“Yeah, I do,” he said as he followed the other prisoner to a table. In the time he had been in the jail, it was the only hour that passed relatively quickly.
A few minutes after the game ended, the prisoners stood up and formed a queue along the wall. “Back to the cells,” Alan’s chess opponent announced. “See you tomorrow.”
The guard unlocked a cell and directed him into it. There were bunk beds along the left wall. A stainless steel toilet was in the right corner. A very small window overlooked the parking area behind the courthouse.
A man who appeared to be in his thirties, in the lower bunk, glanced at him as he came in, but then went back to whatever he was reading. Alan wanted to find out where he could get something to read, but he was too nervous to ask.
The top bunk was his, but Alan was uncertain about what to do. There was no ladder. In order to hoist himself up, he would have to put one foot on the lower bunk. Should I ask permission or just do it?
Better not to disturb him, Alan thought as he put a foot on the lower end of the bottom bunk and vaulted himself to the top. He waited apprehensively for a protest from below. There was none.
The mattress was thin and lumpy. The blanket and sheet had a strong smell of disinfectant.
Alan put his hands behind his head on the small pillow and stared at the ceiling. It was several hours before he fell asleep. It was a challenge to tune out the loud snoring emanating from the bunk beneath him.
He was startled awake by the sound of voices, footsteps and cell doors sliding open. Following a line of prisoners, he went to the same room where he had had dinner the previous evening, this time for breakfast.
He had just followed the procession to the recreation room when a guard barked, “Alan Crowley.”
Alan meekly raised his hand. “Let’s go,” the guard said, gesturing him to follow. He was led down a long corridor with doors on each side. Above each door was a plate that read ATTORNEY-CLIENT ROOM followed by a number. The guard opened the door to number 7. Alan spotted Lester Parker seated at the table, with his briefcase next to him. He took a chair opposite him.
“Alan, how are you doing?” Parker said as they shook hands.
“I’m undefeated in chess,” Alan said wryly.
Parker smiled. “I’ve spoken to the assistant prosecutor. We went over the charges against you. They’ll bring you into court tomorrow at eleven. I’ll be there.”
“After court tomorrow, will I be getting out of here?”
“I can’t say with certainty what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I’m going to make a strong argument that you be allowed to go home.”
“Will my parents be there, in court?”
“Yes, and they want you home just as much as you want to go home. I’ll see you tomorrow. And remember, talk to no one about your case.”
35
Word of Alan Crowley’s arrest had begun to spread in the afternoon. Aline saw students in their breaks between classes, at their lockers, staring down at their phones. NorthJersey.com had been the first to report the story. She picked up her phone, but then decided against calling her mother.
When she drove up the driveway a few minutes before six that evening, Steve pulled in right behind her. When they were both out of their cars, she said, “I am sure that Alan’s arrest will be on the television news tonight.”
Steve nodded. “Yes. I was thinking the same thing.”
As he opened the front door, Steve called, “Fran.”
“In here.”
Steve and Aline went to the den, where Fran had the TV on Channel 2. They watched in silence as the segment that had been on the five o’clock news was repeated.
Steve moved quickly to where Fran was sitting and put his arm around her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “In fact I’m . . .” She paused. “?‘Glad’ is not the right word. I’ll never have real peace, but when Alan goes to prison, I’ll have some sense that justice has been served.”
“Mom,” Aline said, “remember, Alan’s only been accused of the crime. That doesn’t mean—”
Steve interrupted her. “They usually don’t arrest somebody until they’ve got the right guy and have enough to convict him.”
“Aline, why are you defending him?” Fran snapped. “He killed your sister, and then he lied about it.”
“Mom, Dad, please,” Aline said. “I’m not trying to start a fight. When Kerry and Alan were going out, they were constantly quarreling, breaking up and then getting back together. They repeated that cycle a bunch of times. But after they quarrel at Kerry’s party, this time he comes back to the house and kills her? I don’t know. It just doesn’t add up.”
“What doesn’t add up?” Fran said heatedly. “You know he lied about coming back to the house after the party.”
“I understand that, but listen to me. Kids who are barely eighteen are incredibly insecure. I work with them every day. They think they’re adults, but they’re not. When you confront them, they look for the easy way out, even if that means lying,” Aline said, her voice rising. “I’d be really nervous if a cop showed up today and took me in for questioning. I can only imagine how panicky I would have been ten years ago when I was eighteen.”
Fran was having none of it. “You can rationalize this as much as you want. I don’t care if he was a scared young kid. Alan Crowley killed Kerry, and he’s going to pay for it.”
“Fran, Aline,” Steve interrupted, “the last thing we need to do is quarrel with each other. The truth will come out at the trial.”
Fran had the last word. “At the trial when he’s found guilty, you mean.”
36
Alan was taken from the jail and escorted into the adjacent courthouse, where he appeared before a judge at about 11:30 A.M. The guards seated him next to a waiting Lester Parker.
His parents sat on one side of the courtroom, in the first row of the spectator seats. His mother gasped when she saw him in the orange jumpsuit. This time his hands were cuffed in front of him.
On the other side of the courtroom, in the front row, were Fran and Steve Dowling. When they made eye contact with him, he turned away.
The assistant prosecutor read the charges against him. Murder, possession of a weapon for an unlawful purpose—the golf club—and tampering with witnesses. The judge, a balding man with glasses pushed high on his forehead, turned to Lester Parker. “Counsel, how does your client plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
Turning to the assistant prosecutor, the judge stated, “Your Office has moved to detain the defendant pending trial.”
The assistant prosecutor began, “Your Honor, the State has a very strong case against Alan Crowley. Our investigation has revealed that he attended a party at the home of Kerry Dowling the night of her death and became extremely jealous when another young man spoke to her. We allege that later in the evening, after everyone else was gone, he returned and struck her in the back of the head with a golf club. She fell into the pool in the backyard of her home. Her family discovered her body in the pool the next morning. He lied to a detective regarding his whereabouts at the time of the crime and induced several friends to lie on his behalf. They have since admitted that they lied. He also lied about handling the golf club that evening, but it has his fingerprint on it.”
The assistant prosecutor continued. “Your Honor, we are seriously concerned about the risk of flight if he were released. He faces life in prison. He has already tampered with witnesses and could seek to do so again.”
Alan lowered his head and closed his eyes as he listened to the evil picture painted of him.