I look at her encouragingly, as if I really want her to answer. She doesn’t say a word, but gives me a bitter little gesture to continue.
I flip open the magazine and point to a page. “After conviction, photos are public records. You have to keep them. And you have to let us see them.” I shrug, to let her know it wasn’t my idea, it’s law enforcement reality. Which, of course, we both already know.
“You have to,” I repeat.
“In some cases, that may be correct, Char-lie,” Consuela says. I can hear the sneer as she drags out my first name. “But in this one, you’re wrong. She confessed. It’s a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.” She looks at me challengingly, wondering if I’ll fall for excuse number three.
I won’t. “Consuela, look. We can go back and forth over this all day. Or not. But whichever. Your office will have to hand over the photos.”
“You said in the lobby-you indicated you had some documents.” Consuela is not going down without a fight, and has fallen back on the “change the subject” method. “You said this was about the Sweeney arrest.”
“It is about the Sweeney arrest,” Franklin says.
The room goes quiet.
I watch Consuela’s chest rise and fall as she calculates her next move, her buttons even more in jeopardy. Without exchanging a glance, Franklin and I know we’ve won this battle. We also know we don’t need to say another word. All we have to do is wait.
“I’ll get tech,” she says. And with a flounce of curls, she sweeps out of the room.
“Tech?” I ask, watching the conference room door click closed.
“Perhaps the lineup photos are JPEG files on computer disk,” Franklin theorizes. “She’s got to get the techies to burn us a copy. But Charlotte, talk to me about those pictures. I thought we were here about the tape.”
“Well, here’s what I was thinking,” I say. “And that Police Chief magazine made me all the more suspicious.” I hop onto the conference table and stare down at the institutionally neutral carpeting, examining the shadowy patterns cast through the window blinds.
“Remember, Rankin and Will said the witnesses in the bar identified Dorinda from her picture.” I pause and look back at Franklin. “Let me ask you. What’s your understanding of how they got that ID?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by how,” Franklin says. “The police showed witnesses a picture of, well, I suppose, it would be pictures, plural, of Dorinda, and a few other people. To see if anyone picked her out. The usual. A lineup.”
“Correct,” I say, nodding. “But has anyone told us they used a lineup? Anyone ever said that word? Maybe we just assumed it, because that’s what the cops are supposed to do. But what if they just showed one shot, a photo of Dorie? Because they suspected her, figured it was her, so might as well confirm it?”
There’s a sharp rap on the door, then whoever’s knocking opens it without waiting for our response. I scoot myself down from the table, briefly wondering how long whoever is out there had been out there.
A taut trip wire of energy strides in. Shoulders courtesy of Gold’s Gym. Suit courtesy Signore Armani. Attitude courtesy Clint Eastwood. His hand, still white-knuckle tight on the doorknob, claims all this as his territory, and us as his prisoners. A thin black cord around his neck shows off a daunting array of what must be security clearance badges. I read one bold-lettered name tag as our visitor snaps out his introduction.
“I’m Tek Mattheissen,” he says. “You two have a lot of nerve.”
A BLAST OF EARLY-SUMMER sun hits us as we take turns revolving out the front door of the air-conditioned building. Chief of Staff Tek Mattheissen’s long strides force me to trot a few steps to keep up with him in a two-block march to the statehouse. Oscar Ortega’s number-two man had an appointment “in the corner office,” as he put it, making sure we’d infer it was with Governor Landsman. He only had time for a “walk and talk,” he’d said, between the A.G.’s office and Beacon Hill. Franklin headed back to the station. I agreed to the on-the-move discussion.
Unfortunately for my strappy city sandals the two-block walk is entirely uphill. This is forcing Mattheissen to do most of his “walk and talk” going forward and glancing backward at me straggling and puffing along.
“So as I explained,” I say, finishing my recap of the encounter with Consuela, “we’d just like to see the photo you used for the witness identification of Dorinda Sweeney.” I wish I had a better view of his face. I wonder if he picked up on photo. I wonder how he’ll try to weasel out of showing me what’s in their files.
“Are you familiar with the case at all?” I ask. “Because we’d also like the names of the witnesses involved.” I’m deeply regretting this interview method. I’m sweaty, I can feel my T-shirt clinging to my back, and I’m certain the shoe-chewing Boston cobblestones have claimed another pair of victims. I sneak a glance at my heels as we, thankfully, reach the corner of Park and Beacon Street, where the outline of a red figure on the pedestrian signal instructs us to stop. An ungainly turquoise-painted open-air tour bus marked Beacon Hilda chugs by us with its load of visitors, heads all turned toward the statehouse across the street. I can hear the driver’s voice booming about “oldest statehouse in the country” and “gold-leaf dome.”
“Know something about it?” Mattheissen turns to me as I finally get to stop walking. He puts his narrow leather briefcase down on the sidewalk and peels off his Euro-chic sunglasses. His eyes are slate, the color of smoke and flint, and his gaze is intense. He’s all edges, no curves. That makes it all the more shocking when he smiles. Not only because it’s the first time he’s done it, but because it transforms him. In a good way. Mattheissen, Tek Mattheissen. I can easily picture him delivering the lines, sleek and Bond-like, as the leading man. License to…
“I was lead investigator on that case, thought you knew that,” he says. “Assumed that’s why you came to see me. They tell you at the Swampscott PD that I was with the Ortega campaign now? “That smile again. Lower wattage.
I see the red Stop figure has turned to a green Go. Mattheissen makes no move to walk.
“Know that case inside and out,” he continues. “Deadly Dorie. Confessed. Now I hear, Rankin’s people are poking around. Sent you, did they?”
Here’s where the interview ends, I predict. But, surprising me, Mattheissen stays put, so I persist. I need to make sure he’s aware Franklin and I are on our own. And the best way for a reporter to talk to a cop is to be honest. For as long as you can.
“Not at all, Mr. Mattheissen. The CJP did contact us, of course. People who want stories investigated do that all the time.” I turn on my most winning expression. “People constantly hit you up, too, when you were on force?”
He raises an eyebrow, acquiescing, so I continue. “It’s all about the truth. Wherever the story goes, we go. I just want to see the photo that was used. We have a right to see it. And if Dorinda Sweeney’s innocent, well, I’m sure you’d want to know that, too. Right?”
“Look, Charlie. I can call you Charlie? You want pictures. I get that.” He looks out over Boston Common, the historic expanse of well-kept trees and lush grass that opened in 1783. It’s been green-and covered with tourists-ever since. The light changes back to red as we stand on the busy corner, horns honking, trucks rattling, air conditioners in the top floors of the brownstones beside us humming and plopping drops of condensation on the concrete sidewalk. Mattheissen checks the crosswalk light. Still red.
“Names of the witnesses?” he says, turning his attention back to me. “Photo array? All in the files. Archives. Could take some time.” He puts his sunglasses back on, discussion over. “Might want to make a public records request.”