“Well, sorry, Charlie.” Franklin sounds uncharacteristically nervous. He never calls me Charlie. “Oh, sorry, I know y’all hate the tuna ad line. But…”
The elevator doors swish open, and gentleman Franklin gestures me to go first. I lean against the brass railing inside, calculating the potential damage. It’s not the best outcome that he revealed our possible scoop too early. Still, what’s done is done.
I shift my bulky tote bag from one shoulder to the other in a doomed-to-failure attempt to prevent my charcoal-gray linen suit from wrinkling. Nobody’s perfect, I decide, and Franklin’s about as close as it comes. “No biggie,” I tell him again. I hope I’m right.
Franklin pushes “31” and we ride up a floor or two in silence.
“It’s kind of daunting, isn’t it?” I ask, changing the subject. “That we could have the power to help an innocent person get out of prison? But what if she trusts us to get her exonerated and then we can’t? Which would be worse? To fail? Or not even try?”
The lights on the elevator numbers slowly count upward, making a soft ping every time we pass the next floor.
Franklin nods, considering, then he makes quote marks in the air. “‘Effecting positive change’ to ‘keep the system honest.’ That’s what they tell you in J-school. It’s a lot different when you’re actually doing it. When a real person’s future is at stake.”
The pings stop and the elevator door slides open. This time, I gesture Franklin to get out first.
“We’ve handled tough stories before. We can handle this one,” I say. “If it’s bigger, that just means it’s better. We’ll get the interview and then knock Susannah’s socks off.”
The elevator door closes, leaving us in a conservatively carpeted entry hall. I know this space is donated, a gift from a celebrated law firm hoping to reap do-gooder points by putting a pro bono face on its pro-business practice. The words “Constitutional Justice Project” are spelled out in bold brass letters affixed to the dark-paneled wall over the reception desk. Matching mahogany side tables, flanked by tweedy upholstered wing chairs, are carefully stacked with The New Republic and Harper’s. Each has a No Smoking sign in a silver picture frame.
The room’s focus is unmistakable. On one high-ceilinged wall, illuminated like gospel under a row of pin spots, there’s an oversize framed copy of the Bill of Rights.
I look at Franklin with a smile. “Freedom of the press,” I say, pointing to the poster. “That’s you and me, kid. Let’s go get that evidence.”
“WOULD YOU LIKE to see it again?” Oliver Rankin asks. “Our staff here watched the tape several times, and we feel the evidence is clear and incontrovertible. Agreed?”
Without waiting for our answers, he pushes the rewind button on the video cassette player, then turns to face Franklin and me. We’re seated in leather club chairs arranged in front of a television set that glows in the darkened conference room. The executive director of the Constitutional Justice Project is shorter than I’d expected, but other than that he’s the fashionisto everyone described: carefully suited in subtle pinstripes and elegantly groomed. He’d choose Denzel to play himself in the movie version, I bet. Or Wesley Snipes.
“Indisputable,” he says. He points at me. “Once your viewers see that footage, Dorinda Sweeney’s life will change forever. The judge will have no option but dismissal.” He leans back on the ledge of the carved wooden cabinet, a lofty antique sideboard that turned out to be stacked inside with an elaborate array of state-of-the-art audio and video equipment.
“And then we’ll prove, once again, the power of the truth,” Rankin continues. His tone amplifies toward oratory, as if he’s delivering the closing argument in a jury trial. “That the cynical, ends-justify-the-means methods employed by unscrupulous cops and prosecutors to manipulate the justice system cannot, will not, be tolerated.”
Franklin and I exchange glances. I know Rankin’s a zealot, tenacious and passionate. According to research Franklin showed me, Rankin’s favorite cousin, years ago, had been convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. Rankin battled his way relentlessly through the courts, working to prove his cousin was a victim of mistaken identity and get him released from prison. A shaky alibi emerged, then a DNA test and a new trial. Soon after, Rankin prevailed.
Now, supported by his incessant fund-raising from lawyers, movie stars and political activists, Rankin’s CJP has masterminded the exonerations of more than a dozen innocent people. He’s obviously convinced Dorinda Sweeney is his next victory.
His self-confidence is reassuring. But we can’t put a story on the air unless we’re sure it’s solid. Commandment One of journalism: First, don’t get it wrong. So now, on one hand, I’m wary. Tapes are easy to fake. On the other hand, that video could be journalism dynamite. I’m making a valiant effort to marshal my objectivity.
“Yes,” I begin carefully, fidgeting a little in my chair, “that tape appears to be-”
“Watch again.” Rankin interrupts. He pushes the play button again. “As they say in law school, slam dunk.”
The tape flickers back into life and we all stare at the screen again. First color bars, then a block-numbered countdown, and a screen of black. Then, we see an empty room, smallish, lined with glass-fronted cabinets and rows of shelves and drawers. The camera is apparently mounted high in a corner, so when the door opens, we see only the top of a woman’s head as she enters the room. The tape is supposed to be in color, but it’s off, as if someone’s improperly adjusted the settings, or the tape may have been reused so often it’s deteriorating. As a result, the woman’s skin appears vaguely green. She’s wearing workaday slacks, flat shoes and some sort of smock-blue? green?-covering her clothes. At the bottom of the screen, time-coded numbers flash by, ticking hours, minutes and seconds. A date stamp is burned into the upper right corner of the screen: 05-19-04. Three years ago, I calculate. May.
The woman’s dark hair, which the skewed video settings mutate to look distractingly purple, is pulled back in a ponytail. She appears unhurried, briskly familiar with the room, and has a set of keys clipped to an official-looking ID badge around her neck. At one point, she looks up toward the camera. At that moment, Oliver Rankin pushes Stop. The action freezes.
Rankin loosens his intricately patterned silk tie and allows himself a brief smile. “Every time I see it, it gets better and better. Dorinda Keeler Sweeney, at work, the night of the murder. Look at the date, then the time code,” he says, pointing to the screen. “Sixteen minutes after three in the morning and there she is, indisputably, on her overnight shift at the Beach-view Nursing Home, half an hour away from her house. According to the coroner’s death certificate, at that time her husband Raymond Jack Sweeney was certainly dead at the bottom of their basement stairs. Drunk as a lord on tequila, head bashed in by an iron, bleeding to death in a pile of laundry. Pictures don’t lie.” He gestures at the screen. “This is alibi with a capital A.”
He looks at us for confirmation. “Gotta love it.”
They say when a story is too good to be true, a good reporter looks for the holes.
“Mr. Rankin,” I begin.
“Oliver,” he corrects me. He flips on the overhead lights, snapping the room fluorescent bright. Closing the television into the cabinet, he gestures for Franklin and me to take a seat at the long oval conference table.
“Oliver,” I say, tacitly agreeing that we’re on the same team. That worries me a bit, since a reporter can’t take sides. But aren’t we always on the side of the truth?
“This tape is beyond compelling,” I continue, gesturing to Franklin for confirmation. “But I must ask you-when Ms. Sweeney confessed, why wasn’t this tape used to impeach her statement?”