Chapter 25
Present
“Is that when you knew you wanted to be a lawyer?” Diane asked as she looked up from her notepad.
I shook my head. “No, that came later. When I first agreed to take the job as Andrew’s assistant, I was terrified.
I had no experience dealing with the police, courts, or anything of the sort.
Part of me thought that Andrew was crazy for soliciting my help.
But all I kept thinking about was poor Rosie.
I thought if I could make a difference, even a small one, it would be worth it. ”
“And did you?” Diane asked. “Make a difference?”
I tipped my head in a nod. “Not at first. It took me a little while to get my feet wet.”
At noon, we broke for lunch, enjoying Cobb salads and sweet tea on the veranda. We talked about the case and my first stumbling steps into the world of law. When we’d finished eating, Diane told me more about her life as a journalist and how she’d gotten into the profession.
“I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” she said as she cleaned her glasses on the hem of her blouse. “Even as a little girl, I’d scribble stories in my notebooks. Later, I realized I had a knack for asking questions—the right questions—and that’s when journalism became a possibility.”
“How long have you been an investigative journalist?”
“Five years next month.”
“And do you enjoy it?”
“I do, but I still dream of becoming a novelist. This story of yours will certainly help me on my journey, but I want to write my own stories, you know? The kind that touches people’s hearts and stays with them long after they’ve put the book down.”
“Does that mean you want to try your hand at fiction?”
She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes, but not just any fiction. I want to write stories that inspire people, give them hope, make them see the world a little differently. Actually, if I’m being totally honest, I want to write the next great American novel. I hope you don’t take offense to that.”
I laughed under my breath. “Not at all, dear. I love fiction as much as anyone. And your desire to write the next great American novel reminds me of someone I used to know,” I said, thinking of Jack.
“But I will say this—the old adage that truth can be stranger than fiction—it’s very true, so don’t write off nonfiction just yet. ”
We both chuckled at the irony and the conversation took a lighter turn.
Over cups of coffee, Diane and I continued building a friendship.
Through the afternoon, our discussions meandered through politics, literature, and our shared love for nature and more specifically, the ocean.
Diane also told me more about Cassie and how she had recently gotten a puppy, a chocolate Maltipoo she had affectionately named Rolo, after her favorite candy.
As the afternoon wore on, the sun sank lower in the western sky, setting the horizon aflame.
Before dinner, we retreated to our respective rooms. Diane needed time to compile her notes, and I needed time to reflect on the day’s conversation, breathing in the poignant solitude that often came with dusk.
Judy joined me before dinner, and we watched the sunset together.
“How are things going with Diane?” she asked as she gazed out toward the beach.
“Quite well. She's an interesting young woman.”
Judy smiled, her delicate features illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light. “I'm glad to hear it.”
“You know, she reminds me a little bit of Rosie.”
“Rosie? Really?”
“Not so much in the physical appearance, but in her spirit, her mannerisms. Not to mention her passion for writing.”
Judy smiled at the memory. Rosie had been a whirlwind, filling our lives with energy and her love for words.
“Maybe it’s only fitting that Diane is here then,” Judy mused out loud. “Perhaps fate has a way of circling back and reminding us of what we once cherished.”
“And maybe reminding us of what we can still cherish,” I said as the sun went down.
Since we’d taken a break from the hard-hitting questions to talk about our personal lives, Diane and I continued our conversation after dinner.
Normally, I would have called it a night, but considering Diane was only with me for two more days, and there was still so much to tell, I had to push the story along.
Kitty Hawk, NC
June 1963
Day two of the trial began with a sunrise as murky as the evidence against Rosie.
The courthouse was packed again with spectators, some there to support her, others simply devouring the spectacle.
The jury sat at attention, each face betraying a different interpretation of the evidence.
The gavel crashed down, marking the start of the proceedings.
The prosecutor paced in front of the jury box, his stride methodical and predatory, keeping the room on the edge of their seats. Every now and then he would stop abruptly, pivot sharply on his heel and thrust a damning piece of evidence toward the jury.
That was the moment I realized just how difficult the road ahead would be for Andrew in his defense of Rosie.
But despite the seemingly insurmountable odds, Andrew never wavered.
He was not a man of impressive stature like Mr. Gentry, nor did he have an icy stare that could pierce your very soul.
Instead, his eyes were warm and kind, his body language relaxed yet assertive.
He had an air about him that made you feel at ease, as if everything would be all right.
In my search for evidence to aid Rosie’s defense, I began by delving deeper into Peter’s past. Having only met him a few times, I didn’t know him that well.
But there was one detail that stuck out in my memory.
He had mentioned having a beachside cottage in nearby Nags Head, so I decided to start there.
I made the short drive from Kitty Hawk to Nags Head with the windows down, losing myself in my thoughts.
The coastal winds rumbled around me, whipping my hair into a frizz.
As I arrived at the cottage, a quaint little structure painted blue and white, I felt a twinge of uncertainty.
Perhaps it was the eerie quietness that hung around the place or the way the salty air seemed heavier, but something gave me pause.
Getting out of the car, I shook the feeling off and began my investigation.
“You looking for something, Miss?” a voice called out as I stepped onto the porch.
I turned to see an elderly man with a weathered face and keen eyes, staring at me from the driveway. His posture was relaxed, yet his gaze was intense, as if he knew something I didn't.
“I’m trying to find out more about the man who lived here,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Peter Sullivan. Did you know him?”
The old man's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the name, his face weathering into a deep frown. “Yeah, I knew him…or at least I knew of him. He wasn’t much for conversation. Mostly kept to himself.”
I nodded, hiding my disappointment. “Did he ever have any visitors? Anyone you can remember?”
“Now that you mention it, there was this one woman. She'd come by every now and then, mostly on the weekends.”
I stepped off the porch, producing a picture of Rosie and showing it to the man. “Was it her?”
He shook his head immediately. “No, that’s the young lady accused of killing Peter. She came by only once or twice. The girl I’m thinking of was different. She was a redhead. Always wore sunglasses and had this look about her, like she was ashamed to be seen.”
A redhead? I hadn't seen anything about a redhead in the case files. Could this be the woman Peter was seeing behind Rosie’s back? “Do you remember her name?”
He hesitated, rubbing his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “Can't say that I do,” he admitted, his brow creasing in concentration. “Peter didn't introduce us, and she wasn't one for chit-chat.”
“Anything else you remember about her?” I pressed, grasping for at any information that might start to untangle this web.
“Can't say much beyond what I've already told ya,” the old man said, looking somewhat apologetic.
“She'd usually show up in the evenings, stay for a few hours and then vanish like the tide. And…yeah, there was something else.” He paused, as if weighing his words carefully.
“She always drove this old blue Cadillac.
Must've been from the fifties. Beautiful car, but it stuck out like a sore thumb.”
An old blue Cadillac. That was something at least, even if it was a thin lead to follow.
“Thank you,” I said, offering him a grateful smile. “You’ve been very helpful.”
He simply nodded, resuming his stroll. With nothing more to gain, I turned away from the house and headed back to my car. As I maneuvered down the winding coastal roads, the mystery of Peter Sullivan, and his mysterious redhead, deepened.
I met up with Andrew at a diner in Manteo, where we could discuss the case without the prying ears and eyes of the townsfolk. He waited for me at a corner booth, his face buried in the local newspaper when I walked in.
“Any luck?” he asked as I slid into the red vinyl booth opposite him.
“Sort of. I’ve got a new lead, but I'm not sure how much it's worth.”
Andrew lowered his newspaper, his brow lifted in curiosity. “Oh?”
I told him about the old man and the mysterious redhead with her blue Cadillac.
“That’s a start,” he said, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “Could be a mistress, could be a close friend. Either way, we need to find this woman. She might know more about Peter’s actions leading up to his death.”
The waitress appeared then and took our orders. After taking a sip of my Coke, I looked up at Andrew and asked, “Do you think it would be possible for Judy and me to see Rosie? We haven’t spoken to her since her arrest, and we want her to know we haven't forgotten her.”
“I think that can be arranged. Just remember, they’ll probably be listening to everything you say, so choose your words carefully.”