You Think You Know Me Pretty Well (26 page)
Read You Think You Know Me Pretty Well Online
Authors: David Kessler
“Not for much longer unless we get a move on.”
“Okay, but at the time she wrote this, assuming it was before she went to England, it was never in question that he wasn’t. And that means that it’s addressed to someone other than Burrow. But at the same time, it’s clear from the language and the tone that she has a grievance against this person. She blames this person for making her suffer.”
“I see what you mean. In fact, when I asked Jonathan about why he said that Dorothy got a raw deal from her mother, he came back with a rather cryptic reply. He said ‘there are sins of omission as well as commission.’”
“Yes,” David persisted, “but this isn’t about a sin of omission. You can tell from the language that this isn’t just someone who
let
her suffer. This is addressed to someone who actively
made
her suffer. But that’s not all. I found another two verses. Just listen to this: ‘Because I was too young to understand / You were only trying to set me free / You didn’t really want to change me / You wanted an alternative reality / You wanted to turn back the clock.’ That’s
one
verse. And then the next. ‘And resurrect a child of three / But I saw things differently / My needs were shaped more selfishly / I had to escape my cell / I had to escape my shell / And find my own path to liberty.’ That’s it.”
“Good work, David.”
“So
is
it significant?”
There was something about that line ‘and resurrect a child of three” that rang a bell in Alex’s mind.
“Edgar Olsen lost a child of three in a traffic accident,” Alex said, thinking out loud.
“Edgar Olsen being?”
“Dorothy’s father. He had a child by his first marriage and the boy was killed in a car accident.”
“That’s interesting because there
was
one other thing.”
“What?”
“Well note the variations in the rhyming pattern. It always rhymes round the sound ‘ee’ but in different places depending on which verse – something that a poetry critic would probably analyze to death.”
“I thought you weren’t into all that ‘liberal arts crap’ – as you used to call it.”
“I’m not. I am, however, a scientist with a methodical approach and I did some checking on the internet.”
“Let’s hear the punchline.”
“I found a poem by Sylvia Plath with a similar five-line structure and irregular rhyming pattern built round a single vowel phoneme. It’s called ‘Daddy’.”
Susan White was going through a crisis of conscience. Stuart had promised her that he would try to get some sort of legal clearance or assurance that they could disclose the information and then call her back. But since then she had heard nothing ... and the silence was deafening.
Was it because the answer he got from his advisers was negative? Or hadn’t he even bothered to seek advice?
He probably went back to sleep!
She wondered if she dared call him back. She had been afraid to before. Butnow she realized that she had nothing to be afraid of. If he was awake and still working on it, he could hardly blame her for asking for an update. If he was asleep and got angry with her she could take him to task for breaking his promise – especially with a life on the line.
She could, perhaps, justify it by telling him that she had additional information. Since they last spoke, the woman from the law firm had revealed the fact that they knew about how much money Dorothy had handed over to them.
That’s it! He can’t blame me for that!
She pressed the quick-dial key for Stuart’s home number. It rang seven times before being picked up. During every one of those rings, Susan came perilously close to hanging up.
How would he react to being called at this time?
But she held her nerve. She kept telling herself that she had justice on her side.
“Hallo!” said an angry, female voice. Stuart’s wife had answered. This was what Susan had been afraid of –
one
of the things at any rate.
“Hallo, could I speak to Stuart – Mr. Lloyd?”
“Who
is
this?”
“It’s Susan White … from the medical center.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Lloyd said he’d call me back. It’s urgent.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s a matter of life and death.”
She didn’t know how much Stuart had told his wife, but she figured she owed this woman at least
some
explanation.
“He’s gone to sleep.”
“To
sleep
?”
“Yes, to sleep! It’s … nearly two in the morning.”
“But it’s eight hours before that in California.”
“What’s California got to do with it?”
She realized that Stuart hadn’t told his wife anything.
“Who is it?” said a tired, disoriented man’s voice in the background.
“It’s no one. Go back to sleep.”
When Susan heard these words, she was furious. She realized what was going on. But she wasn’t sure how to handle it. Mrs. Lloyd evidently didn’t know about the man on death row. She didn’t realize that Susan had meant it literally when she had said it was a matter of life and death.
She must think I’m just a hysterical nurse.
The truth of the matter, she realized, was that it was with Stuart that she should really be angry.
He
was the one who had broken a promise.
He
was the one who knew the score yet had chosen to do nothing about it.
He
was the one who was turning a blind eye while a man’s life hung in the balance.
Susan realized that if she could explain the latest developments to Stuart he might change his mind. The call from America telling them not to pass on the information … then the call from the law firm revealing that they knew about the forty thousand pounds. But she couldn’t tell him unless she could speak to him and she couldn’t speak to him unless she could get past the gatekeeper.
She considered telling Mrs. Lloyd about the man on death row, the phone calls, everything. Stuart would be furious and it would be a flagrant breach of confidence. If Stuart hadn’t told his wife about the case, then it was hardly Susan’s place to do so. But if she didn’t tell her then she would never get to him.
Any way she looked at it, her choice was simple: let an innocent man die or make her boss extremely angry – and she wasn’t ready to let an innocent man die. But if she was going to make him angry, why do it with a half-baked gesture? Why not make sure that her action at least yielded the right result?
In that moment she decided what to do.
“Okay, I’m sorry for disturbing you, Mrs. Lloyd.”
“Good
night
!”
Susan put the phone down. The time for talking was over. She went to the office and sat down at one of the computers. She was never much of a typist, but the computer had a word processing program and it was easy to correct errors. The letter she typed stated the dates when Dorothy had been at the medical center, both her arrival and discharge. She decided not to mention anything about the money or medical details. The woman had said they only needed the dates.
But the letter needed the authority of the medical center to ensure that it would be taken seriously by the courts in America. That meant it had to be on the medical center’s letterhead. But it also needed one other thing: the imprimatur of someone in a
position
of authority. And a nurse, even a senior nurse, hardly carried the gravitas to convince a US court to cancel an execution at the eleventh hour.
No, it needed the signature of a senior figure at the medical center. And who could be more senior than the Chief Administrator? Using her anger, at the thought of injustice, to overcome her trepidation, Susan typed the name “Stuart Lloyd” at the foot of the letter. And, just to make sure that she didn’t give them an excuse to say it arrived too late, she put the date of the 14
th
instead of the 15
th
, this being the date in the United States. Then she hit “print”.
As soon as it came out, she grabbed it and put it on the desk to sign.
“Is everything all right?”
Susan practically jumped out of her skin in shock. It was Danielle, the young nurse who had only started on the ward two months ago. She was standing by the door, looking at Susan with a puzzled expression.
“Oh yes … everything’s fine.”
Danielle still looked concerned, but at least she showed no sign of suspicion.
“Oh … okay. Well, look, if you need anything, just let me know.”
Susan watched, her heart pounding, as Danielle stepped back and closed the door. She waited to give Danielle time to walk away and then returned her attention to the letter. She held the pen poised over the space for the signature, racked with last-minute indecision. It was a crime. Regardless of motive, forgery was forgery. At minimum it would get her sacked and at maximum it could land her in prison. They would ask her why she didn’t simply give her own signature. They would make it look as if she signed his name in order to hide her own identity and cover up her breach of ethics, rather than to impart more authority to the letter. She would be vilified and her motives questioned.
No matter… at least an innocent life would be spared. It was the right thing to do.
Fighting to control her shaking hand, she signed “Stuart Lloyd” at the bottom of the letter. This was no illegible scribble – she didn’t want to give them any excuse to doubt the authenticity of the signature or the letter – it was clearly signed in a neat, legible script.
She took it over to the fax machine and inserted it in the input feed. Then she keyed in the number from the fax that the lawyers had sent requesting information. She hesitated again just before pressing the green button. She closed her eyes and stabbed the button. Her lungs remained full while the tones of the number and the almost musical tone of the two fax machines “handshaking” rang out. The paper slid slowly into the machine and the light scanned across it, emitting a green glow from the edges of the scanner plate.
Only when the final bleep indicated that the connection had ended and the words “transmission complete” appeared on the liquid crystal display, did she resume normal breathing.
She looked at her watch. In ten minutes her work shift would be over and she could go home with a clear conscience.
“I got here as quickly as I could, Mrs. Olsen.”
“I know.” The voice was weak. “You are a good man, Mr. Sedaka. Even though it might seem to you that we are enemies, I know you are a good man.”
Alex was embarrassed. Everything about this woman made him feel uncomfortable… no, not really uncomfortable… just self-conscious.
“Mrs. Olsen, I’m afraid I haven’t really made any progress with Clayton Burrow.”
“I know,” she said gently and gave Alex a weak but reassuring smile to make it clear to him that she was not chiding him for his failure.
“Clayton Burrow says he doesn’t know where your daughter is.”
“Does he still claim to be innocent?”
Alex was hesitant.
“Well I’m not really sure if…”
He trailed off when he saw Esther Olsen shaking her head. She looked awfully frail, much more frail than she had in Dusenbury’s office, much more frail indeed than he had expected. At first the doctors hadn’t even wanted to let him in to see her. But he pointed out that it was
she
who had asked for
him
and when they had advised her against it, she had insisted.
“He’s
still
denying the murder,” said Alex with a sigh.
Esther Olsen nodded in reluctant acceptance.
“But he has admitted something.”
A hint of a smile crept onto her face and she tried to sit up. But she dropped back onto the pillow, fatigued. Alex leaned forward.
“You’re too weak,” he said comfortingly. “Don’t try.”
“What did he say? What did he admit?”
“I don’t really know how to say this…”
“
Tell
me.”
What Alex said next could – at least in theory – have got him disbarred.
“He admitted to raping your daughter.”
Esther Olsen nodded slowly, as if accepting the solace of at least a partial admission.
“This is good,” she said, more to herself than to Alex. “This is good.”
“Mrs. Olsen … did you know about it? At the time, I mean?”
For the first time since they had met, Esther Olsen couldn’t hold Alex’s gaze. She looked away, almost guiltily.
“Mrs. Olsen?”
“We hardly spoke to each other.”
“I know that, Mrs. Olsen. But you were still living under the same roof as your daughter. Did you know?”
She nodded slowly.