Unintended Consequences - By Marti Green

Chapter

5





Thirty-Five Days


As the announcement came of Flight 84’s imminent boarding, Dani glanced nervously down the expansive corridor hoping to see Tommy. Melanie sat next to her, their carry-on bags at their sides. “Damn, he’d better get here soon,” Dani said.

LaGuardia Airport was crowded with business travelers, laptops by their sides and cell phones at their ears. Dani didn’t travel often, usually for just a few days to argue an appeal now and then, and still needed to suppress a sense of dread when the airplane taxied down the runway and began to rise seamlessly into the atmosphere.

“There he is,” Melanie said as she tapped Dani’s arm and pointed to a man running toward their gate.

“Well, he certainly played it close.” Dani barely contained her annoyance. Every moment counted with an execution so near, and she couldn’t have members of her team treating responsibilities casually. Showing up late was not an option.

“Sorry,” Tommy said as he reached their seats. “I got a call from a pal at the Bureau just as I was ready to leave. He had some info for me on missing girls.”

Now Dani felt embarrassed to have judged Tommy so quickly. She should have known better. “What’d he say?”

Before Tommy could answer, a crackled voice announced over the loudspeaker, “Those passengers seated in rows 30 and higher may begin boarding now.” A mass of bodies rose from their seats and headed to the gate, far more than the few invited to board first. A line quickly formed just behind the gate, giving minimal clearance for those ready to hand over their boarding passes. Despite having assigned seats, it seemed everyone wanted to be first on the airplane.

“I have it written down. It’s in here,” Tommy said as he patted his briefcase. “I’ll fill you in on the plane.”


The plane was only half-full and they spread out. With his notebook open on his lap, Tommy leaned across the aisle to speak to the women. “There are five cases of girls between the ages of 3 and 5 reported missing during the two years prior to the body being found in Indiana. In two of them, the parents were divorced, the mother had custody, and the father disappeared at the same time as the child. It’s presumed those children are alive and with the father somewhere. Two other children were recovered.”

“What about the fifth?” Dani asked.

“A 3½-year-old girl—her name is Stacy Conklin—is still officially missing. Now here’s the interesting thing: Stacy was reported missing two months before the little girl’s body was found in the woods.”

“Where was she reported missing from?”

“Another interesting point. She lived in Hammond, Illinois, just over the Indiana border, and right near Route 80. It’s maybe four hours from where the body was found.”

Dani shook her head. “If Stacy was reported missing so close to the discovery of the body in the woods, why didn’t the police suspect it could be her?”

“They did. Well, not immediately, but eventually. Remember, this crime happened over nineteen years ago. They didn’t have the computer database we have now. And it was another state. But soon enough they matched the age and gender to Stacy Conklin and they brought in her parents.”

“And?”

“And the parents said it wasn’t their daughter. Her face was too badly burned to identify, but supposedly they could tell by the shape of her body. Too skinny for their daughter, too small. The police checked the parents out anyway and cleared both. Loving and devoted, never hit their child, pillars of the community, yadda yadda yadda.”

“Is it possible? Could it be true that George Calhoun’s daughter is still alive?” Dani tried to stop herself from getting caught up in the excitement of her client’s possible innocence. It was a double-edged sword if he wasn’t guilty. Proving innocence meant she’d helped a man or a woman escape from an unfair death. Failing to exonerate an innocent person and then watching that person’s execution was torturous. She always attended when she lost an appeal. Her clients needed to have one person witness their death who knew the truth.

Tommy gave her a warning glance. “You think every client is innocent. Toughen up, Dani. Most of them aren’t; you know that. And this guy is probably guilty, too. We haven’t even met with him yet and you’re already on a crusade.”

Most of the staff at HIPP opposed the death penalty. Tommy was one of the few who believed heinous criminals should face a heinous end. Despite those feelings, he was the best investigator in the office. Tommy believed in truth as strongly as he believed in retribution, and he worked doggedly to uncover whether the person facing the death penalty deserved to die. Dani long ago gave up trying to sway Tommy to her view that no person deserved to die at the hand of the government. She was just grateful that he used his incredible detecting skills to sniff out the facts.

Some people accomplished a lot of work on airplanes, but Dani wasn’t among them. Concentrating while thirty thousand feet in the air with nothing but clouds and sky between her and the ground wasn’t in her makeup. She could fly—she just felt an undercurrent of uneasiness during the flight. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander.

Like most states, Indiana executed death-row inmates by lethal injection. It hadn’t always been that way. First, prisoners had been executed by hanging, a salute to the days of the Wild West. Then the state moved to the electric chair, pulling back from the concept of punishment as righteous revenge and embracing the notion of humane treatment. After all, the Constitution banned cruel and unusual punishment, and strapping a murderer into an antiquated wooden chair and zapping him with twenty-three hundred volts of electricity supposedly killed the convict more quickly. It was done in three rounds: eight seconds, then twenty-two seconds, then eight seconds again. And if it didn’t do the job, another three rounds. Dani had once counted off twenty-two seconds and then imagined electricity shooting through her body during that interminable wait; she shuddered every time she thought about it. Still, it was quicker than hanging and easier to implement. With hanging, unless the length of rope and the weight of the prisoner were calculated precisely, multiple attempts were needed to get the job done. By 1980, electrocution had replaced hanging as the most popular form of execution. Problems still existed, though. It turned out that sometimes parts of the prisoner’s body ignited. Blasts of blue and orange flames bursting from a man’s head, filling the room with smoke, made for uncomfortable viewing. Continuing the quest to be more humane—at least for the viewing public—most states retired electric chairs in favor of lethal injection. Indiana made the switch in 1995.

When first convicted, Calhoun would have been executed in an electric chair. Now, if HIPP didn’t succeed, the state would mix up a potion of three chemicals: a barbiturate to put him to sleep, a muscle relaxant to paralyze his diaphragm and lungs, and potassium chloride to stop his heart. Sometimes, though, the barbiturate didn’t put the prisoner to sleep. And so he remained conscious when the drugs stopped his breathing and his heart, causing unimaginable pain.

Dani hadn’t even met George Calhoun and yet she already thought he could be innocent. No, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit she wanted to believe in his innocence. She was on her way to meet a man who was convicted of the most unspeakable of crimes: a parent murdering his own child. She didn’t want to meet that man. She wanted to meet a father who loved his daughter, who, as his letter said, would never have harmed her. So, yes, she allowed herself to believe he could be innocent. He wouldn’t be the first of her clients to be convicted for an act he hadn’t committed. She had worked long enough at HIPP to learn that the judicial process was flawed, that many innocent men and women were convicted of crimes they hadn’t committed. But she kept coming back to his failure to explain his daughter’s disappearance. It seemed to shout “guilty.” And she couldn’t help wondering if he was guilty of something—maybe murder, maybe something else. But what?


The crystal-blue skies of New York were nowhere to be seen when the plane landed at Indianapolis International Airport. The drenching rain that kept the plane circling for almost an hour before landing had stopped, but deep puddles permeated the roadways. They piled into their rented car, airport map in hand, and made their way downtown to the Indianapolis Women’s Prison. If Sallie had been convicted later, it’s likely she’d have been sent to the newer women’s prison, in Rockville. Most of the women incarcerated now in Indianapolis had special needs: some elderly, some mentally ill, some even pregnant. Sallie didn’t seem to fit into those categories, but Dani could be wrong. Maybe she was mentally ill. She’d get a better sense when she met her.

“Ladies, what say we stop for lunch first?” Tommy always had food on his mind, but he had a point. They didn’t know how long they’d be at the prison.

“I’m up for that,” both women answered in unison.

They parked near the prison and began walking. Almost immediately, Tommy spotted a coffee shop just a block from the parking garage. They strolled over, checked the menu in the front window and peeked inside. It looked clean and homey, so they went in. The tufted benches in their booth were faded and cracked, with strands of cotton wadding sticking out from the red vinyl fabric. The waitress, a pretty young woman with rouged cheeks and dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, came over to the table to take their order.

Flying always revved up Dani’s appetite. She didn’t know why. Doug was the opposite. On family vacations, she and Jonah would fight over Doug’s airplane snack. “I’ll have a hamburger, rare, no mayonnaise, just ketchup on the roll.”

“You want fries with that?”

She hesitated. Fries were diet-killers.

“It’s only a dollar more and they’re real good here. Everybody says so,” the waitress said with an inviting smile.

Dani shrugged. It was hard enough to eat well at home. On the road it was impossible. “Sure, add the fries.”

“And anything to drink?” she asked like Lucifer drawing her into the inferno. She knew she should just have water, especially after flying, but she’d already blown the diet with a hamburger and fries.

“Do you have milkshakes?” Dani asked, dropping her voice so Tommy and Melanie wouldn’t hear.

“Sure do,” the waitress said loudly enough for the next table to hear. “Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, but chocolate’s definitely the best.”

“Make it a chocolate shake,” Dani mumbled.

She leaned back and let her thoughts wander, drifting away from Tommy and Melanie’s conversation. Each city she traveled to when she argued an appeal seemed both different and the same as New York City. No place was like Manhattan, of course. No place had the mass humanity on its city streets. No place had the crowded skyscrapers or bustling energy or unending streams of neon lights. She supposed people living in Chicago or Los Angeles or maybe even Houston or Atlanta might argue with that. But they were wrong. Manhattan was unique. Yet despite its uniqueness, every city, large or small, shared common characteristics. Every city had paved roads heading to its center; every city had its office buildings and restaurants, gas stations and pharmacies, doctors’ offices and schools; every city had its residents trudging off to work to earn a living. Some worked to support themselves—Dani guessed that was the case with their waitress. Maybe she was a college student, working part time to pay her tuition. Or maybe she’d forgone college and worked to pay her rent and have a little fun on the weekends. Or perhaps she didn’t work to support only herself. Maybe, like the woman Dani would meet with in a few hours, she worked to support her child. What would make a woman, a woman like this young waitress with her cheery smile and warm eyes, stand by and watch her child being murdered? Horribly murdered—burned beyond recognition and tossed away like a chewed-over turkey bone. And then say nothing for two years?

Sallie Calhoun had been a young waitress once, working nights so she could be home with her baby during the daytime. Neighbors described her as a devoted mother. They never heard her yell at Angelina, never even heard her raise her voice. They never saw her plopped in front of the television while Angelina ran about on her own. No, she showered attention on her daughter, hugging her and covering her with kisses every chance she got. What had happened to that adoring mother who now sat in a cell at Indiana State Women’s Prison?

Dani didn’t know if she’d find any answers to this riddle when she sat down with Sallie, but all thoughts of the interview disappeared as the waitress delivered their lunch. The hamburger was blood rare, just as Dani liked it. She managed to finish every last french fry and her milkshake—which tasted as good as promised—before it was time to leave. It took them just five minutes to walk to the prison gate. The building dated back to 1873, when it became the first correctional facility in the nation to incarcerate only women and the first maximum-security prison for female prisoners.

They each showed their identification at the prison gate and were marshaled into the waiting area.

“What do you think she’s going to tell us?” Melanie asked. “Does she realize how close the execution date is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if they’ve been communicating with each other since the trial. I mean, her testimony got him the death sentence. I would certainly understand if he wanted nothing to do with her after that.”

“Still, they were married a good number of years. And had a child together. Doesn’t that mean something?”

Dani suppressed a smile. Despite her intelligence and top legal skills, Melanie’s naiveté sometimes surprised Dani. Melanie grew up in a loving, intact family and didn’t yet appreciate how hurtful married couples could get with each other. Maybe Sallie and George continued to write each other from their respective prisons. Maybe they even used their hoarded telephone calls to see how each fared. It was just as likely, though, that the poison that led to the death of their daughter had destroyed their marriage as well. Dani didn’t expect Sallie to be of much help to them. She held out hope anyway.

After a half-hour wait, they were ushered into a windowless five-by-seven interview room. The walls were barren and the floor showed scuff marks. Sallie sat at the bare table and a female guard stood positioned outside the door. Dani looked her over before making introductions. She was a slight woman, severely underweight, with prominent neck bones and pencil-thin arms. The dark circles under her eyes looked painted on. Her chestnut-brown hair hung in limp strands framing an oval face. Her eyes focused on the table, and she made no acknowledgement of their presence.

“Sallie, my name is Dani Trumball and these are my associates, Melanie Quinn and Tom Noorland. We’re with the Help Innocent Prisoners Project, in New York City. We’re trying to help your husband.”

Her gaze lingered on the wooden table and she remained silent.

“Do you know where George is now?” Dani asked.

Sallie lifted her head. “He’s in hell.” The words spit out of her mouth like a hot ball shot from a cannon, and then, as if spent from the energy it took to speak, her head dropped down to the table again.

“Sallie, would you look at me, please?”

Slowly, she lifted her eyes and stared at Dani’s face.

“Sallie, George is in prison, just like you. Do you know why he’s there?”

Her voice was quiet now. She spoke barely above a whisper. “Because of Angelina.”

“Yes, that’s right. Because of Angelina. Do you know what he did to Angelina?”

“I know. I saw it.”

“Would you tell me, please?”

Sallie shook her head. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. Nineteen years had passed, but Dani could see that it remained as fresh as yesterday to her. A struggle took place within Dani. Should she back off? She didn’t want to frighten Sallie into withdrawal. Although her responses had been terse, at least she was talking to them. Dani knew Sallie held the key to George’s fate, but she didn’t know how to turn it. Should she go more slowly, try to gain her trust first? Or just forge ahead? That’s what she wanted to do—jump right in and pull the answers from Sallie’s mouth, force the truth from her locked-up mind. But she sensed she’d lose any chance at answers if she pushed too hard.

“How are you being treated here, Sallie? Is there anything we can do for you?”

“They leave me alone, the other women. They don’t bother me.”

“Is that the way you want it?”

No answer.

“How do you keep busy?”

No answer.

“Do you have a job here?”

“In the kitchen—that’s what I do. I clean up the dishes.”

“You worked in a restaurant before—before you came here, right?”

“I shouldn’t of worked. A mother should be home with her baby. If I’d been home with Angelina, I could of taken care of her. It’s his fault. He made me go to work.”

“Do you mean George?” Dani asked. She was just trying to make conversation now.

Sallie nodded.

Dani understood her conflict. Doug had pushed her to go back to work when Jonah was 7. “Did George do something to Angelina while you were at work? Did he abuse her?”

Sallie shook her head. At the risk of the guard’s barging into the room and pulling them apart, Dani took Sallie’s hands in hers. Physical contact was frowned on, but this woman seated across from her seemed to be in desperate need of someone to care about her.

“I know how hard it is for you to talk about Angelina, but it’s very important for us to know what happened. Can you tell me? Can you tell us what happened to Angelina?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer Dani had hoped to find, the reason she had taken on the case, seemed just as elusive now as it had yesterday in New York. If the dead child found in the Indiana woods was not George and Sallie’s daughter, what had happened to her? “You testified at George’s trial that he beat Angelina, that he killed her and disposed of her body. Is that what happened?”

For the first time, Sallie displayed agitation. “Didn’t I say what I was supposed to say? Didn’t I do it right? Am I going to be hanged, too?” she asked with a plaintive wail.

Dani squeezed Sallie’s hand. “No one’s going to hurt you. Did someone tell you to say those things? It’s okay to talk about it.”

Sallie buried her face in her hands and her body heaved with deep sobs. It took only a few minutes for her cries to subside, but it felt much longer.

When she calmed down, Dani asked again. “Please, Sallie, tell me what happened.”

“George made me do it.”

“Made you do what, Sallie?”

Sallie didn’t answer. She wrapped her arms around her body and began swaying back and forth.

“Did George make you hurt Angelina?”

A nod.

“How, Sallie? How did you hurt her?”

“I didn’t stop him.”

“Stop him from doing what? What did you watch George do?”

Sallie continued swaying. Her lips were clenched shut, as if she were fighting to keep the words locked inside her.

Dani put her hand on Sallie’s arm, a gesture she hoped would comfort Sallie. “Did George kill your daughter?” she asked quietly.

Sallie stopped her swaying and stared into space. Then, as she slowly rose from her chair, she said, “We both killed our daughter. That’s what happened. We killed our daughter.” She turned and walked to the door that led to the prison cells and knocked. One last time she turned to face Dani. Her eyes were dry and her mouth set. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Do you understand? I can’t talk about it. George is in hell, and I’m in hell, and we both belong there.”

With that, the guard opened the door and Sallie, their best hope, walked away.