“I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’m going to have some lemonade. I squeezed it fresh just before you arrived.”
“In that case, I’d love a glass.”
“Make yourself at home, Gloria. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Gloria sat on the faded pink-and-green floral sofa beside an enormous black-and-white tomcat. The cat was sleeping. Gloria reached down and massaged him behind his ears.
“What’s his name?” Gloria asked as Mrs. Diggs returned with two moisture-beaded glasses on a hammered-aluminum tray.
“Justice.”
“A fine name,” Gloria said as the woman seated herself primly on the other side of the cat.
“On the phone, you said that you have some news for me,” the woman said.
“I do,” Gloria said. “Mason wanted me to tell you he has found proof that your son was framed for last year’s assault charge.”
“Thank the Lord!”
“The paper will be running the story soon.”
“Does this mean Kwame will be getting out?”
“That will be up to the courts,” Gloria said, “but it is possible.”
“That would be the answer to all of my prayers,” Mrs. Diggs said. “My baby might be coming home.” She plucked a tissue from the sleeve of her yellow housedress and dabbed at her tears. “Thank you for coming all the way up here to tell me. You could have just given me the news on the telephone, you know.”
“It’s not the only reason I came,” Gloria said.
“It isn’t?”
“No. I wanted to ask if you still think your son is innocent of all those murders.”
“Of course I do.”
“Even after reading Mason’s last story? The one in which Kwame admitted his guilt?”
“Oh, yes. Kwame told me why he had to say that.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He said his lawyer and Mr. Mason convinced him that an expression of remorse would help his case, even though he never killed anyone.”
“I see. Tell me, Mrs. Diggs. Did you ever see the video of Kwame’s original confession to the Warwick police?”
“Heavens, no. Years ago, Kwame’s first lawyer, Mr. Haggerty, asked me if I wanted to watch it, but I said no, thank you. Kwame told me how the police beat it out of him. I couldn’t never bear to watch my boy being abused. Or listen to those awful lies.”
Gloria opened her purse and slid out the videotape.
“I’d like you to watch it now, Mrs. Diggs.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because it’s important that you do.”
“No! I won’t. Can’t you understand? This is my son!”
Gloria rose from the couch and turned on the thirty-two-inch television.
“Stop it! Turn that off right this minute.”
Gloria slid the tape into the VCR.
“Nooooo!” Mrs. Diggs howled. “You can’t make me do this.”
Gloria pushed play.
The woman screamed. She snatched the ceramic elephant with red lips and rouged cheeks from the coffee table and hurled it. It struck the edge of the TV stand and shattered.
The interrogation room appeared on the screen. Two police officers, seen from behind, were seated in metal chairs on one side of a battered metal table that was bolted to the floor. On the other side, a teenage Kwame slouched in a matching chair, his cuffed hands resting on his chest. He was grinning.
“Get out!” Mrs. Diggs screamed. “Get out of my house and don’t ever come back!”
She turned toward the end table and grabbed another elephant.
Gloria bolted for the door. As she pulled it open, she glanced back at the old woman. Mrs. Diggs was rooted beside the snoozing cat, a ceramic elephant in her right fist, her arm cocked. She looked even older now, her eyes leaking and her mouth wide as if she were preparing another scream.
The video continued playing. As Gloria stepped outside and pulled the door closed, she heard Kwame giggle.
62
The type on the printing plates ran upside down and backwards. Once the presses were turned on, the plates would be inked and the images transferred first to the blanket cylinders and then, in mirror image, to the rolls of newsprint coursing through the huge machines.
Lomax had long ago taught himself to read the backwards-flowing type. Just before midnight, he climbed up on a press and squinted at the page-one plate, making sure the last minute fixes he’d sent to the composing room had been made in time for the first-edition press run. Then he returned to the newsroom and checked the final edits on the videos before hitting the computer button to post them, along with Mason’s story, on the newspaper’s Web site.
The six videos proving that Diggs had assaulted no one on October 20, 2011, had been edited into a single four-minute segment. The ninety-second video of Diggs’s poem about blondes, included to supplement the story’s assessment of his character, was preceded by a warning about “violent and sexual content.”
Earlier that day, Lomax sat down with Mason to explain the decisions he’d made when he edited the story.
“I left in the stuff about how the 2005 assault might have been fabricated,” he said. “Your reporting on that isn’t conclusive, but it’s strong enough to suggest a pattern of official misconduct.”
“Good,” Mason said.
“But I cut out the stuff about how Diggs may have been framed for the drug charge. You’re probably right about that, too, but the reporting isn’t strong enough to hold up.”
“I disagree,” Mason said.
“I don’t care what you think,” Lomax snapped.
“You’re the boss,” Mason said.
“Look,” Lomax said, softening a little. “Mulligan is right about this. A guard could have circumvented security and brought Diggs the drugs. You know what’s at stake here, Mason. We can’t afford to get anything wrong. You should be happy we’re printing any of this at all.”
“Okay.”
“And Mason? It would be best if you don’t come in tomorrow. A lot of people are going to be furious at us. With your byline on the story, it might not be safe.”
At one A.M., Lomax felt the newsroom floor shudder as the presses roared to life. He took the elevator down to the mailroom and snatched one of the first copies to roll off the press. The ink on the seventy-two-point, second-coming headline was still wet.
Diggs Framed on Assault Charge
Beneath the headline, a smaller subhead:
Official Misconduct Could Force Killer’s Release
The managing editor tucked the Sunday newspaper under his left arm, made his way to the lobby, and strode out the Dispatch’s front door. There, three square-jawed behemoths, each squeezed into a blue uniform that looked a size too small, stood watch. Five more Wackenhut security guards, hired by the publisher for the occasion, were stationed at other points around the building. Each was equipped with pepper spray and a billy club.
Lomax drove home, cracked open a fresh bottle of Scotch, and sipped from it all night, too agitated to sleep.
63
At seven o’clock on Monday morning, Mulligan grabbed a breakfast sandwich and coffee to go at Charlie’s diner and ambled past the old Biltmore Hotel toward the Dispatch. When he reached Fountain Street, he saw that the newspaper’s windows had been reinforced with masking tape.
He stopped to watch two Providence cops order Iggy Rock to move WTOP’s mobile broadcast van from an illegal parking spot across from the newspaper’s front door. The van swung around Burnside Park and claimed two metered spaces next to Union Station, a 114-year-old yellow-brick train station that had been converted to house an array of offices, pubs, and retail shops. From there, Iggy had a good view of the street in front of the newspaper.
As Mulligan reached the Dispatch’s front door, he saw Gloria trotting down the sidewalk. He waited for her, and together they flashed their newspaper IDs at the Wackenhut guards. They entered the lobby and took the elevator upstairs to the newsroom. There they found Lomax already at his desk, two empty newsroom vending machine coffee cups in front of him and a fresh one in his hand.