by Greg Iles
Caitlin’s eyes shine with anticipation, and she doesn’t offer to leave. “Send him in, Rose.”
“Yes, sir.”
Five seconds later, my door opens and Henry walks in wearing corduroy pants, a flannel shirt, and John Lennon glasses. He must have been wearing contacts last night. The moment he sees Caitlin, he looks like a college professor flummoxed by a question he can’t answer. Caitlin has actually sunk down in her chair in the vain hope that Henry won’t see her until he’s blurted out whatever is on his mind. The woman is shameless.
“Henry, you know my fiancée.”
He moves awkwardly around the chair and shakes hands with Caitlin, who straightens in her chair and smiles like an actress auditioning for a coveted role. But Henry doesn’t return the expression. He looks back at me with utter sincerity and says, “We need to talk, brother.”
“Does Caitlin need to leave? If this visit has to do with your investigations, don’t hesitate to kick her out.”
Henry gives this question grave consideration, his face hardening with something like territorial instinct. “Under any other circumstances, I would. But if she’ll promise not to print what I’m about to say, or post it online, I’m willing to say it in front of her.”
“Henry, what the hell is going on?”
“Do you know about the grand jury?”
My diaphragm flattens like that of a boxer about to take a body blow. “No. What’s happened?”
“Shad took your father’s case before them right after lunch.”
For a few seconds I stop breathing. The work of grand juries is supposed to be confidential, but I sense that Henry already knows what happened in that chamber today. “Tell me.”
He gives Caitlin a mistrustful glance, then says, “They returned a true bill half an hour ago. I’m sorry, Penn.”
“Motherfuck,” Caitlin curses, anger making her eyes blaze like klieg lights. “An Adams County grand jury indicted Tom Cage for murder?”
“They sure did,” Henry confirms. “I can hardly believe it myself.”
Henry and I share a look: last night he assured me that he’d nail the Double Eagles for Viola’s death long before my father could be indicted.
“How the hell do you know that when I don’t?” Caitlin asks.
Henry lowers his chin and gives me a look that says: Does this girl have her priorities straight?
“Who’s the judge?” I ask.
“Joe Elder.”
I shake my head with something close to despair. “How certain are you of this?”
Henry’s cheeks redden a bit. “One hundred percent. That’s all I can tell you, with or without Caitlin here, so don’t ask me more. I just thought you ought to know.”
“Damn it! Shad must have some serious evidence to sway a Natchez grand jury against Dad.”
“Do you think it was my video? I’d sure hate to think that.”
“If so, it wasn’t your fault. What that tape means is open to interpretation. And since the accused can’t have a lawyer in the grand jury room, Shad could put whatever spin he wanted to on every frame.”
Henry’s eyes are welling up, and I can sense just how much he cares about my father.
“Shadrach Johnson,” Caitlin says with contempt. “It’s time to nuke him, Penn, I swear to God.”
I signal for her to keep quiet, but she’s too angry to pay attention.
“Say the word,” she hisses. “I’ll have that photo up on our Web edition in ten minutes. Front page, bigger than VJ Day. Shad won’t even reach the city limits before PETA is screaming for his hide.”
“What photo?” Henry asks, blinking.
“Sorry, Henry,” she says with a hint of irony. “Privileged information.”
He gives her a look that a teacher might give an arrogant student.
“Damn it all!” I yell, getting up and pacing around the room. “Shad must really believe Dad is guilty. Otherwise, he’s gone insane.”
“Bullshit,” says Caitlin. “This is a vendetta, nothing else. He proved that this morning, when he asked that bail be denied.”
I’m still not sure of this. These tactics aren’t Shad’s usual Clausewitz strategy. This is a blitzkrieg, and the risks to Shad are considerable, all of which begs the question of what’s really going on. But if I don’t respond immediately, my father could be overrun by a legal offensive that could kill him before he even gets to trial.
When Caitlin walks to the window looking onto the oaks in front of City Hall, I can tell by her posture that she’s thinking hard. After a few moments, she turns back to us, her eyes focused on Henry. “May I ask you a question, Henry?”
“I can’t wait.”
“When does your next edition come out?”
“Thursday.”
“Two days from now. And the next edition after that?”
“Next Thursday. We come out every Thursday.”
“I see.”
God, she’s shameless.
“Henry, may I be blunt with you?” she goes on.
He meets her eyes with steady calm. “I thought you already were.”
“Do you think a weekly paper is capable of covering a story that’s breaking as fast as this one?”
Henry works his mouth around in silence for a few seconds. “Well, yes. Not the way you could with your daily, of course. But we’ve got our Web edition up and running, and I can post articles to that all day long.”
“True. But that’s not quite the same thing, and more to the point, you’re really a one-man shop over there when it comes to these cold cases.”
Henry takes his time parsing her words and tone. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“She wants to know everything you know about the Double Eagles,” I tell him. “She wants to take over your story.”
“Not true,” Caitlin snaps. “That’s not what I’m asking for at all.” She walks over to the reporter and lightly touches his arm, taking back his attention. “I have a proposal for you, Henry.”
Last night Henry’s worst fear was having his story stolen. But Caitlin isn’t going to steal it from him; she’s going to convince him he has a journalistic duty to give it to her. “A proposal?” he asks.
“Yes. I’d like you to start working for me.”
He draws back in puzzlement. “For you?”
“For the Examiner. I’m the publisher, you know, not a reporter or even the editor. I don’t have any business trying to write this story myself. But unless I have you working for me, I’m going to have to take it on, the way I did the Del Payton story.”
This statement is disingenuous. We all know she won a Pulitzer for her Del Payton coverage.
“I’d much prefer to have you covering this story for us,” she continues. “With our media group’s considerable resources backing you up. We’d publish under your byline, naturally.”
To my surprise, Henry’s face goes red, then darkens with anger. Even Caitlin takes a step back when she sees the frustration in his eyes. After all his painstaking work, I can only imagine the personal affront he must feel her overture to be.
“You can tell her to go to hell, Henry,” I say. “I mean that.”
Caitlin gives me a sharp glare, but then she takes two steps closer to him. “I realize what I’m asking. And I admit that I’m partly motivated by self-interest. But you can’t deny that I can bring considerable firepower to what until now has been a solo quest—albeit an impressively successful one.”
Henry looks up at her at last, then turns to me like a man seeking sanctuary, as if he’s only able to stand the intensity of Caitlin’s expectant gaze for a few seconds. I know the feeling well.
“This is complicated,” he says. “Because Dr. Cage’s case is one part of the story, and the cold cases are another. And I’ve been covering those just fine in the Beacon.”
“I believe all those stories are about to become one,” Caitlin says with unerring instinct. “One explosive story. The kind of story that comes along only
once in a career.”
Henry looks genuinely surprised. This must be the last thing he expected when he walked through my door. He’s always known Caitlin was a threat to his monopoly on this story, but he probably never realized that the nature of his own newspaper might be a serious weakness. “I’ll admit the validity of your argument,” he says. “But even if I wanted to do that, I don’t know that my publisher would agree.”
Caitlin gives him another high-wattage smile. “I’m not trying to steal you away. You’d be a guest reporter—and a well-paid one. We’ll credit each story: ‘Special to the Examiner, by Henry Sexton of the Concordia Beacon.’”
Henry nods sharply. “You bet your ass you would.”
He rubs his palms down his thighs as though to flatten his corduroy pants, then looks to me as though for guidance. “What do you think, Penn?”
“I think it’s hard to say no to this woman. But that’s no reason to say yes. Not unless you’re sure.”
Caitlin maintains her smile, but her eyes flash fury at me.
“What do you think about her argument?”
“She has a point about the weekly-versus-daily issue, especially with my father’s case. You could cover it on the Web, but there’s no question that her father’s media group would give you massive exposure on a daily basis. On the other hand, you’ve been covering the Double Eagle story for years. That’s yours, and I think you’ll win a Pulitzer for it someday. The problem is, the past has crashed into the present. Look what happened with the bones this morning. The two stories are already tangling together. If the Eagles killed Viola, which you believe, then by sticking to your old methods you run the risk of other reporters catching up to you, and fast.”
“You think I should take the offer.”
“No. I’m saying every proposition has good and bad points. But I will tell you this: Caitlin’s very good at her job, and she can have your stories running coast to coast by tomorrow.”
Henry turns away from us and studies a framed photograph on the wall. It shows me with Willie Morris, my former lit professor, who edited Harper’s Magazine during the 1960s. In the photo we’re drinking a beer at the Gin, an Oxford, Mississippi, bar that, like Willie himself, no longer exists except in memory.
“This would take some serious negotiation with my publisher,” Henry says.
“Whatever you want, you’ve got it.”
He looks at Caitlin like a suspicious man dealing with a car salesman. “If we did it, I’d still want to be able to publish in the Beacon on Thursdays.”
Caitlin smiles, sensing victory. “Absolutely.”
Henry looks to me again.
“She’s never broken a promise that I know about,” I tell him. “You don’t have any worries on that score.”
“Let me talk to Mr. Fraser, my publisher. Then I’ll get back to you. But even if you meet his conditions, I’ll still have one of my own.”
“Anything you want,” Caitlin insists.
“The deaths of Viola and Glenn Morehouse have convinced me the danger is very real. I’ve been thinking about publishing most of what I have this Thursday, as a kind of neutralizing attack.”
My senses sharpen at this, and Caitlin gulps audibly.
“If I did that,” he goes on, “then the Double Eagles would have nothing to gain by killing me or my loved ones, because the information would already be public. And the FBI would have the information, too, which I’m going to have to give them pretty soon anyway.”
“That’s a damn good idea, Henry,” I say, knowing I’ll pay a domestic price for this later.
“It’s also a very big step,” Caitlin says cautiously. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do that. But if you fire at the Eagles and miss, you’ve told them what you have and what you don’t, and maybe made yourself look foolish in the process. You might also risk a libel suit.”
Henry nods soberly. “I’ve considered that.”
“There are other ways to handle the security issue. Penn and I have dealt with death threats more than once.”
The reporter takes off his glasses and carefully wipes the lenses with his shirt. “I’m not bending on that point. Too many people have died already.”
Caitlin’s triumph quickly vanishes into concern over the next skirmish in her crusade. “Can you call your publisher from here? I’d like us to get started right away.”
Henry holds up his hands. “Oh, no. Mr. Fraser lives right across the river in Vidalia. I need to speak to him about this in person. He’s gone way out on a limb for me, letting me upset folks like I have. He’s gotten a lot of nasty remarks these past years, and a few threats besides. But he’s stuck to his guns and backed me all the way. He’s a good Christian man, and he did some brave reporting back in his day. I owe him a personal visit.”
“Go see your publisher, Henry,” I tell him. “Caitlin will be waiting for you with open arms if you decide to share your talents with the Examiner.”
Henry gives me an uncertain nod, then moves toward the door.
“And make her pay you like you’re Bob Woodward!” I call as he turns the handle. “Her father can afford it.”
I expect Caitlin to cuss me when the door closes, but after waiting a few seconds, she whoops and pumps her fist in the air. “I thought you’d screwed me,” she says. “But then you sold him for me!”
“I gave him my honest opinion. You’re right about the weekly paper issue. He can’t cover this story week to week, not like he could with a whole media group behind him. This thing is going to unfold by the minute.”
She walks up and lays a cool hand on my cheek. “I haven’t forgotten about your father. If for some reason Shad doesn’t cave because of the photo, I’ll take his case apart piece by piece in the paper.”
“That sounds a little biased.”
“This is war,” she says. “And he started it.”
I sigh heavily. “I’d better call Dad and tell him about the grand jury, before anyone else does.”
“Do you mind if I stay?”
“No,” I reply, but part of me is angry. If Henry had been willing to leave with her a few moments ago, Caitlin would not be staying for this.
I try Dad’s private office line first, but Melba picks up and tells me he came in for an hour, then went home to lie down after lunch. When I call home, Mom says he hasn’t been there since he left for the office after his court hearing. With my pulse accelerating, I try Dad’s cell phone, knowing that he almost never answers it. This time, though, he picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hello, Penn,” he says in an almost buoyant voice.
I look at Caitlin and shrug. “Dad? Where are you?”
“Just taking a drive. I couldn’t concentrate at the office, and I didn’t want to sit at home with your mother asking me questions all day. I needed some time to think.”
I’ll bet. “Are you okay? You having chest pains or anything?”
“I took a nitro earlier, but I’m fine now. Really.”
“Exactly where are you?”
“Sitting in the mall parking lot. I went to the bookstore, just looking. They didn’t have anything. You know me.”
“You probably spent a hundred bucks.”
“Close,” he says with a chuckle. “What is it, son? You must have some news.”
“All bad, I’m afraid. Shad Johnson took your case to the grand jury a couple of hours ago. They indicted you for murder.”
The silence that follows seems to roar like an approaching wind. “Dad? Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” More silence, but this time it doesn’t last as long. “I guess I knew this would happen. I figured it would take a few days, though. If not weeks.”
“Me, too. I know it seems bad, but we’ll deal with it. I just didn’t want you to hear it anywhere else.”
“Thanks. Will the news be all over town?”
“It’s not supposed to be, and grand juries are usually pretty tight-lipped. It probably depends on what Shad said in ther
e. If he brought up any paternity issues … there’s just no telling.” While Dad digests this, I add, “I think it’s time I give Quentin Avery a call.”
Now the silence is so profound that I wonder whether the connection has gone dead. “Quentin’s having a pretty bad time,” Dad says finally. “He’s lost both legs, and he’s having trouble with infections. He’s even had pneumonia. Then there’s his retinopathy, neuropathy, and just about everything else that can go wrong with diabetes.”
“Dad, this is the rest of your life we’re talking about.”
“Yes, but it’s early days yet, even if the DA is moving fast. You can easily handle this phase of things. Let’s give it a day or two and see what develops. Then we’ll call Quentin, if you still think we need to.”
“We don’t have that luxury. If Quentin’s too sick to handle a big-league murder trial, I need to know now. You’re going to need a big gun for this case. The best criminal lawyer money can buy.”
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s you.”
“You’re wrong. Seriously. We also need to get that DNA test done. That’s probably the best chance we have at defusing this prosecution, but Shad is delaying things. We’re going have to use an out-of-town lab.”
He grunts in surprise. “All right. Well … you schedule it and let me know where I need to be.”
“I will. There’s one more thing. Now that you’ve been indicted, you’re on Judge Joe Elder’s docket. He won’t be the judge who tries you down the road, because he’s resigning soon. But if Shad can persuade him, Judge Elder could revoke your bail.”
“How soon?”
“He could actually do it today from the Mayo Clinic, which is where he is now. But I doubt Joe would do that without an arraignment. I’m thinking Monday at the earliest.”
“All right, then. Don’t worry about me, son. Hey, did you turn up anything out of the Jericho Hole?”
“We did, in fact. I think we found Luther Davis’s bones, wired to the steering wheel of his car.”
“My God. I remember that boy. You keep after the bastards, Penn. Just remember what I told you last night. The Knoxes are bad, but Brody Royal is no one to mess with. You protect yourself. Henry, too.”