Of Guilt and Innocence (23 page)

“Amber, I do agree to an extent with Frank. Families have a right to grieve in private if they choose and it in no way reflects guilt or innocence, but it is peculiar behavior at the least that not even a statement has been read. This is a high profile case in our area, and in some circles it has stolen attention away from the serial killer that is also striking in our midst. The family has to understand that people are interested and could possibly aid in the apprehension of their daughter's killer. Also, Frank's argument that sexual assault excludes the family by default is ridiculous. Remember Jean Benet Ramsey was sexually assaulted and the family was the top suspect for years.”

“That's a terrible point, Kirkman, the family was excluded years later and that investigation was plagued by shoddy police work,” shouted the host.

“I'm just saying, it happens,” snapped Nicole, looking a bit embarrassed.

“All right, well, we have a caller on the line who claims to have had an affair with Tom Wooten, the little girl's father. Angela, are you there?” Amber shouted, looking directly into the television. Mark couldn't believe what he was seeing or hearing. This was a nationally televised program; it had millions of viewers. The fact that his niece's murder was being discussed was surprising enough, but the fact that his brother and sister-in-law were being accused of withholding information in her murder was shocking and upsetting. And now a woman was going to broadcast her claims of having an affair with Tom so the whole world could hear—it was more than he could take.

Mark stood up and turned off the television. He turned and faced the deck where he could see the back of Tom's head lit up as he sat in the deck chair. Angry, hurt, surprised, Mark stormed out on to the deck not really knowing what he was going to say or do. Tom looked up at him, startled.

“Oh, hey, I thought you had fallen asleep. What time is it?” Tom asked sounding groggy.

“We need to talk, Tom,” Mark said in an anxious tone. “Do you know what is being said about you in the press? On television? National television, actually.” Tom looked confused, but said nothing. “You have to give the media something, you have to at least issue a statement, through the lawyer I hired, something.” Tom just shook his head and turned away as Mark pleaded. “Tom, people think you and Lisa were involved, like that Jean Benet Ramsey case. They at least think you know something about it.”

“Let them think what they want, I don't care,” Tom snapped back. He was trying to remain calm and keep his voice down, but the anger and hurt was beginning to boil over.

“You don't care? What about asking for the public's help? Every time a child is killed or kidnapped I always see the family on TV, holding posters or pictures, wearing ribbons, asking for help. Asking for tips, pleading with the killer to come forward.”

“The police are doing that. I don't want to interfere. They know what they are doing.  Jim and Dan are good guys, they were at Ashley's services, and I trust them.” Tom continued to stare ahead blankly as he spoke with Mark, who was still standing slightly behind his right shoulder.

“What about starting some type of fund or foundation in Ashley's honor? People do that all the time, too. People take up a cause and petition the governor for law changes, they say these things change their lives, make them want to help change things so other kids don't get hurt.” Mark's voice was starting to fade. He was throwing out every idea he could think of in an attempt to help his brother. Tom was still his idol, and to see him in such pain and then to hear his name tarnished was agony for him. He wanted desperately for Tom to do something, to stop the public humiliation television shows such as the one he had just been watching would soon bring him.

But Tom had had enough; his breaking point had been reached. He stood up quickly and faced his younger brother.

“What the hell do you watch all day? The Kidnapped Children's Network? How many people do you actually know who have actually gone through this? Huh? I'm guessing two!” Tom took a deep breath to regain his composure and lowered his voice. He moved in closer to Mark and spoke intensely, though his voice was only a whisper, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

“I don't give a shit about any other kids getting hurt. My daughter is dead. Nothing is going to bring her back. Nothing is going to make me whole again. No foundation, no ribbons, nothing. Do I look like John fucking Walsh? I have no causes now. She was my cause. She was the reason I worked hard to make money, for her. That was my cause. I'm not going to be out there begging the person who took her away from me to turn himself in, cause it's not going to happen. I'm not going to give that piece of shit the satisfaction of seeing my tears. Him or anyone else. No one can tell me how to grieve for my daughter.” Tom stopped, his chin quivering a bit, his eyes wide, staring deeply into Mark's.

Mark looked down briefly, then looked back into Tom's eyes. He felt badly that he had provoked Tom in such a way. These were emotions he had never seen from his brother before. But he knew he needed to press further, for Tom's own good and the good of his family.

“There is something else, Tom. A woman named Angela was on television just now claiming to the whole world you had an affair with her.” Tom closed his eyes and kept them shut as he stood in front of Mark. “I'm not going to preach to you about marriage, or even ask you if it's true. But if it is, you should get in front of this. At least tell Lisa, I mean my God, in her state if she found out from a reporter or the news—” Mark shook his head as he abruptly stopped. Tom took a deep breath and opened his eyes. They were no longer wide and alert. They now seemed tired and worn down.

“What do you want from me? Huh? I'm a bad guy, Mark, I'm not the person you think I am. I've made plenty of mistakes, and now my family is paying for them. What's left of it, anyway.”

“Well, are you going to tell her?”

“I don't know . . . she's so out of it she wouldn't understand. She would be destroyed worse than she is now.”

“You've got to tell her, Tom. And you have to watch her with those prescriptions. She's taking too many. Take it from me, I've been through it. If you don't help her she's going to become addicted.”

“That's her problem,” Tom said in a cold, uncaring tone while looking away.

Mark was visibly taken aback by this comment and he shook his head from side to side quickly as if to rattle the words around in his skull to make sure he had heard them correctly.

“WHAT? What the hell do you mean, ‘that's her problem'? She's your wife. She's all you have now. She is hurting worse than anyone I've ever seen and she needs you to keep her from a lifetime of addiction and dependency on things that don't make her hurt so bad. She will never deal with this if she is doped up all the time like she has been.”

Tom just stood there for a moment looking away from Mark. He took a deep breath and nodded his head yes, then patted his brother on the right shoulder. It seemed to be enough to satisfy Mark, even though nothing had really been said to that effect, and he lumbered back inside and plopped down on the couch. Tom had no intention at all of doing anything Mark had suggested; he was just too worn down to discuss it any further.

He had always relished the role of mentor to Mark. He couldn't open up to his younger brother. To tell him his fears about all the mistakes he had made. He couldn't tell him that he only cared about himself and not his ailing wife. He had begun resenting Lisa for Ashley's death, though he hadn't said so to anyone and had tried not to show it. He actually preferred her heavily medicated as she had been all week because he could be alone and didn't have to deal with her grief as well as his. Her current supply of oxycodone and the sleeping pills would both last her for about a month, assuming she took them as prescribed.

Tom didn't know how long she planned to be medicated and he didn't really care to know. He was just in a state of being. He was just there. He did not want to think about the future or how he would overcome what had happened. He did not want to look out for his wife. He didn't care what was being said about him and what his reputation would be. He just wanted to exist in each moment, no more, no less.

Tom exhaled loudly and sat back down in his chair, his empty gaze returning to the yard. Visions of a strawberry blonde chasing a small dog and giggling resumed. He raised the glass of sweet tea to his lips, then slowly lowered it back to the table.

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

 

“Make yourself comfortable. You're going to be here awhile,” the detective said as he took off a pair of handcuffs and guided his prisoner to the chair in front of him. There sat a young black man, roughly twenty-two years old, in a dirty white wifebeater and black shorts. He sat looking down at the table in front of him, his hands placed on either side of his head under his thick, short dreadlocks. The detective sat on the other side of the small table in a similar chair. The room wasn't a typical interrogation room from television. It was small, with similarly small furnishings. The square table was located in the back right hand corner and only two small folding chairs accommodated it, one on either side.  Two other chairs were left unoccupied against a wall and above them hung the obligatory two way mirror.  

Detective Chris Cantore was dressed in a white, long-sleeved dress shirt with a black tie. He had jet black hair that was loosely combed forward and mussed up so that the points formed by his hair product were going in different directions. His brown eyes were fixed on the young man he had before him and he leaned his head down as if trying to look under the dreadlocks that covered his prisoner's face. “So this is what we got, Jemile. I got you dealing coke and heroin to undercover police officers. Not once, not twice, but nine times. Nine times. That's gonna set you back, my friend. Oh yeah, and then, and this is one of my favorite parts. Not my favorite part, that's coming, but one of my favorite parts. So then, when we go to pick you up, you have a crack pipe in your sock and a gun on you. A stolen gun.” Detective Cantore smiled as he continued to look at the top of the dreadlocked head. “You want to say anything to that?”

“I told you I was holding that gun for someone else, it wasn't even mine. And there ain't no way I sold nothin to an undercover cop.” Jemile looked up for the first time with anger in his eyes. “Crooked ass cops probably made up the story just to try to put me in jail,” he said as he looked back down.

“You know, I thought you might say that, so . . .” Detective Cantore stood up abruptly from his seat. He wheeled over a television which sat on a large podium with a DVD player on the shelf underneath it and placed it in front of the table so Jemile could see it. “Now this is my favorite part,” he said as he turned on the television.

As the television picture came into view, Jemile could see what looked like a news broadcast. The screen was frozen, but clearly depicted a woman facing the camera holding a microphone. She was on a street and behind her right shoulder, in the background, Jemile could see several people on the sidewalk.

“Now watch this closely,” the detective said as he hit the play button. The reporter began speaking about a murder that had been committed in the house she stood in front of and the camera panned over to the house then back to her. Jemile's right leg began to bounce up and down as he bit his lower lip. The reporter continued, saying that the murder was most likely linked to the South Florida Strangler. Detective Cantore hit the pause button and the screen froze once again.

“Now that you have just a touch of the back story on this, here's a better version of this disc. This exact screen, actually. We have some cool toys that allow us to zoom and focus and all that good stuff.” Detective Cantore replaced the disc currently in the DVD player with a different one. It appeared to be the same screen that had been paused on the previous disc, however, it was zoomed in over the reporter's right shoulder to the people on the sidewalk.

The people were fairly clear, even though they were slightly pixilated. Jemile recognized himself instantly but remained silent. He stood there, on the sidewalk looking around, facing the camera, obviously unaware he was being recorded. His facial features were difficult to distinguish, but the dreadlocks were perfectly clear.  From off camera came another black male who walked up to him and the two slapped hands. Jemile pulled him in for a brief embrace and the man continued on his way. The disc stopped playing again.

“Now, let's watch that again in slow motion.” Detective Cantore restarted the disc from the beginning, this time, in slow motion. The image of what appeared to be a hand reaching around the back of the black male Jemile had pulled in for a hug was now visible with the video slowed.  That hand, presumably Jemile's, could now be seen slipping something into the back pants pocket of his visitor. The black male then pulled his shirt down over his back pants pocket and walked away. Detective Cantore stopped the recording again and sat back down, smiling at Jemile, who was leaned back in his chair with his head up and arms crossed. His gaze, though it was on the table in front of him, appeared to be far off. He nervously bit his lower lip. “Do you recognize those guys? The guys on the second disc?”

“Nope,” Jemile said sharply still gazing at the table in front of him.

“Well, the first guy, the one in the white tank top looking toward the camera, well, that guy is you, Jemile. Your wardrobe doesn't change much does it?” Jemile didn't respond. “And that other guy, the one you pulled in for that warm embrace, did you recognize him?”

“Nope.”

“Hmmm . . . you must hug a lot of guys like that then. Pull them in nice and tight. I bet you blew on his ear when you pulled him in, didn't you? Maybe I've got this all wrong, maybe you weren't dealing drugs, maybe you just like touching dudes. Getting them all close like that. I bet you—”