Girls Like Us(52)

“Email would be preferable. I’ll give you my contact information. Rest assured, I’ll keep it in the closest confidence.”

“I’ll email it to you within the hour. Once you’ve reviewed it, call me and we can proceed with closing the account.”

I hang up and flick on the television. Luz said she was going to reach out to Calabrese today, but it’s still early. She’s probably still asleep. So is he. I’ll have to be patient. Patience is not my forte.

The TV does little to distract me. Alfonso Morales’s confession is the big story on the local news; I have to wait only a minute before an anchor mentions it. The screen shows Morales exiting an SCPD cruiser in cuffs. Several officers surround him. Morales bends at the waist, ignoring the shouts of reporters and the flash of cameras. Someone from inside the police department must have called the media. It’s more of a circus than your average perp walk.

“We bring you live to the police headquarters in Yaphank.” The cameras are trained on the steps of the precinct; Glenn Dorsey stands at a podium, his officers lined up behind him like bodyguards. Seeing their faces makes me wince. These are my dad’s colleagues, his friends, men I’ve known my whole life. Men I once considered family.

“Today was a testament to the Suffolk County Police Department,” Glenn begins. “Our team worked quickly and effectively and were able to apprehend Mr. Morales within a twenty-four-hour period. Mr. Morales has confessed to the killings of both Ria Sandoval, the young woman whose body was found last summer in the Pine Barrens, and Adriana Marques, found two days ago at Shinnecock County Park. Today is a sad day for our community as we mourn the loss of two young lives. But it is also a day where we can honor the work of the officers here and take comfort in their competency. I have time for just a few questions.”

Dorsey scans the crowd of reporters, pointing to a man at the front.

“Is Mr. Morales a U.S. citizen?”

“He is not.”

“What about the victims? Were they here legally?”

“Adriana Marques was a U.S. citizen. Ria Sandoval was not.”

“Is it true that the Suffolk County Police Department maintains a ninety-four percent confession rate?” Ann-Marie Marshall asks from the back of the crowd. When I hear her voice, I freeze.

Dorsey frowns. “I don’t know how accurate that statistic is. But we do have a solid confession rate, and it’s something I’m proud of.”

“It’s significantly higher than the national average, and far exceeds that in comparable counties like Nassau and Westchester.”

“If that’s true, it’s a credit to our detectives. Next question.” Dorsey jabs a finger at the nearest reporter.

“Or it’s an indication that your detectives use improper tactics to obtain these confessions,” Marshall continues, her voice loud enough to hush the crowd. “Just last year, there was a case in which homicide detectives from Suffolk County took a written statement in English from Hector Dominguez, a man who speaks only Spanish and was not offered counsel or even a translator—”

“You are grossly misrepresenting the facts of the Dominguez case,” Dorsey cuts her off. “Your newspaper’s coverage of that story was inaccurate and nearly resulted in a lawsuit. It has no bearing on Mr. Morales’s confession, which he gave completely and willingly, and which I personally oversaw. Mr. Morales had a guilty conscience and he wanted to confess. End of story. Now, if you don’t mind—”

“What about Sean Gilroy’s confession back in ’97?” Ann-Marie Marshall shouts. “You oversaw that confession, too, didn’t you? And in both cases, there was forensic evidence that suggested the suspect could not possibly have committed the crime of which he was accused, and in both cases that evidence was intentionally overlooked by your department.”

“No more questions.” Dorsey steps away from the microphone so abruptly that he knocks it over. An electric squeal fills the air. The camera follows Dorsey as he walks away, his shoulders pinned around his ears. When he’s gone, it pans the crowd of reporters, who turn to one another, chattering excitedly about the heated exchange.

I shut off the television.

I open my laptop. I check my inbox; there’s already an email from Justin Moran. I click open the attachment and hit print. In the office, I hear the printer whir to life. As I wait for it to finish, I search Sean Gilroy’s name. After scanning three articles that Ann-Marie Marshall wrote about Gilroy’s confession, I see what I’m looking for. At the end of the last article, Marshall quotes Glenn Dorsey as saying, “That boy had a guilty conscience. Some folks just want to confess, you know?”

I pick up the phone and dial Newsday’s main number.

“My name is Nell Flynn,” I tell the operator. “I need to speak to Ann-Marie Marshall as soon as possible.”



* * *



—

AN HOUR LATER, we meet at a coffee shop on Main Street in Riverhead. The place is small and plain, with a dusty front window that looks out on a parking lot and a sign on the door that reads “CLOSED.” I pause and peer in through the glass. I catch the eye of a woman wiping down the counter. When she sees me she stops what she’s doing. She beckons me inside.

I push the door open; the hinges whine in protest. The booths are tall and covered in a waxy, mustard-yellow fabric. The television over the counter is set silently to the local news. The place is quiet; I check my watch to make sure I have the right time. I’m still not sure this is even the right place. The woman behind the counter points toward the last booth.