witnesses who testify that someone like me had it coming or caused it.
He used to say you have no idea how hard you are on people … a bitch who needed to be fucked …
“Are you worried about what the letters might say?” Leonard is asking me.
“They don’t appear to paint me favorably, if what I’ve been told is true. That will be helpful to her.”
It will be helpful to Dawn Kincaid, I’m indicating without saying her name out loud, as I stand on a sidewalk in the dark,
people and cars going by, headlights hurting my eyes. The more I’m disparaged, the less credible I become and the less sympathy
jurors will have for me.
“Let’s deal with any letters if they present themselves.” Leonard says not to get worked up about something that hasn’t happened.
“I also was curious if Jaime Berger might have been in touch with you,” I get to that point.
“The prosecutor?”
“The very same.”
“No, she hasn’t been in touch. Why would she?”
“Curtis Roberts”—the lawyer Tara Grimm mentioned to me— “what can you tell me about him?”
“He’s a volunteer lawyer with the Georgia Innocence Project, works with a firm in Atlanta.”
“So he’s representing Kathleen Lawler pro bono.”
“Apparently.”
“Why would the Innocence Project be interested in her? Is there a legitimate question about her conviction for DUI manslaughter?” I ask.
“I just know he called on her behalf.”
I decide to ask nothing further as I think about Kathleen Lawler’s note and her instructions for me to find a pay phone.
Why?
If that was Jaime’s direction, then it suggests she might be concerned about my talking on my cell phone. I tell Leonard Brazzo I’ll go into more detail later and to enjoy his dinner. I end the call
and cross the street to face whatever I’m about to face. I wonder which windows are Jaime’s and if she is watching for me
and what it must be like to stare out at a world that no longer includes Lucy. I wouldn’t want to miss my niece. I wouldn’t
want the misery of knowing her and then not having her anymore.
The building isn’t full-service, not even a doorman, and I push the intercom button for apartment 8SE and the electronic lock
buzzes loudly and clicks free, as if the person letting me in knows who I am without asking. For the second time this day
I scan for surveillance cameras, spotting one in a white metal casing that blends with the white bricks in a corner over the
door. It occurs to me that if Jaime sees me in a monitor, then it’s likely the closed-circuit camera was installed by her
and includes infrared capabilities, so it will work in the dark.
I see no indication that the building itself has security, nothing but electronic locks and an intercom system, and my curiosity
builds. Savannah isn’t merely a getaway—not if Jaime has gone to the trouble to install an advanced security system. As I’m
opening the door I sense something behind me, and I turn around, startled, as a person wearing a flashing helmet climbs off
a bicycle and leans it against a lamppost at the end of the walkway, near the street.
“Jaime Berger?” asks this person, a woman, I realize, and she takes off her backpack and opens it, pulling out a large white
bag.
“That’s not me,” I reply, as she walks toward me carrying a take-out bag with the name of a restaurant on it.
She presses the buzzer and announces into the intercom, “Delivery for Jaime Berger.”
As I hold the door open, I mention to her, “That’s all right. I’m going up. I can take it. How much?”
“Two tekka maki, two unagi maki, two California maki, two seaweed salads. Already on her credit card.” She hands me the bag,
and I give her a ten-dollar tip. “Her usual Thursday delivery. Have a nice night.”
I shut the door behind me and take the elevator to the top floor, where I follow an empty carpeted hallway to a unit in the
southeast corner. Ringing the bell, I look up
He used to say you have no idea how hard you are on people … a bitch who needed to be fucked …
“Are you worried about what the letters might say?” Leonard is asking me.
“They don’t appear to paint me favorably, if what I’ve been told is true. That will be helpful to her.”
It will be helpful to Dawn Kincaid, I’m indicating without saying her name out loud, as I stand on a sidewalk in the dark,
people and cars going by, headlights hurting my eyes. The more I’m disparaged, the less credible I become and the less sympathy
jurors will have for me.
“Let’s deal with any letters if they present themselves.” Leonard says not to get worked up about something that hasn’t happened.
“I also was curious if Jaime Berger might have been in touch with you,” I get to that point.
“The prosecutor?”
“The very same.”
“No, she hasn’t been in touch. Why would she?”
“Curtis Roberts”—the lawyer Tara Grimm mentioned to me— “what can you tell me about him?”
“He’s a volunteer lawyer with the Georgia Innocence Project, works with a firm in Atlanta.”
“So he’s representing Kathleen Lawler pro bono.”
“Apparently.”
“Why would the Innocence Project be interested in her? Is there a legitimate question about her conviction for DUI manslaughter?” I ask.
“I just know he called on her behalf.”
I decide to ask nothing further as I think about Kathleen Lawler’s note and her instructions for me to find a pay phone.
Why?
If that was Jaime’s direction, then it suggests she might be concerned about my talking on my cell phone. I tell Leonard Brazzo I’ll go into more detail later and to enjoy his dinner. I end the call
and cross the street to face whatever I’m about to face. I wonder which windows are Jaime’s and if she is watching for me
and what it must be like to stare out at a world that no longer includes Lucy. I wouldn’t want to miss my niece. I wouldn’t
want the misery of knowing her and then not having her anymore.
The building isn’t full-service, not even a doorman, and I push the intercom button for apartment 8SE and the electronic lock
buzzes loudly and clicks free, as if the person letting me in knows who I am without asking. For the second time this day
I scan for surveillance cameras, spotting one in a white metal casing that blends with the white bricks in a corner over the
door. It occurs to me that if Jaime sees me in a monitor, then it’s likely the closed-circuit camera was installed by her
and includes infrared capabilities, so it will work in the dark.
I see no indication that the building itself has security, nothing but electronic locks and an intercom system, and my curiosity
builds. Savannah isn’t merely a getaway—not if Jaime has gone to the trouble to install an advanced security system. As I’m
opening the door I sense something behind me, and I turn around, startled, as a person wearing a flashing helmet climbs off
a bicycle and leans it against a lamppost at the end of the walkway, near the street.
“Jaime Berger?” asks this person, a woman, I realize, and she takes off her backpack and opens it, pulling out a large white
bag.
“That’s not me,” I reply, as she walks toward me carrying a take-out bag with the name of a restaurant on it.
She presses the buzzer and announces into the intercom, “Delivery for Jaime Berger.”
As I hold the door open, I mention to her, “That’s all right. I’m going up. I can take it. How much?”
“Two tekka maki, two unagi maki, two California maki, two seaweed salads. Already on her credit card.” She hands me the bag,
and I give her a ten-dollar tip. “Her usual Thursday delivery. Have a nice night.”
I shut the door behind me and take the elevator to the top floor, where I follow an empty carpeted hallway to a unit in the
southeast corner. Ringing the bell, I look up
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