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and start writing them in my reporter’s notebook. Motive? Money? Alibi? Battered? Other suspects? Evidence? Why tape not used? Why confess?
     
     
    T HE POLISHED ROSEWOOD conference table in front of Rankin is strewn with newspaper clippings, Will’s notes and the few files he kept. Picking up one page after another, Rankin’s revealing the history of the murder and the local scandal: small-town girl, just graduated from high school, pushed by her single-parent mother into marrying the mother’s ambitious boss, a local mover and shaker, a man she didn’t love.
    I wish he’d just hand over the darn clip file so I could read it myself, but the flamboyant Rankin seems eager to put himself center stage.
    “The Prom Queen and the Pol,” Rankin declaims. He holds up a two-page photo spread with one picture of Dorie, in a tiara and an unfortunately puffy prom dress. There’s another of B-movie big-shot type Ray Sweeney gaveling a Swampscott town council meeting. There’s also a photo of a beribboned little girl, holding her father’s hand and clutching some sort of stuffed animal, marching in the town’s holiday parade. The caption, Rankin points out, says it all. “Ray Sweeney and his daughter Gaylen Marie back in happier times.”
    “Dorie’s not with them,” I observe, reaching across for the clipping.
    “My point exactly,” Rankin says. He slides the clip away, back into the folder.
    Rankin’s newsreel continues, a jury-worthy performance of trumpeting headlines, news clips, memories and legal commentary. When Dorinda Keeler Sweeney actually confessed to killing her husband of twenty-some years with their college-student daughter asleep upstairs, it seemed there was hardly room in the paper for anything else. One gossipy neighbor—the apparently libel-ignoring Swampscott Chronicle reported—was actually quoted as saying “Him and Dorie had nothing in common. Just the daughter. And everyone knows how Ray was with women.”
    Will Easterly holds up a yellowing news clipping, its oversize block letter headlines blazing Deadly Dorie Admits: I Did It. “Deadly Dorie,” Will says bitterly, shaking his head. “Those headline writers should rot in hell.”
    I wince, knowing Channel 3’s coverage of the story back then was probably just as sensational. “Again, though,” I say, turning a page in my notebook and trying to change the focus. “She confessed. Did you ask her why?”
    Will tosses the clipping onto the table. “Here’s the rest of the story,” he says. He pauses, as if composing himself, then runs both hands though his graying hair. “Back when I was assigned Dorie’s case—”
    I have to interrupt. “I’m sorry, Will, but I wanted to ask you about that.” Money. One of the questions on my list. “Wasn’t Ray Sweeney financially well-off? Why would Dorie need an appointed lawyer?”
    “She didn’t want a lawyer at all,” Oliver Rankin answers. “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts assigned Will to her case. Someone says they don’t need legal advice, that’s their call. But the courts aren’t comfortable if there’s no lawyer standing by to make sure the defendant’s rights are protected. And if they plead guilty, having a lawyer ensures they did it knowingly and voluntarily. Without coercion from the police, or pressure from someone else. And that was Will’s job.”
    “Which I blew. Big-time.” Will says, standing and putting his palms on the table. He looks right at me, his face weary, the picture of defeat. “And that’s why you’re here, Charlie.” He stops, pursing his lips, then starts again. “I had a problem back then. A big one. I hadn’t started going to meetings, hadn’t admitted I was an alcoholic. When I got Dorinda’s case, I didn’t even ask how her confession was obtained. When I asked her why she confessed, she said, ‘Because I’m guilty.’”
    He sits back down, picks up the green glass bottle in front of him and swishes the water back and forth,