The Innocence Game
Page 21
“Matthew’s body was swollen when they pulled him out of the lake. No one ever bothered to check his legs. Why would they when everyone thought he’d drowned?”
I pulled out the X-rays and held them in my lap. Splintered pieces of bone. The whites of Matthew’s eyes. High, thin screams.
“I remember when the first leg went,” I said. Sarah made a small sound in her throat. “My stepfather acted like he’d broken his favorite toy. And there was no putting it back together. So he broke the other one.” I snapped my fingers. “Just like that.
“He kept a small launch in a slip down at the lake. Rolled Matthew up in a carpet and hauled him out in that. Then he threw him overboard and watched him drown.” I slipped the X-rays back into their sleeve and gave Sarah a wintry grin. “You wonder what I was doing tonight? I was hunting him. Before he hurt anyone else.”
She was close now. Close enough that I could smell her skin. Feel her breath on my face. I took out my mother’s letter and placed it on top of Matthew’s X-rays. “My mom left me this when she passed.”
Sarah unfolded the letter and ran her eyes over it. I kept talking.
“She made sure I knew Cooper was getting out of jail. Told me I needed to do something. She hadn’t done a damn thing to protect her kids, but now I needed to do something.”
Sarah glanced up from her reading, but I waved her on.
“She told me about Skylar Wingate and the others. About the hole in the cellar where Cooper kept his trophies. Rings. Wallets. Clippings of hair. The piece of Skylar’s shirt.”
“So it was you who sent the shirt to Jake?”
“Z’s seminar had access to the old case files. I thought if I got you all interested, we might stumble on a lead, something that might help me find him.”
“Instead, we found the Needle Squad.”
“I never meant for you to get hurt, Sarah. You or Jake.”
She flinched once, then folded up the letter and returned it to its envelope. “What about tonight?”
“What about it?”
“What did you have planned?”
I took a long, cool breath and glanced across the room, at the man strapped to the table. “I wanted to kill him. Until there wasn’t any killing left.”
“It’s wrong, Ian.”
“You don’t know what I know. You don’t hear what I hear.”
“He’ll pay for what he did in a court of law.”
“And you think that’s enough?”
“It has to be. Otherwise, he’s already won.”
There was a pause, then a footfall. Michael Kelly stepped into a pool of pale yellow light. I turned back to Sarah. “Your guardian angel?”
Her fingers grazed my cheek. “Something like that.”
I climbed to my feet and walked toward my stepfather. His eyes tracked mine. Christened me a coward. Once a coward, always one. I brushed past the table and headed for the stairs, Kelly at my side. As we walked, his hand fell over the black handle and cracked it hard, cranking the pulleys tight, and snapping Edward Cooper’s tibia just below the knee. I heard the high-pitched keen through the gag. Kelly gripped my arm with his other hand and kept me moving toward the stairs. When we got to the top, he pushed me through the door and closed it behind me.
50
My stepfather got his day in court. Six life sentences, to be served consecutively, with no chance of parole. He’d die in a hundred-year-old maximum-security prison, a half hour from the Illinois-Missouri state line. I saw him for what I hoped was the last time at his sentencing. He kept his head down for most of the hearing and declined to speak. When it was finished, he stood, right leg in a soft splint, and waited for the deputies to hook him up. As they worked on his chains, he took a look around the courtroom. I wanted to walk away, but stayed where I was. He saw me, moved past, then came back. His face was shrunken and pitted; his hair slicked back to a dull sheen. He mouthed some words, but I couldn’t make them out. Then he held out his shackles. I took a look at the thick hands, wrists, arms, then up into the eyes that had terrified me as a child. I wanted to see a monster, but all I saw was an old man. I wanted to feel anger, but all I felt was sadness. Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe I was done.
I met her at Mustard’s Last Stand. We ordered a basket of fries and sat outside.
“How was it?” she said.
“It was. He got his time and now he’s gone.”
“Are you glad you went?”
“I guess so. It feels like something. A passage, maybe, of some sort.”
“Things will get better.”
“I know.”
Sarah’s hand found mine, and our fingers wove themselves together. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really. Not today.” A breeze passed between us, and we both felt the chill. I glanced at my watch. “What time’s your flight?”
“Three hours.”
“I’ve never been out there,” I said, “but I bet you’ll like it.”
“Berkeley’s got a great program in communications. And San Francisco’s close.”
“Yeah.”
She tipped her head and caught my eyes. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Ian?”
“I’m gonna miss you.” The words felt naked, vulnerable.
“You’ll visit.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” She smiled. I laughed. And life moved a little. But not very far.
“I’ll be back in December,” she said.
“Mistake.”
“We already talked about this. And I’ve decided.”
When Marty Coursey broke into Sarah’s apartment, he had an accomplice. Another cop who made the mistake of leaving a clean thumbprint on a mirror in Sarah’s bedroom. Rodriguez told her they could take care of the guy. Make it hurt without him ever seeing the inside of a courtroom. But Sarah wanted her own day in court. And wasn’t going to be deterred.
“Do you know why, Ian?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Because I believe in the system. I believe in working within the system. Even if it’s imperfect. Even if the bad guy sometimes goes free. That’s why I want this man charged. And I want a jury to hear the evidence against him.”
“And what if he walks?”
“Come what may, I’ll face my demons and be free of them. Just like you did today.”
“Didn’t you once tell me you can’t escape your past?”
“Exactly. So learn to embrace it.”
I shook my head. The woman always had an answer. “I’m gonna miss you, Sarah.”
“Quit saying that. You’ll visit. Jake, too. Where is he, by the way?”
“He told me you guys did your good-byes last night.”
“We had dinner. Let me guess. He’s working?”
“Twenty-four/seven.”
Skylar Wingate had driven Jake Havens back to a place he probably never should have left—the law. He’d taken a job with the Cook County Public Guardian’s office and would spend his life fighting for kids no one else cared about. I couldn’t think of anyone better.
“Are you two going out this week?” Sarah said.
“We’re supposed to get a drink tonight.”
“Good.”
I grabbed at a couple of fries in the basket and checked my watch again. “You about ready?”
A sigh. “I guess.”
Neither of us moved. A car zipped past on Central. Then another.
“I’m not gonna tell you I miss you again.”
She leaned in and kissed me. “I’ve got something for you.” She pulled up her bag and took out a small white envelope. “You remember that night on the beach?”
“Sure.”
A Sarah smile. “Not that part … although that was great. You remember when you told me a person’s reach should never exceed his grasp?”
“You mean when I misquoted Browning and you corrected me? I remember.”
“This one’s from Washington Irving. I read it the other day and thought of you.”
She handed me the envelope. I looked at the loops and curves in my name and thought about the hand that had formed them. One that cared for me without fear or condition. Then I opened the envelope and took out the single page inside. I read it under the dying light.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief … and unspeakable love.
“Don’t be afraid of your tears, Ian. And I promise I won’t be afraid of mine. Deal?”
“For life.”
I kissed her again. She teared up. And we laughed at the stupid irony. Then it was late, and we thought for sure she’d miss her flight. So we bundled our feelings in with her bags and packed it all away in my car. And then we were off to O’Hare. It was the end of things as they were. And the beginning of whatever was to come.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism is the setting and inspiration for a lot of this book. I’d like to thank everyone in the Medill community, especially my students, whose unique voices inspired me to write The Innocence Game. I’d be remiss if I did not also take note of Medill’s Innocence Project. In 1999, it was one of the first to shine a light on the problem of wrongful convictions and was instrumental in the suspension and eventual abolition of the death penalty in Illinois. The Innocence Seminar described in this book is entirely fictional and in no way resembles the real-life Innocence Project at Medill. Ian, Sarah, and Jake, however, do represent what we see in Medill classrooms every day: the intellectual curiosity and desire to uncover the truth at any price.
I’d also like to thank my agent, David Gernert; my editor, Jordan Pavlin; and all the folks at Knopf and Vintage/Black Lizard who have provided such amazing support for my novels. Thanks to Garnett Kilberg Cohen, Chicago writer and professor at Columbia College, for her support and impeccable advice.
Thanks to my friends and family for all their love and support. Finally, thank you, Mary Frances. I can’t imagine doing any of it without you.
A Note About the Author
Michael Harvey is the author of The Chicago Way, The Fifth Floor, The Third Rail, and We All Fall Down, and is also a journalist and documentary producer. His work has received numerous national and international awards, including multiple news Emmys, two Primetime Emmy nominations, and an Academy Award nomination. He holds a law degree with honors from Duke University, a master’s degree in journalism from Northwestern University, and a bachelor’s degree, magna cum laude, in classical languages from Holy Cross College. He lives, of course, in Chicago.
Other titles by Michael Harvey available in eBook format
The Chicago Way · 978-0-307-26775-7
The Fifth Floor · 978-0-307-27038-2
The Third Rail · 978-0-307-59310-8
We All Fall Down · 978-0-307-70043-8
Visit: www.michaelharveybooks.com
Follow: @TheChicagoWay
For more information, please visit www.aaknopf.com
Also by Michael Harvey
The Chicago Way
The Fifth Floor
The Third Rail
We All Fall Down