Tell Me (19 page)

Along with the prisoner and the guard came, of course, Blondell’s new attorney, Jada Hill, who looked like some Hollywood producer’s idea of a smart, black woman who had clawed her way to the top. Dressed in a suit that probably cost half a month of Morrisette’s take-home pay, Jada Hill was thin and athletic-looking, with a defined jaw, mocha-colored skin, and a badass attitude that radiated from her.

“For the record,” Jada said, before the interview even got started, “my client maintains her innocence, as she has for the past twenty years. Her story hasn’t changed.” She smiled then, a grin that didn’t touch her dark eyes as she introduced herself, snapped open her briefcase, and slid a crisp business card across the table.

“We just want to hear her side of it,” Reed said affably, as if hoping to diffuse what promised to be a tense situation. “I wasn’t around during the original trial, so I’d like to ask a few questions of my own.”

Attorney Hill wasn’t about to be smooth-talked. “You’ve read her testimony and gone over her deposition?”

“Yes.” Reed nodded.

“So this is just a formality?” Blondell’s attorney clarified.

“I just want to hear it from her own lips, in her own words, as much as she can remember. As I said, I wasn’t a detective on the case at the time; in fact, I wasn’t even in the state of Georgia.”

“You have the records,” Hill pointed out again, but Blondell lifted a hand and in her soft-spoken Southern drawl said, “Of course, I’ll answer your questions, Detective. What is it you want to know?” She smiled easily, in a manner that was part innocence and part seduction, and Morrisette suddenly realized both were part of her personality. If she’d used her brain, she would have toned down the flirtatious glint in her dove-gray eyes, but she probably didn’t even know she was being coy.

“Just so we’re clear here,” Hill broke in. “I’m filing all the papers necessary to get my client released. I’ve already put a call in to the governor, and I’m sure that with Niall O’Henry recanting his testimony, and the egregious amount of time Ms. O’Henry has served, she will not only be released but compensated for losing twenty of the best years of her life, as well as her eldest daughter and grandchild, while being stripped of her right to raise her two remaining children.”

Reed held up a hand. “Save it for the governor or attorney general or district judge or whoever it is that needs to listen. All I want from your client at this time is to hear her side of the story firsthand.” Jada opened her mouth, thought better of it, then closed it tightly.

Turning his gaze directly to the prisoner, he said, “Okay, now that we all know where we stand, let’s start with your side of that night, in your own words.”

Blondell glanced at her lawyer, who gave a tight nod, then finally spoke. “It’s just as I said before. I took the kids out to the cabin for a break, so I could get my mind around what I thought would be the rest of my life. They were all inside, Niall and Blythe in the loft. Amity”—she blinked, cleared her throat, then went on—“was on a sofa bed downstairs in front of the fire. I was on the screened porch, listening to the rain, and I must’ve dozed off . . .”

And so the story went, nearly word-for-word what she’d testified to two decades earlier. She woke up, saw the stranger, and struggled with him, noting his tattoo in the semi-dark and so on and so forth.

Reed didn’t interrupt—nor, thankfully, did Jada Hill.

Morrisette realized that Blondell, whether speaking the truth or having rehearsed the story so often that now it rolled off her tongue like memorized lyrics, actually believed the tale she spun. In her early fifties, Blondell was still a striking woman. Despite her time in prison, her complexion was clear, her eyes bright, her smile, though fleeting, a little on the naughty side. Her small stature was trim and fit, and if anyone could pull off the unflattering prison garb, it was Blondell O’Henry, who looked fifteen years younger than she was.

Watching her partner’s reaction to arguably Savannah’s most notorious femme fatale, Morrisette finally understood the woman’s allure. To his credit, Reed was professional and respectful, but he listened with an intent, patient ear, a side of him Morrisette had seen very infrequently.

“. . . I really don’t remember much about the drive to the hospital or, once I got there, what was going on. I had a bullet in my arm, but I didn’t feel pain. I was pretty much a zombie. Traumatized, I guess,” Blondell said. “I did talk to the police and the nurses and doctors on staff, but it was almost as if I was in a dream. I mean, I really didn’t come out of it for a couple of days and then”—her face crumpled and she swallowed hard—“and then I realized that Amity was gone. She and her baby. And the other kids, Niall and poor little Blythe, had been shot.” Squaring her shoulders, she sat a little taller in the chair in the interrogation room. “That’s about it,” she said.

Reed asked calmly, “Did you fire the gun that killed Amity O’ Henry?”

Jada Hill was close to going ballistic, her dark eyes flashing, every muscle near her mouth twisting down. “She just said that she didn’t.”

Reed didn’t back down. “I know what she said. Just clarifying.”

Blondell had the audacity to smile, that same knowing, enigmatic smile that had turned so many heads in the past. Was she innocent or a psychopath of the worst order? Morrisette would have bet on the latter as Blondell, her voice cool and clear, her Georgia accent audible, said, “No, Detective Reed. I most certainly did not.”

T
he O’Henry farm had seen better days, Nikki thought as she turned near a rusted mailbox with no name, only numbers painted on its side. Two signs—
NO TRESPASSING
and
NO HUNTING
—had been peppered with buckshot and hung rusting on a fence post at the corner of the property. Winter-bleached wet weeds scraped the undercarriage of her car as she drove down the twin, graveled ruts of a long, straight lane leading to a two-storied farmhouse painted on one side in lemon yellow, while the rest of the structure was a gray hue that had once been white. Peeling paint exposed layers beneath, as well as rough wood; the gutters had sagged and in one place come loose altogether.

Outbuildings were scattered around a large parking area at the end of the lane, and the sheds, barns, and coops looked in worse shape than the farmhouse that dominated the area. A pickup, circa 1969, was rusting near a pile of fence posts that were rotting in the weather; a newer-model truck was parked in an open garage, not far from a faded, red Dodge Dart, car seats visible through the grimy windows.
Darla’s car.

The yard was patchy, and as Nikki pulled into the parking area, a huge black and white dog came bounding off the drooping back porch. He seemed friendly enough, his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth, his tail wagging wildly as he barked a warning that there was a stranger on the premises.

A screen door banged open, and a tall woman with wild brown bangs and a graying braid that fell to her waist leaned over the porch rail. June Hatchett O’Henry, latest wife of Calvin. She’d aged since the photograph Nikki had seen, but then it had been nearly two decades. “Gunner!” she yelled, sending Nikki a pissy look. To the dog, she said, “You git back here! Right now! Hear me? Right now! Gunner! Come!”

The dog, some kind of border collie mix, was unabashed that he’d somehow disobeyed and eagerly loped back to the porch as if he expected a treat rather than a scolding. Only when he returned to his spot on the porch and June leaned down did he finally let his ears fall and look up as if ashamed.

By this time Nikki was out of her car, bag slung over her shoulder and picking her way up the stones that had been buried in the grass every foot or so in an attempt to create a walkway.

“Hi,” she said brightly as the sky darkened and a flock of Canada geese flew in an undulating V pattern just above the tops of trees that rimmed the surrounding fields. “Nikki Gillette with the
Savannah Sentinel.
”

“I know who you are.” Now that she was finished chastising the overgrown puppy, June—all sharp angles and planes, her face deeply lined, her brown eyes buried in the folds of her eyelids—was irritable. She wore no makeup; the only jewelry visible was a plain gold wedding band on her left hand and a simple gold cross swinging from a chain around her neck. Her clothes were straight out of an earlier era: blue slacks, a cotton print blouse, and a sweater knit from purple yarn that had faded to an uncertain pink. “Niall said you called. Said you wanted to talk about his mother and his change of heart.”

Niall hadn’t been all that welcoming on the phone, but at least he hadn’t hung up on her. “I would. I’d like to speak to all of you.”

“About that night. When that bitch killed her daughter and shot her other two kids?” June was bitter. “For the record? I ain’t interested. As for Niall, he’s out workin’ with his father.” She nodded toward the outbuildings. “Don’t rightly know where.”

“Does Niall have his phone on him?” Nikki asked. She’d crossed the lawn and was standing on the lowest step leading to the back porch, from which a retractable clothesline stretched across the yard, though nothing hung from it. Plastic pots and a few glass terrariums were stacked against the house near a covered porch swing, its cushions covered in plastic. A row of paint cans, one splashed with the yellow of the house, were stacked on the porch floor.

“Now, how would I know that?” June’s hands were on her hips, and she looked like one of those women who had spent all of her weary adult life mad at the world. “Well, look at that. You’re in luck, now, aren’t you?” Her gaze had traveled over Nikki’s head to the barn lot; two men were opening a gate from a field where a herd of Black Angus beef cattle was grazing, picking at the winter grass. Blondell’s ex was carrying a shovel in one hand, his son Niall hauling a toolbox.

Catching sight of the men, Gunner whined and bounded off the porch to run across the yard, his tail wagging furiously, his white front paws coming off the ground.

“Down!” Calvin ordered sharply. His jaw was set, his fingers clenched over the shovel’s dirty handle.

The dog heeded Calvin’s sharp voice and was rewarded with a quick pat on the head from the strapping man with a craggy, timeworn face and leathery skin; he wore jeans held up by suspenders and an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. He squinted at the house and said something to Niall, who, no longer in his suit for the cameras, was wearing camouflage pants and a jacket.

At the quick word from his father, Niall seemed to flinch, then closed the gate behind them while Calvin crossed the wet yard in long, athletic strides. His deep-set eyes were focused on Nikki, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he remembered her.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Calvin demanded, his face set and hard, the fingers gripping his shovel showing white at the knuckles.

She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “I called Niall and asked to interview him.”

“For that damned paper.” Calvin swung his head around, to watch his son struggle with the gate latch.

“That’s right. For the
Savannah Sentinel.
I’m doing a series of stories about the attack on him and his sister, as well as Amity’s murder, and I hope to write a true-crime book about it.”

June gasped, flattening a hand over her chest. “Not on your life!”

“No way,” her husband agreed, his scowl deepening. “I already told my story to the press. Years ago. I see no reason to rehash it all again, even if he does.” Calvin hooked a thumb at his son as Niall, having finally finished securing the gate, was striding toward them across the uneven grass.

“I told her to come out here,” Niall said as he reached the house. “She already talked to Blythe anyway.”

“Your sister talked to her?” Calvin demanded of his son as he hitched his chin in Nikki’s direction.

Niall said, “Blythe said that Ms. Gillette offered her an exclusive deal. Promised to keep other journalists off her back.”

Nikki cut in, “I couldn’t promise
exactly
that,” she tried to explain, “but I’ll do what I can. If you give me an exclusive—”

“For free?” Calvin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“We don’t pay for stories at the
Sentinel.
”

“So what about this book you’re writing?”

“Again, this would just be an interview.”

“Well, hellfire, I could find me a ghostwriter and do it myself. Make myself a million or two, what with all the interest Blondell’s story’s kicked up.” June visibly paled and touched the porch pillar for support, though her husband didn’t seem to notice as he barreled on. “What the hell would we need you for?”

“Dad,” Niall whispered.

“I was Amity’s friend,” Nikki said once again, hoping her connection to his family might help.

“Then you know she was trouble.”

“Troubled,” Nikki clarified.

“That what you wanna call it? That girl was a bitch in heat when boys were sniffin’ around. Just like her damned mother.”

“I don’t think—”

“She encouraged it, y’know.” He glanced up at the sky and shook his head. “I thought we were over this. Damn it all to hell!” He turned his angry glare on his son. “Why the hell couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

“Dad,” Niall said softly.

“That’s the end of it. Y’hear me? The end of it!” The muscles of his jaw working as raindrops began to fall, Calvin stared hard at his son. “This is all double-talk and trouble.”

“The kind of trouble we don’t need,” June agreed.

The back door opened, and Nikki spied a short woman holding a two-year-old child peering through the screen door.

“Go back inside, Darla,” Calvin ordered, turning on her. “And take them kids with you.”

Niall stood up to his father. “Darla, you come on out if you want to.” He waved at the porch, and the screen door creaked open. The woman timidly stepped onto the porch. “This is my wife, Darla,” he introduced. “Darla, Ms. Gillette from the paper.”

As Calvin seethed, Nikki said to Niall’s wife, “Call me Nikki.”

“How’d’ya do?” Apple-cheeked and round-faced, Darla offered a nervous smile, while the boy in her arms sucked his thumb as if he were afraid it might disappear. With tousled, blond hair and eyes with visible bags beneath them, he stared suspiciously at the group gathered on the lawn. A second child, a boy of about five with a crew cut and freckles, was hiding behind one of Darla’s legs until he spied his father on the lawn below.

“Daddy!” he cried and ran down the steps to fling himself into his father’s arms.

“Hey, Rock,” Niall said.

“This ain’t no conversation for the boys,” Calvin said, glaring at his son and grandson. “They don’t need to be hearin’ about what happened to their aunt.” He blinked at that moment, and for a second his face softened. “Helluva thing.”

“Cal!” June reprimanded. “Your language. The children.”

“I don’t think they’ll be able to avoid the subject of my sister,” Niall said, but he glanced worriedly at his wife, and she, taking a cue from her mother-in-law’s harsh demeanor, responded, “I’ll take them inside.” To Nikki, she said, “Nice meetin’ you.” Motioning to her eldest, Darla opened the screen door again. “Come on, Rocky, you and your little brother need to come inside and read a story.”

“Noooo!” Rocky began to wail, then caught his grandfather’s harsh glare.

“Don’t be arguin’, boy. Y’heard yer mama. Now go on. Git!” Calvin was firm.

Niall looked about to say something, then set his oldest son onto the ground. “Better go inside, Rock. Run along. I’ll be right there.”

Dragging his feet all the way, Rocky climbed the steps and disappeared into the house. The second the door shut behind them, Calvin turned on his son. “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’.” He was so angry his lips moved over clenched teeth. “It’s bad enough that because of you your mama will get out of prison. Is that what you want?” He was nearly spitting. “She killed Amity, you know. Put a bullet in her and then fired at you and your sister. Blythe’s still in a wheelchair, and look at you, you can barely speak, your throat all messed up.”

“I can’t lie anymore, Dad, I don’t remember what happened, and Jesus said—”

“Do not be quotin’ the Bible to me, son. Do not!” Calvin slammed his shovel into the grass near the steps and said, “I’ve heard enough.” Then as he walked up the stairs, he pointed a gnarled finger at his wife. “This is all yer doin’, y’know. The whole God thing and takin’ it to extremes.”

“Calvin, you believe! You have faith!” June was aghast at her husband’s display.

“Sometimes it’s sorely tested!”

“Then you need to speak to the reverend.”

“I don’t need to talk to yer brother. I know what’s right and what’s wrong, and that murderin’ whore out of prison, that’s just wrong.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice off the porch that arched to the ground near his shovel. “Ain’t two ways about it!”

He disappeared into the house, and June was right on his heels. “Calvin! Your boots!” she was yelling as the door slammed behind her.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Niall stared at the empty porch. It seemed as if he might be having second thoughts, so Nikki said quickly, “This won’t take long, I promise. We can talk in my car, if you like. Just tell me what you remember about that night.”

He hesitated. “I don’t know if I should.”

“We all want the same thing, Niall. And that’s the truth.”

“I already talked to the police.”

“I know.”

“My attorney won’t like it.”

“That’s his job.”

Frowning, obviously wrestling with his decision, he let out a long sigh. “It’s pretty simple. I just don’t remember much about that night other than it was dark, and there were gunshots and a lot of screaming.”

“Did you see anyone else in the cabin, other than your mother?”

He stared at her long and hard as the sky darkened with a coming storm. “That’s just it, the reason I’m doing this. I don’t know what I remember, but I do know that I felt pushed into saying my mother shot us.”

“Pushed?”

“By the cops. Flint Beauregard. It was like he was on a mission. I had the feeling he would have done anything to see that my mother was convicted, and my testimony was the surest way that would happen.”

“What about Leah Hatchett?” Nikki asked, remembering what Blythe had said.

“My stepsister? What about her?”

“She was your nurse.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Kinda.”

“But later, when you were older, you two were . . . more than friends.”

“What! God, no!” His face showed pure disgust, and yet his eyes shadowed a bit. “Who told you that lie? Oh, it was Blythe, of course. That little—!” He cut off the rest of what he was going to say as his right fist curled in anger.

“It wasn’t true?”

“Hell, no!” His face had turned red with ire. “That’s all I’ve got to say!”

“But there’s got to be more,” she said as he started walking toward the house.

“Probably. Sure. Lots more. But not from me.” With that he headed up the stairs, his boots thudding on each step.

 

“Your impression?” Morrisette asked Reed as they drove away from the prison. She was at the wheel again. She liked to be in charge, though not necessarily in the interviews. Those she and her partner shared; sometimes he took the lead, and other times she did.