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 offer to Dorinda Sweeney is 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 phone-like 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, draw-string 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?”