Imperfect Justice_ Prosecuting Casey Anthony - Jeff Ashton [9]
As a prosecutor and a parent, I was left incredulous by Casey’s reaction—even by her explanation that Caylee was with a babysitter. How was it even possible for a loving, caring parent to take that long to report a missing child? Helping herself to her mother’s money and credit cards may be acts of a young person angry at an authority figure, especially when it’s a family matter and the young person lives at home with easy access to the monies and wheels she covets. But to me, accusing someone of kidnapping a baby a month ago, without any sense of urgency or emotion, seemed completely incomprehensible. Casey had much to answer for. Of course, as investigators quickly found out, her answers had some serious problems.
CHAPTER THREE
WHERE IS CAYLEE MARIE?
One weekend shortly after Linda put me on the case, I got into my 2002 Sebring convertible and went on the eleven-mile ride to the Anthonys’ part of town. I’d been catching up on the case, talking to the people involved, and reading the various reports that had been filed, but I thought it would be helpful to get a view from the ground, of the house where so much of the initial action in the case had taken place.
The Anthonys lived in Chickasaw Park, a pleasant neighborhood of well-kept ranch houses and manicured lawns southeast of downtown Orlando. Their ranch was prettier than any other on Hopespring Drive—meticulous, well-orchestrated landscaping with lots of cacti, red elephant ear, and a towering palm tree to the left of the front door. The walkway had a brick border lined with solar-powered lights, the front yard nary a weed. The grass was well watered and evenly mowed. The house was board and batten siding, painted a soft shell pink. The front door matched in color but in a deeper tone, and a welcoming plaque of flowers and a blue butterfly hung beneath its arched window. I couldn’t see the aboveground pool and toolshed. They were tucked behind the house in a backyard protected by a wooden stockade fence.
I had heard that the Anthony family was well liked by neighbors on the block. They were charter residents of the subdivision. They’d moved into the just-built four-bedroom, two-bath, L-shaped ranch when Casey was only three. It was a quiet, family-oriented community then, as it is now. Whereas George had once helped Casey ride her tricycle, more recently he had often been seen helping his little granddaughter, Caylee, ride hers. He had even assembled a playhouse in a corner of the backyard for her, with its own landscaped border, tiny mailbox, and meticulously installed pavers under the playhouse so that she would never have to play on a dirt floor.
There had never been any trouble at the house, even when Casey and her older brother, Lee, were at the height of their teenage years. The Anthonys seemed the definition of blissful suburbia, especially with the addition of the angelic, bright-eyed baby girl. I could only imagine what the neighbors must have thought when that first squad car showed up at their curb, lights flashing, shortly before 10 P.M. on July 15, 2008.
ACCORDING TO THE POLICE REPORTS from that night, Corporal Rendon Fletcher was the first officer to go up the home’s cement walkway. His knock was answered by Cindy Anthony, and he was surprised to find her sobbing and distraught. Based on the 911 calls, Fletcher had thought he was responding to a stolen vehicle report, but from the moment he walked through the door, Cindy didn’t say a thing about the car. She looked like a wreck. Her short blondish hair was as combed as it could be at that hour, but she was pale, her blue