"Interesting," Debbie said as she lifted the top of her sandwich to inspect the contents inside.
"Why do you ask?"
"He represents the boy who was driving the stolen car. I'd like to interview him--and his client."
"Pffff. Good luck with that. He's interested in trying his case in court, not in the press. He's not going to want to chat with you. And he sure as heck isn't going to let you talk to his client. So don't think that sweet charming act of yours that I've seen you trot out will work on Chase. He may be young, but he's not gonna fall for that fakery."
Debbie split a chocolate chip cookie as big as the teacup saucer and handed half to her mom. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Beth answered. "I've got a mountain of work that I need to complete before my surgery. I don't know what I would've done if the doctor had said I needed radiation before my mastectomy."
"Well, it still sucks," Debbie said.
Beth shook her head. "Right now, I've got a shattered family I'm representing. The dad was killed by a semi on the highway. The toddler in the car is in critical condition and may not make it. The mom is trying to plan a funeral with no money, trying to figure out how to pay medical bills with shitty insurance. And she's afraid to leave her baby's bedside. I'm sitting here in my comfortable house with a fat savings account enjoying a cookie with my healthy daughter. No, my dear, my life does not, as you so eloquently put it, suck."
CHAPTER FIVE
Angels and Lawyers
The younger the deceased, the larger the crowd that gathers to grieve. And this funeral was no exception. As Debbie slipped into a pew near the back of Zion Missionary Baptist Church, she thought about all the funerals she had attended over the course of her career. She could not imagine becoming immune to the sorrow that is the last goodbye to a child's lifeless body.
From her seat, Debbie could see an open white casket lined in pink satin. Rainaa was nestled inside. Next to the casket, an enlarged framed photo of the teen--a smiling picture from some happy occasion--had been placed on a stand.
As the minister got up and began to speak, Debbie pulled out her notebook to try and capture his words and the crowd's reactions. Even though the man of faith's hair was graying at the temples, his body still possessed the vigor of a younger preacher. When the minister opened his mouth, a hypnotic voice flowed through it. His speech was more of a melody; one that pushed and pulled the crowd through a range of emotions.
"Babies!" he cried out. "Hold your babies close. Hold your babies tight. And love your babies every single blessed day. You never know when they will be called back to heaven to rejoin their Almighty Father." He paused. "Their first Father."
An old woman dressed in a perfectly tailored pink suit, her white hair just barely visible underneath a matching pink hat with a bow affixed to the front, sat next to Debbie. The woman shut her eyes as she concentrated on the preacher's words. "Mmmhmmm," she said, responding to the minister. "That's right."
The preacher continued, looking at the girl's parents in the front row. The reverend explained that both parents had been at work on the day the Lord summoned their daughter. Her father was a mechanic who worked at a repair shop near the home. Her mother was a salesperson at a mall department store. When they said goodbye to their daughter at the dawn of the day that would shatter their lives, they had no idea that it was the last time they'd see each other. "But," he promised, "they will be together again--in the next life."
The minister paused. The congregation stilled.
"My brothers and sisters, let's not forget Joshua Lucas," he said softly. "We must keep our children safe, and keep a watchful eye on them, so that they don't become vessels bringing sadness and grief, like Joshua." He shook his head and slammed both hands down on the pulpit. "Evil forces have been unleashed on our streets. Now, brothers and sisters, please remember that we have two children who need our prayers."
Debbie had a lead. She had the boy's name.
"Amen!" said the old woman in pink next to her.
Debbie turned slightly to get a look at the woman who was moved by the pastor's words. That's when she noticed that Jarrett, the young man she'd met at Teen Alliance, was sitting next to the woman. Jarret caught Debbie's glance and gave her a shy wave. He leaned over to the woman in pink and whispered into her ear. She turned to look at Debbie, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips at the sight of the reporter's notebook.
Then she turned her body slightly away from Debbie, raised her head high, and refocused her attention on the preacher.
Chase Laclede shoved the few documents that had been on his desk into brown legal folders. One could never be too careful with reporters. He'd seen too many lawyers stung by sloppiness and ego. Lawyers happy to get their pictures taken by the media only to have the contents on top of their desks later magnified, exposing confidential information.
It didn't take long to put everything away. Most of his clients' files were now stored in the cloud. But there were still a few paper documents still scattered across his desk, items that the receptionist hadn't yet scanned. She was, after all, rather busy because her labor was split amongst the four attorneys who shared an office space but had separate practices.
"Ms. Bradley, pleased to meet you," Chase said as the receptionist escorted the reporter into his office, extending his hand over his now tidy desk to greet her with a firm shake.
"Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Laclede."
Debbie had written her story about Rainaa's funeral shortly after it was over. It was a heartbreaking piece. And after she sent it to Sam, she knew she needed to get away from her desk. It was late afternoon. Lawyers often made it back to their office near the end of the day, so Debbie decided the best chance she had to talk to Chase was to just show up. Sometimes a surprise ambush worked.
The young lawyer gestured to the guest chair and then sat down behind his desk. "I don't usually meet with people who don't have an appointment. I hope you appreciate the exception that I made for you."
Debbie smiled; perhaps her mother had misjudged Chase Laclede's willingness to talk to her.
Chase continued, "I made the exception because you're a witness in a case I'm handling. You've been on my list of people I need to interview."
Debbie frowned. She hated it when her mom was right. She flipped open her notebook. "I want to interview you, too."
Chase folded his hands together and placed them on the desk. He was quite handsome, Debbie had to admit, even with the dark shadows circling his eyes. The degrees hanging on the wall were impressive: an undergraduate degree from the University of Texas at Austin, a law degree from Washington University in St. Louis. According to the diploma, he'd only been out of school four years, so that made him twenty-nine or thirty. In her mother's words, he was just a baby lawyer.
Chase took a deep breath. "Ms. Bradley."
"Please, call me Debbie."
"Debbie. You can't expect lawyers to discuss their clients with journalists, especially clients who are children. "
"I understand," Debbie said in her most agreeable voice. "I can assure you that my magazine's policy--and my own policy--requires me to keep the name of a juvenile charged with a crime confidential. At least until he or she is certified as an adult."
"What about your conflict-of-interest policy? Don't you think it is, um, ethically questionable that you're writing a story where you're also one of the main characters?"
"No. Not in this instance. I've already explored this with my boss. I always take care on each piece to disclose my role as a witness, much like many media companies do when writing about their corporate owners. And immersion journalists haven't shied away from appearing in their work. Gay Talese couldn't have written 'Frank Sinatra Has a Cold' without highlighting Sinatra's efforts to evade an interview. Joan Didion's piece 'John Wayne, A Love Song' includes her recollections of a dreamy dinner with the actor. Hunter S. Thompson wrote about his time with the Hells Angels. And today, of course, you've got online sit
es like Vice embracing first-person journalism."
"But the difference with those cases is that you are part of a potential court proceeding."
"My experience was extremely limited. I heard the honking. I saw the car in my rearview mirror. I saw the crash. And I found the boy in the front seat. That's it."
Chase leaned forward. "Why don't you elaborate on those experiences?"
Debbie shrugged and recounted in the very same detail the article she'd written about the experience on the first day. It was also the same information she'd shared with Flannery and Parker.
Chase scribbled as she spoke. When she was done, he put his pen down. "That's pretty much what the police report said. Did you take notes at the crime scene?"
"Yes."
"And from what I saw online, it looks like you have pictures. Did you publish them all?"
"No."
"You do realize that I can subpoena your notes and your photos, don't you? The so-called reporter's shield is weak, it snaps like a dry twig when the reporter is a witness. Not that it is much of a protection in the first place."
Debbie pursed her lips. "I'm not gonna give up my notes without a fight. That is a matter you're going to have to take up with River City's lawyers, and our publisher."
Chase frowned. He still hadn't decided whether that side fight would be worth the effort. "Who's to say that your notes won't be subpoenaed by the prosecution? You've created quite the ethical pretzel, Debbie Bradley."
Debbie opened her notebook. "Do you think your client will stand trial as an adult?"
Chase replied, "I'm not going to answer specific questions about this case."
He looked out the window for a moment before continuing. His client needed her as an ally, not an adversary. "Look, I can explain the law in general."
In Missouri, Chase said, a child as young as twelve could be certified to stand trial as an adult. But the state would also need to show factors such as a criminal history or viciousness associated with the crime.
"Okay, that makes sense," Debbie said, also trying to entice Chase into her corner. "You know, my mom is a lawyer here in town," she added, hoping that sharing a piece of personal information would encourage Chase to do the same. "She says she doesn't know you personally, but she swears you've got an excellent reputation. She said you were known as smart, hardworking, and dedicated to your clients."
Chase's eyebrows drew closer together as he studied the reporter who was doing her best to find something in common with him. "Who's your mom?"
"Beth Hughes."
His face lit up. Dropping her mother's name had been like sharing a secret password needed to get into an exclusive club.
"She's a legend in the personal injury legal circles. My dad has grumbled about her during many family dinners. He's annoyed at her skill and dedication. It causes him a lot of problems. Why didn't you follow in your mother's footsteps and become a lawyer? Believe me, I know there had to have been pressure to join the profession."
Debbie shook her head. "Growing up, it always seemed like my parents were stressed out. My father was a lawyer, too."
"Of course," Chase said. "I do remember that Beth Hughes was married to Cary Bradley. Bradley & Hughes, LLC. Your mom kept the firm name. Perhaps she was saving Bradley for you?"
Debbie nodded. "Whenever there was a big trial, there was so much stress at home. I wanted nothing to do with that life."
Chase looked at his watch. "Well, it is after six p.m., and you're here. Sure you're not like your mom?"
Debbie shrugged and smiled.
Chase drew in a deep breath. "I hope I'm not stepping out of bounds, but I heard about your mom's cancer. I'm sorry."
Debbie sighed. "How did you know?"
"You're from St. Louis. You know that this is just a big little town. And when it comes to the legal profession, it is an even smaller, more tightly knit circle. News travels."
Debbie looked away for a moment, caught off-guard by his genuine compassion. "I appreciate that. I'll be sure to let my mom know."
Debbie paused. "You know, it's ironic. I thought the diagnosis would slow her down. Instead, she's even more determined and unstoppable. I don't know if she's worried she won't have enough time to take care of her clients. But I really wish she'd take care of herself."
"Maybe she is taking care of herself. Maybe she just doesn't want to think about it. I know it is easier to focus on the problems of others than to focus on your own problems. Especially when it seems like there isn't much you can do."
Debbie nodded; what he said made sense.
"Hey, you sure are good at switching the subject," Debbie said as she realized he was a master at re-targeting the conversation.
Chase laughed, a genuine and relaxed moment of humor.
"Look," Debbie said, "I'm not going to disclose your client's name. But I am trying to find out how a thirteen-year-old got his hands on an Audi. I doubt he was the one who stole it."
Chase leaned forward and asked, "What makes you say that?"
Debbie referred to the police report instead of revealing she'd talked to the Audi owner. The car had been stolen from downtown. Joshua was a good eight to ten miles from the ballpark when he crashed. He wasn't an experienced driver.
Chase rubbed his chin. "An interesting theory."
Debbie scribbled in her notebook and tore out a piece of paper. Chase might be a formidable adversary, but he wasn't an enemy. "Here's my contact info. In case you need to send me a subpoena, or you want to give me a tip. It doesn't have to be about this case. I'm always looking for stories."
"Paper? No business card?"
"I'm new. And my employer is slow."
Sam's text arrived while she was interviewing Chase. But it was only after she had left his office that Debbie dared to look at her phone because listening, really listening, was hard work, at least for Debbie. During critical interviews, she was unable to focus on the conversation and the pinging of her phone at the same time. The phone could wait. But when it came to difficult and important interviews, she might only get one shot.
Sam's missive began with the good news and bad news approach. The good news? The piece on Rainaa's funeral only required a few grammar tweaks. So Sam had it posted online. The bad news? River City's lawyers were anxious about Debbie's coverage of the accident.
"Shit," Debbie whispered under her breath as she got into her car.
Her first impulse was to call Christian and ask for his advice. Should she stop writing? Was it really questionable for her to publicly tell the world what she'd seen and heard, so long as she also was transparent and explained her role in the accident? Where was the balance between free speech and an accused's right to a fair trial?
Debbie reached for the phone she'd tossed on the passenger's seat. Fighting the urge to call him, she opened her former employer's newspaper app to see if Christian had written anything new. Debbie groaned. The lead story belonged to Christian; the latest revelation of never-ending corruption emanating from the White House and an administration that seemed to delight in self-dealing.
That's when the phone pinging started. A news junkie, Debbie had enabled alerts from several national news outlets. And they all started sending her stories based on Christian's reporting.
"What have I done?" Debbie muttered under her breath. She'd left a national newspaper during a critical moment in American history. Her ex-fiancé's career was on fire. Here she was in flyover country, chasing a kid car thief.
Debbie sighed. She may as well check her office voice mail. When she dialed in, she was surprised. "Ms. Bradley, Toni Parker here. I'm going to give you my personal number. Call me from your cell so I can get your direct line."
Debbie punched the numbers into her phone. Officer Parker didn't pick up, but Debbie left a return message. Now at least they had a connection.
Debbie started her car. The Teen Alliance Gala was tomorrow. Maybe her mom would have a suitable dress she could borrow. Beth was always going
to some sort of Legal Aid fundraiser. There had to be something Debbie could wear that was simple, but not too middle-aged-lawyer-lady.
Tonight, maybe she could convince her mom to stop working for a little bit. She would pick up a bottle of wine and maybe they could watch a movie together, maybe Casablanca. Debbie would enjoy listening to her mother launch into her argument, once the movie was over, that Casablanca should be remade, only this time, the characters of Rick Blaine and Victor Laszlo would be played by women. Ilsa Lund would be a man.
"I'd like to see how the audience would react to two women deciding who the man should be awarded to for the sake of the free world," Debbie knew her mother would mutter before heading off to bed.
CHAPTER SIX
Pride and Puzzles
Debbie got out of her car and gave the bottom of the black dress one last sharp tug. She was there for a story, not to draw attention to her shapely legs.
Revealing clothes didn't mesh with work. She preferred to concentrate on reporting, rather than worry about covering her backside. Plus, dresses interfered with getting the perfect picture.
At least the dress didn't fall too far above the knee. It was, after all, her mom's. Debbie hadn't bothered to pack black-tie-affair clothes as she made her quick getaway from D.C. The dress she settled on was the best of the bunch in her mother's closet. Paupers can't be picky, she reminded herself. Actually, she had to admit she looked pretty good. And, despite cancer, her mom was in amazing shape.
But even the hope of good genetics wasn't enough to overcome her bad mood. Parking was a nightmare. Most of the attendees were using the pricey valet service. She hadn't received her first paycheck yet so her bank account, like her dress, left little room for miscalculation. And pride prevented Debbie from asking her mother for a few more bucks.
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