encouraged when Pete hears what I have to say and doesn’t ridicule it, but even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.
I think I’m right.
I’d better be right.
It takes almost an hour and a half to get up there, and we park close but out of sight of anyone in the cabin. I’m not sure how to go about approaching it, since there is a very good chance that gunfire might be heading our way when we do.
Pete and Marcus come up with a plan; they will sneak up and enter the cabin, disarming anyone who might be inside, while Karen and I wait by the car for them to signal to us that it’s safe to come up. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the perfect plan.
Pete and Marcus head off, and for the next fifteen minutes Karen and I hear nothing. No voices, no gunfire, no noise of any kind. I’m trying to figure out whether that’s good or bad news, when my cell phone rings.
“Come on in,” Pete says.
“Is there anyone there?” I ask.
“Come on in,” he repeats, and hangs up.
Karen and I drive the rest of the way to the cabin. No one is outside and everything is completely quiet, and I have a brief flash of fear that Pete was forced to call me and that we could be walking into a trap. Then I remember that Marcus is with him, and I get a new infusion of artificial courage.
Karen follows me as I enter the cabin. Pete is leaning against the counter that separates the kitchen area from the main room. Someone I assume to be Anthony Banks lies on the floor unconscious, with Marcus standing over him.
In the corner of the room, lying on an area rug and chewing on a toy, is Reggie, looking none the worse for wear from his adventure.
And sitting at the small dining table is a woman I recognize as Yasir Hamadi’s live-in lover/employee, Jeannette Nelson.
Also known as Diana Carmichael.
Also known as Stacy Harriman.
Even though she was expecting this, Karen doesn’t recognize her at first, but slowly it starts to sink in. She stares at her as if trying to process what she is seeing. Stacy just sits there, sullen and silent, as Karen slowly walks toward her.
“You,” Karen says slowly, “are a piece of shit.”
* * * * *
YOU WOULD THINK that discovering that a murder victim is actually alive would be enough to quickly spring from prison the man wrongly convicted of the killing.
Unfortunately, the system does not work nearly that efficiently. The state has to endlessly investigate the developments, a hearing has to be scheduled, and witnesses have to be heard. That would all be fine, except that Richard is sitting in jail.
His reaction when I told him that Stacy was alive and Reggie was safe was not what I expected. I expected shock and euphoria; what I got was an almost dulled acceptance. This man has been battered and beaten down by events, and I have to get him out of that cell as soon as possible.
To that end I once again call to arrange a meeting with Alice Massengale. This time she doesn’t resist at all, asking me to come in right away, which I’m happy to do.
It is clear from the moment I arrive that Massengale is angry, and it doesn’t take much longer to discover that it’s not me she’s angry with. “Stacy Harriman-Diana Carmichael-was part of WITSEC,” she says. “I shouldn’t be confirming that for you, but I am.”
“Thank you for that,” I say.
“I had been told otherwise, which is why I made those representations to the court.”
I believe her, and I tell her so. I also tell her that I am here to negotiate with the U.S. government, and I have chosen her as their representative.
“I have no standing to represent anyone,” she says.
“I think you’ll have all the standing you’ll need,” I say. “All I ask is that you convey my terms to the appropriate officials and tell them they have twenty-four hours to respond.”
She smiles; she doesn’t yet know what my terms are, but she thinks she’s going to like them. “Fair enough,” she says.
“Good. Here’s what I want. Richard Evans must be released from jail immediately; I don’t care how it’s done. I want him out and the conviction wiped from his record. Then I want ten million dollars to help compensate him for the loss of five years of his life, to say nothing of the pain and suffering he has had to endure. I believe he can get more in the lawsuit I will otherwise file.”
“What are you offering in return?” she asks.
“Partial confidentiality.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mr. Evans is free to discuss everything with the press, with the following exceptions. He will not reveal that the government was aware of his innocence, that it misrepresented to the court, or that it tried to wiretap and otherwise sabotage his legal team. He also will not reveal the terms of the settlement.”
“Ten million dollars is something of a reach, don’t you think?” she asks.
“Not compared to what the government will recover when they start digging into Hamadi and everyone else. Either way, it’s not negotiable. If my offer isn’t accepted by close of business tomorrow, we file suit the next morning and start booking talk show appearances immediately. And with what I know about Afghanistan and the government’s behavior in this case, ten million dollars to shut me up is a bargain.”
She agrees to convey my offer, and I get the feeling she’s relishing doing so. I also wouldn’t be surprised if she testified for our side, should this ever go to trial.
I head home for a planned meeting with Pete Stanton. Pete is feeling pretty good right now; the arrests of Stacy Harriman and Anthony Banks are by far the biggest of his career. He’s been all over the media talking about it, including an interview on the
If Pete is grateful to me for putting him in this position, he’s hiding it well. I tell him that there are a few things I still can’t figure out, and ask if he can fill me in on where the investigation stands.
“I should tell you, a private citizen, about confidential police work?” he asks. “Why would I do that?”
“Let me take a shot at a reason,” I say. “How about so you’re not forced to buy your own beer from now on at Charlie’s?”
“On the other hand, we need more openness between law enforcement and the private citizenry,” he says.
“Since it obviously wasn’t Stacy, whose body washed up on shore?” I ask.
“Still no ID on that. We’re checking missing-persons records for that period. Whoever it was, they took her hair and put it on the hairbrush at Richard’s house and then put some of her blood on the boat, so it would seem to match Stacy’s DNA.”
“They would have had to find someone with the same body type, hair color…”
He shakes his head sadly. “Good reason to get murdered, you know?”
“Any luck finding Gary Winston?” I ask.
“Not yet… Hopefully Stacy will give him up. But he’ll be found-surgeons aren’t the type to hide in the wilderness eating leaves and shit. They like to come out and have a good meal once in a while.”
As far as I can tell, and Pete agrees, Winston is the last missing member of the conspiracy. Had I realized earlier that Winston was a plastic surgeon, stationed in Afghanistan to deal with serious battle wounds, I might have caught on to the scam earlier.
I hadn’t recognized Durelle or Carelli from their pictures and just assumed that it was because they were taken years ago. In fact, Winston had altered their faces enough to be consistent with new identities, as he had done with Stacy.
Karen was targeted out of fear that because of her closeness to Stacy, she might see through it and
