The Philadelphia Quarry (27 page)

“Willie,” she said, and then paused.

Please, please, please don’t say we have to talk, I thought to myself.

“We have to talk.”

And then she told me how she and Greg had indeed reconciled. All was well at Chez Ellis.

“What we did . . .” she began, leaving it there for me to finish.

Don’t worry, I told her, it’ll be our little secret. Ships passing in the night and all that crap.

“No,” she said, “it was more than that. I’m still attracted to you, Willie. But I do love Greg. We want to have a family. You know.”

Yeah, I know. I take a long sip, silently count to three, and make my pitch for the sportsmanship award. This year’s Best Loser trophy goes to Willie Black, who assured his ex-wife that he is happy for her happiness, caring nothing for his own.

And so we parted, promising to stay in touch. I told her I would walk down to the paper and write something for tomorrow’s edition. When she said goodbye, I waved without looking back and fumbled for a Camel.

They were expecting me in the newsroom. It was hard not to attract attention, in my mummy garb. I had to stop three women and a couple of guys from hugging my aching ribs. Sally Velez promised to buy me a drink. I told her I’d take a rain check. Enos Jackson looked up from his desk and gave me a thumbs-up. Mal Wheelwright came out of his office to shake my hand and welcome me back.

So maybe, I thought to myself, I am back. Baer came up, almost teary-eyed, and thanked me for saving his job. I’m sure he’d be even more grateful if it had been him instead of Sarah who got to tell our faithful readers about it.

Don’t think a thing about it, I told him. Really. Nothing I wouldn’t have done for any asshole.

“I need to see you for a minute,” Wheelie said as I was exchanging pleasantries with various other staffers.

Almost got away clean.

When I walked into the managing editor’s office, he told me that Grubby wanted to talk to me.

“He said to bring you up there ASAP.”

On the suit floor, Sandy McCool told me she was glad to see me back and in one piece, and that Mr. Grubbs would see us momentarily. Sandy, as usual, gave nothing away.

When we were finally summoned, it wasn’t to Grubby’s office but to a conference room two doors down.

“Oh, man,” Wheelie said when we were directed to the room. “This is where the nut-cutting happens.”

Wheelie obviously had been here before.

He opened the door carefully, as if he thought a tiger might leap out.

Inside the room were James H. Grubbs and his ultimate boss, Giles Whitehurst. Neither of them stood when we entered.

Grubby motioned for us to sit across from him at a table that could have seated twelve. Giles Whitehurst sat at the end, a good ten feet from the rest of us.

“Willie,” Grubby said, “you know Mr. Whitehurst.”

I nodded. It hadn’t been six days since he told me, from the comfort of his Windsor Farms den, what the consequences would be if I persisted in harassing Lewis Witt and her family. And now she was dead, no doubt driven to her demise by my snooping.

“Mr. Black,” Whitehurst said, “you don’t follow directions very well, do you?”

Well, there was nothing to lose by this point. What was he going to do besides fire me? Shoot me with two people watching? Besides, my ribs were hurting and my ass was starting to itch thinking about what this fucker was trying to cover up.

“Not when they involve obstructing justice.”

Wheelie gave me a little sideways kick under the table. I kicked him back, which made my ribs ache more. Grubby just shook his head slightly.

Whitehurst laughed, but nobody else did.

“So you think I’ve been obstructing justice?”

“You did everything you could to keep an innocent man in prison. Yeah, I think that pretty much sums it up. Obstruction of fucking justice.”

Whitehurst obviously wasn’t used to being talked to like this. Me, I just wanted to get it over with. Fire me so I can really tell you what I think of you.

I thought he might just do the deed right there, all neat and clean. But guys like Giles Whitehurst don’t have to do it face-to-face. They can always pay somebody else to stick in the shiv.

“Well,” he said, “I just wanted to see you one more time. We’ve been talking about you. James here will fill you in.”

And then he left, closing the door behind him so softly we barely heard it.

I turned to Grubby.

“James?”

“Shut up. You’re lucky you still have a job.”

“I still have a job?”

“For now. You can thank Mr. Whitehurst for that.”

I didn’t really feel inclined to thanks Giles Whitehurst for much of anything, but paychecks are nice to have. Maybe I’ll send him a card.

As it turns out, our board chairman apparently had more loyalty to his own reputation than he did to the family of Alicia Simpson and Lewis Witt. When he found out exactly what happened twenty-eight years ago at the Philadelphia Quarry and what happened January 22nd at a stoplight on West Cary, I guess he just didn’t care to soil his well-manicured hands with it anymore.

He probably thought that the first thing I’d do, after he fired my ass, would be to take it to our local free weekly, maybe blog about it. Hell, he probably thought I’d peddle it to the
Washington Post.

He might have been right.

Grubby told me to start writing “if you can stay sober and healthy long enough to do it. Maybe Baer can help you.”

I told Grubby what he could do with Baer’s help. He told me to watch it. I got up to leave.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said as Wheelie held the door open for me, anxious for both of us to get the hell out of there. “What did you do with the manuscript?”

I told him the same thing I told the cops.

The story was in this morning’s paper. I’ll do something more long-winded on Sunday, the infamous, tree-killing tick-tock, but most of it was laid out for our paying customers today. We didn’t post this one on the website until it landed on people’s doorsteps, a rare victory for print, whose won-lost record lately is in Wile E. Coyote territory. Grubby thought it would increase rack sales to not give this one away online. W touted it in yesterday’s paper (“What really happened to Alicia Simpson?”) and printed a few thousand extra.

Most of the story was there. The arrest and conviction of Richard Slade in 1983. The DNA evidence that proved he didn’t do it. Alicia Simpson’s murder and Slade’s second arrest. Lewis Witt’s half-gainer into the Quarry. Her brother’s suicide. Slade’s release.

I have to admit, the lede wasn’t half-bad:

“On a cold, stark February night, on a bluff overlooking the place where everything began and where her brother’s lifeless body hung still undiscovered, Lewis Simpson Witt explained why she murdered her sister.”

If that doesn’t sell some papers, I’ll kiss your ass.

Sally Velez thought I should delete “lifeless” and “still” and not start with consecutive prepositional phrases. I told her she didn’t have an ounce of poetry in her editor’s soul. She told me most of our readers aren’t really into poetry, but she let it stand.

I didn’t go that deep into the details of the manuscript. There was enough, though, for the average reader to understand what happened and why. I didn’t see any point in quoting long stretches verbatim from Alicia Simpson’s revelation of the shame that had cast a shadow on her life and stolen much of Richard Slade’s. Grubby and Wheelie were both a little put out that I had destroyed the manuscript. But we have Lewis Witt’s final confession on tape. That’s enough.

Lewis Witt’s husband and children have suffered enough. I can imagine the kids all moving away, somewhere where nobody’s ever heard of Alicia Simpson or Richard Slade. I can imagine Carl staying because he’s too old to start over, still going to the club and having drinks with friends, but in a world much diminished, with the whispers swarming around him like gnats he can never swat away.

In a perfect world, I would spare them that grief. In a perfect world, though, a man like Richard Slade would not spend twenty-eight years in prison for something he didn’t do and then face the prospect of going back again. In a perfect world, imperfect men like me wouldn’t have to be in a position to help the world pass judgment.

I am not a cruel man, but I am a purebred, flea-bitten newshound. Sometimes, I wish Whoever amuses Himself by watching us fetch the truth would throw that stick for someone else to chase. Me, I can never resist going after it and then returning for a pat on the head.

About that manuscript. I’m a pack rat. I still have my 1958 Topps baseball card collection. Do you think I’d burn Alicia Simpson’s confession?

Today is family reunion day, sort of.

Philomena Slade called me late yesterday afternoon at the paper, while I was writing the story. She invited me to come for her son’s second coming-home celebration in less than four weeks.

I asked her if I could bring Peggy. When my drug-addled mother came by to see me on Tuesday, she again expressed a desire to see Momma Phil, whom she hasn’t laid eyes on in decades. I suppose there’s some sense of reconnecting. Maybe she thinks the long-departed Artie Lee’s first cousin can tell her something she doesn’t already know about my late father. Maybe she just wants to go for a ride.

At any rate, Philomena said that would be grand. Something about the way she said “grand” just killed me.

So here we sit, in a living room that’s about four people over what the fire department would recommend. Peggy and Les are here, with the latter looking a little out of place but otherwise happy as if he had good sense. Chanelle has brought Jamal and Jeroy, who are both sitting on their uncle Richard’s lap, giggling as they try to get away. Half the neighborhood drops by, in twos and threes, and there never seem to be fewer than twenty people in that small room. Bump Freeman even stops in, shy and uncertain at the door, and is greeted as warmly as a brother.

Abe drove, with Andi in the front seat, and Peggy, Les and me in the back. Abe’s sitting on a chair that’s about three sizes too small and might collapse if he eats one more drumstick, talking with Richard about the good ol’ days in stir, I suppose.

Andi has never met this side of the family before. She’s in a long conversation with Chanelle. I think they’re talking about hair. Philomena and Peggy act as if they’re just picking up on a conversation they abandoned a few minutes ago instead of nearly half a century back. Momma Phil has a photo album out, and Peggy, barely stoned, is staring at it intently, reaching up once or twice to wipe her eyes.

My ribs are aching a little. Andi’s probably going to have to punt this semester, moving her theoretical graduation farther into the future. The paper’s announced that it’s going to “give” the staff two “furlough” days a month, for which we won’t get paid but probably will still wind up working, because somebody’s got to do it.

But in a brief lull, my daughter reaches over, takes my hand and squeezes it, and I know Peggy’s right.

Things could be worse.