Snapshot Page 13

  Lisa stood and paced the floor.

  “She might have confused me with the shooter,” James said.

  “Why you?” Molly asked, stopping her reach for her cup.

  Lisa, too, paused to hear what he had to say.

  “I pulled out my gun as soon as the shooting started. It’s an automatic response from training.”

  “She told me you were a policeman, and that it wasn’t you who shot Benjamin Gray. But I will ask her for the story again.”

  “Or she might have seen Peter,” James said.

  “Who’s Peter?”

  “Dad’s old partner. Uncle Peter was there?” Lisa frowned.

  James knew this was news to her. He hadn’t even set out a mannequin in the garage representing his old partner’s placement.

  “Yes, he was there,” James said. He didn’t tell Lisa that she’d called out to him that day, immediately after the shooting began. Peter had been close to them. Close to Benjamin Gray as well.

  “Why—” Lisa started, but James interrupted her with a question for Molly.

  “What brought you back?” He steered the discussion away from Peter, and Lisa surely knew he’d done so on purpose.

  “We lived in California for years, but Mom never liked it. After my dad passed in ’98, she moved back to Texas. Guess she hoped the danger was gone by then. I only moved back because of Mom’s health.”

  “What are the chances?” James mumbled.

  “It wasn’t chance, I can tell you that. I love California, never would’ve left on my own. It was God who brought me back to Texas. And now I see it was for even more than I thought.”

  “Can we talk to your mother—if she’s well enough?”

  “We can.”

  “And maybe we should go see Leonard Dubois,” Lisa said. “I checked it out, and we can visit the prison tomorrow morning.”

  James didn’t respond. Instead, he dipped his bag of green tea in the hot water, up and down, up and down. He didn’t want to see Dubois, especially not with his daughter or a minister in attendance. Dubois had spent his life in prison. James’s silence had sealed the man’s fate.

  “I would like to meet him,” Molly said.

  James pinched the skin between his eyes. Now he’d have Molly tagging along with their investigation? He watched as she put sugar into her tea, appearing more relaxed. She explained that her mother lived with her sister now, outside of Dallas/Fort Worth.

  How could he not agree to see Dubois with them? James felt Molly was holding back. The visit with Dubois might help her spill everything to save his life. Yet it might also implicate his cowardice in not coming forward earlier.

  Rosalyn was his saving grace. He heard her calling from the backyard.

  “Jimmy!” she yelled at the door in the kitchen.

  “We’re in the living room,” he called back.

  Rosalyn marched in with a rope of wire over her shoulder and a headlamp attached to her forehead. She stopped, mouth dropping open, when she saw Lisa and Molly in the living room.

  “You’re the little girl. Lisa, you found her! Way to go. Hi, I’m Rosalyn. This is great to meet you. Did she remember anything? Does she know who killed Benjamin Gray?”

  Molly chuckled at Rosalyn’s questions firing around the room. Before anyone could respond, Rosalyn raised her hand that held James’s phone.

  “Oh yes, Jimmy, you have a phone call. While I was wiring the workshop, I heard it ringing under a pile of papers. It accidentally turned on when I pulled it out, so I said hello. It’s some news guy in New York.” She pushed the phone toward him.

  James took the phone as if it were a foreign object. “He’s on here now?”

  “Yes, that’s what I just said.” Rosalyn dropped the pile of wire onto the floor, brushing herself off as she sat beside Molly.

  “Hello?” he said into the phone.

  “Agent Waldren. This is William O’Ryan. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, yes, it has been. I’m … I’m glad you remembered me,” James stammered. He hurried from the room to the quiet of the kitchen.

  “Of course I remember, though it wasn’t under good circumstances. What can I do for you?”

  James took a deep breath. It had been a most surprising day, and he needed to switch gears and fast. “I’m looking for some old information about my former partner, Peter Hughes.”

  “I had a feeling that’s what your call was about. You probably know that I have quite a bit of information about him.”

  “What do you mean?” James leaned against the cold Formica counter.

  “Before Peter’s sister died several years back, she sent me all of his personal belongings that she’d boxed up after his death. I had closed down my hunt on that years earlier, but I kept it all in case anything ever turned up again. Never even had time to go through it. I have the boxes in storage at my house if you want to take a look.”

  The death of Peter’s sister had seemed another closed door when James started looking back into everything. But she’d not only kept Peter’s belongings, she’d sent them to O’Ryan.

  “I’d like that very much,” James said coolly, trying to keep the excitement from his tone. There was nothing like a clue opening up to set his heart racing.

  “Just one catch,” O’Ryan said.

  “What is it?”

  “If there’s a story in this, and I know there is, I expect the scoop when you have it.”

  James chuckled. “You have a deal.”

  As he hung up the phone, James caught a glimpse of Lisa in the living room talking amicably with Molly and Rosalyn. He knew he couldn’t get out of this quick trip to see Leonard Dubois tomorrow. Worse than going with Lisa and Molly to face Dubois was letting them meet the man alone. Dubois might say anything to the women. And he wanted to be there when Molly opened up.

  But then he’d get the next flight to New York.

  As he watched his daughter and Molly sitting beside each other once again, James wondered if he’d brought them into another dangerous situation. The last time they’d met, someone was shot dead in the street.

  He still didn’t know who was following him, or why. So how could he assure their safety while he was gone chasing this new lead?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  From the backseat of her father’s old station wagon, Lisa checked the long, empty stretch of highway behind them. No other cars followed for miles.

  After Rosalyn’s mention that someone was following her father, Lisa had kept a watchful eye out for anything suspicious.

  She’d suspected a tail the night before when she dropped Molly off at the church, and again that morning when she drove from the hotel to her father’s to meet Molly and Dad for this drive to the Texas State Prison. If she was followed, the vehicle wasn’t behind them now.

  Lisa settled back into the seat. With Dad behind the wheel, the flat farmland stretched to an endless horizon as the old station wagon seemed to crawl down the highway. They’d run out of small talk a half hour earlier. Now they rode in scattered silence. In her career, Lisa’s interview and interrogation skills were admired. She’d taught workshops to first-year attorneys on the subjects. Yet with Molly, Lisa had failed to establish trust and continued to feel disconnected and awkward around the woman.

  “Our denomination has a strong ministry for inmates, but I’ve never been inside a prison before,” Molly said from the front passenger seat.

  “They’re overrated. Not as much fun as they sound,” Lisa said, leaning forward.

  Molly tossed a grin her way. Then she pointed toward the sign for the prison as the fields became lined with tall electrified fences topped with razor wire. “It’s the size of a small town,” she said, taking in the buildings that lined both sides of the road.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Higher population than many Texas towns.”

  He pulled into the parking lot nearest the death row complex set across from the main prison. A group of protestors carrying placards seem
ed to come alive as they drove up. They hopped up from lawn chairs and shook their signs.

  One read “Americans Not Barbarians—No Death Penalty.”

  Another said, “Stop the Killing!”

  “That’s for Leonard Dubois,” Dad said. “He’s getting more press because he’s the longest-serving inmate on death row to have an execution date.”

  Lisa had read numerous articles about Dubois debating the ethics of the government killing a man of his age, or any age at all. None questioned his guilt.

  Access to death row inmates was usually restricted to family and attorneys at scheduled times. But with the credentials of a federal prosecutor, a retired FBI agent, and a minister, as well as Lisa’s call to a DA in Dallas and Dad’s call to whatever powers might be, they’d achieved access to Leonard Dubois without much ado.

  As they approached the four-story redbrick building, they were surrounded by protestors shouting their slogans.

  They went through the screening process, showing identification, leaving purses, and emptying pockets before going through the X-ray scanner. A correctional officer escorted them through the labyrinth of hallways and checkpoints.

  “You all are in Booth 2,” the correctional officer said. He led them down a corridor to a room divided by a glass wall from another room. The door closed and locked with the officer remaining inside at the door.

  Before they’d settled into the seats, the door on the other side of the glass opened. Leonard Dubois shuffled in with links on his ankles, escorted by another officer.

  Dubois’s orange jumpsuit hung a few sizes too large except at his wrists, where it appeared too short. He grinned to himself, still not having looked at them, and Lisa saw that he was missing a front tooth. The missing tooth aged him considerably, and Lisa knew if the media got a photograph out, it would win the man some sympathy votes. Yet public sympathy wouldn’t save him.

  “Well, don’t I just have a crowd today,” Dubois said with a laugh that turned into a cough. His voice was surprisingly clear through the glass. “Sorry ’bout that. Been feeling under the weather.”

  “Hello, Mr. Dubois,” Molly said. She’d risen from her chair when he walked in and stood at the window. “I’m Pastor Molly Carter, and—”

  “Pastor, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “A woman pastor? Back in my days at church, women couldn’t be ministers. Especially not a black woman.” Dubois tipped his head to her and sat down.

  “It’s still like that in some churches,” she said, taking no offense.

  “Times do change.” Dubois rubbed his hands together.

  His fingernails needed trimming, and Lisa noticed white lines through the nails indicating that his illness might be more than just a common cold.

  Molly looked at Lisa and Dad. “I’m sorry, I just took over. Old habit of being in ministry.”

  “Go ahead. You’re doing well,” Lisa said. They hadn’t executed a plan for this meeting, and Lisa was intrigued to see how Leonard responded to them.

  “Mr. Dubois, I’d like to introduce each one of us,” Molly said in a friendly pastoral tone that made Lisa smile.

  His eyebrows rose as Molly stated who they were.

  “So you’re Agent Waldren? Got my letter, my attorney told me.”

  “Yes,” Dad said. He didn’t speak further, which surprised Lisa. Her father had given himself to the obsession of saving this man, yet he wasn’t going to speak to him?

  “And you’re related to him?” Dubois asked Lisa.

  “He’s my father.”

  Dubois whistled. “Is this about my case or not? I don’t know nothing about nobody in here if you’re wanting me to testify against someone.”

  “We’re here about your case,” Lisa stated.

  Dubois studied Dad. “I remember you from the trial. You sat in on part of it, and my attorney wanted you to testify. That was a long time ago. You got old.” Dubois laughed, breaking into a cough that wracked his body and bent him in two, with his head falling down by his knees.

  “Do you need something? Water?” Molly looked at the officer behind Dubois as if telling him to do something.

  “No, no.” Dubois put his hand up and coughed into his elbow.

  Lisa thought she saw a fine splatter of blood hit his orange suit. Finally, he recovered.

  “I’m fine. Guess I’m getting old too.”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions,” Dad said.

  Molly glanced at him as if surprised by his lack of sympathy. Lisa sensed a tension radiating from her father. She didn’t quite understand what it was, but he’d been especially quiet all morning.

  Dubois straightened in the chair. “I’m usually in the other booths. The ones with the telephones. This is nicer, being able to talk. Guess those are the perks of an execution date.”

  He turned to view the burly correctional officer beside the locked door.

  “What do you want to know? And I have some questions for you as well,” he said, tapping the glass in front of Dad.

  “We were all at that civil rights rally that day,” Lisa said. “All three of us.”

  “You two were there? You must’ve been little ones.”

  “Yes, we were very young and only feet away from Benjamin Gray during the shooting.”

  “If you were there, then you know it weren’t me!” Dubois said, jumping up. His chair scraped loudly as it pushed a few feet behind him.

  “Dubois,” the officer behind him said.

  Dubois pulled the chair under him and skidded it toward the glass. He spoke low and urgently. “How come I’m in here if a fed prosecutor, a woman minister, and an FBI agent all know I’m not the guy who killed that Gray fella?”

  “We didn’t see the real killer,” Molly said.

  “We have no proof,” Lisa added, wondering if coming here was more torture for the man than simply the countdown of days.

  Dubois slumped back in his chair. “Then why you come here, bringing all your hope when I’m just fine after all these years? Why are you here?”

  “We don’t believe you are the killer,” Molly said.

  “You don’t believe? There are plenty of people who don’t believe that, and I’ve still been here all this time. Isn’t that right, Mr. FBI Man?”

  “If you want help, you need to answer some questions,” Dad said.

  “Ask what you want.”

  “Who didn’t like you before the rally? What were you doing back then that made you enemies?”

  Dubois cleared his throat. “My parents were always afraid. But I was a young man back then, full of excitement and hope. My buddies and me were all fired up to do something about the world. Things were changing in 1965.”

  “Mr. Dubois,” Lisa interrupted. “If you want our help, we need the truth. Not what you and your attorney rehearsed for the media.”

  Dubois raised his eyebrows. “Is that right? And how can you be of any help, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “You have an execution date. My father asked me to help find evidence that might free you. The real killer, evidence that might clear you, or proof of any kind of injustices during your trial … there are numerous possibilities. But we need facts, not beliefs.”

  “What makes you so sure I’m innocent?” Dubois asked. He looked at Molly for the answer.

  “I don’t know that you are,” Molly said. “I just came into this yesterday, but as a child, my family talked about it, saying the wrong man was convicted. People were too scared to talk back then, and what could they have done? Some people say the killer was white.”

  “A white man?” Dubois laughed long and hard. “A lot of good that’s going to do. No white man would ever have gotten convicted of this. Either that’s a pack of lies, or it’s even more hopeless than I thought.”

  “You were connected with the Black Panthers?” Dad said.

  Dubois’s expression became serious. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It was use
d to further make you unsympathetic during the trial.”

  Lisa hadn’t read through the court transcripts. There might be a lot more she’d missed besides Dubois’s involvement in a black group known in that era for hatred and violence. There was also that other case file in the archives of the Fort Worth PD. Dubois’s name was attached to the investigation, but only the cover letter remained. What had that crime been?

  “Unsympathetic to who? The jury didn’t have sympathy.”

  “You made enemies before the day of the rally. It would help to know why.”

  Dubois ran his hands through his hair as he leaned forward in his chair.

  “Back then, Black Panthers was just starting. We were mad, really mad, and with good reason. Then comes real talk about a group that might do something about how things were. Not just follow the white man’s laws and rules. No living under a sense of ‘master this or that.’ It sounded pretty good for a while. But the Panthers I was around couldn’t get along or make decisions. I didn’t want to go to that rally.” Dubois grew quiet for a moment. “How much time do we have? Seems my time should be up by now.”

  “We can talk awhile,” Lisa said. “Why did you go?”

  “Everybody kept talking about that Benjamin Gray. I weren’t too interested in him, though—too passive. But I was visiting family in Fort Worth, and they were going. I was late. Didn’t get down there with the others.”

  Lisa knew he’d agonized over the series of events that put him there. She’d seen victims and the guilty alike rehash the path to tragedy again and again like a hamster on a wheel.

  “I heard a popping sound. Came a few blocks ahead of me, and I knew it were gunfire. I pulled out my pistol. That was my mistake. I should have just run on away.”

  “Why did you have a gun?” Molly asked.

  “Everywhere I went, I packed a gun. All of us did. My mama was terrified of it, said it would get me killed. I told her that if white men could carry, then I was packing too. But once I pulled out that gun, it was all over.”

  Lisa imagined the scene from there. He was arrested, hauled in, and maybe there was no other reason than he was a convenient place on which to rest the blame.