I smile to myself. Mom was right again. If she hadn’t forced me to meet with Dr. Garth, the picture that allowed me to recognize CC Hardesty would never have existed. I hope she’s watching this morning. And I know she wouldn’t miss it. She’s fine, with no ill effects from her could-have-been-lethal overdose, and apparently no memory of the pandemonium of three days ago. And that’s a good thing.
Back at the station, Kevin’s acting as if he’s heir apparent to Edward R. Murrow. Susannah’s acting as if this whole story were her idea. She blew out every other promo that was scheduled and ordered Charlie’s Crusade spots to run in every available time slot. Newsroom scuttlebutt says she’s been hired to handle Channel 3’s promotion full-time. That, I cannot face.
Of course, the newspapers and other TV stations know Dorinda’s been proved innocent. But they also know it’s because of us. It’s a slam dunk, out-of-the-ballpark scoop.
Now, if all goes as planned, in a few moments we’ll be going live as Dorinda Keeler Sweeney becomes a free woman again. Franklin is up at the prison gate, checking with the guards. He’s impatient to get the show on the road, I know. I smile to myself. Not as impatient, probably, as Dorinda. And I know Gaylen’s inside with her. They’re going to walk out together.
“We’re ready to go.” Walt, in position behind his camera, interrupts my thoughts. He twists a knob on the side of his tripod to lock the camera back into place and looks over at me. “McNally?” he says.
What now? Something else broken? It’s his coffee break time? “Yeah?” I reply warily. Walt’s a chronic complainer. I’m expecting the worst.
“Gotta hand it to you,” he says, not looking at me, fiddling intently with something on his Sony. “You pulled this off,” he says. He gestures with his head toward Franklin. “You and Parrish. The real deal.”
I couldn’t be more surprised. I’m sincerely touched. “Walt,” I say, nodding, “that means a lot. Coming from you.”
“Yeah, right,” he says. He cocks his head and puts a finger to his ear, apparently listening to instructions through his earpiece. “Control room wants to know if you see anything happening. Your earpiece in? Talk into your mike, they can hear you.”
I look at the tiny microphone clipped to the jacket of my splurgy new Italian suit, purchased, with crossed fingers, hoping for such an occasion. “Nothing’s happening that I can make out,” I say into my lapel. “Franklin’s checking.” I look to see if anything’s changed, but he’s still up at the gate. The officers are still in their “I know nothing” postures. But Franklin is gesturing, pointing to me.
And then the door begins to open.
Franklin runs, watching to make sure he’s not in the camera shot, as fast as he can back to the live truck. I’ve got my eye on the prison door. And it closes again.
“What?” I demand. “What did the guards say? What’s the timing?”
“Stand by,” Franklin orders. “Stand by,” he says into my lapel, then starts waving his arms in front of Walt’s camera.
“They see you in the control room,” Walt says. “If I were you, I’d get out the way. You’re in Charlie’s shot.”
Franklin leaps out of camera range. And then the prison door opens again.
Walt touches his ear again, listening. “Five seconds,” he says, pointing a finger at me.
“We’re live,” I hear through my ear. “We’ve got the Dorinda cam live,” the director back in the control room says. “And your mike is hot. Go!”
“This is Charlie McNally, live with breaking news from the front gates of the Framingham women’s prison,” I begin. I’ve been doing live shots for more than twenty years. I’ve described horrific fires, chaotic election nights, devastating floods. I’ve been soaked by hurricanes and blasted by snowstorms, harassed by drunken college kids and confronted by enraged politicians. I handled all of it, as it happened and mostly without a hitch, on live television. Part of the job.
But I’ll admit, right now, my heart is racing. There’s no snow, no rain, no screaming crowds. One woman, accompanied by her daughter, is about to walk out of prison and into the sunshine. And I’ve never felt more challenged to come up with just the right words. To do them justice.
“What you’re seeing now is…” I hesitate. The door was halfway open, but now it’s stopped, waiting, freeze-framed. And then, it opens again. And there they are.
“What you’re seeing now is Dorinda Keeler Sweeney, who just yesterday was granted her freedom. As you know, she confessed to killing her husband, North Shore politician Ray Sweeney, three years ago. But we have learned…” I pause, watching Dorinda, in low heels and a sleeveless shift, shoulders back, head high, and carrying a purse for the first time in years, walk slowly away from the looming red brick walls. “We have learned, her confession was a complete fabrication. She sacrificed her own freedom to protect her daughter-whom she mistakenly thought was guilty-from being charged with the murder. That’s who you see, holding her arm, walking out with her. Her daughter, Gaylen Sweeney.” I pause again, deciding to allow the audience a beat to take in the enormity of the moment without hearing my voice over the whole thing.
“Dorinda and Gaylen Sweeney will now have to attempt to get their lives back, to make up for three years of lost time and devastating miscommunications. A mother who thought she was protecting her daughter from a life sentence in prison. A daughter haunted by the possibility she’d killed her own father. Three years of sorrow. Three years of sacrifice. Now it all ends, here in Framingham, on a sunny July morning. A mother and a daughter, free and safe. And starting over.”
A LUMPY SILHOUETTE RISES in the window of the news director’s office. Humpty Dumpty, improbably, crosses my mind. But Kevin’s called me in, so I’ll know the reality soon enough. I can see Susannah in her usual perch on the couch talking to Mr. Dumpty. Kevin’s behind his desk listening. I smile my way across the newsroom, satisfied with our live coverage, psyched with our scoop, and accepting compliments from my fellow reporters.
Tonight, part one of Charlie’s Crusade hits the air. The ratings are going to be off the charts. Dorinda and Gaylen are in seclusion at some apartment Oliver Rankin’s provided. According to Will, they’re never more than a few feet apart.
I arrive at Kevin’s door. Humpty turns around. It’s Oscar Ortega.
Susannah gets to her feet and starts to say something, but Ortega takes over.
“Ms. McNally,” he says. He points me to a chair, as if we’re in his own office. “Thank you for coming in.” As if he were the one who called me. Susannah goes to Kevin’s office door, closes it and silently takes her place back on the couch. Kevin hasn’t opened his mouth. And I can’t read their faces.
“We have a situation,” Ortega begins. “We’re tracking the actions of Tommy-strike that-CC Hardesty, over the past few weeks. Let me show you.” He bends down to click open his briefcase.
A flurry of possibilities explodes in my head and I try to assess what could possibly be wrong. The judge ruled Dorinda should be released, nothing can change that. We know CC is guilty. He told the cops he’d put sleeping pills in Ray and Gaylen’s drinks. He’d confessed to entering the Sweeney house and pushing Ray down the stairs while Gaylen slept. And he said it was “easy.” That confession is going to stick. Not to mention his attempted murder charges for drugging Mom and threatening me. That’s going to stick, too.
Ortega pulls out a thick manila file folder and spreads it open on Kevin’s desk. From inside he extracts several pieces of white paper, held together with a red paper clip. “This is the police report you filed, after that day in the state archives,” he says. “You said someone-” he refers the report “-followed you? Chased you? And attacked you?”