“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 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.”
“But, damn it. In the best of circumstances, remembering what someone looked like is not easy,” Will says. He leans across the table and picks up the photo of Dorinda. I twist around to watch him. He’s staring at the photo as he continues. “Especially if it’s in a dark place. And the suspect is a stranger.”
“I mean, this was a bar, near closing time, people had been drinking,” Franklin says. “It just all seems so-”
I look back at the photos, trying to imagine whether I could pick out Dorinda after seeing her once, as a random stranger. The Ralph Lauren preppie, bobbed hair and bangs, doesn’t look like her at all. The Red Sox woman has freckles. The one in the sweatshirt-I pull my reading glasses from their perch on top of my head and look closer.
“Hang on a second,” I say. It’s still too dark in here to see close-up details. Frowning, I search for better light. Finally I take the photo to the coffee station at the end of the room. I flip on the light over the sink, and hold the photo underneath.
I must have made some sort of sound, because Franklin comes to stand beside me, pulling the photo closer to him. “What do you see? There’s nothing but a woman who’s not Dorinda wearing a black sweatshirt.”
I’m trying to contain my excitement. I’m almost afraid to say anything. I could be wrong, of course. But with growing certainty, I know I’m not. A breath of life creeps back into our story. It may not be the story we started with, but if I’m right…
I ease the photo out of Franklin’s hand and carry it back to the conference table. I offer the picture to Rankin and Will. Will takes it first.
“The logo on her sweatshirt,” I say, pointing. “How would you describe it?”
Will looks at me, then Rankin, baffled. “Uh, okay…” He brings the picture closer to his face, then away again. “It’s a shield,” he begins. “Some kind of a crest? It has letters-S then J. Then it says 1969.” He shrugs and hands the photo to Rankin. “Some clothing company founded in 1969. Right?”
“Wrong,” I say. I take the photo back, and this time, give it to Franklin.
“Puff Daddy,” I say. “I mean, P. Diddy.”
Franklin grins and starts to nod. “You rock, Charlotte,” he says. “You’re right. It’s the logo of Sean John, Diddy’s clothing line. You know, the music mogul. The rapper.”
Rankin and Will exchange a bewildered glance. Will gestures the floor to Rankin. “So?” the attorney says.
“Well,” Franklin says, his smile beginning to match my own, “Charlotte and I are researching counterfeit clothing. It could be our next story. Anyway, as a result, we’re familiar with all the logos. All the designer logos, the ones that get copied and resold.
“So?” Rankin repeats. “You two have lost me here.”
“So,” I reply, “We know the ‘founded in 1969’ thing is a gimmick. A marketing ploy to make the company seem more established, I guess. But Sean John’s clothing company-the women’s part-was founded in 2005. Nobody was wearing a sweatshirt like this in 2004. They didn’t exist.” I know I’m talking too fast, but this is what we’d been hoping for. Some glitch in the police procedure. Some flaw in the technique they used to put Dorinda away.
I take the picture back, then point to the logo. “You see? This had to be taken after 2005. At least a year after the murder. No one was shown this photo in the summer of 2004. Couldn’t happen. Someone who didn’t know fashion fell for the 1969 date, but no question-this array is fake.”
“Designed to make all of us go away, you think?” Franklin takes the photo back and looks at it again. “It’s as if they’re trying to…” He looks at me, searching for words.
“Change history.” I finish his sentence.
“And there’s no one who could have designed this corruption of justice but Mr. Oscar Ortega,” Rankin says. His chair creaks in protest as he swivels, back and forth. I can almost watch his mind calculating.
“Or Tek Mattheissen,” I put in. “And what if it’s not the only time? What if they’re cleaning up a series of fraudulent witness identifications?”
“This is a cover-up of the worst kind,” Rankin continues, accelerating into performance mode. “Planting false evidence.” He smacks his fist on the table. “Three years after the fact.” Smack. “Police and prosecutorial misconduct.” Smack. “Obstruction. Yes.” He shoots the fist in triumph. “Ortega is going down.”
“And Dorinda could be freed,” Will says. He’s picked up her photo again, holding it with both hands, looking at it, not at us. “When a judge hears about this.”
The guys’ voices tumble over each other, the volume rising as they share ideas and strategies. But an unpleasant reality insists on ruining my discovery. I sit down at the far end of the table, by myself, trying to think.
We can prove this photo array was not the one shown to the witnesses after the murder. And that certainly proves there’s some outrageous police misconduct. But as for Dorinda? That’s what’s annoying the hell out of me. It could be a knockout blow to Oscar Ortega and the D.A.’s office. But it doesn’t for a moment prove Dorinda is innocent.
I cross my arms over my chest, bummed that my Perry Mason moment of detection triumph doesn’t insure Dorinda’s freedom. I calculate the impending losses. Dorinda’s freedom. Rankin’s reputation. Our story. My job.
But on the other hand, I realize, slowly unwinding from my defensive posture, it doesn’t prove she’s guilty, either. Even if Dorinda actually was in the bar, it doesn’t mean she killed anyone. It doesn’t.