Ghost writer, p.20
Ghost Writer, page 20
Esther closed the file and stood, towering over me in her three-inch heels. “I’m not talking about Pierce. I’m talking about Donomar.”
I was a bit surprised but didn’t lose steam. “Donomar? If he is lying, why are all the pieces fitting here?”
“I don’t know that he is lying. I’m just saying that I check things out, Keaton. I check all my facts. I do my research. I look people in the eye and make them lie to me that way.”
I felt exhausted suddenly. I didn’t know where Esther was going with all this. “Esther, what do you want?”
She had found her makeup bag and was just about to apply lipstick, a deep bloodred color that made her eyes darker and skin paler. “I’m going to go see Dietrich Donomar myself. Ask him the questions. Look him in the eye.”
“You? You’re going to go see Donomar?” I couldn’t hold in a surprised laugh.
She carefully lined her thin lips with lipstick. “Of course I am, Keaton. Do you really expect me to file a motion to release a convicted killer on death row because a couple of people have told me some good stories? You know better than that.” She snapped her compact shut.
I guess I did. I just thought Pierce’s story would be convincing enough. I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair, hoping I had as much as I did yesterday, which wasn’t that much. “Fine. I’ll set something up.”
“Sooner than later, Spade.”
“Tomorrow. First thing.” I headed to the door. “You want me there?”
“You think I’m scared of that sick excuse for a human being?”
I loved the irony of how Caladaras, a lifelong prosecutor, lived her life on the defensive. It made her more of a woman than she cared to admit. “No, Esther,” I said smoothly. “I just thought you might want a second opinion of the interview. And for some reason, Donomar likes me. He opened up to me once. It might make it easier if I were there.”
Esther clicked her nails against her hard cherrywood desk. “Fine. Be there. But I do the talking.”
I smiled and, as I opened the door to leave, said loud enough for her to hear, “You always do, Caladaras.”
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Esther Caladaras didn’t mess around. She even dressed for the occasion . . . an all-black, tightly tailored pantsuit that made her look like a man. Her hair was pulled tightly back, not a stray hair to be seen. A crisp stark blue shirt, visible only at the collar, was the only color on her clothing, and her lips seemed to have an extra dark layer of red on them. Her heels made her an inch taller than I am, not to mention that she carried herself tall anyway. I felt a little out of place in my faded khakis and short-sleeved white shirt. Then I remembered we weren’t going to some social event. We were going to see the most notorious serial killer our nation had ever known.
As the guard opened the final steel door, I found myself picking lint out of my pockets and wondering if Caladaras was dating anyone. She’d been divorced twice. Go figure. As we stepped into the corridor, she looked a little nervous. Though she was prepared to lead the way, she glanced back to see if I was behind her.
“Last cell on the left,” I said gently.
“Thank you.”
She walked slowly, confidently, and pretended not to notice the obscenities that were being yelled at her by the other prisoners, not because she was most likely the prosecutor that put them behind bars, but because she was a woman. I had called the afternoon before to try to arrange another way to see Donomar, stating to the warden that I didn’t feel it was a good idea for the state prosecutor to walk down the corridor by some of the most notorious killers around. The warden, not a fan of Caladaras’s, denied my request.
I hurried up a little and walked beside her, staring at all the men as hard as I could. The walk seemed endless, but finally we were at the end, a few cells away from the other prisoners. Donomar had his back turned to the front reinforced-glass window. He was tearing an article out of a newspaper.
Caladaras carefully studied him, and after a few seconds, though I knew Donomar knew we were there, I announced our arrival. “Dietrich.”
He turned around in his chair, a small smile on his face, his eyes never meeting mine. He was looking at Esther. “Hello, Counselor,” he said, setting his work down and standing as if he were greeting a dinner date. He tucked the shirttail of his prison uniform in.
Esther’s chin lifted and she folded her arms together. “Looks like you’re stirring up trouble again, Donomar.”
His smile remained and he approached the glass. “Well, if that’s what you want to call it. I’m assuming you’re here because of my conversation with Keaton.”
“I’m here, Donomar, because I want to know what you’re up to.” She sat down in a small plastic chair near the glass. I grabbed one next to the wall and sat, too. “I’m here because I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
Donomar seemed distressed. His eyes fell to the floor and he shook his head in a moment of private thought. Esther looked at me questioningly, to which I just shrugged and continued to watch Donomar. He never looked at Esther as he said, “I know. I’m not exactly sure how I can convince you. I just know that I’ve got to try.”
Esther swallowed and straightened her back. “Yes, well, you’re going to have to do a heck of a lot of convincing. You’re a liar by trade, Donomar. You confessed only when you were caught, and then, I suspect, only to brag about your killings.”
Donomar finally looked up, first glancing at me, and then her. “I was sorry to hear about your brother.” Esther started to say something, her face tense with anger, but Donomar continued. “I read about it in the papers a few years ago. A real tragedy. Should’ve never happened.” He paced along the glass. “Neither should this prosecution against Jerome Mitchner. The FBI can really screw things up, can’t they? No offense, Keaton.”
Esther drew in a tense breath. “Maybe since you can’t do any harm locked away in here, since you can’t kill anyone anymore, you’ve decided to make up some stories. Maybe this is your sick way of trying to get more attention. Or maybe in your delirious mind, you really want to be Roberts’s killer. But someone else did it and that made you mad. Which is it?”
I was watching Donomar carefully, hoping to see more signs of the breakdown I’d seen before. When we first arrived, I watched his thumbs. His notorious thumb twiddling was not to be seen. Now he looked sad as Esther listed off the possible scenarios surrounding his strange confession. He just watched her, and when she ended, he seemed speechless.
“Well?” she breathed after a minute or so of silence. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
Donomar went to his desk and sat down, his head lowered and his body slumped. Finally, he looked up at Esther, and for the first time I thought I saw a real flicker of humanity in him. It startled Esther so much she glanced at me with wide eyes. “Esther, if you don’t want to believe me, I can understand that. But there’s more than what you think about me at stake here. I can’t change your opinion about me. I know that. I’m not trying to. All I know is that there’s an innocent man on death row. That’s all I know.”
Esther buttoned her jacket, flattened the flaps on her pockets, bit her bottom lip, and then stood, indicating with a dart of her eyes toward me that I should stand also.
“Thanks for coming,” Donomar said as Esther began to leave. “I hope you can see what an error the FBI made.”
Esther had taken a few steps back down the corridor, but then she turned around, about knocking me over, and walked straight back to his cell. Pointing her finger at him, she said, “The thing I regret about the FBI is that they persuaded a weak group of people to keep you alive. That’s the biggest mistake they ever made.”
I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, unsure of what Esther was thinking. It sounded as if Donomar had not convinced her that Mitchner was innocent. As the guard unlocked all the doors, and as we passed through each one, I tried to study her, get some sort of clue to what she was thinking. At that moment, Donomar was easier to read than she was.
When we reached the lobby, a stale mix of cement, cheap tile, and an endless stench of cigarette smoke, Esther let out an enormous sigh toward the ceiling, reached in her jacket pocket for her cigarettes and lighter, and with trembling hands managed to light the end and suck in all at once. She swallowed the smoke and took another puff before eyeing me.
“What are you staring at, Spade?”
“You all right?” I asked, making a deliberate glance at her trembling hand.
Smoke escaped from her nostrils. “I get irritated when people talk about Glen. They don’t know. They say, ‘Sorry to hear about your brother.’ They just don’t know what it’s like to lose . . .” Her words trailed off in a soft echo against the cement walls, and she flicked her ash onto the ground. “Anyway, I think I got what I needed.”
“You believe him?” I asked anxiously.
Her eyes deliberately narrowed as the smoke rose from her cigarette and hovered in front of her face. I felt short of breath, but it seemed to calm her more. “No. I don’t. But I think we’ve got enough evidence without him. The FBI obviously covered up here. We’ve got someone to testify to that. And we’ve got someone, although not someone reliable, saying he’s the killer.” She moved the cigarette between her fingers with her thumb. “I wish we had some of that evidence left. We could do some DNA tests—maybe come up with something definitive.”
I grabbed her at the elbow and leaned in closer to her. “Esther, just shoot straight with me. Is this enough?”
Esther pressed her lips together and then threw her cigarette to the floor, smashing it underneath her heel. “Every person I’ve ever gotten a conviction on I thought to be guilty. Do you understand that? I thought Mitchner was guilty.”
I looked her square in the face. “This can’t be about pride. We’re talking the life of a man here.”
She nodded in a rare humbleness. “Let’s go to my office. I’d like to look over the details one more time, discuss this with Jack, and then I’ll make my decision.”
“Let me go get the car.”
We’d parked out back, in a secured area, but I told her I would drive around and meet her on the front steps. She’d agreed it would be less of a walk. As I pulled around the corner, I was astonished to see a crowd of photographers on the front step, and Esther pushing her way through.
Flashing light bulbs mixed with what sounded like hundreds of voices yelling out questions. I saw Esther curse under her breath and shove through bodies twice as big as her. I was thankful the windows in her car were tinted, but I cracked the passenger’s-side window so I could hear what was going on.
“Is Jerome Mitchner really innocent?”
“What evidence do you have to support this?”
“Is it true that you’re reopening this case because of the cases in Oklahoma and Texas where they executed three innocent men?”
“How deeply involved is the FBI in this?”
“No comment! No comment!” Esther growled as she pushed her way through more reporters. I saw her actually elbow a skinny photographer in the ribs when he tried to jump in front of her and take her picture. Esther had always had problems with the press. They’d never placed her in a favorable light, especially since she seemed determined to put every killer to death and usually got her way. She was portrayed as icy and inhumane and had had more than her share of death threats, though she refused a bodyguard. It never helped that she always seemed to have an unkind word for any reporter who might dare get in her way or question her decisions. “You animals! Don’t you have a life?” She jumped in the car and I took off, our tires squealing against the pavement.
She pounded her hand against the inside of the door, then looked at me, her eyes wide with fire. “Would you like to tell me where that came from?”
“Me?” I glanced back to see the crowd of reporters starting to disperse from in front of the prison. “What do I have to do with it?”
“Well someone leaked something, and I haven’t told anyone about this.”
“It wasn’t me, Esther. I swear. I hate the press.”
“Then Pierce—”
“No, no. He’d never do that. There’s got to be someone else.”
Esther didn’t say another word as we drove to her office. Inside, she flipped on the TV and paced her office. “This is all I need!”
I didn’t have anything to say, so I just stared at the TV, hoping the noon news wouldn’t report anything, at least on the front end of the newscast. We weren’t so lucky, however. It was Channel Seven’s leading story. The blonde in the pink suit, who didn’t look smart enough to know all fifty states, led the hour with a “report that District Attorney Esther Caladaras may be looking to get a ruling overturned on convicted killer Jerome Mitchner. The preliminary information we’re getting right now is that Mitchner may be innocent of the killing of Manuel Roberts in 1989, for which he was sentenced to death, a sentence all too familiar to those who follow DA Caladaras’s track record.”
“Oh, shut up, you stupid bimbo,” Esther snapped at the TV
The gentleman with short, dark, outdated hair continued the report. “It has also been reported that this may be a result of three recent executions, two in Oklahoma and one in Texas, where DNA evidence later showed the men to be innocent of their crimes.”
Esther threw a pen across the room. “Why don’t you quote a source? How about that? Anyone do that anymore? Actually check their sources? You idiots!”
I listened to several more reporters give their opinion about the case, one from the steps of the prison where Donomar was. No one had actually mentioned Donomar yet, and one reporter stated they did not know why DA Caladaras had been at the federal prison, since Mitchner was, of course, in the state prison.
Esther took off her shoe and threw it at the TV set, her aim remarkably hitting the Power button and turning it off just as the weather report was about to get its plug.
With one shoe missing, Esther sat down at her desk, her jaw muscles protruding in anger, and said slowly, “Let’s look at the facts, shall we?”
“Sorry I’m late,” Kathy said, just as Jonathan wrapped up another chapter in Clyde’s manuscript. “Traffic was crazy.”
She adjusted the pale yellow sweater she wore and smoothed out the wrinkles in her long floral skirt. She looked stunning, a spring flower in the midst of a dark winter. Jonathan took his briefcase off the chair and pulled it out for her. “Are you going somewhere after this?”
She brushed her hair off her shoulders. “No. Why? Have you ordered coffee yet?”
Jonathan got the attention of a waitress and said, “You just look like you’re dressed up for something.”
“I am. You.” She smiled warmly as the waiter approached.
Jonathan blushed a little and, cocking his head to the side, said, “I’m assuming a regular caramel latte with skim milk and a dash of cinnamon?”
She twirled her hair with one finger. “Uh-huh. And you, of course, will be having an espresso.”
The waitress jotted down their order as Kathy gazed into the fireplace. “We loved coffees long before they were ever popular, didn’t we?”
Jonathan laughed and looked around. “We probably need coffee more than most.”
She laughed and said, “You haven’t told me how your lunch with Naomi was yesterday.”
Jonathan paused. Had he told her he went to see Naomi? They hadn’t even discussed his day, had they? Not that he recalled. Was Edie lying when she pretended not to know where he was? Had Edie told her? “Um . . . Edie told you I went to see Naomi?”
Kathy pulled sugar packets from the holder. “Who else could take you away from the office for so long?” She glanced up at him with a smile. “Plus, I saw it on your desk calendar.”
“Ah.” He breathed out. “It was nice. She looks great.”
“I hope you told her hello for me.” She sighed and propped her head up with her hand, her elbow resting on the table. “Sophie had a terrible night last night. I was up and down all night with her. She even threw up once. She seemed great this morning, but I’m exhausted. Susie came by to take Sophie for an hour, to give me a break, so I could come have coffee with you.”
Jonathan suddenly became very aware of the situation. Kathy had made a special effort to get dressed and look nice for this meeting. Yet she had been up with Sophie several times during the night, so maybe she saw something. Jonathan had obviously slept like a rock. But maybe she had heard something. Dare he ask? Now? As she sat across from him, her full attention fixed on him, her face as delicate as a dandelion?
Luckily the waitress returned with their coffee to fill in the awkward silence left by Jonathan’s reluctant pondering. All Jonathan could think about, though, was that he had to get Kathy and the girls out of the house. As much as he wished he could embrace this time together and have a wonderful lunch with Kathy, he knew more important things stood in the way. He would have to be direct with her from the beginning.
She sipped her latte. “Mmm. Perfect for a cold day like today.” She peeked at him over the rim of her mug. “Brings back good memories, being here. Doesn’t it?”
Pouring the espresso down his throat, only half aware of how hot it was, he nodded and gulped it all at once. Then, just out of nervousness, he flagged down the waitress for another one.
“Boy, you must really be tired,” Kathy said, taking another sip. Her flat tone reflected a bit of suspicion.
Jonathan pretended to be interested in a couple standing nearby, but then resolved himself to the fact that he wasn’t getting out of this one, no matter how smoothly he played it. He shut his eyes for a moment of clarity before turning to look directly at her.
