Present Day
I arrive at the Westin hotel in downtown Atlanta right on time. Rachel is waiting for me in the lobby, although I can tell she isn’t happy I’ve cut it so close.
Since I was a no-show for the reservation made for me at the Candler Hotel, and I blew past the deadline set for me at the bank, I had to time my arrival just right.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” she says as I approach.
I spot the figure standing a few feet behind her. “I gave you my word I’d be here,” I tell her.
“Can I talk to you?” Ryan asks as he moves closer to us.
Rachel says, “He called me and said you ditched him.” I don’t miss the tone or the raised eyebrow, but I ignore it.
I look at Rachel. “Our appointment starts in a few minutes, right?”
Rachel glances at her watch then motions for me to follow her to the elevator. “Ryan, let us get through this and then we’ll figure the rest out, okay?”
She thinks we’re having a simple lovers’ quarrel. I don’t correct her.
Ryan drops down in a chair in the lobby and watches us until the elevator doors close.
When we reach our floor, I push Ryan from my mind and focus on the task ahead of me.
“How’d you pull this off?” I ask Rachel. I’m honestly amazed she was able to move the meeting from the police station to one of the meeting rooms at this hotel. She’s good, I have to give her that.
“We were unaware there was a warrant out, and we traveled all this way to answer their questions. We’re here in good faith to put an end to this misunderstanding, so a visit to the police station was asking for too much.”
I’m glad she’s on my side for this but having seen the video I know the police received, they probably went along with her request so they don’t spook me and risk me not showing.
“Remember,” she says as we march down a hall where the meeting rooms are located. “Do not answer anything unless I give you permission. Do not offer anything extra.”
I nod while she studies me. We’re stopped outside of a door labeled Room 3.
“I was also going to tell you not to let your feelings show, but you have that down pat.”
This actually gets a little smile out of me because God if she only knew.
She pushes open the door and I follow her inside. I was expecting a long table and chairs setup but this is cozier. It’s a small room with a couch and two oversize chairs grouped around a coffee table next to a wall of floor-to- ceiling windows with an incredible view of the Atlanta skyline. “The key here is that we’re cooperating and have nothing to hide,” she says moving toward the center of the room. She registers my surprise at the room and adds, “I liked the optics. How can anything bad happen in such a warm, inviting space?”
There’s a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of blueberry muffins in the center of the coffee table.
“You take that chair,” Rachel says, pointing to the one on the left of the couch. “And I’ll take this one. The detectives can snuggle together on the couch between us.”
I settle in while she drops her briefcase on the floor next to the table. “Not going to lie, I’m feeling underprepared. We haven’t had a moment
to talk about that day and how we are handling this.”
Leaning back in my chair, I cross my legs and say, “I’m going to need you to trust me and follow my lead.”
She watches me from across the coffee table and I know she has a ton of questions, but thankfully they remain unspoken. Before there’s any time for awkward silence, there’s a knock on the door.
“It’s your show,” Rachel says, then gets up to open the door, stepping aside so a man and a woman can enter the room. I stay in my spot, making them come to me for introductions and handshakes.
“I’m Detective Crofton and this is Detective West,” the man says once they are standing in front of me.
From her spot in front of the other chair, Rachel motions to the couch and invites them to have a seat. Detective West glances at the couch, then at Rachel, and finally at me. She’s realizing she won’t be able to look at us both at the same time.
They hesitate a few seconds but eventually take seats on the couch. It takes another minute or so of them repositioning themselves and trying to
get comfortable before they seem ready to begin.
Detective West is a reed-thin white woman dressed in what has probably been her uniform of the last decade: white shirt, black blazer, black pants. A simple gold band on her left ring finger is the only piece of jewelry she’s wearing. She’s got those lines around her mouth that let me know she loves to pull on a cigarette. Detective Crofton is her exact opposite. He is a tall Black man and was probably a linebacker in his former life given his size. His shirt has a blue paisley pattern and the tight cinch of the belt holding his tan pants up shows he’s recently lost some weight around the waist. There’s a simple gold chain with a cross hanging around his neck. And the peek I got of his socks right before he sat down tells me he has a sense of humor. Cats riding unicorns on a pale pink background.
And then I wonder if this is a true representation of them. Or are they like me? Hiding behind a mask.
Because I was deliberate when I dressed this morning, striving to show them the image of me I wanted them to see. Plain white tee with jeans. Zero makeup and hair pulled back in a ponytail. I look easily five years younger than I really am.
“Can I offer either of you some coffee? A muffin?” Rachel asks.
Detective Crofton pats his midsection. “Not me. Strict orders to lose twenty pounds and I’m still five from my goal.”
Detective West pulls a small notebook out of her bag and flips it open. “Let’s get started,” she says, ignoring the offer of refreshments while Detective Crofton pulls out a small recorder and presses the red circular button on top. Detective West says in a deep, scratchy voice, “Detectives West and Crofton questioning the material witness, Evelyn Porter, in the death of Amy Holder.” She adds the date, location, and time before meeting my gaze.
Rachel holds a hand up. “I would like it on record that Amy Holder’s death was ruled an accident. And that we are here cooperating with officials to clear my client, Evelyn Porter, of any part in what happened to Miss Holder.”
“Your note is on record,” Detective West says. Then she turns to me. “Why were you living under the identity of Regina Hale in Decatur, Georgia, at the time Amy Holder died?” she asks.
Well, we’re getting right to it. Forcing Mr. Smith’s hand ensured he’d give them everything he could to bring me down. I look at Rachel and she
gives me a small shrug, reminding me it is indeed my show.
“I was in a very toxic relationship and moved to put some distance between me and my ex. He didn’t want me to leave, and I was afraid he’d come after me. I went to the police, but the only thing they were willing to do was give me a restraining order, and we all know how ineffective those are. So I used a fake name hoping he wouldn’t find me.”
This gives them pause. Rachel’s left eyebrow raises just slightly, as if she’s impressed with the answer.
“Where were you living when this happened?” Detective West asks. “Brookwood, Alabama.”
My boss went to great lengths to make me Evelyn Porter, lifelong resident of Brookwood, Alabama, so I’m putting it to work.
“We’ll need to call and check out that story with the Brookwood Police Department,” Detective Crofton says in a quiet voice.
I nod. “Of course. My ex-boyfriend’s name is Justin Burns. His brother is on the force there. His name is Captain Ray Burns.”
Detective West scratches the information onto her notepad. If they did call, they will learn there is a Captain Ray Burns and he does have a brother, Justin, close to my age. Justin has a record too. A couple of DWIs and a disturbing the peace when the neighbors called the cops on him and his girlfriend fighting in the front yard.
If they don’t find a record of his altercation with me, they won’t assume it didn’t happen . . . they’ll assume Justin’s brother was able to keep that one off his record.
The first lie wins.
I am nothing if not prepared.
Detective West seems to be the one in charge of asking the questions, and even though my answers so far seem to have taken a bit of wind out of her sails, she presses on. “How did you know Amy Holder?”
“We were both members of the Oak Creek Country Club,” I answer.
She checks off something in her notebook, as if she’s going down a list of predetermined questions. “There was no memorial service or funeral for Amy Holder. She was an only child and was not married, nor did she have any children. Are you aware of any family or friends she may have had?”
Rachel sits forward in her chair. “We’re not here to answer questions about Miss Holder’s life. We were told you had very specific evidence that my client was at the scene. Can we cut right to that, please?”
Detective West shuffles through the papers in her lap. “We’re getting to that, Miss Murray,” she says to Rachel, then turns back to look at me. “When was the last time you saw Amy Holder?”
Here we go. I learned a long time ago to stick to the truth as closely as possible. “I moved away from Decatur in early September, and I know I saw her before I moved but I can’t tell you the date.” In fact, you can tell the truth if you word it the right way, using the right intonation. They will take I can’t tell you the date as I can’t remember it because of the tone I used instead of the truth, which is I can’t tell you the date because it would incriminate me.
“At six twelve p.m. on August twenty-seventh, Amy Holder entered the American hotel. Twenty-seven minutes later, her room was engulfed in flames,” she says, her voice flat. “Have you ever been in that hotel?”
“I’ve eaten in the restaurant located inside the hotel.” Which is true.
Detective Crofton pulls out an iPad. He lays it in the middle of the coffee table, and Rachel and I both lean in to see what’s on the screen. He pushes the play button while Detective West says, “This is the security feed of Miss Holder entering the hotel prior to her death.”
We all watch the grainy video of Amy shoving past a family of four as she crosses the street, then getting bumped by a guy who was looking at his phone instead of watching where he was going, which causes her to spin around. That red coat makes her easy to pick out, especially as she waves her arms around and throws me the bird. From this angle, I am in the background and slightly out of focus.
The video finishes playing and Detective West looks at me. The screen is frozen, and I’m just barely visible in the corner of the frame. “Does this jog your memory, Miss Porter?”
Before I have a chance to say anything, Rachel answers for me. “Are you insinuating that blurry figure in the back is my client? Half of the white women in the state of Georgia have brown hair. That could be any one of them.” She leans forward and presses the button to replay the video. “What I see is a woman who is clearly intoxicated. Miss Holder was a known smoker who died in a fire that was the result of smoking in her bed while drunk. If you have something that implies Miss Porter had anything to do with the death of Amy Holder, and for God’s sake, an actual picture that looks anything like my client, we’d like to see it.”
Okay, damn, Rachel. I’m impressed.
Detective Crofton flicks the screen to the next video. “This was taken by an eyewitness.”
Downtown Atlanta is not a particularly busy hot spot during the week, although it can get pretty crowded on the weekends. Devon tracked down every piece of video of that day, from security cameras to videos on social media, that either tagged that location or a nearby business. We only learned of the existence of this video less than forty-eight hours ago, so I’m guessing the “eyewitness” and I share the same boss.
The angle is directly even with Amy’s room, taken from the building across the street, so there is a straight, unobstructed view, unlike the real eyewitnesses on the ground, who had to aim their cameras up and only caught a sliver of the room in question once the smoke started to pour out of the balcony window.
The video opens to the camera panning the building until it stops on the open balcony doors of Amy’s room. The balcony railing is a solid structure, so you can only see the top half of the room, the bed not quite making the cut.
There’s audio, but Devon and I believe it was added later so it wouldn’t seem odd that this video just happens to capture me in the moment it does.
Detective Crofton turns up the volume and we hear the guy’s voice.
“Hot maid alert! Maybe we’ll get turndown service.”
And then there I am, dressed in the hotel’s housekeeping uniform. I’m deep in the room but in plain sight through the open balcony doors. I’m looking down at where the bed would be if you could see it through the balcony wall. And it’s a very clear image of me, unlike the one we just viewed.
I remember that moment clearly. I had just pulled the box of matches from my bag and was about to run one across the striker. It was the moment right before the bed went up in flames. A few seconds pass and the memory comes to life on the small screen, and then I’m obscured from view as thick plumes of black smoke overtake the room.
