Chapter 44
CHAPTER 44
Roxbury, Massachusetts
T he next morning, against my better judgment, we’re sitting in the second-floor office of Seymour Washington, private investigator.
On the drive from Litchfield to Roxbury, Garrett logged phone time with Liberty Mutual insurance and Enterprise Rent-A-Car, explaining his so-called accident and arranging for an appraisal of the wrecked vehicle.
I kept quiet, thinking about Suzanne Bonanno and Amber Keenan, two innocent young women who did not deserve their fates.
Seymour Washington, by contrast, is anything but innocent.
I’ve met Washington only once before, a few years back, when we were working on Integrity Gone .
He gave me the creeps then.
Still does now.
I glance around the office.
The walls are lined with framed photos of Washington posed with national leaders, like Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, Cory Booker, and Barack Obama, and local Boston politicians like Mel King.
An older picture shows a much younger Washington—huge ’fro, multicolored dashiki, and a raised clenched fist—standing in front of the John Harvard statue in Cambridge.
Today, he’s in a three-piece suit and ready to get down to business.
He leans across his desk and looks at Garrett.
“So you and John DeMarco came to an understanding.”
“Stop right there,” I say.
Washington turns to me.
I hold out my hand. “Give me a dollar.”
Washington’s brow furrows.
“What for?”
“Don’t ask. Just do it.”
He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a crisp single.
I grab it. “Mr. Washington, you have just paid me. Unless you object, I am now your attorney in the matter we’re about to discuss. All conversations related to this matter are privileged.”
“My first question,” says Garrett, “is how you turned into a one-man Innocence Project for a guy like John DeMarco.”
“Two reasons,” says Washington.
“First, I genuinely think his assault charge was a miscarriage of justice. Unreliable witnesses. Possibly a tainted jury. Second, he once did me a favor. A big favor. And I owe him.”
“Do I want to know what that favor was?” I ask.
“You do not,” says Washington.
Garrett speaks up again.
“DeMarco was willing to talk with me only because he knew I was an investigative reporter. He wanted my help with his case. And he offered something in return. Something he said he left in your possession.”
I slide my chair closer.
“DeMarco told Garrett that you have information about the location of a murder victim from seventeen years ago. And the identity of her killer.”
“That information would come from him, not me,” says Washington.
“I’m merely a conduit.”
“But you have it,” says Garrett.
Washington folds his hands under his chin.
“I have half of it.”
Garrett looks confused.
“What do you mean?”
“I have the supposed location of the body. A good-faith offering. Mr. DeMarco is withholding the name of the alleged killer until he sees evidence of progress in his appeal.”
I look over at Garrett, then ask the obvious question.
“If John DeMarco has information about a murder he didn’t commit, why wouldn’t he trade on that information? Make a deal with the DA and get his sentence reduced?”
“Because,” says Washington, “that would make him a snitch.”
Garrett nods.
“And snitches get stitches.”
“Or worse,” says Washington.
“Mr. DeMarco prefers alternative channels.”
I shake my head.
“We’re heading down a very dark tunnel here.”
Washington stares at me.
“Do you want the information or not?”
I glance at Garrett.
He looks at Washington.
“We do.”
“I want to be clear,” says Washington, “that this information was provided to me in confidence and comes with no guarantee. I cannot vouch for its accuracy.”
“Understood,” says Garrett.
Washington swivels around in his chair and opens a panel in the floor.
Inside is a safe. He shields the lock dial with his left hand as he works the combination with his right.
In a few seconds, he brings out a gray legal-size envelope.
“Do you know what’s in that?” Garrett asks.
Washington shakes his head as he hands the envelope to Garrett.
“Came to me taped shut. I never looked.”
“As your attorney,” I tell him, “I’d say you made the right decision.”
“Why don’t I give you two a minute,” says Washington.
He rises from his desk, walks into a small bathroom attached to his office, closes the door, and turns on the faucet.
Primitive white noise.
I pull my chair closer to Garrett’s.
He grabs a slim letter opener from Washington’s desk and slices through the tape on the envelope.
He pulls out a single sheet of paper and unfolds it, then stares at it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I lean over to see what’s on the page.
It looks like a treasure map drawn by a mental patient.