Ghost writer, p.33
Ghost Writer, page 33
She pressed her lips into a smug smile. “Hate when that happens.”
“What about you? I notice you still haven’t given any interviews.”
She closed her carton of Chinese. “So they can slaughter me with unfair, agenda-driven questions? I don’t think so.”
“Aren’t you worried about what’s happening to your reputation?”
“I don’t care about my reputation. I do what I do because I’m good at what I do.”
“But if you execute an innocent man, isn’t that sort of a strike against your record?”
“I’m not going to execute an innocent man, Keaton,” she said, leaning back into her chair. “They’re both guilty. There’s nothing but a crazed serial killer to say otherwise.” Her forearms steadied her in her chair. “If Donomar hadn’t said a single thing about this, would these cases have ever been reviewed again? No.”
“But this is the evidence that makes these cases worth reviewing!” I threw up my arms but kept my tone light. She smiled graciously and sipped at her orange juice.
“In your opinion,” she said in a low, assured tone. “By the way, what did your agents turn up at Donomar’s cell?”
I cracked my knuckles in frustration. “Nothing. But,” I said, before she could gloat, “I know it’s there. It’s just a matter of finding it. One single clue. That’s it.”
She laughed out loud and flicked the ash off her newly lit cigarette. “Well, good luck and good riddance, partner.” Her western accent wasn’t funny at all. “I’m sorry, Keaton. I’m offending you.”
“How can you take this so lightly? An innocent man is going to die.”
“I told you, Keaton. Not in my opinion.”
Suddenly Jack entered. His expression was grim. “Esther, I’m afraid you may want to turn your TV on.”
Esther hesitated and then hit her remote. Channel Seven came up, and Jack stepped in and closed the door. Governor Wallace was being interviewed by Jane Pauley.
“Well, Jane, I think that it’s naturally the right thing to do.”
“Are you in any way, Governor Wallace, being influenced by political pressure? Whether good or bad?”
“No, Jane. I believe that this case warrants a good look, and that’s what I intend to do, even if DA Caladaras says otherwise.”
“The majority of the people in your state are for capital punishment. However, more people have joined this crusade since the execution of the three innocent men in Oklahoma and Texas. Does that have any impact whatsoever on your decision to look into this case?”
“None whatsoever, Jane. I just want to do the right thing.”
Esther punched off the TV and screamed, “He’s lying! He’s folding! I can’t believe this!” She kicked her chair out of the way and it rolled three feet to the side. “The man has no guts! Everyone knows he’s for capital punishment! What in the world is he doing?”
“Winning votes,” Jack offered cautiously.
“I know that!” Esther fumed. “Get Marty on the phone. And get Ann Simon, too. And Steve Jarr.”
Jack paused, as if wondering how he could do that all at once, then left the room quickly.
“Get out, Keaton. I’ve got to stop this madman.”
I walked to the door and said, “You’re going after the wrong one.”
Two days later, in the late afternoon, the news broke. Governor William Wallace had made his decision. He called a news conference as the whole world seemed to be watching. I turned on the television in my apartment and sat breathlessly as the governor approached the microphone, obviously wearing a ton of makeup to cover his ruddy complexion.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming. As all of you know, yesterday afternoon I decided to review the cases involving Joseph James and Lincoln Smith. I want all of you to rest assured I did not do this on my own. I brought in several experts from my own staff as well as men and women who are experts in this field. These are men and women from the FBI, from forensics, the sheriff’s department, attorneys, and others who helped me review all of the facts.
“I want you to know that I approached this with the mind-set that both of these men were guilty. Two courts of law and a jury of their peers convicted both of these men of murder.
“But, as we all know, our system can be flawed, and as this new evidence has surfaced, I believe, unlike DA Caladaras, we have an obligation to look into this matter. However, I also would like to make it very clear that we do not intend to play games, as it was put, with Mr. Donomar, as he is wishing to play with us. No one from my investigation team has talked with him or had any contact with him.
“What we have done, however, is reviewed his case file and all the information we have on him in order to link him to either of these murders. So, with all of that said, we would now like to inform you that we have found overwhelming evidence linking Dietrich Donomar to the murder of Mamie White.”
Applause and commotion caused the governor to pause and wait for silence. I fell to my knees in front of the TV. Joy and terror fought for control over my emotions. I couldn’t believe it had happened. They had found a man innocent. I waited as the governor hushed everyone.
“Please, everyone, please. Calm down. Thank you. Yes, thank you.” The governor situated his notes. “I do not have time to go into every detail of the investigation, but we will say that we do have evidence linking Mr. Donomar to that crime. We have evidence that he was in the city around the time Miss White was killed. And most importantly, we have testimony from a prisoner who will remain unnamed, confirming that Donomar was with Miss White the night she was killed.”
More commotion. I reminded myself to breathe.
“We will be releasing Mr. Smith in exactly one hour. Mr. James will be executed according to schedule, for the murder of Christy Krennel, at six o’clock this evening. And now, my assistant, Ardon Howell, will answer any further questions. Thank you.”
The governor backed away from the mikes and the assistant stepped up. As he was beginning to answer questions, I finally let out a sigh of relief. I had trusted my instincts for twenty years, but I also admitted when my instincts were wrong. I thought Lincoln Smith was lying. And maybe he was. Maybe he didn’t know what Donomar knew. But regardless, I had to trust this team of investigators to make the right judgment call. Surely that many people couldn’t make this big of a mistake.
I suddenly thought of Esther and quickly flipped through my small book of numbers for her direct line. I was amazed when she picked up the phone.
“Keaton. I knew it would be you.”
I gripped the phone tightly. “You’ve been watching the television.”
“Sure I have.”
“You don’t sound upset.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just fine. I love when the governor of our great state makes a fool of me in front of the national media. And boy, what confidence do I have in an investigation team made up by a man with an agenda. They probably sat around eating petits fours and drinking raspberry tea.”
“Esther, are you okay?” I asked. The sarcasm in her voice was disturbingly light.
“He’s going with the majority, you know. People who are for capital punishment are always scared of executing an innocent man. That’s part of the risk of capital punishment. But I don’t convict innocent men, Keaton. The governor is getting ready to release a murderer because the country’s scared. But I hope they remember to lock their doors tomorrow night when Lincoln Smith is released. That’s what they should be scared of.”
A silence crossed the phone lines, and I suddenly felt very sorry for Esther. “You want to go grab something to eat?” I offered.
I could hear her laugh on the other end. “No, Keaton. I don’t want to leave this office ever again. I’ve got to go.” The line went dead.
I sat on my couch awhile longer, wondering what I should do. I wanted to go to Donomar. I wanted him to show me his evidence. But I doubted I could get in to the prison with all the hype. Still, my curiosity was overwhelming.
I grabbed my car keys and opened the front door, and there, on top of my welcome mat, was a clean white envelope, sealed and addressed to “Keaton Spade.” I sighed, tired of the endless requests for interviews. I figured this was just another way of asking. A mysterious envelope that I just had to open. Well, I didn’t have time for it, so I grabbed it, stuffed it into my coat pocket, and ran down the steps of my apartment—
“We’re home!!!” Megan squealed, and Jonathan looked up just in time to see the moonlight accent the edge of their drive.
“That trip went by quickly,” Jonathan said, stretching his back as he put Clyde’s manuscript back in his briefcase and turned off the van’s reading light.
Kathy smiled. “You fell asleep halfway home—Jonathan?”
Jonathan looked up as Kathy pulled the van into the driveway. A small car sat in the driveway, and a shadowy figure stood in the darkness of their front porch.
“Pull up slowly,” Jonathan ordered and the girls grew quiet in the backseat.
“Jonathan, what—”
“Shh,” Jonathan said. “Stop the car here.”
Kathy stopped the van midway down the drive. Jonathan opened the door and Kathy grabbed his arm. “Wait. Jonathan, please.”
“It’s okay, Kathy. Lock the doors. I’m going to go see who it is. Stay put.”
Jonathan shut the door, wishing the van lights were shining on his front door. Instead, they cast shadows across it, and though he could see someone moving, he couldn’t see any more than that. He walked up the sidewalk cautiously, his heart stinging with fear, as he said, “Hello? May I help you?”
“Yes.” The voice belonged to a woman. Jonathan stopped as she stepped out into the moonlight. She appeared to be around thirty, with blond hair and a smooth, pretty face. She rubbed her hands together. “Are you Jonathan Harper?”
Jonathan immediately noticed a manila envelope tucked underneath her arm. His eyes darted to hers. “What do you want?”
She handed him the envelope and said, “I’m Penny Carmichael.”
“Who?” Jonathan said, looking at the envelope. The cold air was not allowing the perspiration on his forehead to escape.
“I type Mr. Baxter’s manuscripts for him.”
The large breath Jonathan let out froze instantly in front of him. “I’m sorry. Of course.” He shook her hand. “How are you?”
She sniffled and shrugged. “I’m so sad that Clyde is gone.” She looked up at Jonathan. “I just wanted you to have that.” She pointed to the envelope. “It’s the rest of the story Clyde was writing.”
Jonathan looked down at it. “Is it . . . ?”
“Finished? No. But that’s as much as he wrote. He delivered me his handwritten copy the night he . . . he . . .” She dug her foot into the snowy grass.
Jonathan took her hand. “Thank you, Penny, for bringing this to me.”
“You’re welcome,” she said in a choked voice. “If you’ll excuse me, my children are waiting in the car.”
“Of course.”
Penny moved past him and then Jonathan said, “Penny?”
“Yes?” she said, blowing into her hands.
“Was Clyde . . . was he . . . working on another story at the time? Were you . . . typing something else out for him?”
“No,” she said. “Have a good evening.”
Penny got in her car and backed out of the driveway and into the street. Jonathan looked down at the familiar manila envelope and pulled the pages out, throwing the envelope to the ground. If he could make one thing happen, it would be to never see another manila envelope the rest of his life.
chapter 23
The service was small and quiet, with a few select friends and three distant relatives of Clyde’s attending. Most everyone else was from the publishing house. Arnold Avery, Clyde’s pastor for forty-three years, identical in age to Clyde, led the service.
“Clyde was a man of honor, a man of integrity, a man whose own troubles he put behind himself in order to help others.” The pastor continued, over Nellie’s loud gasps and cries, to paint Clyde as a good friend, a creative genius, and a model Christian. Jonathan, Kathy, and the three girls sat in the front row.
Kathy was comforting Meg, but Jonathan could only stare blankly at the casket that held the body of his old friend. His former friend. He didn’t know what else to call him now. Maybe simply . . . his writer. In more ways than one, Jonathan added in silent sarcasm.
Earlier that morning Pastor Avery had asked Jonathan to say a few words about Clyde, including his fondest memories, and then read from some of his favorite passages out of Clyde’s novels.
“I don’t think I can do that,” Jonathan had replied. Pastor Avery cupped his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder.
“This must be so hard for you, Jonathan. I completely understand.”
Jonathan was glad the pastor hadn’t pressed him. He didn’t want to say the real reason he didn’t want to deliver a eulogy. Instead, now he sat five feet from the coffin of a man he thought he knew but apparently never understood.
“And today we can do nothing but rejoice in the life of Clyde Baxter and in the death of Clyde Baxter.” Pastor Avery gracefully paused as Nellie wept out loud and blew her nose with the fury of gale force winds. “We can rejoice because we know that right at this very moment Clyde is rejoicing as well. He is alive, you know. He is alive and in the presence of his Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ. And those of us who knew Clyde well knew that Clyde was more alive than most people. He was full of light and life—”
“I’ve never heard so much talk of being alive at a dead man’s funeral,” Jonathan whispered sarcastically in Kathy’s ear.
“Shh,” she ordered harshly, and Jonathan sighed and folded his arms over his chest.
“If you ever wondered why there was something different about Clyde, why his life seemed to shine a little brighter than other people’s, it was because he had something inside to live for. He served a wonderful Savior, and he did it with boldness.”
Yeah, Jonathan thought, he was so bold he had to send pages anonymously.
“And I must ask all of you today, because Clyde would want me to, if you died suddenly, just as he did, would you know where you would go? Would you go to heaven to meet your Maker? What would you say to Him once you got there?”
“What is this? A Billy Graham crusade?” Jonathan whispered again. Kathy shot him a look that quieted him immediately.
“Perhaps you go to church. Perhaps you’re a model family man or a dedicated housewife. Perhaps you are a professional of integrity. All of those things are great, but the question still remains—are you certain where you will spend eternity?”
Jonathan’s head pounded as hard as his heart. His chest cinched with tightness and the air around him seemed to vanish. He loosened his necktie, but it didn’t seem to help.
“When you stand before almighty God, you will give an account of your life. All the good. All the bad.”
Jonathan’s jaws tingled and his neck felt weak. Kathy glanced over at him and touched his face. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.
“I need some air,” he choked, then rose and made his way to the back of the room, passing Nellie’s hideous wails and a few curious stares. He bolted out the doors and into the cold morning air.
“Ahhh,” he said out loud, breathing the fresh air deeply into his lungs. He’d never felt that way before. He sat down on a cold stone bench and checked the pulse on his wrist to make sure his heart was still beating. He imagined this was what the beginning of a heart attack felt like.
After his lungs filled back up and the pressure in his chest relieved, he tried to hold back the mysterious tears that had so suddenly formed. Why was he crying? It certainly wasn’t because he was missing Clyde so badly. Perhaps the mystery of why Clyde had written all those pages still loomed on the horizon of his heart. So many questions were still unanswered.
But if he were completely honest with himself, all the talk of death and eternity wasn’t something he was comfortable with. The more he thought of eternity, the more he thought about his drinking and his feelings for Sydney. And, truth be known, all of eternity could be filled with the guilt he felt over those two things. Then add on to that the fact that he’d been an absentee husband and father over the last year. Eternity couldn’t possibly hold the shortcomings of his life.
Jonathan thirsted for a strong drink, but he cared too much about what Kathy would think. Then he wondered why he needed the drink at all. What could be solved by drowning it in a drink? He had committed himself to being a better father and husband, and hitting the booze wouldn’t take him any closer to either of those two things.
Through the heavy wood doors of the mortuary, the organ reverberated with Clyde’s favorite hymn, “Blessed Assurance.” The bird above him seemed to know it by heart and chirped in perfect rhythm with each verse. Before long, a few people were streaming out, walking across the sidewalk to the other building where the reception would be held. Jonathan stood and pretended to be interested in the ivy garden that lined the sidewalk.
When the crowd cleared a bit, he decided to go inside and find Kathy and the girls. Before he even had time to look, however, Nellie grabbed at his jacket and pressed her face into his chest.
“Ohhh, Jonnnn,” she sobbed. Jonathan looked around to see how big a scene she was making. Only a few people glanced over, recognized it was Nellie, and moved on without another thought. Jonathan gently patted her on the back. She gathered herself and blotted her face with a handkerchief.
“Are you okay?” she asked with insistence.
“I’m fine.”
She nodded. “I hate myself. I hate myself so much,” she said with a loud sniffle. “I loved Clyde with all my heart, but all I could think of during the whole service was how fast we’ve got to replace him. We’ve banked on him being with us longer, Jonathan. Do you understand that?” She looked around and in a whisper added, “We’ve spent money he was supposed to bring in for the next five years.” She folded her handkerchief five different ways before looking up at Jonathan with a tearful blink.
