THAT EVENING I went for a walk along the river. I prefer walking in the woods this time of year; the wind gusting off the Potomac gets icy. But the harbor and the bike paths that run along the water are always crowded, and it felt safer to be surrounded by people. I walked east, past Thompson Boat Center, past the distinctive curve of the Watergate Complex. A pair of scullers flicked their oars across the water. The cherry trees that line the riverbank raised bare branches to the sky. My ears stung with cold. I leaned into the wind, waiting for the tension in my shoulders to ease, waiting for my thoughts to clear.
Somewhere around the Kennedy Center I slowed. A plan of action had revealed itself. I glimpsed the grand sweep of what I should do, and why. I picked up my pace again, pounding the asphalt path. The clarity of purpose sharpened. I examined this plan, spun it around in my mind, feeling around the edges. They were jagged. Too many unknowns. I made corrections. Yes, it could be accomplished.
When I got home, I poured a glass of wine and made two phone calls. The first was to Leland Brett. The second was to Alexandra James. Leland’s feeble but relentless sexual harassment campaign notwithstanding, the content of the two conversations was virtually identical.
I told them both that forensics technicians at a Georgia crime lab, and then at the FBI, had examined the bullet from my neck. Unfortunately, it was found to be too damaged to be useful. I directed them to follow up with the Atlanta Police Department for specifics. I gave them Beamer Beasley’s direct line.
“I had hoped that the bullet removed from my neck might somehow help to advance the murder investigation, even after all these years,” I added, a line I’d come up with on the long loop of my walk back to Georgetown. “But it’s not to be. I’m at peace with that. It’s time to move on. Whoever killed my parents is probably dead now himself.”
I asked both Leland and Alexandra to use my quote in its entirety, and to promise that the story would run in tomorrow’s papers. Leland gave his word.
Alex pushed back. “We don’t do quote approval.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t make promises to sources about what portion of their comments will make it into print. But you have my word that I’ll quote you accurately.”
“Fair enough. And will this definitely run tomorrow?”
“The print edition’s tricky. Finite amount of space. I can’t control what other news may break, or how that’ll affect which stories run and which ones get held. But there’s no reason this wouldn’t be posted to the website right away. Probably before I head home tonight.”
“Excellent.”
“One last thing. How are you feeling, postsurgery? When do you expect to be back at work?”
“I’m better. Much better. But the university doesn’t need me back teaching until after Christmas. So I figured I’d plan a couple of weeks in Mexico, to rest and get my strength back. Later this week I’m headed down to Cabo San Lucas.”
“Sounds heavenly.”
“Thanks. I’m looking forward to a few days of doing nothing more strenuous than hoisting a pitcher of margaritas.”
She laughed. “That last bit, I’m happy to guarantee I’ll quote.”
I put the phone down and topped up my wine.
Then I opened my laptop and booked an 8:00 a.m. flight to -Atlanta.
PART SIX
Atlanta
Forty-seven
* * *
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 2013
The Atlanta airport was jammed. On the airport train to the main terminal, people stood shoulder to shoulder, braced against ceiling straps, the scents of hair spray and shoe polish and burnt coffee fogging us in. Someone’s roller bag dug into my calves. I threaded through the crowds, making my way toward the now-familiar Hertz outpost, stopping only once, at a newsstand near baggage claim.
Leland’s article appeared inside the front section of the Journal--Constitution, page A5. He’d been true to his word. My comment about feeling at peace and wanting to move on was near the top, along with a nice quote thanking Boone and Sadie Rawson’s friends for their well wishes.
“It’s been amazing to learn how many people loved them, how many people’s lives they touched,” said Cashion. “I feel blessed—I think that’s the right word, despite everything that happened—blessed to have been born into a family with such loving and loyal friends.”
Cashion adds that she hopes to organize a memorial service in Atlanta, to remember and to celebrate the Smiths’ lives. The date and venue are yet to be determined.
Leland Brett included a line or two about the bullet at the end of the article, almost as an afterthought.
The bullet was too badly damaged to shed new light on the 34-year-old homicide investigation, according to Detective Sergeant Beamer Beasley, of the Atlanta Police Department.
Still, Cashion described her surgery to remove the bullet as “an enormous relief.” A spokesperson for Sibley Memorial Hospital in Washington, D.C., where the procedure was performed, confirmed that Cashion is expected to make a full recovery.
Cashion plans to resume her work as a professor of French Literature at Georgetown University, following a trip to Mexico. “I need to take some time to myself, to reflect on everything and to heal.
“To be honest,” added Cashion with a laugh, “the best therapy for me right now is probably a margarita, and a couple of weeks of sun and sand.”
I paid and tucked the newspaper and a bottle of water under my arm. I would check Alex James’s version of the story from my phone, once I picked up the rental car.
It was 10:04 a.m., and I had three appointments to keep today.
? ? ?
“IF YOU COULD sign here. And here, and here.”