Sydney rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, Dad. We do. And we can do the hard parts for you.”
Which was how he came to spend the next couple of hours looking over his wife’s and daughter’s shoulders at their phones as they burrowed down rabbit holes on the internet. Sydney was in no shape to go back to school yet, so Jordan put off work and gave in, deciding it probably qualified as family time.
It seemed like a million people had joined the hunt for Cara Campbell and the volume of commentary was deafening, even though it was clear hardly anyone had bothered to read past the headlines before telling everyone in law enforcement how to do their jobs. Both Amber and Sydney were quick to swipe or scroll away from his memed picture, doing their best to spare his feelings, but he couldn’t help seeing the unflattering image over and over again. It was like being the winner of a twisted popularity contest.
But not all of the information they uncovered was useless. They listened to the latest update from theCalifornia Death Trippodcaster Dylan Danvers—who had been at yesterday’s press conference with Troy Silverman, which couldn’t be good—then followed his link to Cara Campbell’s defense of chasing rich husbands.
“Who knows, maybe sheisinnocent,” mused Amber.
To which an offended Sydney replied, “Mom!”
“She was honest about what she wanted, and her husband was cool with it. They had a prenup, so even if she did it and got away with it, she wouldn’t have gotten very much money.”
“A multimillion-dollar life insurance policy isn’t very much money? And she was totally covered in his blood.”
“Both fair points.”
“And at trial they said she was worried he might go bankrupt, so she would lose her lifestyle.”
Amber shrugged. “She’s certainly lost it now. All I’m saying is that, from what I can tell, it seems like she really did love him.”
“And his money.” Sydney looked at Jordan for help.
“From what I’ve seen, some people love their partners until they don’t,” he offered. “And then they kill them.”
Most people clearly believed Cara was guilty and were rallying around Karl’s adult daughter, Taylor. But a vocal minority seemed to think she was innocent, citing her own injury and the sheer unlikeliness of it all: they couldn’t believe she was the type to do it. There were alternative theories of the killer, from a robber (Cara claimed Karl’s watch had gone missing), to a disgruntled plastic surgery patient, to a wannabe gold digger who decided that if she couldn’t have Karl, Cara couldn’t, either. Jordan couldn’t help wondering if any of these sleuths knew anything about the case they hadn’t learned on social media.
“Let’s focus on finding clues to her whereabouts,” he continued. “Remember, my job is not to relitigate the trial but to catch her. Is anybody out there talking about Fisk?”
Amber shook her head as she attacked her phone with both thumbs. “The guy has no online presence and there are no photos of him. People are really leaning into the Sasquatch theory.”
“Wait, theWashington Postfound his military ID,” said Sydney. “Here it is. Sergeant First Class William Fairfax Fisk, California National Guard.”
Jordan was surprised by Fisk’s aristocratic middle name, which suggested a family background he wouldn’t have guessed. Like so much about the man, it was a mystery. He had been hiding from the world for such a long time that it probablywasn’t surprising they couldn’t find him now. If hewaswith Campbell—still a bigif, but one that seemed more and more likely—what the hell were the two of them talking about?
When the Burke Family Task Force’s social media investigation started leading them in circles, Jordan finally begged off and headed into work. Even though he’d steered them away from the subject, he puzzled over the question of Campbell’s guilt while he drove.
There was no question that many people were wrongfully convicted in the US. But most of them were Black and Brown, urban or rural poor folks railroaded by corrupt or incompetent cops because they couldn’t afford decent representation. Meanwhile, Campbell’s attorney, Roy Abel, charged five hundred dollars per hour—it was right there on his website—and got most of his clients off. That he had failed with her seemed particularly damning.
Opinions were like assholes, Jordan concluded. Everybody had one. And when every asshole in the world was on the internet, it looked more and more like a toilet. One he wished he could flush away forever.
THIRTY-SIX
CARA
I encourage Cara Campbell to turn herself in. Her best chance of exoneration is through legal means, and I plan to help her every step of the way.
—Roy Abel, Esq., speaking to Fox News
They had been hiking in the dark for hours, aiming for a distant cluster of lights, when Fisk abruptly led Cara and their animal companions out of a wooded area onto a paved street. The homes were mostly one-story with big yards, some with barns and others with garages larger than the houses themselves. One had a semi cab parked in front. Dotted among the older, modest properties were a few incongruously large, modern structures with late-model SUVs crowding the driveway.
Cara thought they looked like Airbnbs. Had Fisk brought her to the outskirts of Yosemite?
Maybelline began to trot, and the other livestock followed suit. Cara and Fisk jogged along with them until the donkey stopped abruptly at a one-story cinderblock house with dark green shutters and brayed loudly.
Cara tried to shush her, but Fisk seemed unconcerned as he swung open a weatherworn, waist-high gate.
“No one pays much attention to domesticated animals around here.”
