I have to go to the Pike. See it for myself.

Monday, May 10

Stephen Jones, Esq.

Innocence X Headquarters

1111 Justice Road

Birmingham, Alabama 35005

Re: Death Penalty—Intake Department

Dear Mr. Jones,

Four percent of defendants sent to death row are supposedly innocent. Do you think my daddy could be among them? What are the chances for my brother?

It doesn’t look like I’m going to get any help from you. I’m going to keep taking things into my own hands, looking for my brother, searching for Angela’s killer. I can keep sitting around waiting and writing letters, but that hasn’t done much. I’ve got to do this myself. Prove my brother didn’t do it and find out what happened to Angela. I’m going to start my own investigation and I’ll start at the location she was found.

The day she died, she wanted me to work on an exposé with her. Now I’m not on the newspaper anymore, but I’m going to find out what she was working on. Maybe it’s nothing; maybe it can explain what really happened to her.

I’m hoping you’ll take my daddy’s case, so I can focus on this, but I’m thinking you won’t. I wish you the best. I hope whatever cases you’re working on come out with a positive result. Bring back someone’s daddy for me. Tell them you couldn’t take my case, but I’m happy Innocence X took theirs.

Respectfully,

Tracy Beaumont

VIGILANTES GET ISH DONE

I ditch the assembly and head fifteen miles east toward the Pike. The isolated drive sends alarm bells ringing in my head. I ignore them.

I pull into a deserted parking lot and leave my car away from the main entrance so I can explore. As I step out, it’s eerie, only the sound of birds flying above.

The dry grass stands tall around me, except a path twenty feet away where it’s been trampled flat, a clear sign that cars and teens have come here and traipsed all over. The hallowed ground of parties. Past this space are the wetlands that go out to Galveston Bay, where the loading dock stands.

On the other side of the parking lot, about a hundred feet away, there’s an abandoned warehouse with a weathered sign: SOUTH SEAFOOD PACKING. The dock and the immediate surrounding grass still have yellow crime-scene tape. No other cars in sight, no lingering officers. Angela was found on that dock, strewn out, helpless.

My stomach swirls, uneasy. Most of my reporting is opinion based from the safety of my computer. I’ve never been to a murder scene. Never imagined I ever would.