“Someone made sure I was involved,” I say. I’m trying to gauge his tone and his questions like I would with anyone else I’d interview, but he’s nothing like anyone else I’d interview. I know too much about him to be objective.
“Who? How so?” he says, turning to me.
“You know I interviewed Dr. Willa live about everything that happened to us in Broken Bayou, right?” He nods. “So that night at the docuseries premiere party, I got a text from Laura Sanders that we needed to meet in person.” I shift my feet. “So I went to Miami. And Laura Sanders went missing. And ...”
“Yeah,” he says. “And.”
He starts walking again, and by the time we return to his door, I’m worried someone is going to need to bring in a crash cart. But the nurses behind the station look completely unfazed by his red face and quick breath.
Back in his room, he falls onto his bed.
“Oh my goodness.” Debby jumps off the sofa and rushes over to pour him a cup of water from the mauve plastic pitcher next to the teddy bear on the tray over his bed. She hands it to him, and he guzzles it. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
He waves her off. “I’m fine.”
She looks at me, and I shrug.
I glance at Debby. I wonder how much about that school he’s told her. “Debby, can I talk to my dad in private?” I say to her.
She looks at my dad. He nods. “I guess I’ll go get some coffee downstairs. I have my phone on if you need me,” she says to my father.
After she shuts the door behind her, I sit on the edge of his bed. I study him. His blue eyes look as clear and alert as they have since I returned.
“Okay, can we start again?” I say. “Would you be okay with me recording this?”
He coughs and clears his throat. “Record it?”
I place my phone on the tray over the bed. “That’s what I do, Dad.” I pause and meet his gaze. “Is that going to be a problem?”
I’m not sure what I’ll say if he answersYes, it’s a problem.
“No,” he says. “Not a problem at all.”
But his voice betrays him. It’s too casual. But he’s agreed, so I press record before he changes his mind. Before I change my mind.
“What was the evidence that pointed to Heather Hadwick dying that night?” I ask.
“Oh my God,” he says, rubbing his face.
“I know, Dad. But we have to just jump in. I’m not going to be the last reporter to ask you about this.”
He inhales and coughs his exhale. I touch his arm, but he pulls it away from me.
“The blood and hair samples from the cottage,” he says. “There was a lot of blood in that cottage. And then there was Johnny Adair’s confession.”
“Did you ever think you should recuse yourself from the case?”
He clears his throat. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“They moved the case to my jurisdiction. It was my responsibility, and I ultimately believed I could preside over it without bias.”
I study my hands a moment. Sounds familiar. “Were you in any way pressured to let Johnny’s confession be admissible?” I say, looking back up.
“No. Absolutely not. And if people believe that, it’s going to open up all the other cases I’ve ruled on. My integrity could now be on trial.”
I nod. Mine could as well if I don’t handle this correctly.
