“I can answer that.” A voice from the doorway. Quiet. Firm. We look up to see a lanky pale whisper of a man, gray hair a bit too long, cheekbones a bit too high, suit a bit too off-the-rack. Threadbare, I think, but that may just be in comparison to the dapper Rankin. He’s smoke to Rankin’s fire, but the intensity in their voices matches perfectly.
“Will Easterly,” Rankin says. “Meet Charlie McNally, and her producer Franklin Parrish.” Rankin smiles. “Will was Dorinda Sweeney’s court-appointed lawyer.”
“Court appointed? So you were with the Suffolk County Public Defenders Office?” Franklin asks. “Did you know…”
While the guys are bonding, my brain is churning out a list of questions. So many, so fast, I’m certain to forget them. I pull out a chair at the long conference table and start writing them in my reporter’s notebook. Motive? Money? Alibi? Battered? Other suspects? Evidence? Why tape not used? Why confess?
THE POLISHED ROSEWOOD conference table in front of Rankin is strewn with newspaper clippings, Will’s notes and the few files he kept. Picking up one page after another, Rankin’s revealing the history of the murder and the local scandaclass="underline" small-town girl, just graduated from high school, pushed by her single-parent mother into marrying the mother’s ambitious boss, a local mover and shaker, a man she didn’t love.
I wish he’d just hand over the darn clip file so I could read it myself, but the flamboyant Rankin seems eager to put himself center stage.
“The Prom Queen and the Pol,” Rankin declaims. He holds up a two-page photo spread with one picture of Dorie, in a tiara and an unfortunately puffy prom dress. There’s another of B-movie big-shot type Ray Sweeney gaveling a Swampscott town council meeting. There’s also a photo of a beribboned little girl, holding her father’s hand and clutching some sort of stuffed animal, marching in the town’s holiday parade. The caption, Rankin points out, says it all. “Ray Sweeney and his daughter Gaylen Marie back in happier times.”
“Dorie’s not with them,” I observe, reaching across for the clipping.
“My point exactly,” Rankin says. He slides the clip away, back into the folder.
Rankin’s newsreel continues, a jury-worthy performance of trumpeting headlines, news clips, memories and legal commentary. When Dorinda Keeler Sweeney actually confessed to killing her husband of twenty-some years with their college-student daughter asleep upstairs, it seemed there was hardly room in the paper for anything else. One gossipy neighbor-the apparently libel-ignoring Swampscott Chronicle reported-was actually quoted as saying “Him and Dorie had nothing in common. Just the daughter. And everyone knows how Ray was with women.”
Will Easterly holds up a yellowing news clipping, its oversize block letter headlines blazing Deadly Dorie Admits: I Did It. “Deadly Dorie,” Will says bitterly, shaking his head. “Those headline writers should rot in hell.”
I wince, knowing Channel 3’s coverage of the story back then was probably just as sensational. “Again, though,” I say, turning a page in my notebook and trying to change the focus. “She confessed. Did you ask her why?”
Will tosses the clipping onto the table. “Here’s the rest of the story,” he says. He pauses, as if composing himself, then runs both hands though his graying hair. “Back when I was assigned Dorie’s case-”
I have to interrupt. “I’m sorry, Will, but I wanted to ask you about that.” Money. One of the questions on my list. “Wasn’t Ray Sweeney financially well-off? Why would Dorie need an appointed lawyer?”
“She didn’t want a lawyer at all,” Oliver Rankin answers. “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts assigned Will to her case. Someone says they don’t need legal advice, that’s their call. But the courts aren’t comfortable if there’s no lawyer standing by to make sure the defendant’s rights are protected. And if they plead guilty, having a lawyer ensures they did it knowingly and voluntarily. Without coercion from the police, or pressure from someone else. And that was Will’s job.”
“Which I blew. Big-time.” Will says, standing and putting his palms on the table. He looks right at me, his face weary, the picture of defeat. “And that’s why you’re here, Charlie.” He stops, pursing his lips, then starts again. “I had a problem back then. A big one. I hadn’t started going to meetings, hadn’t admitted I was an alcoholic. When I got Dorinda’s case, I didn’t even ask how her confession was obtained. When I asked her why she confessed, she said, ‘Because I’m guilty.’”
He sits back down, picks up the green glass bottle in front of him and swishes the water back and forth, staring at it.
“I just bought her story. I didn’t ask the right questions. I didn’t check the evidence, I didn’t lift the phone to investigate. Now I know I need to take responsibility for my actions, and I’m responsible for what happened to Dorinda. I have to make it right,” he says, his voice taut. “I just hope it’s not too late.”
I guess his explanation makes sense. And why look a gift story in the mouth? But that’s exactly what I have to do. “But why-?” I begin.
Rankin interrupts me. “And that’s where the videotape comes in.” He slides the cassette across the table toward Franklin, who stops it one-handed. “Before Dorie confessed, police told the proprietors of Beach-view Nursing Home, where Dorie worked, to preserve their surveillance tape for the night of the murder. It’s a small place. Dorie’s the only employee on the graveyard shift in her section. Often it was just her and the sleeping patients. But after Dorie confessed, the tape was no longer needed. The police never asked for it.”
“I remembered it might still exist,” Easterly picks up the story, his voice earnest. “I knew that might be my ticket to justice for Dorinda. A solid alibi.” He locks his eyes onto mine. “Somewhere in my alcohol-soaked brain, back then, I knew she might be innocent. She was…”
He pauses and looks away, perhaps into the past. “She was not a murderer. Now, I need to try to prove it. Of course, if she hadn’t been on the tape, that would have at least put my guilty conscience at ease. But there she is. Not guilty. Step Nine-‘Make direct amends wherever possible.’”
Franklin, chin in hands, stares at him, transfixed. I realize I’m holding my breath. It’s as if Will has made a confession of his own.
Rankin, however, is brusque, all business. “And that’s it, right from the source,” he says. He continues to tick off his points, one finger at a time. “Will asked the nursing home to search for the video. They found it, still in some file cabinet where they’d locked it three years ago. He convinced them to let him have the tape, and there she was. Will’s worked with us on other cases, so yesterday he brought it straight to me.”
I’m captivated by Will’s quiet passion, his obvious deep belief. But still, I’ve got questions. “Will?” I begin, quietly. “Then why did she confess?”
Will throws up his hands, looking frustrated. “I don’t know. Maybe she wanted him dead. Maybe she knows something. Maybe someone is blackmailing her. I don’t know,” he says. “She still insists she’s guilty. But now, this tape proves she wasn’t there. She didn’t do it.”
I can’t know what the rest of them are thinking, but I’m picturing Dorie locked inside the redbrick fortress of MCI-Framingham, the oldest women’s prison in the country. Innocent, terrified, and trapped behind bars for three long years. It’s the story I’ve dreamed about since J-school. I can save her.
“Will she agree to an interview?” I ask. My list is growing. Find witnesses. Get police report. Where is daughter? Why confess? “Dorie has to go on camera. And we’ll need a copy of that tape. We need to have it authenticated. And-may we take these clippings? We’ll need to look at them.”