Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

“Yeah, I’m—well, the book is my way of trying to come back.” I feel guilty as I play my sympathy card. It’s true, though. “Into the real world. Understanding that other people face sadness, too.”

  “I see,” she says. “And truly, I am so sorry. It must be so difficult for you. Dex was such a fine—”

  “Thanks. He admired you, too.”

  “There’s a lot more to this case than I can talk about,” she says. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Do you think she did it?” I wince at myself. I’m feeling pressured by the clock, but that’s pushing it. “I mean—”

  I hear her sigh. “Look. I know I agreed to talk to you. And I’m so sorry about Dex. And your daughter. And you. I am. But I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you.”

  “Maybe about when you met Ashlyn?” I can tell she’s about to hang up. I can’t let that happen. “Remember, this won’t be published until after the trial. And it’ll show you in action as a skilled and zealous—”

  “Ashlyn Bryant is innocent until proven guilty,” Quinn interrupts. “This is thin ice for me.”

  “Trust me, Quinn. Maybe tell me how you met. What you noticed. Nothing specific about the case.” It’s silly to try to manipulate her. She’s got more tricks than I do. And twenty years more experience.

  Silence. I hear her breathing. She must have some agenda. She called me, after all.

  “You have seven more minutes.”

  “Deal.” I’m not tired any more. I need to get what I can get while I can get it.

  We talk for much longer than seven minutes.

  NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW

  The morning Quinn McMorran met her newest client, Ashlyn Bryant arrived at South Bay House of Correction’s attorney room with the collar of her orange jumpsuit popped and the short sleeves rolled up.

  “I’m Quinn McMorran,” the lawyer said. “Appointed to represent you.”

  The gray metal door clanged shut. Ashlyn took a seat in a dingy metal folding chair.

  “My parents will pay you.” Ashlyn didn’t say hello. Didn’t stand or offer to shake hands. “Like, pay you extra.”

  “I don’t work harder based on what I’m paid.” Quinn tried to stay cordial, even sympathetic. She sat down, set her briefcase on the conference table between them and clicked it open. Time to set boundaries. “I’m hired by the state. It’s your right. But if your parents can pay, you’ll have to hire an attorney. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Listen.” Ashlyn leaned forward. As the top snap of her jumpsuit gapped open, Quinn saw the rise of her full breasts, her creamy unfreckled skin, the tiny tattoo of an almost-invisible pink star. “No one would have to know about the extra money.”

  “I’m here to save your life, Ms. Bryant. Not ruin mine.” This girl—half her age—seemed oblivious to the prospect of spending the next forty years behind bars. “Let’s talk about your situation. Shall we?”

  Ashlyn shrugged. Quinn could almost hear her thoughts. Stupid lawyer, maybe. Or Sucker.

  “First, why didn’t you report your daughter missing?” Quinn asked.

  “Because she wasn’t.”

  “Where was she?” Quinn asked.

  “With my boyfriend. Sometimes the babysitter. Valerie. She was fine. I talked to her.”

  Quinn nodded, took notes on her yellow pad. “Who’s this boyfriend? Where is he?” To have a Mr. Reasonable Doubt, that’s exactly what they needed. “And the babysitter?”

  “Where? I … don’t know,” Ashlyn said.

  Bullshit. She hated bullshit.

  “Listen,” Quinn said. “If a ‘boyfriend’ had your daughter, or ‘took’ her, it, he’s who we should go after. You want to get out of here? Tell me who that is. And where he is. You called him? What’s the number?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ashlyn said. Palms open, explaining. “But Luke’s phone stopped working.”

  “Luke? Is it Lucas, or Luther? Or just Luke? Last name? Do you have a DOB? Address? How about Valerie’s last name? And contact info? How do those two know each other?”

  Ashlyn seemed to search the scarred tabletop for an answer.

  “I see.” Quinn put down her pen, laced her fingers in front of her. This woman was digging her own grave. Luckily Massachusetts did not have the death penalty. “You understand why this matters, Ms. Bryant. If this Luke had your daughter, he’s your reasonable doubt.”

  “But what if Luke Walsh is a made-up name?” Ashlyn’s voice caught, then she began again. “I don’t know. I can’t take it. Everyone hates me. And I did not kill my daughter.”

  “I understand, Ashlyn.” Quinn remembered that moment with infinite clarity. “In the eyes of the law, you are innocent. It’s the Commonwealth’s job to prove you’re guilty.”

  “They can’t prove it,” Ashlyn said.

  Interesting answer. “Ashlyn,” she urged, “If you know anything, let’s talk about that. If you had anything to do with this—”

  “I get it.” Ashlyn stood. Her eyes narrowed. “Even you hate me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I know I’m in trouble as I save the chapter to its file. You don’t want to interrupt a scoop, so I’d let Quinn talk. But I’d been surprised she divulged what she did. Maybe she felt sorry for me. Maybe she thought she could convince me to help her client. Maybe she wanted publicity for herself. At one point, when I guess she realized how much she was revealing, she’d backpedaled.

  “I should never have told you that,” she said. “It’s off the record. The money, the tattoo. Her attitude. All of it.”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it?” I’d said. “Seems like Ashlyn tried to manipulate you from moment one.”

  “I’m done.” Quinn’s voice went tough, and I could hear imminent dismissal. “I’m truly sorry about Dex and your daughter. I know you’re having a difficult time. But about Ashlyn Bryant? Or anything about this case? Let me make it clear. Do. Not. Ever. Call me again.”

  She’d pretty much hung up on me.

  So. Using that scene might create a problem, although I think retroactive off-the-record doesn’t count. You say it, it’s said.

  I’m also bummed because I hadn’t gotten a chance to ask her about Valerie and Luke. I write on my list: Where is Valerie? Luke Walsh?

  And I’d never asked Quinn if she knew about Tasha’s father. Who is Tasha’s father? I underline that, then roll my eyes. As if I have to be reminded that it’s important.

  I’ll work on that later. Right now I have twenty-five minutes to watch (and write) as Quinn McMorran (on video from a local TV’s website) cross-examines the medical examiner. Because of our conversation, I can more authentically imagine Quinn’s thinking.

  For the book, I’ll pick up the action in the middle of the testimony. When it gets really good.

  CALLS FOR SPECULATION

  “Objection!”

  Quinn McMorran felt a laser-shot of animosity from Royal Spofford as the DA got to his feet.

  Quinn smiled at the jury. As if—can you believe the DA is objecting? Don’t we all want this to be fair?

  The medical examiner, straight-backed in the witness box, fussed with a gold earring.

  “I’ll allow you some leeway in cross-examination, Ms. McMorran,” the judge said. “Proceed.”

  “Thank you, your honor. So. Dr. Zimbel. Could little Tasha Nicole…” McMorran pretended to consult her yellow pad, but was actually allowing Spofford to understand that she’d not only won, but appropriated his diminutive. “Could little Tasha Nicole have been abducted? Even by someone she trusted?”

  “Objection!” Spofford was up again. “Really, your honor, that is beyond the scope of—”

  “Ms. McMorran, please rephrase,” the judge interrupted.

  “Thank you.” This was shaky legal ground, but Quinn needed to plant every possible alternative scenario in the jurors’ heads. “Was there anything that precluded the possibility that she’d been abducted and killed by someone other than my client?”

/>   “No, but I—”

  “How about a head injury, doctor? Could she have hit her head, fatally, while, say, falling? Maybe off a boat? Possibly whoever’s boat it was who then tried to hide her body?”

  “I suppose, but again. As I said, I cannot state the cause of death. Other than homicide. So…”

  Quinn saw the witness silently implore the DA to rescue her. “Dr. Zimbel? You don’t need to check with Mr. Spofford before you respond. I’m sure you can answer on your own. Since you testified that you cannot state the cause of death, could Tasha Nicole have choked? Maybe, on a hot dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could she have had incurable cancer and died in her bed at home? Or drowned? And her loving family decided to bury her at sea instead of in a cemetery?”

  The DA’s face was seriously crimson, redder than Quinn had ever seen it. “Objection.” Spofford spat out the word. “Your Honor, I ask you! Cancer? A hot dog?”

  “This is not at all speculative,” McMorran persisted. “And is, in fact, narrowing the scope. If the medical examiner can exclude a cause of death, shouldn’t the jurors hear that?”

  Judge Green closed his eyes, an infinitesimal second. “You may proceed, Ms. McMorran. But the door is closing.”

  Quinn nodded. She’d get that door slammed in her face for the next question, if Spofford even sat still long enough to let her complete it.

  “Dr. Zimbel. Might the victim have been the daughter of an immigrant, coming to the United States to secure a family’s future, and tragically, become gravely ill? Or fallen from the boat her parents engaged to bring them all to safety?”

  Spofford was on his feet. Quinn ignored him, talking faster.

  “And then, after that, they’d been so terrified of being deported they’d—with prayers and anguish—wrapped her in plastic and buried her at sea?”

  “Your Honor, I object. In the strongest way.” The DA’s voice cracked with derision. “The DNA from the hairbrush proves she is not the daughter of—”

  “Isn’t it true that is the conclusion your own police artist came to, Dr. Zimbel? A conclusion you were once sure was correct?” Quinn knew her time was running out. “And now you’re equally sure is not correct? How can that be?”

  The prosecution had done this to itself, and it was Quinn’s responsibility to illustrate how uncertain the DA’s office was about the evidence surrounding the child’s death. Of course the DNA test proved Tasha was not an Hispanic immigrant. The point was that the prosecution’s own artist had speculated she was. Add that ambiguity to the ME’s inability to pinpoint the time of death and the cause of death, and the result was inevitably reasonable doubt.

  The judge’s gavel silenced the rising buzz from the audience.

  “Move away from this, Ms. McMorran. The door is closed. And locked.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” At least the jury heard it. “One last question, Dr. Zimbel. In your examination, was there any physical evidence—hair, cells, blood, tissue, or fingerprints—on Tasha Nicole that connected her death to my client? Let me list that again: Hair, cells, blood, tissue, fingerprints. Linking the deceased with my client. Yes or no.”

  The ME looked at the DA, a momentary flicker. “No,” she said.

  “Thank you. No further questions.” Gotcha, Royal, Quinn thought. That’s reasonable freaking doubt.

  “You need coffee?” Voice asks. As if he’s talking to me. “Praise this morning’s delay, team, you’ve still got fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Voice,” I say. “Good idea.”

  I’m proud of myself for that chapter—it proves I’m being fair, highlighting what Quinn must think are her strong points. I don’t want her to hate the book when it’s published, so I’d written her a moment of victory in what she certainly knows is a lost cause.

  As the coffeemaker heats up, I look out the window, touching base with reality. We’re in full late summer, the spiky early-September dahlias beginning to reveal their colors. Maybe I should take a walk? My legs—used to running 5Ks, then running with health-nut Dex, then running after Sophie—have spent most of the last year pacing, or sitting, or lying down.

  “I’ve got to get out more.”

  I’ve got to get out more? Did I just say that?

  Yeah. I admit it. And it’s not only about exercise and fresh air. I’m obsessed with seeing Ashlyn Bryant in real life. It would make the book better. Make my writing more vivid. More authentic.

  The cool part: She’d see me, but wouldn’t know I’m the one writing about her.

  “Ten minutes, stations.” I can hear Voice all the way down the hall. I’ve cranked the volume to make sure I don’t miss anything. Maybe Katherine can get me into the courtroom. Even only one day.

  Today—I’m back in the study. Notebook open. Laptop open. Mug of coffee. Tablet ready to record. I look over what I wrote this morning, imagining it through a reader’s eyes. What would they think is true?

  Dex, who handled his share of controversial criminal cases, would have laughed. The verdict isn’t always the truth, he’d remind me. And sure, it depends on the particular combustion in the particular jury room—the unique crucible where evidence meets emotion. And the law. But even Dex would have to agree this one was inevitable. No matter what bottom-scraping theories Quinn McMorran floats.

  If Tasha had been abducted in Boston by some stranger—even the elusive Valerie, or Luke Walsh—why didn’t Ashlyn Bryant report her daughter missing?

  And if she’d choked accidentally on a hot dog or accidentally drowned or accidentally any number of things, why didn’t someone call 911?

  Tasha died.

  No one called anyone to save her. Instead, someone put her in a trash bag.

  Her. Own. Mother.

  End of story.

  “Five minutes,” Voice warns. “Stand by, please, stations.”

  I lean back in my chair, stare past my lacily curtained windows. The willow is rustling, its graceful branches lifted by the breeze. I’m genuinely trying to come up with any reasons why Ashlyn would have kept silent about her own daughter’s kidnapping. Or death.

  There are none.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Surprise, surprise, right? She’ll be testifying in ten minutes, gang,” Voice says. “Never a dull moment.”

  It was supposed to be disgraced sketch artist Al Cook on the stand—but the Associated Press bulletin says “a family emergency” is keeping Cook from his court appearance in the order DA Royal Spofford scheduled, and he’s now slotted to come later. Family emergency. Right. If I were Al Cook, I’d have headed for the hills long ago.

  Now Georgia Bryant will take the stand. I cannot wait.

  I bet the DA’s goal is to distract the jurors from some imaginary hot dog and boat and grieving family. To focus them on the girl in the trash bag. To make them remember Tasha didn’t choke on junk food, or drown by accident. Spofford needs them to remember it was murder.

  And who best to sock them in the gut with that reality?

  The murder victim’s grieving grandmother. The defendant’s own mother.

  A witness for the prosecution.

  My monitor screen is black. The white noise of the open feed is silent. For one hushed moment I’m in limbo, staring at my study wall. Trying to picture it. Trying not to.

  Would my own mother have testified against me? Who would do that?

  Only someone who loved a child so passionately she’d do anything to avenge her. Only someone who believed she was guilty.

  I know the feeling.

  “Attention stations,” Voice says. “Me again. There’s some sort of delay with the Bryant testimony. So we’re in a thirty-minute recess. Back to you at 10 A.M.”

  As the audio fades, I wonder about Georgia Bryant. Hearing the incomprehensible and impossible news that her granddaughter was dead. Murdered. And her daughter the main suspect.

  Boston Detective Koletta Hilliard clinched that case. And Wadleigh Rogowicz became her Dayton bloo
dhound. His police report—thank you, Katherine—tells the whole story. I don’t need to hear any testimony to write that part.

  I type Notes to self.

  Rogo screens surveillance video from Hudson News kiosk at Logan Airport Terminal B. Writes: Possibly Ashlyn in Cubs hat. With child, possibly Tasha.

  TSA tracks Ashlyn back to Dayton. Three days later. Alone.

  What happened? How did Tasha end up in Boston Harbor—and Ashlyn back in Dayton?

  Maybe Rogowicz walked the streets, thinking if he could only put himself at the right place at the right time, he’d see her. But he didn’t.

  Rogowicz tells Georgia: “Ashlyn is here in town somewhere.” Then has idea.

  He tells Georgia to text Ashlyn, say relative died, say Ash getting bequest from will. Need to discuss in person. Big money. Ashlyn replies, cell phone pings in Dayton suburb.

  “Oldest trick in the book,” Rogowicz tells the chief. “Can’t go wrong with greed.”

  Rogo makes phone call to Boston. Five hours later, Koletta Hilliard arrives in Dayton.

  I read over my outline. It could work. And I’ll expand it later. It’s always tricky deciding how many details to use.

  Should I describe Rogowicz showing Al Cook’s composite drawing to Georgia? Georgia shrieking, and trying to rip it in half? Should I include the moment she gasped with devastating heartbreak, identifying the barrettes? How, without Rogowicz asking, she’d brought out the slick cardboard that still held the third and fourth of the four-barrette set? The indentations of the missing butterflies almost proved that someone in the family had clipped them into Tasha’s curls.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I head back to the kitchen, thinking about monsters. How often has a mother deliberately murdered her own child? I know about the woman who drove off the pier with her kids in the car, left them to drown. The one who murdered her daughters in the bathtub. Each mother was found guilty, if I remember correctly. Not “not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  Ashlyn INSANE?? I add that to my list.

  Casey Anthony, the archetypal example of a young woman charged with murdering her toddler daughter, was found not guilty several years ago in Florida, of course. To everyone’s horror and derision. But I do not put Ashlyn innocent? on my list. I am only including realistic possibilities.