. Let's save the state the cost—"