Ghost writer, p.24
Ghost Writer, page 24
Another page followed, and he felt he barely had enough strength to read it. He just wished this was all over . . . his “fling” with Sydney, his troubles with Kathy, this mysterious manuscript. He wanted it all to end. But he knew his wishes weren’t about to come true. He reluctantly turned the page and continued to read.
His talk with Sydney was interrupted when Clyde Baxter showed up in Sydney’s office. There was an uncomfortable silence and then Clyde explained he was on his way back from the bathroom and wanted to talk to Jonathan about his book.
Jonathan angrily left Sydney’s office, furious Clyde had caught him and Sydney. Clyde offered to come back another time, and Jonathan insisted, “It’s not what you think.” He asked how long Clyde had been standing there, and Clyde answered, “Long enough.” Jonathan told him again that it wasn’t what he thought and Clyde left.
Then Nellie came in, furious Jonathan had missed an important meeting. That was when Jonathan lost it. He threw things to the ground, making matters with Nellie worse. Nellie told him he needed to take some time off, but Jonathan insisted he was okay and that he had two good book proposals for the next editorial meeting. Though not convinced of his well-being, Nellie decided to leave anyway, though she did tell him not to be too proud to ask for help.
After his long day, with a few brief phone calls with authors and agents, he came home and took a nap for two hours. He ate dinner—chicken, carrots, peas, and salad—with his family, and afterward Kathy asked him to take the trash out. In doing so, he discovered these pages to his story.
Jonathan stood, his chair shooting backward and crashing into the wall. Was he going insane? How in the world could someone possibly know that he would go home, take a nap, eat chicken for dinner, take out the trash, and find these pages? Was the writer now predicting his future? Impossible! Yet, here it was, sitting in front of him!
“There has to be a reasonable explanation,” Jonathan said as he leaned against the wall of his study. His knees buckled and he slid down the wall onto the floor, a quiet heap of nerves and numbness. The details of his evening—the nap, the dinner, the trash—were too precise to be coincidence. Was the writer in his basement, watching every move and typing it out as he lived it? He looked up at the ceiling. Was the writer upstairs in their bedroom? He thought hard about who might know his day’s events. Maybe Kathy had sneaked into his office and hidden somewhere . . . was it possible? Or maybe she was just outside his office. Wait. No. She had called on her cell phone. He’d heard traffic in the background. She had definitely been on the road, far from the action in his office. What about Edie? Had Edie turned on his speakerphone in his office without his knowing and listened quietly? He didn’t know how it was possible. The speakerphone beeped when someone turned it on from another phone. He shook his head. Besides, neither of them could know everything that was in the manuscript. No suspect made complete sense.
Jonathan managed to gather himself up off the ground and stand long enough to push the pages back into the envelope. Just as he was deciding where to hide them until he could take them to his office in the morning, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Kathy rounded the corner to his office as he slid the envelope into an unlocked drawer of his desk. Jonathan switched his reading lamp off, making the room pitch-black other than the line of moonlight escaping through the curtains onto the floor.
Kathy crossed through the light, enough time for Jonathan to see she had changed into her gown and gotten ready for bed.
“Jonathan?” she said, her voice quietly concerned. “Is everything okay?”
“Just finishing up some work.”
Kathy tightened the silk robe she had over her gown and self-consciously messed with her hair as they came into the moonlight. “Oh, okay.”
“I’ve got to read more of Clyde’s book. I’m behind.” He went back to his desk and turned the light back on.
Kathy scratched her head for a moment and mumbled, “Um, okay.” She took three steps back and turned. “I’ll wait for you upstairs.”
Jonathan swallowed and nodded, the most he could do since he felt as if he might collapse. Kathy headed on up, and Jonathan sat dumbfounded for thirty minutes, not moving a single muscle. His mind clicked through the events of his day as if taking inventory, but he got stuck on Nellie’s untimely entrance into his office. He didn’t feel like reading anything, but he still had a family and barely had a job, so he figured he should probably grind out a few more pages of Clyde’s manuscript, though he’d managed to get some reading done at the office. He took it out of his briefcase and opened to where he’d left off. He found where the DA, Esther Caladaras, had decided that there was enough evidence to let Jerome Mitchner off of death row.
It had been four days since we had visited Donomar in jail. Esther had wanted some time alone, I suppose to get away from my relentless pleading. I spent my days at the office, hoping my name wouldn’t be leaked to the press. We still had not discovered who had leaked the story initially. At nights, I watched the news coverage, which had now exploded as the top story on every station and even occasionally as “breaking news.”
The media was having a heyday with the story, doing interviews with death-row inmates in Texas and Oklahoma, and profiling the district attorneys for both cities where the innocent men had been executed.
My prayer was that Esther wouldn’t get caught up in the media’s depiction of her as a heartless feminist whose convictions were as “deep as a puddle,” but that she would look at the facts. The facts spoke for themselves.
It was noon on Thursday, and I was eating Chinese takeout, picking the little pieces of egg out of my fried rice and watching the news, when the anchor’s lead line made me sit up in my chair.
“Today, we have new information on the case involving death-row inmate Jerome Mitchner, whose case is being reviewed by the DA’s office. About ten minutes ago, District Attorney Esther Caladaras announced in a brief news conference outside the state courthouse that she would be filing a motion to have all charges against Jerome Mitchner dropped.” I stood up, my Chinese tumbling onto the coffee table. The anchor cut to footage of Esther at the news conference.
“I believe there is significant evidence to indicate that Mr. Mitchner was wrongly convicted and that the true killer of Mr. Roberts is Dietrich Donomar, the notorious serial killer, who is now serving life without parole in the federal penitentiary. We have filed our motion and are awaiting word back from Judge Barry.”
The press screamed questions, and Esther backed away from the microphone and was escorted away.
“Ms. Caladaras, do you feel the state owes Mr. Mitchner an apology?”
“What evidence is there that Donomar is the killer?”
Esther never looked back and then the TV cut back to the anchor, who continued with the many unanswered questions, none of which I waited around to hear.
A month later, Judge Barry ruled that there was significant evidence to release Jerome Mitchner, and he walked out of prison a day before his scheduled execution.
Esther must’ve been expecting my visit, because I had no trouble getting to her office after being cleared by security. The door was open, and when I entered she had her feet propped up on her desk and was just finishing off a cigarette.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said with a smile and then slid her feet off her desk and punched out her cigarette into the ashtray.
“I heard it on the news,” I said and walked straight up to her desk. “Thank you.”
“Well, Keaton,” she said, “it wasn’t about you. It was about doing the right thing. Despite what the media might think of me, I am out for justice and that’s it. When justice isn’t served, I blame myself. Do you understand that?”
“Of course, Esther,” I said and sat down. “We all feel that way.” I crossed my legs and said, “Not all DAs would admit they were wrong, though.”
She laughed at me and said, “I wasn’t wrong, Keaton. The evidence at the time proved otherwise. A jury confirmed that. It’s just that now evidence has emerged that requires additional attention.”
I shook my head and said, “Right. Well, whatever the case may be, an innocent man is free. And that’s what counts.” I stretched my neck, trying to relieve it of the accumulated stress of over twenty years on the job, and said, “I wonder how long it will take for the rest of the story to leak. The details about the FBI’s screw-up. You’ve kept a tight lid on all this, and so has the judge.” Esther shrugged, and I continued with my questions. “So I suppose Mitchner was a pretty happy man today?”
Esther nodded, seemingly sad and peaceful all at once. “Yes. He walked out of that prison with only his shoes, jeans, and a shirt. Not even socks. But I guess freedom means more than possessions.” She laughed a little. “He came up to me and shook my hand. He didn’t seem angry. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Did he say anything?”
“Not really. He had a letter with him he wanted to give to some Joseph James guy on death row. Don’t know why he didn’t just give it to him while he was in there, but my assistant assured him it would be taken care of. And that’s all that was said. I called him a taxi, gave him twenty bucks, and that was it.”
Just then an assistant DA tapped on the door and walked in with a white envelope in his hand. “Sorry to disturb you, Esther, but I thought you should take a look at this.”
“What is it, Jack?” she said as he handed it to her.
“We’re not exactly sure. It’s from Dietrich Donomar. Addressed to you. It’s been cleared of any harmful substances. It’s perplexing, actually. We thought you might know what it meant.”
Esther’s eyes lingered on the ADA for a moment and then she pulled a single white sheet of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it. She stared at it, glanced at both of us, and then stared at it again.
“What is it?” I asked, throwing my hands up in the air in frustration over her silence.
Esther Caladaras, in her usual hard, unpredictable manner, lit another cigarette, never taking her eyes off the page again. Her eyes narrowed as the smoke rose between her and the paper. Finally Jack stepped forward.
“Do you know what it means?” he asked.
Esther again was quiet. Her face had hardened right in front of me, and then she looked up with eyes as hot as burning coals. Even Jack lowered his head and stepped back out of the way.
“What, Esther?” I demanded in an unusually stern tone. Curiosity was getting the best of me.
Esther simply handed me the sheet of paper as she continued to smoke. I took it from her, glanced at Jack, and then looked at it. Written, with crayon, in the center of the piece of paper was the name Special Agent Nathan Hall.
“Who is this?” I asked, handing the paper back to her. She laughed suddenly, very hard, making Jack and me shift uncomfortably. Finally she laid her cigarette down in the ashtray as gingerly as one would a baby and picked up the phone.
“What’s Pierce’s number?”
“Pierce’s number?” I stepped closer. “What do you need that for? Who is this Hall guy? I don’t know him.”
“I don’t know him, either. But I have a feeling Pierce Jenkins knows him. What’s his number, Keaton?” Her face was bright, but her eyes were dark and hateful. I paused and then reluctantly told her the number. She put the phone on speaker and after five long rings, the phone was answered.
“Hello?” It was Pierce. Esther nodded at me to do the talking.
“Um, hi . . . Pierce . . . it’s Keaton.”
“Keaton! Hi. I’ve been watching the news. Looks like it all worked out. Mitchner’s out of jail.”
“Yes.” I wanted to be happy about that fact, but something in Esther’s mood told me not to gloat. “Listen, I have a name of an agent here. Could be FBI. I wanted to see if you knew him.”
“All right.”
“Special Agent Nathan Hall?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, enough of one for each of us to look at the other while waiting for a response.
“Pierce? You there?”
“Yeah. Why do you want to know?”
“It’s just a name we’ve come across. You know him?”
“Yeah. I know him.”
“Who is he?”
Another pause and then, “He was an agent I worked with.”
“Is he still with the FBI?”
“Uh, no.” A short pause with a nervous laugh preceded the next statement. “He’s in jail.”
I swallowed hard. Esther hung her head, and Jack just looked stunned and confused.
“For what?” I asked, pretty confused myself.
“Possession of narcotics.”
I looked up at Esther, not knowing where this was leading and wondering what question I should ask next. Esther pressed her lips together and, while looking at me, said, “Pierce, it’s Esther. What prison is he at?”
Pierce paused and then said, “The federal pen. Here.”
I was still confused and didn’t know why Donomar would send Esther that name. Esther smiled, a smile that would fit a demon, and never taking her eyes off of me, she said, “Pierce, let me ask you something. Please tell me the truth.”
“Okay.”
“Was Agent Hall involved in the Manuel Roberts case?”
A suffocating hesitation blared through the phone. Finally, Pierce said, “Yes. He was one of the agents who knew about it.”
“Thank you, Pierce.” Esther hung up the phone and then threw it across the room, nearly missing Jack.
“Esther, what the—” Jack said as he finished ducking.
“What’s going on here?” I was angry that I wasn’t following.
Esther stood and looked as if she could’ve used a good piece of tough leather to chew on. She finally turned to me and yelled, “You don’t get it, Keaton? Can’t you see what’s happened here? Donomar didn’t kill Roberts! He got his information from Nathan Hall! He knew we wouldn’t figure out that Hall was there or make that connection! He tricked us! We released a guilty man!”
I stumbled back, trying to make sense of it all. Esther was pacing furiously behind her desk, cussing and screaming all at once as she—
A soft thud, coming from somewhere in the kitchen, startled Jonathan. He stood and switched off his reading lamp. He slowly walked into the kitchen, holding tightly on to the edge of the counter. The small light above the sink, the only light on in the kitchen, cast odd shadows across the walls and floor. Suddenly the darkness scared him. Chills ran up and down his spine. He noticed the door to the pantry was cracked, and he thought he saw the door open a little more. With an outstretched hand, he slid a couple of feet across to the pantry, held his breath, and threw open the door. A couple of packages of spaghetti hit the ground. He shrieked as he jumped three feet into the air.
Clutching his heart, he stooped down to get the spaghetti, then was sure he heard something in the garage, a thump and a shifting sound, like heavy shoes against cement. He thought of the gun in his office, but he was afraid if he went back to get it, whoever was there might go out the side door and be gone. His eyes focused on the doorknob. The door was unlocked, which was how they accidentally left it over half the time. He tried to remember if it had been locked earlier in the evening. His ears strained to listen for any other sound.
As he touched the doorknob he heard it again, a shifting sound like feet dragging against cement. He held his breath so he wouldn’t make any sound, counted to three, and swung the door open into the dark garage. His trembling hand searched for the hard-to-reach light switch, and after two or three tries he finally flicked it on.
The single light bulb poorly illuminated the area, but it was lit well enough to see at first glance that nobody was standing where they could be seen. Jonathan’s first instinct was to check the cars. He carefully stepped down the cement stairs, and with his right hand grabbed a hammer hanging on the tool wall. He tiptoed across the pavement to his SUV. The doors were locked, which he remembered doing, and since the windows were tinted, he carefully stooped down and looked under his car, then turned to look under Kathy’s. He jumped up, his heart racing so fast it hurt, and peered into Kathy’s car. Nothing.
Then he saw the door that led out into the backyard. It was open two feet. The air from outside helped him breathe a little easier. Though they never locked that door, it usually remained closed, unless the girls had been playing in the backyard and Kathy had locked the back patio door. Then they would come in through the garage, usually leaving the door open.
Jonathan’s hand tightened around the hammer, and his eyes quickly scanned the garage for a flashlight. He kept a flashlight in every room of the house except the garage. He could see the backyard grass from where he was standing, and it was bright from the moonbeam. He decided he could proceed without a flashlight.
He moved against the wall of the garage, came to the door, opened it farther, and looked around what he could see of the yard. He thought he heard footsteps crunching in the leaves but decided it could just as well be the wind moving them, though the wind had to be low because the tops of the trees were quietly still.
He rounded the corner with his back against the outside of the house. Now he could see his entire backyard, and it was as if God had shone His own flashlight into the yard. It was fully illuminated by the moon’s light, and after a few seconds, the wind picked up the leaves in a small whirlwind and shuffled them along the ground, as though God Himself were strolling through their grass.
