by Marti Green
“No.”
“Did you ever tell anyone she was missing?”
“No.”
“Did you make any effort to find her?”
“No.”
“Is your daughter alive?”
The transcript noted silence by the defendant.
“I’ll ask you again: Is your daughter alive?”
More silence until the judge said, “Mr. Calhoun, you must answer the question.”
“I don’t know.”
“Mr. Calhoun, are you asking us to believe that your four-year-old daughter whom you love more than anything in the world simply disappeared, and you did nothing about it? And you don’t even know if she’s dead or alive?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” he answered, assuring his conviction by a jury of his peers.
The first reading confirmed Dani’s suspicion about Bob Wilson. His lackluster defense during the trial bespoke an attorney who foresaw an inevitable guilty verdict and expended little effort to alter that outcome. Over and over he failed to attack the prosecutor’s witnesses, despite glaring holes in their evidence, or raise objections to improper questions. But even more noteworthy was the absence of any real defense. Aside from a handful of character witnesses, the only testimony refuting the charge was Calhoun’s. Although George had sworn he hadn’t murdered his daughter and that the child found in the woods was not his own, the defense presented no forensic evidence to back up his claim. How could that be? The files contained photographs of the murdered girl, her features burned beyond recognition. Surely, given George’s insistence that the dead child wasn’t his daughter, DNA testing would have been ordered, if not by the prosecution, then by defense counsel. Dani stopped herself. Seventeen years ago, DNA testing was not routinely done.
Bob Wilson should have done more to discredit Sallie’s confession. His cross-examination of her was shockingly inadequate. Perhaps he thought she was a more sympathetic witness than her husband and that he would do more damage than good if he questioned her aggressively. He was wrong. Her testimony sealed George’s fate. If Wilson had cross-examined her more thoroughly, he might have been able to show inconsistencies in her story, create doubt in the jurors’ minds. Sallie mentioned the devil in her testimony for the prosecution. Were she and George devoutly religious? Had they ever confided to their pastor their concerns about their daughter? Dani didn’t know the answers because Wilson hadn’t asked those questions. Letting the jury hear Sallie’s testimony without his having made any effort to contradict her seemed a colossal error by Calhoun’s attorney.
Dani’s brief review of the transcripts and exhibits suggested a number of avenues for appeal. Many had no doubt been raised as the case wound its way up through the court of appeals, the state supreme court, and petitions for certiorari to the United States Supreme Court. Calhoun’s case had made it to the highest court twice, a not uncommon journey for death-row inmates. She would have to wait until Melanie completed her review of the appellate briefs and decisions to see what arguments were still available. Dani still didn’t know whether she believed that George Calhoun was guilty or innocent, but she did know this: They needed to take a trip to Indiana State Prison.
Dani called the travel agent used by HIPP and booked three seats on a Monday flight to Indianapolis. After hanging up, she glanced at the clock. It was almost four, past the time she liked to leave for home. And it was Friday to boot, the worst day for early traffic. She briefly considered calling Doug at his office to suggest he stay in the city and meet her for dinner. With Jonah so recently sick, though, she didn’t want to be far away in the evening. Even though Katie could handle any emergency, there was no substitute for the comfort of a mother’s touch.
She walked out of her office into the large common room and saw Tommy still seated at his desk. Tommy had left the Bureau after ten years because his wife couldn’t take the strain of his undercover stints, which had often kept him away from home—and their five children—for months at a time. He had a swarthy complexion, a full head of wavy black hair, greased down a bit too much for Dani’s taste, and a thick mustache. No doubt he had once been handsome, but now his body, although still trim, had softened, and his years in the field showed in the lines of his face. He still had a razor-sharp mind, though, and he could uncover truths—and lies—like no other investigator in the office.
“Tommy, would you check into whether any other girls between ages three and five were reported missing around that time?”
“Sure.”
“And can you give me a hand?”
“I can give you both hands, baby. Just tell me where and when.”
“Give it a break, Tommy. I’m not in the mood for this now. I’ve got a bitch of a ride home and a weekend of work to look forward to.”
“Ouch. Okay, no jokes. What do you need?”
“Would you help me carry the cartons in my office down to my car?” The one perk of her job was a free parking spot in the outdoor parking lot two blocks from HIPP’s office. Monthly parking spots, when you could get them—there were waiting lists for most—went for four hundred dollars a month in the East Village. Tony, the owner of the lot, was a former exoneree freed through the efforts of HIPP. He provided HIPP with four spots, gratis. When first offered, Bruce turned them down, but Tony was so adamant about doing something for HIPP that Bruce ultimately relented. He understood that Tony’s gesture provided him with a measure of self-esteem that had been all but obliterated during his twelve years in prison.
Tommy looked at the stack of boxes. “You got it, boss.”
Out on the street, the sky was still bright, with the fragrance of sprouting buds lingering in the air. Although the temperature hovered around sixty degrees, the still air made it feel warmer. Dani loved spring. It carried the hope of warm, lazy days ahead; summer vacation with Jonah; and sunlight that seemed to last forever. But this summer would be different. By the beginning of summer, she knew, George Calhoun’s fate would be determined. He would be a free man, released after seventeen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, or—rightly or wrongly—dead from a lethal injection.
Traffic crawled, as Dani had expected, and she didn’t arrive home until after six o’clock. She was exhausted, barely able to muster the effort to eat dinner. After Jonah fell asleep, she decided to give herself a break for the evening. Her mind was too fried for the tedious scrutiny of the transcript that awaited her. Instead, she settled down in front of the fire, Doug’s arms wrapped securely around her.
“Do you ever regret giving up the US Attorney’s Office?” she asked. Like Dani, Doug had started his law career as an assistant US attorney in the Southern District of New York.
It would have been easy for Doug to respond with a quick no, but he was too thoughtful to toss off an answer. “Most of the time, no. Teaching has so many rewards, and by and large the students keep me entertained. But sometimes I miss the energy of the agency, the stimulation of getting close to nailing our target, knowing I have the power to stop bad things from happening.”
Power. There were many reasons an attorney joined the US Attorney’s Office, and one was for the feeling of power. For Doug, that had been a strong draw, one that fueled his interest in law from the outset. There was an adrenaline rush in putting together an investigation, preparing for trial, and securing a conviction, but under all that was an awareness of one’s power. Doug had luxuriated in that knowledge yet gave it up without complaint to spend more time with Jonah.
“I’ve been thinking about Sara recently,” Dani said.
“You haven’t spoken to her in a while.”
“I’ve been so busy. But I’ve been thinking lately how so much of my life now is tied to her, or at least to things about her.”
Dani didn’t grow up expecting to be a lawyer. She wanted to be a psychologist. During her undergraduate days at Brown University, she volunteered for several
social action groups. One of them was Fast Friends. Looking back, that choice seemed prophetic, but at the time, it was fueled by a selfish desire to enhance her graduate-school opportunities.
Fast Friends paired volunteers with developmentally disabled “friends.” At the college chapters, volunteer students committed to meeting with their friends at least twice a month, with more regular contact by phone and, nowadays, e-mail. But inevitably it became much more than that. Most of the volunteers were close to their friends, and the benefits of the relationships flowed both ways.
Dani’s friend was Sara Klemson. An unusually pretty, mildly retarded eighteen-year-old, Sara had always found it difficult to make friends. Her overly effusive personality was off-putting to her non-disabled peers, and she had gradually become more withdrawn. She and Dani had hit it off immediately and saw each other regularly. Fast Friends held numerous social activities for the volunteers and their friends, but gradually Dani began to invite Sara to some regular campus social events. One was a fraternity party during her sophomore year.
She didn’t know how it had happened. She swore she hadn’t been drunk; she never liked the feeling of being out of control. But somehow she’d lost sight of Sara and didn’t realize it until it was too late. She found her sobbing in a bedroom, her clothes torn, blood on the sheets. Sara had been raped. Eventually, two of the fraternity brothers were arrested and tried. With her inappropriate smiling and slow speech, Sara didn’t make a very good witness, and the boys’ expensive attorneys had little difficulty getting a “not guilty” verdict. It was then that Dani decided she’d have more impact as a prosecutor than as a psychologist.
“You would have ended up as an attorney even without Sara,” Doug said as he stroked her cheek. “You’re so naturally suited for it.”
The flames from the fireplace cast a soft glow in the darkened living room. The images in the photographs on the mantle were barely visible, but Dani could see her favorite: seven-year-old Jonah, flanked by his parents, blowing out the candles on his birthday cake, a look of pure joy on his face.
Decorators would have considered their living room a nightmare. No unifying style, no coordination of fabrics and color, just a hodgepodge of pieces they’d picked up over the years. Dani called it “comfy style.” Their cushioned burgundy couch, deep enough for her and Doug to lie entwined in each other’s arms. Two armchairs, on their third set of slipcovers. A water-marked, maple coffee table Dani had picked up at a garage sale. An oval, braided rug in front of the fireplace in a rainbow of colors, frayed at the edges.
The sounds of early cicadas outside the window mixed with the crackling of the burning wood and imbued her with a sense of deep contentment. Their lives had turned out differently from what they’d planned, but they were happy. They were a family.
CHAPTER
5
Thirty-Five Days
As the announcement came of Flight 84’s imminent boarding, Dani glanced nervously down the expansive corridor, hoping to see Tommy. Melanie sat next to her, their carry-on bags at their sides. “Damn, he’d better get here soon,” Dani said.
LaGuardia Airport was crowded with business travelers, laptops by their sides and cell phones at their ears. Dani didn’t travel often, usually for just a few days to argue an appeal now and then, and she still needed to suppress a sense of dread when the airplane taxied down the runway and began to rise seamlessly into the atmosphere.
“There he is,” Melanie said as she tapped Dani’s arm and pointed to a man running toward their gate.
“Well, he certainly played it close.” Dani barely contained her annoyance. Every moment counted with an execution so near, and she couldn’t have members of her team treating responsibilities casually. Showing up late was not an option.
“Sorry,” Tommy said as he reached their seats. “I got a call from a pal at the Bureau just as I was ready to leave. He had some info for me on missing girls.”
Now Dani felt embarrassed to have judged Tommy so quickly. She should have known better. “What’d he say?”
Before Tommy could answer, a crackled voice announced over the loudspeaker, “Those passengers seated in rows 30 and higher may begin boarding now.” A mass of bodies rose from their seats and headed to the gate, far more than the few invited to board first. A line quickly formed just behind the gate, giving minimal clearance for those ready to hand over their boarding passes. Despite having assigned seats, it seemed everyone wanted to be first on the airplane.
“I have it written down. It’s in here,” Tommy said as he patted his briefcase. “I’ll fill you in on the plane.”
The plane was only half full, and they spread out. With his notebook open on his lap, Tommy leaned across the aisle to speak to the women. “There are five cases of girls between the ages of three and five reported missing during the two years prior to the body being found in Indiana. In two of them, the parents were divorced, the mother had custody, and the father disappeared at the same time as the child. It’s presumed those children are alive and with the father somewhere. Two other children were recovered.”
“What about the fifth?” Dani asked.
“A three-and-a-half-year-old girl—her name is Stacy Conklin—is still officially missing. Now here’s the interesting thing: Stacy was reported missing two months before the little girl’s body was found in the woods.”
“Where was she reported missing from?”
“Another interesting point. She lived in Hammond, Illinois, just over the Indiana border and right near Route 80. It’s maybe four hours from where the body was found.”
Dani shook her head. “If Stacy was reported missing so close to the discovery of the body in the woods, why didn’t the police suspect it could be her?”
“They did. Well, not immediately, but eventually. Remember, this crime happened over nineteen years ago. They didn’t have the computer database we have now. And it was another state. But soon enough they matched the age and gender to Stacy Conklin and they brought in her parents.”
“And?”
“And the parents said it wasn’t their daughter. Her face was too badly burned to identify, but supposedly they could tell by the shape of her body. Too skinny for their daughter, too small. The police checked the parents out anyway and cleared both. Loving and devoted, never hit their child, pillars of the community, yadda yadda yadda.”
“Is it possible? Could it be true that George Calhoun’s daughter is still alive?” Dani tried to stop herself from getting caught up in the excitement of her client’s possible innocence. It was a double-edged sword if he wasn’t guilty. Proving innocence meant she’d helped a man or a woman escape from an unfair death. Failing to exonerate an innocent person and then watching that person’s execution was torturous. She always attended when she lost an appeal. Her clients needed to have one person witness their death who knew the truth.
Tommy gave her a warning glance. “You think every client is innocent. Toughen up, Dani. Most of them aren’t; you know that. And this guy is probably guilty too. We haven’t even met with him yet and you’re already on a crusade.”
Most of the staff at HIPP opposed the death penalty. Tommy was one of the few who believed heinous criminals should face a heinous end. Despite those feelings, he was the best investigator in the office. Tommy believed in truth as strongly as he believed in retribution, and he worked doggedly to uncover whether the person facing the death penalty deserved to die. Dani long ago gave up trying to sway Tommy to her view that no person deserved to die at the hand of the government. She was just grateful that he used his incredible detecting skills to sniff out the facts.
Some people accomplished a lot of work on airplanes, but Dani wasn’t among them. Concentrating while thirty thousand feet in the air with nothing but clouds and sky between her and the ground wasn’t in her makeup. She could fly—she just felt an undercurrent of uneasiness during the flight. She cl
osed her eyes and let her mind wander.
Like most states, Indiana executed death-row inmates by lethal injection. It hadn’t always been that way. First, prisoners had been executed by hanging, a salute to the days of the Wild West. Then the state moved to the electric chair, pulling back from the concept of punishment as righteous revenge and embracing the notion of humane treatment. After all, the Constitution banned cruel and unusual punishment, and strapping a murderer into an antiquated wooden chair and zapping him with twenty-three hundred volts of electricity supposedly killed the convict more quickly. It was done in three rounds: eight seconds, then twenty-two seconds, then eight seconds again. And if that didn’t do the job, another three rounds followed. Dani had once counted off twenty-two seconds and then imagined electricity shooting through her body during that interminable wait; she shuddered every time she thought about it. Still, it was quicker than hanging and easier to implement. With hanging, unless the length of rope and the weight of the prisoner were calculated precisely, multiple attempts were needed to get the job done.
By 1980, electrocution had replaced hanging as the most popular form of execution. Problems still existed, though. It turned out that sometimes parts of the prisoner’s body ignited. Blasts of blue and orange flames bursting from a man’s head, filling the room with smoke, made for uncomfortable viewing. Continuing the quest to be more humane—at least for the viewing public—most states retired electric chairs in favor of lethal injection. Indiana made the switch in 1995.
When first convicted, Calhoun would have been executed in an electric chair. Now, if HIPP didn’t succeed, the state would mix up a potion of three chemicals: a barbiturate to put him to sleep, a muscle relaxant to paralyze his diaphragm and lungs, and potassium chloride to stop his heart. Sometimes, though, the barbiturate didn’t put the prisoner to sleep. And so he remained conscious when the drugs stopped his breathing and his heart, causing unimaginable pain.
Dani hadn’t even met George Calhoun and yet she already thought he could be innocent. No, if she were honest with herself, she had to admit she wanted to believe in his innocence. She was on her way to meet a man who was convicted of the most unspeakable of crimes: a parent murdering his own child. She didn’t want to meet that man. She wanted to meet a father who loved his daughter, who, as his letter said, would never have harmed her. So, yes, she allowed herself to believe he could be innocent. He wouldn’t be the first of her clients to be convicted for an act he hadn’t committed. She had worked long enough at HIPP to learn that the judicial process was flawed, that many innocent men and women were convicted of crimes they hadn’t committed. But she kept coming back to his failure to explain his daughter’s disappearance. It seemed to shout “guilty.” And she couldn’t help wondering if he were guilty of something—maybe murder, maybe something else. But what?