Free The Wrong Man by John Katzenbach

belongs to a far darker side.
    I watched a late-afternoon shadow creep slowly across Dartmouth Street and felt hot air coming from the Charles. I couldn’t see the river from where I stood, but I knew it was only a few blocks distant. Newbury Street, with its trendy shops and upscale galleries, was nearby. So was the Berklee College of Music, which filled the adjacent sidewalks with aspiring musicians of all varieties: budding punk rockers, folksingers, aspiring concert pianists. Long hair, spiked hair, streaked hair. I could also see a homeless man, mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth, back to the wall of an alleyway, hidden in part by shadows. He might have heard many voices, or one craving, it was hard to tell, as I turned away. On the street nearby, a BMW honked at some students jaywalking against the light, then accelerated with a squeal of tires.
    For a moment, I paused, thinking that what made Boston unique was its ability to accommodate so many different currents, all at once. With so many different identities to choose from, it was no wonder that Michael O’Connell found a home here.
    I did not know him well, yet. But I had the inkling of a feel for him.
    Of course, that was the same mystery Ashley faced.

6
    A Taste of What Was to Come
    S he waited until midday, unable to move from her bed, until sunlight came pouring through the windows and the city streets beyond her apartment walls hummed and buzzed reassuringly. She spent a few moments staring out through a streaked pane of glass, as if to tell herself that with all the normal ebb and flow of another typical day, nothing much could be out of order. She let her eyes follow first one person, then another, as people walked up the sidewalk into her field of vision. She did not recognize anyone, and yet, everyone was familiar. They all fit into easily identifiable types. The businessman. The student. The waitress. There seemed to be a world of purpose just beyond her reach. People moved about with determination and destination.
    Ashley felt like an island in their midst. She wished for an instant that she had a roommate or a best friend. Someone to confide in, who would sit on the other side of the bed, sipping tea, ready to laugh or cry or voice concern at the most modest of prompts. She knew a million people in Boston, but none she would trust with a burden, and certainly not a Michael O’Connell burden. She had a hundred friends, but no Friend. She turned to her desk, littered with half-finished papers, art history texts, a laptop computer, and some CDs. She rummaged around until she came up with a small piece of scrap paper with some numbers on it.
    Then, with a single deep breath, Ashley dialed Michael O’Connell’s phone number.
    It rang twice before he picked it up.
    “Yes?”
    “Michael, it’s Ashley.”
    She let silence fill the line. She wished that she had mapped out what she was going to say in forceful phrases and unequivocal statements. But, instead, she let emotions overcome her.
    “I don’t want you to call me anymore,” she blurted out.
    He said nothing.
    “When you called this morning, I was asleep. It scared the hell out of me.”
    She waited for an apology. An excuse, perhaps, or an explanation. None came.
    “Please, Michael.” It sounded a great deal as if she were asking him for a favor.
    He did not reply.
    She stammered on, “Look, it was just one night. That’s all. We had some fun, and a few drinks, and it went a bit farther than it should have, although I don’t regret it, that’s not what I mean. I’m sorry if you misunderstood my feelings. Can’t we just part as friends? Go our own ways.”
    She could hear his breathing on the other end of the line, but no words.
    “So,” she continued, aware that everything she said was sounding more and more lame, increasingly pathetic, “don’t send me any more letters, especially like the one you sent the other week. That was you, wasn’t it? It had to be. I know you