Rankin drapes an arm across Will’s shoulders, an almost affectionate gesture I wouldn’t have predicted. “It’s all a process, Will. And it’s a process you initiated,” he says. “And Charlie and Franklin found the time sheet. It’s just another proof Dorie is innocent, is it not? Don’t be so harsh on yourself. This is not a step back, it’s forward.”
He turns Will’s chair around, gesturing his colleague to sit down. “Let’s focus on what this can mean. And how to use it.”
“I know. I’m being selfish.” He pulls away from Rankin. “It’s not about me, it’s about Dorie,” he says, but he heads for the door again. “I need some water. Or coffee. Can I bring you…?”
Rankin and I shake our heads, no. Will leaves, closing the door behind him. Is he really going to get water? Or to call someone? Rankin’s CJP could be in real jeopardy if Will turns out to be a-what? Double agent? I don’t have much time to float my suspicions, but for the sake of the CJP and of our reputation, I have to try.
Rankin’s picked up the time sheet and is holding it to the light, looking at the back, then the front again. It’s now or never. I perch on the conference table and outline my theory, quickly as I can.
I hop down and walk to the still-closed door, still talking, and stand in front of it as I wrap up my impromptu presentation. I’m my own early-warning system. If the doorknob clicks, I’ll step away and quickly change the subject.
Rankin started shaking his head, disagreeing, when I was halfway through my first sentence, and he hasn’t stopped since. It’s like talking to a pin-striped power-tied bobble-head doll, except this one is now talking back.
“I ’preciate your candor, Miz McNally,” Rankin says. He’s suddenly cordial, as if I’m a juror he’s trying to charm. “But you must know we don’t enter into these cases without thoroughly vetting every aspect. Our reputation is, of course, at stake every time.” He smiles, confident and untroubled. “Don’t worry yourself about Will. His story is solid. Of course the time sheet’s upset him. It’s just another reminder of his shortcomings.”
“But what if-”
“You’re a good reporter,” Rankin interrupts. “I admire your caution. But we’re full speed ahead here, no doubt in my mind. We can trust him, Charlie. If we’re going to defeat Oz, we’ve got to derail his law-and-order platform. Without flinching. I’ll need to make a copy of this time sheet for our files, so-”
“Defeat Oscar Ortega?” My turn to interrupt. That’s not what I thought the goal was. And Franklin and I can’t afford to get nailed in some political crossfire. “I thought this was about Dorinda. Listen, Mr. Rankin, we’re not about politics, we’re about the truth.” I sound a little like a made-for-TV movie about crusading reporters, but then, I am made for TV. “Crusading” reminds me of Susannah, which reminds me of the promos, which reminds me if this story blows up, we’re the first casualties.
The doorknob clicks, and I take two quick steps away, glancing at Rankin, hoping he’ll understand the subject is closed. At least for now.
Franklin and Will come in, each holding two bottles of water, apparently deep into a discussion of their own.
“But what about the eyewitness identification?” Franklin is saying as he hands me one of the bottles. “According to the paper, witnesses all picked out her picture. Pointed out Dorinda as the person arguing with Ray Sweeney in The Reefs Bar. At half an hour after midnight. According to the time sheet, she was at work. Can’t be two places at once.”
“Just a minute,” Rankin says, joining their conversation. He takes a bottle from Will. “Here’s something else we need to confirm. ‘Picked out’ her picture? From an array of photos?”
I fill them in on my meeting with Tek, set for tomorrow at the archives. “That’s what I wonder, too. We should find out exactly how it went down,” I say. “If the photos are in the D.A.’s case files. But from what I recall, the witnesses were describing just one picture.”
I nod, confirming my own memory. Then I remember one more thing. The article in Police Chief. I look at Rankin, then Will. “They’re not supposed to do it that way, is that what you’re getting at?”
“Correct. Indeed they are not,” the CJP director says. “Police are not supposed to do a ‘show up,’ where they just show one picture-that’s suggestive, and often causes witnesses to assume the person must be guilty. As a result, they pick them out. They’re supposed to do a serial lineup-show an array of pictures. Placeholders, ringers, people who could not have been at the scene. Certainly not just the one the police think is guilty. If we can prove they showed a bunch of drunk and tired people, late night, in a bar, just one photo, Dorie should get a new trial right there.”
“But bottom line, a photo is a photo, right?” Franklin says. “No matter how they show it? Do we know if any of the witnesses actually knew Dorie? Did they say, yes, that’s Dorinda Sweeney? Or yes, that’s the person I saw?”
“And what if police said her name? Said she was the wife?” I ask. “People might assume-”
“You could fill this room with the studies proving the unreliability of witnesses’ memories,” Rankin says. “And eyewitness ID is often wrong. It’s almost impossible for police not to telegraph the answers they want. People remember what they think they should remember and, even more dangerous, what they’re led to remember.”
“Close your eyes,” I instruct Franklin. I’m remembering something else from the article.
“Do what?” he says. “Can’t you just tell me whatever it is while I have my eyes open?
“Indulge me,” I say. “Close them. Tight.”
Franklin puts his bottle of water on the conference table, then picks it up, centers a napkin underneath and puts it down again. After looking at me skeptically, he slowly closes his eyes. He manages to still look skeptical. “Okay, they’re closed,” he says. “Now what?”
“Is my jacket black or brown?” I ask. “Keep your eyes closed.”
“Um, black.” Franklin answers.
“Open ’em,” I say, glancing at Will and Rankin. “It’s blue.”
Franklin, eyes now open and hands on hips, looks perplexed. “That wasn’t one of the choices.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You chose black because I suggested it as one of the choices. Not because you remembered seeing it.”
The room is silent for a moment. All this talk of photos and lineups and what a witness might or might not say. What the police might or might not have done. Tek is supposed to show me the case file with the actual photographs tomorrow anyway. It’s really only about one thing. Dorinda Sweeney. And there’s only one person who can get me to her.
“Will,” I say, hoping I’m not taking a fatal step into journalistic quicksand. “I’ve got to talk to Dorie. Let me ask her about the time sheets.” I bite my lip, contemplating an unpleasant option. Without an on-camera interview, our story is dead. Is it worth it, to go in with just a notebook? Newspaper reporters do it every day. Easy for them. I wish Franklin and I could discuss our next move, but there’s no time.
“Off camera, even,” I say. As I say the words, I know I may be setting myself up for trouble. It’s in the top-ten dilemmas of television journalism. “Tell her-I won’t even quote her unless she agrees.” Off the record, worse and worse.
This could be the last card we have to play. From the concern apparent on Franklin’s face, he knows it too. I shrug, acknowledging my unilateral last-ditch effort and hoping I haven’t given away the farm. “It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”
“I sure hope so,” Franklin mutters.