Suitable for Framing

by Edna Buchanan

  “What if I took a polygraph first?”

  “They’re not admissible in court.”

  “I’m willing to sign a waiver agreeing to have the results admitted into evidence. Pass or fail. The examiner of their choice. They can choose.”

  “No way. Britt, this is unrealistic. The machine is only as good as the operator.”

  “I’ve been framed, J.T. It’s the only way. I’m gonna lose this or I’m gonna win it. I’m the victim here, this is the perfect frame, and my way is the only way to prove it. You have to persuade the cops, the prosecutor, and the judge to agree to this.”

  Shaking his head, he waved his arms, wincing, resisting, refusing.

  “Hear me out.” I opened my notebook and filled him in on everything.

  He sat silent for a few moments after I finished my recitation.

  “It would be very risky. It’s bizarre,” he finally said. “I want to do it.”

  “I’d have to be able to convince the prosecutor that there’s more to this case than meets the eye.”

  “There is. You can do it.”

  “It’s a major gamble. It’s dangerous.”

  “It’s my life.”

  His expression still doubtful, he called the prosecutor to arrange a meeting with the detectives and the judge.

  That night I used Trish’s handy-dandy personal police roster and called Tully Snow at home. “I can’t talk to you, Britt,” he said, and hung up.

  I dialed back. He hung up again.

  McDonald called to tell me the latest on FMJ. Detectives had paid a call on his mother, just to touch base. Nobody home, door unlocked. Mother and daughter gone. They seemed to have taken nothing, not even their toothbrushes. Neighbors had seen them with a baby and a diaper bag, wrestling a suspiciously heavy suitcase into a taxicab twenty-four hours earlier.

  “You think they took off with FMJ and the money?”

  “He’s not the sharing type, and he’s still around. He could have bought a lot of distance with that kind of cash.”

  “You think they ripped him off?”

  “Sounds like. The neighbors say he showed up last night screaming and cursing. Tossed the place. Every drawer upended, every closet ripped apart.”

  “Why didn’t they call?”

  “They’re all afraid of him. But maybe his luck is finally running out.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “How does Chinese sound to you? A little shrimp-fried rice. Moo Goo Gai Pan. Personal delivery, in about an hour?”

  “Sounds great to me,” I said. “Maybe you could just leave it outside the door. Much as I want to see you, I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.”

  He sighed. “I heard what you’ve offered to do,” he said. “It’s crazy, but I think they’re going to go for it.”

  Yes! I thought.

  “Wish we could be together tonight.”

  “So do I,” I said. “There will be plenty of other nights, if this works.”

  He sounded wistful. So did I.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Five pens traced my past, present, and future in shades of red, black, green, and purple. The machine, a Stoelting Ultrascribe, was state-of-the-art. The operator, Ted Gentry, a rugged former cop, went into business for himself after surviving a near-fatal shooting.

  I was wired.

  Fingertip attachments were fastened to my ring and forefingers to measure my galvanic skin reflexes. “Your skin is an organ,” Gentry explained. “When faced with threatening situations the skin constricts, forcing moisture out of your fingertips and forehead.”

  I wondered if that was what made Billy the Bondsman sweat so much. Thoughts of his clients skipping town probably had his skin in a constant state of galvanic reflex.

  Corrugated tubes had been molded around my upper chest and stomach, measuring muscle constrictions and changes in respiration. There was a blood-pressure cuff on my arm.

  Gentry had arrived at the state attorney’s office with his truth machine in a Samsonite case, then set it up in a room designed for departmental examiners and equipped with videotape and camera facilities.

  The questions had been reviewed earlier by the detectives, prosecutor Audra Evans, and J.T., who all agreed they were comfortable with them; the questions were fair and covered everything.

  This was it. Do or die. I sat facing away from the moving pens that recorded my responses. That enables one to focus on the questions instead of watching what the pens are doing.

  Lottie had been more nervous than I was that morning. “Lordy, I could never take one-a those thangs. I can’t even answer the simplest question. For instance, they would start out by asking if Lottie Dane is my name. And I would start to thinking, Well, do they mean my maiden name? My married name? What about my nickname? Lottie is short for Carlotta. So if I say yes and don’t tell ’em about Carlotta, is that a lie? If I don’t mention my middle name, Samantha, after my mother’s first cousin, will that show up as a lie? My daddy always said I was supposed to be a boy named Clifford after his grand-daddy. What the hell is my name? Arrrgh. I would flunk right then and there, and that’s only the first question.”

  “Shut up, Lottie!” I snapped at her. “Don’t tell me that. Not today. If something goes wrong and I don’t pass, they’re gonna grab a rope and find a tree.”

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “But it’s like a choice between shit and shit.”

  “It’s the only way. Don’t make me crazy now.”

  It didn’t help that the first question Gentry asked was my name. I put Lottie out of my mind and answered.

  He ran five charts, repeating the same questions over and over.

  The homicide detectives, Audra Evans, and J.T. were watching from another room, via video.

  Evans and J.T. walked in as Gentry removed the attachments. The detectives straggled behind.

  I looked expectantly at Gentry. “Do you have to interpret the charts? When can we hear the results?”

  “Right now.” He faced the lawyers and the two detectives. “No deception indicated to any of the relevant test questions. In my opinion, she’s truthful.”

  “Flying colors!” was how J.T. put it. My elation was tempered by the fact that the toughest task still lay ahead. I was eager to get it over with and seize-back my life.

  They debated the latest device, in the form of an innocent-looking beeper, versus the traditional wire. Since I wasn’t working, a beeper might seem suspicious. A woman investigator from the state attorney’s office fitted me with the wire. The battery pack was in the small of my back, securely taped in place; the wire ran around my waist up and under my bra; the tiny microphone was positioned between my breasts. Wired for the second time that day.

  “Try to get him to turn off any radio or TV and stay away from fluorescent lights,” she said. “Try not to sweat. If it gets wet it could short-circuit and give you a bad burn.”

  Oh, swell, I thought. Will he become suspicious if my bra begins to smolder?

  Ojeda and Simmons, who still appeared dubious, J.T., and two state attorneys’ investigators were coming along.

  I was nervous. “He’s a smart cop,” I said. “Park as far down the street as you can. Around the block if possible. We don’t want to tip him off. If things sound like they’re going bad, I can take care of myself. Don’t come charging in like gangbusters unless he’s already made incriminating statements.”

  We tested the equipment; then I drove my T-Bird to Tully Snow’s home in Cutler Ridge. The others trailed in a unmarked van from which they would monitor and record our conversation.

  Instead of the fiery dusks of summer, the November sun was a sinking disk of burnished gold. My future was up to me now. Guilty cops have a tendency to break, a compulsion to confess. I had seen that many times over the years. I think it is because most became cops in order to do the right thing. It’s in their nature. Then women, whiskey, or money brings the
m down. Once they weaken, the next time is always easier.

  I was relieved to see that he was home, or someone was. A light was on inside. The house was green and white, a rambling ranch style with huge shade trees hugging the gravel driveway. A freestanding carport nearly obscured a toolshed out back.

  I pulled right up into the drive.

  I rang the doorbell and listened to the three-toned chime inside the quiet house.

  He opened the door wearing jeans and an unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt over a T-shirt.

  “We need to talk, Tully, about our futures.”

  His eyes swept the driveway and the street behind me.

  “How’d you get my address?”

  “Remember when Lynette was sick? We did an interview for a story about the fund-raisers.”

  The past and what it had meant to him took him by surprise.

  “Those were tough times,” he said slowly.

  “Can I come in? We need to talk.”

  “Just for a minute,” he said, stepping back from the door. “I’m on my way out, have to run an errand.”

  As I entered, he stepped out and looked up and down the street. I hoped he saw nothing suspicious.

  I don’t understand Miamians who decorate their homes like ski lodges with dark furniture and fabrics that make you want to huddle around a fireplace in ski boots and sweaters. The red velvet sofa was trimmed with leather and mahogany.

  We seemed to be alone. I was happy to see that he did not appear to be wearing his gun.

  “Where are Evie and the kids? They must be almost grown by now.”

  “She’s been staying with her mother lately. The kids are back and forth.” His hair was beginning to gray at the temples, and he looked slightly out of shape. But I didn’t have to wonder what Trish saw in him. She saw information, news tips, the inside track to breaking stories.

  “You didn’t come to see them,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t. I came to see you.” I sat down, without being asked, on a dark armchair. “I did nothing wrong and you know it. You framed me.”

  “What the hell you talking about, woman?” His face reflected surprise and indignation. His eyes did not.

  “Forget the performance and sit down. This is me and you. Britt to Tully. You better hire yourself a lawyer and go down to talk to the state attorney.”

  He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the mantel and lit one. His hands were shaking. “You’ve got the wrong man. You must be crazy. You’ve known me for years.”

  “You framed me. Not only do I know it, but the prosecutor knows it now, as well as the judge. I passed a polygraph today and proved what you and I already knew—that I didn’t do it.”

  “They ain’t worth shit in court.”

  “Right. And I might go to jail,” I said brazenly, “but I didn’t do it and I’ll get out. I may do a year, a year and a half, if my lawyer doesn’t win an acquittal in the first go-round. But I’m gonna get out. You’re not.

  “When you go, you’ll fry because they’ll know you set me up. Let me take the fall for you, and the state will crucify you in court. You’re the man who sits in judgment of other police officers and public officials.”

  “You’re implying that I had something to do with the victim?”

  “I don’t have to. DNA testing will do that for me.”

  “They’ve got nothing to test, from what I hear.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You were smart enough to use a condom before you killed her. But what about the abortion? You knew she had an abortion last month.”

  “No, I didn’t know the girl. I wasn’t aware.” The glitter in his eyes told me he did.

  “Did you know that they retain specimens from each aborted fetus? Tissue is saved for three months. They keep slides of the products of conception forever.”

  “If they run DNA, they need something to match it to,” he said. “A man in that situation would be crazy to give up a sample of his body fluids.”

  “And there’s not enough probable cause, as yet, for a judge to issue an order that you do so,” I agreed. “But in this case that won’t be necessary.”

  He cocked his head to one side and looked arrogant, puffed on his cigarette, and waited, smoke veiling the expression in his eyes.

  “The department will ask for a sample. Eventually they’ll get it. Whether you agree or not. Remember your annual police physical? You’ve taken one every year now for eighteen years. It’s mandatory. They take your blood and your urine. Of course they could take it even sooner, with the department’s random drug testing.”

  His posture began to soften slightly.

  “You could always quit the job,” I said, “but that would give a judge probable cause to sign a search warrant to take your bodily fluids.”

  I wondered how the guys in the van were enjoying my monologue.

  I sighed, speaking more softly. “I always admired you, Tully. I thought you were a good cop. What the hell happened?”

  Here I was, I thought, doing bad-cop good-cop all by myself.

  I leaned forward, affecting the expression of genuine concern that I had learned the hard way from Simmons.

  “You’d better go in,” I said, “and try to do the best you can for yourself. You’ve dealt with these cases for years. You above all people should know you’re dead. You’re caught cold. Cut the best deal you can.”

  He sighed heavily, put out his cigarette, and put his head in his hands.

  “The bitch,” he said. “I was a good cop. I am a good cop. After Lynette died, things were never the same at home. I stumbled, in a bad moment. I succumbed to human weakness which I now understand.”

  “What happened?” I whispered. “How did you meet her?”

  “I was at a low point. Things weren’t going right at home. Felt sorry for myself. Met her one night in a bar over on the Beach. We had a few drinks, talked. She was good-looking, friendly. I mentioned losing Lynette and she said she had a brother who died. She understood. If I hadn’t been drinking…”

  He reached for a cigarette and lit another.

  “It developed into something more serious. A guy like me. A beautiful young girl like her. It had been a long time … She seemed so innocent.” He chewed a bit of tobacco off his lip. “She wasn’t.”

  He glanced up at me as if he thought I would be surprised at that news.

  “I was happy for her when she got the job she wanted. But she was obsessed. She wanted more and more. What I was doing wasn’t ethical. I was putting my job in jeopardy. But she wouldn’t let up. Nothing was ever enough. I gave her the Linwood story. Thought that would put her in solid with the editors at your place. But she always wanted more. She wanted to beat you, Britt, she wanted to beat the world. She was starting to scare me. A sick chick. All I wanted by then was to try to work things out with Evie, get her and the kids back, be a family again. Then she got pregnant. Used the abortion to make me feel more guilty.

  “I couldn’t break away. She threatened my job, she threatened to go to my wife. She was hysterical, mad as hell at you that day. I caught the tail end of it, coming into the office; saw you take a swing at her—something I’d honestly been wanting to do. Walked right on by. By the time I got upstairs, she was on the phone, screaming at me to meet her. I went over there.

  “Much as I hated her at that point, the woman had a way about her. She could make you melt. God, Britt, she wanted you dead.” He smiled wryly. “You oughta be glad I did you the favor.”

  “I didn’t see it that way when I was sitting in jail.”

  “You know I never meant for any of it to happen. She kept goading and threatening. I just couldn’t take any more and things got out of hand. After I realized she was dead, I remembered that everybody had seen you two smacking each other around outside the station. It occurred to me that you were suitable for framing, the most likely suspect. Nothing personal, Britt. I was just trying to save my own ass. She was crazy
, you know.”

  “She was,” I said. “You don’t know the half of it, Tully.”

  “Funny thing is,” he said, staring past me, “for years on my job I never could understand those other people, how they got themselves in trouble the way they did. I held them in contempt. But we’re all human beings and have frailties. All of us.”

  “You’re right, Tully. We all do.”

  “I guess I better call the FOP attorney,” he said. He stood up slowly, as though he ached all over. “I don’t know if Evie will stand by me. I don’t deserve it if she does.”

  “I’m betting that she will.”

  I walked out into the clear night air, embarrassed that the sounds of my weeping were recorded true and clear on the tape that would send Tully Snow to jail.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The cops picked up FMJ’s mother, sister, and baby in Boston, with $750,000 in cash. They told investigators that FMJ brought it home to stash in his room while his mother was away at work. He swore his sister to secrecy. When her mother came home, she tattled. They found it and were gone.

  The man with the Mercedes put in a claim for the money. The cops told him they would discuss it only in the presence of IRS agents. They haven’t heard from him since. The cops earmarked the windfall to underwrite TRAP, the new undercover Tourist Robbery Abatement Patrol. A lawyer, however, has filed a claim in behalf of FMJ’s mother, who says her earlier statement was a mistake: the stash was really her savings, from tips.

  I have been nominated for the Green Eyeshade Award from the Southern Society of Professional Journalists, for deadline reporting on the fatal shooting of Officer Dana McCoy. Winners will be announced next month.

  My first story, my first day back at work, was the homecoming of Jennifer Carey. She came home in a wheelchair, her hair almost grown back from the surgery for her head injuries. She recognized her baby daughter and cried tears of joy as little Eileen was placed in her arms and her husband pushed them into their living room.