The front door opened and Mrs. Sebold waved from the doorway.
“You good, Derrick?” Sidney asked.
Derrick gave a thumbs-up as he assembled his Ikegami and lighting props. Sidney walked to the front stairs.
“It’s so nice to meet you finally,” Mrs. Sebold said as she embraced Sidney in a tight hug.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Sidney said as she returned the greeting.
“You’ve got to help our little girl,” Mrs. Sebold said softly into Sidney’s ear. “You’ve just got to help her.”
Sidney escaped from Mrs. Sebold’s clutch. “I’m going to do everything I can.”
“It’s more than anyone else will do for us. Our own damn government won’t help us. Please come inside.”
Sidney followed Grace’s mother into the house. The entrance doorway was badly scuffed, and what looked like bicycle treads marred the hardwood in the entry foyer. Mrs. Sebold noticed Sidney’s wondering eyes.
“This is from Marshall,” she said. “Our son. He was just fitted for a new wheelchair and is not happy about it. He doesn’t like change. This is his way of showing us.”
Sidney noticed scuff marks along the walls—deep, sideswipe gouges in the drywall.
“Only in the last couple of years has he succumbed to a wheelchair. We knew the day would come, and we avoided it as long as possible. His mobility was simply too compromised, so we took the therapist’s suggestion and had him fitted. He hates it, of course. The worry is that if he relies on the chair, he’ll lose his ability to walk entirely. Again, the situation is inevitable and change is always hard. We had him readWho Moved My Cheese.Didn’t help. So, please, excuse our home.” Mrs. Sebold pointed down the hall. “We can tape in the living room, if that works.”
Sidney followed Mrs. Sebold into the room. “Yes,” Sidney said. “This will be perfect. You and Mr. Sebold can sit on the couch here. Derrick will set up the lighting and record from over here. Your son could join us, too.”
Mrs. Sebold shrugged. “Maybe. It will depend on what type of mood Marshall is in. And please call me Gretchen.”
Mr. Sebold walked down the stairs and into the living room.
“Sidney, this is my husband, Glenn.”
“Hi, Sidney. Thanks so much for what you’ve done for Grace,” Glenn Sebold said as he walked into the room. He shook Sidney’s hand.
“I haven’t done much at all, I’m afraid.”
“You’ve done more than you think. Since you agreed to shoot this documentary, Grace’s spirits have lifted considerably. I can hear it every time we talk, which is once a week. And I went down to Bordelais last month for a visit. It was the first time in quite a while that I saw a glimmer of my daughter, and not the stranger that place has turned her into.”
Sidney was reluctant to accept the premise that agreeing to shoot a documentary could have such a profound effect on Grace’s well-being. She was reluctant, perhaps, because Sidney knew if it were true, it was because she had given Grace hope. And the problem with evoking hope was that it led one of two places: salvation or damnation.
“I’m glad she’s doing better,” Sidney finally said. “I hope something positive comes of this.”
Derrick had set up two umbrella pads on either side of the couch that would cast the Sebolds in the proper light. A camera perched on a tripod was positioned in front of Grace’s parents, who sat close together to show their united front. He held the Ikegami on his shoulder to get dynamic shots as he moved from side to side during the interview.
“Why didn’t you hire a personal attorney?” Sidney asked as the interview began. “From the U.S., to represent Grace?”
“We did,” Glenn Sebold said. “As soon as they formally charged Grace, we started making calls back home. But acquiring a U.S. attorney took time, at least a couple of days. Longer for someone to actually fly down to St. Lucia and help us. We couldn’t stand the thought of Gracie in jail, so we also hired a local attorney so we could attempt to post bondas soon as possible. What choice did we have? We were trying to get our daughter out of jail. Plus, the St. Lucian courts require local counsel to lead the defense in capital-murder cases. During the trial, the local counsel—Samuel James—was not only ineffective, but incompetent. He and Grace’s American attorney never gelled well together, never agreed on the same strategy. The result, if you watched any of the trial back then, was a circus. If Scott and his team had been allowed to take over the defense, I believe Grace would be home with us today.”
“Scott Simpson?” Sidney said in way of clarification. “Grace’s U.S. defense attorney.”
“Correct,” Glenn said. “Real sharp guy. He’s kept working the case even all these years later.”
“Scott Simpson is not sharp,” said a voice from the hallway. “He’s actually a fool who is just as responsible for Grace’s situation as the backward Caribbean attorney.”
Sidney looked over to see a man in a wheelchair.
Glenn smiled at Sidney. “Sorry. I hope you can edit that out.”
Sidney shook her head. “It’s no problem.”
