“Why is that a bad thing? Isn’t her friend helping her out?”
“She is. But years ago, they went to medical school at the same time. Now Grace’s friend is set up in this crazy apartment at Windsor Tower. She’s got a bustling private practice and her whole damn life set up pretty as can be. The entire time I was with Grace the other night, I could see it in hereyes. She was imagining her own life if things had not gone to hell.”
“Why has this gotten you so wound up? You’ve done this three other times and it’s never bothered you like this.”
Sidney spun her drink as the ice formed beaded condensation that rolled down onto the mahogany bar. “I don’t know. It’s just a travesty. You know my desk is filled with letters begging for help, each writer claiming to have been wrongly convicted? I know they can’t all be correct, but how many of them are?”
She stared at her tequila and thought of her trips to Baldwin State Prison.
“I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Graham said after a moment of silence. “But who the hell cares? Currently you sure shouldn’t. You’ve got the biggest story in the country sitting in your lap. You’ve got the most-watched documentary in television history on your shoulders. Twenty-two million people tuned in last Friday. That’s bigger thanThe Jinx.Bigger thanMaking a Murderer.And you’ve got three episodes left to produce. That’s where your focus should be, not on a bunch of envelopes sitting on your desk from a bunch of deadbeats hoping to get lucky. You’re not a crusader, Sid. You’re a filmmaker. And you’re on a helluva run. Don’t get sidetracked with sentimentality. You want to help all the wrongfully convicted? Well,” Graham said, picking up his drink, “you can’t, because sadly there are too many for one person to tackle. That’s what the Innocence Project is for, and all the other organizations that fight on behalf of the wrongly convicted. You want to help someone else when you’re done withThe Girl of Sugar Beach? Good. The network wants that as well. You want the details now, or you want to be surprised when you come in tomorrow?”
“I don’t really care about the next one, Graham.”
“I think you’ll change your mind when you see the details.”
Sidney shook her head. “I doubt it.”
Graham tipped his scotch back and emptied his glass. “You want to mourn for Grace Sebold? Fine. She’ll never be a doctor like her friend. That’s too bad. But she’s likely to get a truckload of money when she sues the St. Lucian government, so financially she’ll do just fine. She won’t get those years back, but that’s why it’s a story. That’s why it’s the biggest documentary we’ve ever seen. So worry and fret all you want, but do it after you finish this documentary.”
Sidney took a sip of Casamigos and stared into the mirror behind the bar, her image intermittently blocked by a score of liquor bottles.
“Spoken like a true suit,” she said.
“You’ll excuse my concern. I put my reputation on the line to get this project green-lit.”
“I’d say you’re doing pretty well on that bet.”
“And I want to make sure it pays off for both of us. Where are you with Friday’s episode?”
Sidney continued to stare into the mirror. “I’m meeting with Leslie early tomorrow to make the final cuts. I’ll have it to production by noon.”
Sidney took another sip of her drink and wondered how this casual meeting had gone to crap so quickly.
“You hungry?” Graham finally asked.
She shook her head.
“Christ, Sid. Please don’t steal defeat from the jaws of victory.” Graham stood and dropped two twenties next to his empty scotch and walked out of the bar. She watched him leave, following his image through the myriad liquor bottles in the mirror. When he was gone, she finished her drink and ordered another.
She was halfway through her second tequila when a man took a seat on the stool next to her. She looked down the bar at the several open spots where he could have chosen to sit. Before Sidney could contemplate whether he was going tooffer to buy her a drink or whether this guy simply had no appreciation for personal space, he turned to her.
“Are you Sidney Ryan?”
“Depends on who wants to know.”
“I do.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Jason.”
“What paper do you work for, Jason?”
“I’m not a reporter. I just need to give you this.” He pulled a white envelope from the back pocket of his jeans and slid it across the bar.
“Let me guess,” Sidney said. “A relative is in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Nope,” Jason said as he stood up. “But before you get too much further in your documentary, you better read that. Have a good night.”
