by Howard Owen
Gillespie.
I tried to say something smart, but talking, as well as breathing, was becoming kind of hard. I felt like somebody had beaten me with a tire iron. Inexplicably, in the middle of all the hubbub, Sarah Goodnight appeared and rode with me to the hospital.
They stationed a cop outside my room and gave me plenty of what would have been, under better circumstances, outstanding party drugs. I slept between nightmares.
Two police officers came around the next day. They haven’t been too happy with me since the unfortunate incident with the late, unlamented David Junior Shiflett. I had the feeling they were dying to make me more complicit than I was in the death of Lewis Witt.
Fortunately for me, another item in my jacket pocket also proved to be too tough to kill. The recorder caught enough of what Lewis said to convince the cops that they didn’t have a prayer of convicting me for anything worth the trouble.
Even the chief himself came by. I’ve known L. D. Jones since high school, and he doesn’t really wish me any permanent harm.
He wanted to know if I still had the manuscript. I told him that I had burned it. He told me he didn’t believe that. I told him to prove it.
“Well,” the chief said, “this is a mess. And now we’ve got the brother to deal with.”
Sometime after dawn the next day, one of the cops on the scene at the Quarry, perhaps trying to figure out how to get that Lexus out of the city’s most exclusive swimming hole, decided to use the facilities.
When he opened the door to the men’s dressing room, there hung Wesley Simpson.
They figured later that he’d been there about two days. He’d tied one end of a rope to a hook overhead, stood up on one of the worn-out benches and tied the other end around his neck. From the scuff marks on the floor below, he almost left himself too much rope to be successful. Almost. I guess close doesn’t count in horseshoes and hangings.
They couldn’t find a suicide note. My guess, which I kept to myself, was that Lewis told him the jig was up, and he couldn’t take it. Being held up as a guy who had committed incest with, or even raped, his baby sister, and then let some black kid take the rap and go to prison for half his life for the crime was, I’m guessing, more than the shaky equilibrium of Wesley Simpson could handle.
Or maybe he just missed Alicia. The photo of the two of them lay at his feet, undisturbed since I’d first seen it.
I’m certain that Lewis knew her brother was dead when she took me for that little joy ride. Maybe she thought it was time to end everything. Maybe she could see that there was no way out of what might have been worse for her than death—shame and dishonor.
I doubt if Carl and her kids would agree with her right now.
There wasn’t any reason to keep Richard Slade in jail, but still they waited five days to release him. It took the cops and prosecutor that long to go through all the stages of grief at having arrested the wrong man twice. They finally arrived at “acceptance” yesterday morning.
By then, I was able to join Kate and Marcus Green for Richard’s second coming-out party.
Slade was the same decent, honest man he’d been for twenty-eight years in the penal system and during his sojourn as a suspected murderer. He thanked God. He thanked the police. He thanked his mother, as Philomena stood beside him and wiped the only tear I’ve ever seen her shed, with the TV cameras recording it all. He thanked Kate and Marcus. He even thanked me. Journalist gets thanked. Stop the presses.
And then he and his mother got into Chanelle’s car and headed east, toward home.
Kate was standing beside me when they disappeared around the corner.
“Well,” she said, “I guess you’ve got your story.”
I told her that, yeah, I had my story. Well, mine and Sarah Goodnight’s. Because she was on night cops, she had been on duty when word came in about an “incident” at the Quarry. She knew where I was going that night, and she had her suspicions that I was somehow in the middle of it all. She drove out there and got what information she could for the Saturday paper. Unnamed victim’s car does a face-first into the water. No motive. No body recovered yet.
But Sarah heard another siren and realized that it was going not to the Quarry but to the hill above it. She got into her car and followed the flashing lights.
I was still there, being packed into the back of the ambulance. When she saw it was me, she ran over. I was afraid she was going to hug my poor, aching ribs, something I definitely didn’t want right then.
Somehow, she got them to let her ride to the hospital with me. I told her everything she needed to know, including the name of the driver of the car now at the bottom of the Quarry, which she had already guessed.
As soon as we reached the hospital, she scurried off and got Baer out of bed to give her a ride to the paper, where she wrote the story nobody else had. Or at least as much of it as she knew. I like Sarah, but not enough to tell her everything.
She did follow-ups the next four days. She got to tell our breathless readers about Wesley Simpson’s suicide, although she had to give that one to the freeloaders via our website.
Yesterday, though, I told her I was taking over. She didn’t argue.
So, I was out there on a February morning as clean and crisp as a good Sauvignon Blanc, with a slight bouquet of impending spring, watching Richard Slade ride off to freedom again.
Even Marcus Green thanked me.
“For what?” I asked him. “Now you don’t have a chance to undress some dumb-ass prosecutor in a courtroom. You’ve missed one of the biggest roles of your acting career.”
“Some things,” he said, “are more important than a big day in court.”
I almost think he meant it.
Kate and I had coffee and bagels afterward at Perly’s. Outside the front door, a panhandler put his hand on my arm. His dark skin seemed to have faded to gray in the stingy winter light. He might have been thirty or sixty. I started to brush him away when he stepped back and said, “Thanks, man. For Richard Slade.”
It made the broken ribs hurt a little less.
I gave him a buck.
Inside, I posted the story between sips.
Finally, I shut the laptop and looked over at Kate.
“Nice job,” she said.
She brought me up to speed on where I am in the quest to get my driver’s license back. It seems the city takes a dim view of people ignoring its one-way signs and abusing its alcohol. This is going to be expensive, Kate assured me. I might be able to drive only on work-related trips, and I would be expected to submit to some bad-driver classes, for which I also would pay dearly. And they probably would expect me to join AA.
I said nothing about that last one. As always, I can quit any time I want. I’ve barely had a drink since Saturday.
She told me not to worry about her costs.
“Pro bono is my middle name,” is the way she put it.
I reached across and put my hand on top of hers, managing to smear my sleeve with cream cheese. She surprised me by drawing her hand back and putting it in her lap. And I thought things were going so well.
“Willie,” she said, and then paused.
Please, please, please don’t say we have to talk, I thought to myself.
“We have to talk.”
And then she told me how she and Greg had indeed reconciled. All was well at Chez Ellis.
“What we did . . .” she began, leaving it there for me to finish.
Don’t worry, I told her, it’ll be our little secret. Ships passing in the night and all that crap.
“No,” she said, “it was more than that. I’m still attracted to you, Willie. But I do love Greg. We want to have a family. You know.”
Yeah, I know. I take a long sip, silently count to three, and make my pitch for the sportsmanship award. This year’s Best Loser trophy goes to Willie Black, who assured his ex-wife that he is happy for her happiness, caring nothing for his own.
And so we parted, promising to sta
y in touch. I told her I would walk down to the paper and write something for tomorrow’s edition. When she said goodbye, I waved without looking back and fumbled for a Camel.
They were expecting me in the newsroom. It was hard not to attract attention, in my mummy garb. I had to stop three women and a couple of guys from hugging my aching ribs. Sally Velez promised to buy me a drink. I told her I’d take a rain check. Enos Jackson looked up from his desk and gave me a thumbs-up. Mal Wheelwright came out of his office to shake my hand and welcome me back.
So maybe, I thought to myself, I am back. Baer came up, almost teary-eyed, and thanked me for saving his job. I’m sure he’d be even more grateful if it had been him instead of Sarah who got to tell our faithful readers about it.
Don’t think a thing about it, I told him. Really. Nothing I wouldn’t have done for any asshole.
“I need to see you for a minute,” Wheelie said as I was exchanging pleasantries with various other staffers.
Almost got away clean.
When I walked into the managing editor’s office, he told me that Grubby wanted to talk to me.
“He said to bring you up there ASAP.”
On the suit floor, Sandy McCool told me she was glad to see me back and in one piece, and that Mr. Grubbs would see us momentarily. Sandy, as usual, gave nothing away.
When we were finally summoned, it wasn’t to Grubby’s office but to a conference room two doors down.
“Oh, man,” Wheelie said when we were directed to the room. “This is where the nut-cutting happens.”
Wheelie obviously had been here before.
He opened the door carefully, as if he thought a tiger might leap out.
Inside the room were James H. Grubbs and his ultimate boss, Giles Whitehurst. Neither of them stood when we entered.
Grubby motioned for us to sit across from him at a table that could have seated twelve. Giles Whitehurst sat at the end, a good ten feet from the rest of us.
“Willie,” Grubby said, “you know Mr. Whitehurst.”
I nodded. It hadn’t been six days since he told me, from the comfort of his Windsor Farms den, what the consequences would be if I persisted in harassing Lewis Witt and her family. And now she was dead, no doubt driven to her demise by my snooping.
“Mr. Black,” Whitehurst said, “you don’t follow directions very well, do you?”
Well, there was nothing to lose by this point. What was he going to do besides fire me? Shoot me with two people watching? Besides, my ribs were hurting and my ass was starting to itch thinking about what this fucker was trying to cover up.
“Not when they involve obstructing justice.”
Wheelie gave me a little sideways kick under the table. I kicked him back, which made my ribs ache more. Grubby just shook his head slightly.
Whitehurst laughed, but nobody else did.
“So you think I’ve been obstructing justice?”
“You did everything you could to keep an innocent man in prison. Yeah, I think that pretty much sums it up. Obstruction of fucking justice.”
Whitehurst obviously wasn’t used to being talked to like this. Me, I just wanted to get it over with. Fire me so I can really tell you what I think of you.
I thought he might just do the deed right there, all neat and clean. But guys like Giles Whitehurst don’t have to do it face-to-face. They can always pay somebody else to stick in the shiv.
“Well,” he said, “I just wanted to see you one more time. We’ve been talking about you. James here will fill you in.”
And then he left, closing the door behind him so softly we barely heard it.
I turned to Grubby.
“James?”
“Shut up. You’re lucky you still have a job.”
“I still have a job?”
“For now. You can thank Mr. Whitehurst for that.”
I didn’t really feel inclined to thanks Giles Whitehurst for much of anything, but paychecks are nice to have. Maybe I’ll send him a card.
As it turns out, our board chairman apparently had more loyalty to his own reputation than he did to the family of Alicia Simpson and Lewis Witt. When he found out exactly what happened twenty-eight years ago at the Philadelphia Quarry and what happened January 22nd at a stoplight on West Cary, I guess he just didn’t care to soil his well-manicured hands with it anymore.
He probably thought that the first thing I’d do, after he fired my ass, would be to take it to our local free weekly, maybe blog about it. Hell, he probably thought I’d peddle it to the Washington Post.
He might have been right.
Grubby told me to start writing “if you can stay sober and healthy long enough to do it. Maybe Baer can help you.”
I told Grubby what he could do with Baer’s help. He told me to watch it. I got up to leave.
“Oh, one more thing,” he said as Wheelie held the door open for me, anxious for both of us to get the hell out of there. “What did you do with the manuscript?”
I told him the same thing I told the cops.
The story was in this morning’s paper. I’ll do something more long-winded on Sunday, the infamous, tree-killing tick-tock, but most of it was laid out for our paying customers today. We didn’t post this one on the website until it landed on people’s doorsteps, a rare victory for print, whose won-lost record lately is in Wile E. Coyote territory. Grubby thought it would increase rack sales to not give this one away online. W touted it in yesterday’s paper (“What really happened to Alicia Simpson?”) and printed a few thousand extra.
Most of the story was there. The arrest and conviction of Richard Slade in 1983. The DNA evidence that proved he didn’t do it. Alicia Simpson’s murder and Slade’s second arrest. Lewis Witt’s half-gainer into the Quarry. Her brother’s suicide. Slade’s release.
I have to admit, the lede wasn’t half-bad:
“On a cold, stark February night, on a bluff overlooking the place where everything began and where her brother’s lifeless body hung still undiscovered, Lewis Simpson Witt explained why she murdered her sister.”
If that doesn’t sell some papers, I’ll kiss your ass.
Sally Velez thought I should delete “lifeless” and “still” and not start with consecutive prepositional phrases. I told her she didn’t have an ounce of poetry in her editor’s soul. She told me most of our readers aren’t really into poetry, but she let it stand.
I didn’t go that deep into the details of the manuscript. There was enough, though, for the average reader to understand what happened and why. I didn’t see any point in quoting long stretches verbatim from Alicia Simpson’s revelation of the shame that had cast a shadow on her life and stolen much of Richard Slade’s. Grubby and Wheelie were both a little put out that I had destroyed the manuscript. But we have Lewis Witt’s final confession on tape. That’s enough.
Lewis Witt’s husband and children have suffered enough. I can imagine the kids all moving away, somewhere where nobody’s ever heard of Alicia Simpson or Richard Slade. I can imagine Carl staying because he’s too old to start over, still going to the club and having drinks with friends, but in a world much diminished, with the whispers swarming around him like gnats he can never swat away.
In a perfect world, I would spare them that grief. In a perfect world, though, a man like Richard Slade would not spend twenty-eight years in prison for something he didn’t do and then face the prospect of going back again. In a perfect world, imperfect men like me wouldn’t have to be in a position to help the world pass judgment.
I am not a cruel man, but I am a purebred, flea-bitten newshound. Sometimes, I wish Whoever amuses Himself by watching us fetch the truth would throw that stick for someone else to chase. Me, I can never resist going after it and then returning for a pat on the head.
About that manuscript. I’m a pack rat. I still have my 1958 Topps baseball card collection. Do you think I’d burn Alicia Simpson’s confession?
Today is family reunion day, sort of.
Ph
ilomena Slade called me late yesterday afternoon at the paper, while I was writing the story. She invited me to come for her son’s second coming-home celebration in less than four weeks.
I asked her if I could bring Peggy. When my drug-addled mother came by to see me on Tuesday, she again expressed a desire to see Momma Phil, whom she hasn’t laid eyes on in decades. I suppose there’s some sense of reconnecting. Maybe she thinks the long-departed Artie Lee’s first cousin can tell her something she doesn’t already know about my late father. Maybe she just wants to go for a ride.
At any rate, Philomena said that would be grand. Something about the way she said “grand” just killed me.
So here we sit, in a living room that’s about four people over what the fire department would recommend. Peggy and Les are here, with the latter looking a little out of place but otherwise happy as if he had good sense. Chanelle has brought Jamal and Jeroy, who are both sitting on their uncle Richard’s lap, giggling as they try to get away. Half the neighborhood drops by, in twos and threes, and there never seem to be fewer than twenty people in that small room. Bump Freeman even stops in, shy and uncertain at the door, and is greeted as warmly as a brother.
Abe drove, with Andi in the front seat, and Peggy, Les and me in the back. Abe’s sitting on a chair that’s about three sizes too small and might collapse if he eats one more drumstick, talking with Richard about the good ol’ days in stir, I suppose.
Andi has never met this side of the family before. She’s in a long conversation with Chanelle. I think they’re talking about hair. Philomena and Peggy act as if they’re just picking up on a conversation they abandoned a few minutes ago instead of nearly half a century back. Momma Phil has a photo album out, and Peggy, barely stoned, is staring at it intently, reaching up once or twice to wipe her eyes.
My ribs are aching a little. Andi’s probably going to have to punt this semester, moving her theoretical graduation farther into the future. The paper’s announced that it’s going to “give” the staff two “furlough” days a month, for which we won’t get paid but probably will still wind up working, because somebody’s got to do it.