“I’ve worked tirelessly behind the scenes to get this case re-opened. I’ve worked hard for the truth. I’ve worked overtime for justice.” He took a second to look meaningfully at Morales. “I’ve worked tenaciously for you, my friend.”
Amber huffed. “I’m the one who did all the work.” And trashed my father’s good name in the process, she thought.
Governor Cruz continued. “After more than a decade in prison, I’m happy to report that Marcario Morales has been exonerated of all charges in the killing of Eric Torres.”
A field reporter that Amber didn’t recognize came on to explain that the conviction had been vacated, and that Morales had been granted a new trial. Though Morales was being released on his own recognizance, he had not yet been exonerated as Cruz stated. But Amber knew that would come at the trial. All because of her investigation and report.
The press conference went on and on, with several reporters questioning why it had taken so long to free Morales. Others wanted all the fine details. The police officers near the podium took turns stepping up to the mic, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, and failing to explain exactly why Morales had gone to jail and now why he was innocent.
Amber clicked over to another local channel to see they were running the same feed from the prison, but had an attorney on explaining what would happen next for Marcario Morales. She watched as the press conference came to a close with Cruz motioning for Morales to come to the podium with him. Morales’s smile faltered slightly, but he walked slowly toward the governor. Strangely, the man, who had just been released from prison after more than ten years of incarceration for a crime he didn’t commit … looked guilty. He held his hands down in front of him, clasped together near his belt buckle. It almost looked as if he still had handcuffs on.
Cruz placed his hand on Morales’s shoulder and the man, who was taller than the governor by four inches … flinched. He looked as if Jerry Cruz had given him an electric shock. The scene got even stranger. As Cruz was reciting his carefully scripted speech extolling the virtues of the police department while at the same time warning against complacency, he stretched out his hand toward Marcario. He was waiting on a handshake that never came.
It wasn’t that Morales didn’t see it; it was obvious that he did. He was refusing the shake the governor’s hand. Amber studied his face as a spark of something lit deep in her memory. Marcario Morales was actively avoiding … no actively rejecting the familiar clasp of friendship.
Amber flashed back to her first meeting with Morales inside the Sullivan Correctional Facility. She had extended her hand offering a shake, but Morales had looked down at his shackles. But the officer hadn’t locked him down. He could have easily returned the shake … but he didn’t. Alarm bells were going off in her head, but she didn’t know exactly why.
19
Layers of Déjà Vu
When she’d watched more than a few hours of the media frenzy around the release of Marcario Morales, she turned the television off. The sun was slowly falling below the tree-line at the Orchard View apartments. In the silent void of her living room, she reached into her backpack and pulled out the photo album she’d taken from her father’s house. She flipped through the pages until her emotions and her nose were raw from crying.
“I miss you, mom,” she whispered.
On a sudden whim, she decided she would go get some wine—boxed wine, maybe a Franzia Moscato if she could find it. It was the least she could do on the anniversary of her mother’s death. She threw on a jacket and walked out into the chilly evening air. It was an unseasonably cool June evening, almost cold enough for a fire. She remembered Minter talking about his chiminea and the smell of pine wood as it burned. The thought of that and his rich, sweet pipe smoke made her long to talk with the man about all that had happened.
She bought the wine at Sam’s where they sold all manner of wine, liquor, and beer. She discovered that they also had a fine selection of cigars and pipe tobacco. She picked a Mac Baren tobacco called 7 Seas Regular. She thought it was a cool name, but it also it smelled heavenly, like chocolate and vanilla together.
She was urging the heater in the Datsun to come on as she passed through the square near the police station when she realized that she had no idea where Minter Tweed lived. The thought of it was about to send her to tears again, when she saw the light shining out across his office balcony. Even in the growing darkness, she could see the back and forth motion of his rocking chair.
She parked across the street at a meter she knew was broken and whistled up in his direction. He leaned forward, a puff of smoke billowing out around his head.
“Well, well,” he said, his fatherly voice warming her chilled heart. “If it isn’t the long-lost Ms. Sherlock Holmes. Did you find what you were seeking?”
“I found enough,” Amber said. She held up the tin of tobacco and the box of wine. “I brought you a gift.”
“Do tell,” he said, lifting his thin frame from the rocking chair. “Perhaps you should bring it up to show me. My eyes simply cannot see that far in this light.”
She climbed the stairs to
