Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “I can take in my notebook, though, correct? And a pencil?” I ask. I know I can.

  My stuff stowed, I hear a phone ring. The guard answers, then points to a sliding door. The rasp of a buzzer cuts through the silence. “Into the trap,” she says. A massive metal door rumbles open. I step in and it closes behind me.

  Metal detector. Pat down. Another buzz. Another sliding door opens, then clicks closed with a mechanically final clang. I’m inside.

  I’m on the way to meet Dorinda Keeler Sweeney.

  * * *

  Another thing Mom was right about. It’s impolite to visit someone’s home without bringing a gift. What I brought to Dorinda Sweeney was her freedom.

  Problem is, she doesn’t seem to want it.

  The “no-contact room” is painted rancidly avocado. The walls are cinder block. No windows. A wall of thickly aging Plexiglas goes ceiling high between us, years of cigarette smoke and handprints filming Dorinda’s face with a yellowing veneer. The phonelike receiver that connects us is up to her ear, but so far, she’s all yes or no answers, not really participating. She refuses to give any details of the murder and insists she’ll walk out if I keep asking. I wouldn’t call this an interview. It’s more like a monologue. Mine.

  “But why did you confess?” I ask again. I figure I owe her the respect to lay my cards on the table. “Look, Dorinda. I don’t think you killed Ray Sweeney. But I think you know who did.”

  “I told Will…” she says. Her voice is steady and she looks me in the eye. “I told Will to tell you. The truth is the truth.”

  Her nails are bitten to the quick but her granite eyes are solemn, her posture graceful, head high. She blinks, her fingers wrapping and unwrapping on the receiver.

  My visit can last fifteen minutes. Twenty at most. I need to keep talking, even if she won’t.

  “But I found the nursing home time sheets,” I say. I lean forward, my elbows on the wooden counter, beseeching her. The surface is pockmarked, gouged with remnants of countless initials, numbers and imperfect hearts. Marks of time and fear and hope. “We have the tape, Dorinda. The eyewitness identification was obviously wrong. You were at work, not in the bar. Your lawyer—”

  Then I hear a change in the silence. The receiver is clamped to my ear, and the muscles in my hand tighten as I feel her change her mind. I pause, scanning her face. It’s unsettling to be talking to someone on the phone but still be able to see them.

  “What?” I ask.

  Her chest rises and falls, the fabric of her too-large cotton T-shirt folding gently as she moves. Even a size small would engulf her. She’s wearing what look like hospital scrubs, patch-pocket top, drawstring pants. Hers are faded, drab. I see why they call them fatigues. Dorinda is the month of March, bleak and colorless.

  Suddenly she smiles. Nothing could have surprised me more.

  “You know I’ve seen you on television. I admire your work,” she says. It’s as if we’re having a cup of tea in a cozy luncheonette instead of a grim institution with correction officers hulking at the door. “Will told me what you think, that I’m protecting Gaylen. But on this story, you’re wrong. I’ll tell you what you need to know. Then you need to, please…”

  Her forehead furrows, and she leans her face close to the glass. “… leave me alone.”

  Dorinda fidgets in her metal folding chair, crossing her legs, uncrossing them. She’s wearing what look like Keds, scuffed, one edge fraying and threadbare. Velcro flaps instead of shoelaces. Tube socks. She shifts the receiver to her other ear.

  “I worked the overnight shift at Beachview. For hours, it was just me and the clients. I had the run of the place. You saw the time sheet book. I just filled mine out when I finally got to work that night. Went to work, went to the bar, went—home. Then came back to Beachview.”

  She looks down, briefly, then back at me. “As for the video—I just took the tape from the night before, and changed the label. Changed the date stamp. Destroyed the tape that showed I wasn’t there. I’m the only one allowed in the meds room that time of night. And trust me. Every night looks the same.”

  “So you’re saying the tapes and time sheets were a cover-up? And it really was you at the bar?” My notebook is burning a hole in my pocket, and I’m longing to take it out to capture her exact words, but I’m afraid that will intimidate her. What she’s saying is unforgettable, anyway.

  “Ray was—” Dorinda’s eyes flicker to the guards by the door, and she cups one hand over the receiver to mask her words, whispering as she looks back at me “—a bastard. He was disgusting, and worthless and … and … and … manipulative. I’ve talked about it with my counselor here. I can’t even imagine what he wanted to do to Gaylen.”

  I’m trying to process these disturbing details, assess whether I really believe them, and dig for more information at the same time. Change the date stamp? With every answer I get, it feels like the Dorinda-is-innocent story is fading into fantasy. I have about ten minutes to resuscitate it.

  “And where is Gaylen?” I ask. “Do you see her? Write to her?”

  A look crosses Dorinda’s face, too fleeting for me to read. “She’s disappeared,” Dorinda says. “She was so confused and angry, she vowed she’d never see me or speak to me again. I don’t know where she is.” Dorinda shakes her head, as if erasing a memory. “I don’t blame her. Look what she got in the deal. A creep for a father. A murderer for a mother.” Her shoulders almost shudder. “Far, far away is where she is, that’s what I’d say.”

  “So, no idea where? Really?” This is somewhat hard to believe, a mother not knowing where her only daughter is. But I guess when the mother is behind bars, it’s easier. “Gaylen was what, twenty-one years old back then? And living at home? Do you have a picture of her?”

  Dorinda’s face softens as she reaches into the front pocket of her shirt. With two fingers, she extracts a snapshot-size photo. I can’t see who’s in it, but from the back I can tell it’s tattered around the edges, one corner repaired with transparent tape. “Only this one,” she says, staring at the photo. “Gaylen threw it at me when she left. Mine got lost somewhere when I came here, but we each had one, made copies. It was always my favorite. From when she was nineteen.”

  She carefully places the snapshot flat against the glass, a proud parent showing off her daughter. I see a teenager in Levi’s and a Swampscott High hoodie, smiling and giving the peace sign. I don’t have to memorize her face. I don’t have to ask Dorinda for a copy. This photo is already stored in my phone. I was right. It looked a lot like Dorinda, but it wasn’t. Gaylen. Of course.

  “You know, Dorie,” I begin, “if Gaylen were being abused by Ray, if he attacked her. Or threatened her. And she pushed him down the stairs to get away, she’d never be convicted of anything. You don’t need to protect her. If she killed him in self-defense, she’d…”

  Dorie’s face tightens as she slides the photo back into her pocket. “Her father never touched her. I made sure of that. Gaylen was asleep that night. Asleep. Just like I told the police. Just like I told Will. And that’s all I’m going to say.” She clamps her arm across her chest and leans back. Body language for I’m done.

  I suddenly comprehend all the time and space and conflict that separate Dorinda the prom queen from Deadly Dorie the convicted murderer. How do we get where we are? At what point do our decisions become our destiny? The door clanging shut behind us doesn’t have to be made of steel. It can just be made of time. Yeah, fifteen to life in Framingham, my cynical reporter brain puts in. Still, I know the prison sentence is not only for Dorinda, but also for her daughter.

  One thing for sure, she consistently calls Ray Gaylen’s “father,” not “stepfather.” Do I need to reconfirm who Gaylen’s father is? I do. I check my watch. Doomed.

  “I saw your prom photo in the yearbook,” I say. I’ll try a new tack. “With your friend CC Hardesty?”

  Staring at me, eyes welling, Dorinda slowly takes the receiver away from her ear and,
still holding it, drops her arm to her side. As if to make sure she doesn’t hear any more. Then, even more slowly, she brings the black plastic phone back to her face. For one moment I get a glimpse of the girl who once danced and curled her hair. I can almost see the memories unreeling in her mind.

  “I think of him every day. He was…” She shrugs. “He was my first love, what can I tell you? He was wild. Possessive. My mother thought he was—a bad egg, she called him. Made him all the more desirable, of course. He was Romeo in the Swampscott spring play, when I was Juliet, did you see that in the yearbook? A born actor. He would call me Juliet all the time, swear he loved me just as much. When I got the phone call from the Navy that he’d been killed…”

  Suddenly, her eyes turn resistant. “What about him?”

  Now here’s the part in the soap opera where the organ music swells, and they cut to the tease of tomorrow’s show. The announcer’s voice intones the questions: Is Gaylen actually the boyfriend’s daughter, conceived in one stolen night of passion before a loveless forced marriage? How will the hapless reporter, desperate for answers, find a way to ask such a delicate question? And what—big organ chord here, da-dummmm—will be the answer? Wait until tomorrow’s episode of—

  Except this hapless reporter doesn’t have until tomorrow. I have now.

  I can feel my foot jiggling under the counter. All I have to go on here is town gossip and a hunch that makes this a story for Danielle Steel instead of Diane Sawyer. Two choices here. Ask. Or don’t ask.

  “Dorinda,” I begin. I pause. Suddenly the phone receiver feels sticky. I switch ears and begin again. “Dorinda, forgive me. I just have to check all the facts. In researching what happened that night—”

  “I told you what happened,” she snaps.

  I hold up a hand, apologizing. “I know,” I say. “Just let me ask you two more questions. Three. Was CC Hardesty—”

  Dorinda bursts into laughter, the alien sound ricocheting off the cinder-block walls. I stop, surprised into silence.

  “Was he Gaylen’s father?” she says. “Is that your question?” She shakes her head, as if she’s hearing a familiar story. “Wish I had a nickel for every time someone tried to ask me that. I know it’s what everyone thinks. I’ve heard the gossip, too, you know? I’ve lived it. But no, Ray Sweeney is Gaylen’s father.” Her mouth twists, regretting. “More’s the pity.”

  “Did CC know Gaylen was born? Did he ever come back to town? Could he have seen her when he did?” A thought skitters through my brain. “Did he ever meet Ray? He had to know him, right? CC spray-painted the sidewalk with your names.”

  “Never came back that I knew of,” Dorinda says. “His family’s long gone. No reason to.”

  “Except to see you,” I say.

  “But he didn’t,” Dorinda replies. “And then he was killed.” She looks past me, and I turn to see what she’s watching. A blue-uniformed guard points meaningfully to the clock on the wall beside her, then gives me the wrap-up signal.

  Dorinda taps on the Plexiglas to retrieve my attention. “I’m sure your heart’s in the right place. I know you’re a good person. That’s why I told Will I’d talk with you. But stop wasting your time with me, all right? You should try to help someone who needs you.”

  And then she hangs up the phone.

  * * *

  What have I learned? I interview myself as the guard leads me through the long dingy hallway back to the outside. Do I think Dorinda is guilty? Yes. Maybe. No. But if she faked the time sheets and the video, after killing her husband, that means it wasn’t even an accident. She planned it. No wonder she confessed. First-degree murder is life without parole. With her plea deal, at least she has a chance to get out in fifteen years.

  I turn to the guard, who’s silently escorting me. She’s an imposing package, broad-shouldered and stocky, with tiny graying dreadlocks tucked under her cap. Her wide black belt carries metal D rings for clanking pass cards, a tiny flashlight and a silver whistle. The embroidered name over her breast pocket says Off. Delia Woolhouse. Might as well give it a try. I hold out a hand. “Officer Woolhouse? I’m Charlie McNally, from—”

  “Didn’t even need to check your name on the sheet, Miz McNally. Know who you are from the tube,” the guard says. Her tough exterior melts as she stops and bestows a wide smile, shaking my hand. “You tough, girl.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “You, too. And call me Charlie. Could I ask you—”

  “Walk,” the guard instructs. She points the way. I walk.

  “Does Dorie have any other visitors?” I say. “Have you seen anyone here?”

  “Not many,” the guard replies. “I’m in charge in this block, so I’d know.” She pauses, thinking. “Her pastor from that Unitarian church in Swampscott, for sure. And the battered women’s counselor from the place in Lawrence. ’Bout it.”

  I sigh. Great. A church and a woman’s shelter. Two places where anyone who knows anything is sworn to secrecy. Still, it’s better than nothing. “What place in Lawrence?” I ask.

  Officer Woolhouse grabs a metal handle, then drags open an expanding metal grate, leaning her whole body into the motion. As the grate collapses, it reveals a massive sliding steel door behind it. The guard pushes a square aluminum plate on the wall and the door begins the grumbling mechanical progress that will put me again on the outside.

  “Don’t know,” the guard says. She lifts her hand in farewell, then points the way back into the sunshine. “Shouldn’t have told you what I did.” She grins again. “It’s off the record. Just like they say on Law and Order.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Not only does she insist she’s guilty, but it seems like she planned it. And then she tried to cover it up.” I try to prevent my voice from rising as I replay my infuriatingly unrewarding prison interview to Franklin, Oliver Rankin and Will Easterly. The CJP conference room, headquarters for what Rankin annoyingly keeps calling Team Dorinda, is beginning to feel more like the loser’s locker room.

  “I’m thinking our story is just about down the tubes,” I say. I can’t even begin to imagine the meeting where I’ll have to explain this to Kevin and Susannah. I tilt back in my upholstered chair, certain of our impending defeat. “It’s a house of cards. Collapsing on all of us.”

  I point to Rankin. “You, Oliver—if Dorinda is guilty, the CJP is going to take a real hit if Oz decides to nail you over taking her case. Will, it’ll look like you’re frantically trying to regain your reputation, but it may just highlight your embarrassing past.” I shrug and snap my chair back to the table, propping my chin in my hands. “As for me and Franklin, we’re just—ah. I don’t even have words for this disaster.”

  “Did she tell you how she killed him? How she managed it all? You saw how delicate she is.” Will’s pacing, staring at the floor, not waiting for any of us to answer. He yanks open his tie with a frustrated intensity and wheels to face us. “You know she’s innocent. This whole thing stinks. Something, or someone, is driving her to this. To have confessed.”

  “Gaylen, you mean,” Franklin says. “I agree. I think our next step is to find her. I’m still not convinced Ray was her father, by the way. Remember, that guard told Charlotte about the church and the women’s center, and I’m wondering if they might know where she is.”

  Something stirs in my brain as Franklin explains our ideas for locating Gaylen, but it skitters away before I can retrieve it.

  Oliver Rankin’s confident voice interrupts my thoughts. “Fruit of the poisonous tree,” he says. “We don’t have to prove who actually killed Ray Sweeney. We just have to show the investigation was botched. Or that Dorinda was coerced into a confession. By the police, or person or persons unknown. This is about getting her a new trial, folks.”

  “Fruit?” Franklin says.

  “Of the poisonous tree,” Will answers. “Oliver is theorizing if we can prove her confession was a consequence of some improper act, something illegal, a judge might—”

  “Give
Will another chance to prove what he thinks is the truth,” Rankin finishes the sentence. He focuses on me. “Give you a chance to show the public some good old-fashioned journalism. Justice for Dorinda. And it’ll be back to the political drawing board for Oscar Ortega.”

  It’s not what I was trying to remember a minute ago, but Ortega reminds me of Tek. And the photos. Which I have in my bag. They’re one of the reasons we’re here.

  “But here’s the problem,” I begin. “Dorinda’s got an explanation for everything we think might exonerate her. And the eyewitnesses—the bartender and those customers—all picked out her picture in the Swampscott police lineup.” I try to dig out the photo file as I’m talking, which causes my voice to be directed under the table. I curve myself back upright, still mid-explanation. “Tek’s supposed to be e-mailing me all their names, but I haven’t heard from him yet.”

  I place the manila folder on the table and deal out the photographs, one at a time. Six faces. Five strangers, and one familiar.

  Rankin and Will come around behind me, looking over my shoulder at the photo spread that three years ago convinced police and prosecutors Dorinda was a killer.

  Six middle-aged brunettes, no scars, no moles, no unusual characteristics. All could be somebody’s suburban mom. All dressed like they’re ready to pick up the kids at soccer or head to the Stop & Shop. One in a Red Sox T-shirt, one in a turtleneck with the Ralph Lauren polo pony, one in a designer sweatshirt. And of course, Dorinda.

  “Who are the other people?” Franklin asks. “Where do they get those photos?”

  “They must have gotten Dorinda’s from her home, an album, something. The others? Sometimes they’re cops wives. Or even cops,” Rankin replies. “They find people who match the description of a suspect in some way. That’s supposed to keep it fair, so the suspect isn’t the only one wearing glasses, for instance. They don’t want someone to say ‘she kind of looked like that.’ They only want positive IDs.”