“Hel o?”
“Am I speaking with Sophia? Sophia Prosper?” Camila said.
There was a pause. “My married name is Prosper-Reynolds.”
“My name is Camila Martinez. I’m a law student at the University of Virginia and I volunteer at the Innocence Project there.” There was silence at the other end of the phone. Camila locked eyes with Hannah, made a face, then continued. “I’m working on the Michael Dandridge case, and it would real y help if I could talk to your brother, Neil. I’m wondering if there’s any way you could put me in contact with him.”
“Why are you cal ing me now?” Sophia said.
Camila threw Hannah a pained look. It took her a second before she found the words. “Um . . . According to Michael’s file, his original defense attorney did try to track Neil down, but he couldn’t find him.
No one has ever managed to speak to Neil about that night, and you know, Michael says he was with Neil in his apartment when the murder happened. So for us to be able to talk to Neil, that’s absolutely key to his defense.”
“Dandridge has already been convicted, hasn’t he? What do you mean, his defense?”
Camila’s eyes locked with Hannah’s and she held up crossed fingers. “Michael’s conviction has been vacated, Sophia. That means that the federal court thought that there was so much wrong with the original trial, that the prosecution broke so many rules, that the court decided that the conviction couldn’t stand. But the original prosecutor and sheriff are stil in their positions, and they’ve decided to try to prosecute him again. Right now, we’re getting ready to defend him for a second time.”
“Look, I don’t want to speak to you about Neil, or Dandridge, or anything else. This has nothing to do with my family and I don’t want to get dragged into it, okay?”
“I understand,” Camila said hurriedly. “We don’t want to involve you in anything. We just want to talk to Neil. Even ten minutes of his time would make such a difference.”
“And then what?” Sophia said. “You take whatever he tel s you and you use it and you draw trouble on al of us. Sorry, I can’t help you.” And she hung up.
“Shit,” Camila said. She punched the seat. “Shit. I screwed that up.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Hannah. “She was pretty clear. I’m not sure there’s anything you could have said that would have made her agree to help us.”
“Wel , we’re not giving up,” Camila said. She opened the car door and jogged back up the path to the inn.
“Camila?” Hannah cal ed, but Camila didn’t slow or stop. Hannah watched as she knocked on the door, as Angie opened it, and the two women talked. Angie disappeared back into the house for a few minutes, while Camila stood at the door, her arms folded across her chest. A few minutes passed before Angie came back, exchanged a few more words with Camila, and then Camila was jogging back to the car.
“I got it,” she said, as she climbed back into the driver’s seat.
“Got what?” Hannah asked.
“An address for Sophia Prosper, Prosper-Reynolds, whatever she’s cal ing herself,” Camila said. “She lives in Wil iamsburg. It’s basical y on our way home.” She grinned at Hannah, held up her hand for a high five. “Don’t leave me hanging,” she said.
“Angie just handed that over?” Hannah asked. She forced a smile and returned a weak high five.
“She wasn’t sure about it, but I gave her the hard sel . . . just repeated her own words back to her real y, about Michael’s whole life being taken away from him and just wanting to get to the truth.” She made a let’s go gesture.
“You want to go right now?”
“No time like the present,” Camila said. “Come on, Hannah, we’re on the trail here. We’re kil ing this thing. Beyoncé had it right, girl. We run this mutha.”
Despite everything Hannah laughed.
“What we need now is music,” Camila said.
“And food.”
“That too. Angie said she’s a marketing manager. Sophia is, I mean. So let’s go eat, and then let’s drive to her place and wait for her to get home. I real y think we’l have more luck in person.”
They went to the York Pub, where they ate crab cakes and side salads. The food was good and the atmosphere was better—the place was half ful , despite the fact that it was only three o’clock in the afternoon and lunch hour had long passed. A handful of groups were already drinking—beer or happy-hour margarita pitchers.