Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  Justin Holliday sneered and said, “Nobody’ll believe that bullshit.”

  Tommy smiled and said, “Yeah, they will. Second thing. You’re gonna go over to Riker’s. We got some guys inside there who owe us. Big, brutal guys who’ll hurt you if we tell them to. Know what I mean, Justin?”

  The kid’s eyes opened wide. He had been to Riker’s Island jail before. He knew exactly what Tommy meant.

  “It don’t matter where they put you over there, or who you complain to. If we want to, we’ll put out the word. Most likely, you won’t be killed at Riker’s. A bunch of cons will probably just beat the shit out of you. Maybe fuck you a few times. And we all know how much you like that gay stuff. But after you’re convicted and sent upstate for a good, long time, you could easily be killed.”

  “What the fuck you sayin’? You threatenin’ me? You can’t do that. I wanna talk to a lawyer.” Tommy noticed a bit of urgency in Justin’s voice.

  “If you break our balls over this case, Justin, you’ll do very hard time, at Riker’s and upstate. That’s a fact and there’s nothin’ you or any lawyer can do about it.”

  For the first time, Justin Holliday began to look frightened. “You can’t threaten me, man.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Justin,” Tommy said as he sat back and rubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m just tryin’ to help you out, givin’ you a heads-up. I really don’t want these terrible things to happen to you, but they will unless you pick up that pencil and write down what you did to that man in the park and who helped you do it.”

  “No fuckin’ way,” Justin Holliday said, his bravado clearly fading.

  “We have a witness, Justin. Puts you right there. The jury’ll believe him. You’re gone. You help us out, you might be back on the street when you’re thirty. You don’t—you’re in the ground by twenty. I bet big money on that.”

  Tommy O’Malley gave Justin Holliday his most malevolent look. The kid couldn’t meet his eyes. In his own primitive way, he was thinking.

  “The guy was just a fag, man. He came on to me. What am I supposed to do? Fucker deserved it.”

  “Write it down, Justin. If you help us, we’ll help you. And we’re the only ones who can help you at this point. Do you understand that?” Tommy’s tone softened. He knew the kid would break. These gangbangers were hard cases in groups, but get them alone, strip away their power base, and they were scared just like everybody else.

  “What can you do for me?” For the first time, Justin looked Tommy in the eye. Game, set, match. Thirty minutes later, the homicide detectives had a statement written and signed by Justin Holliday. Within two hours, his three accomplices had been picked up. Justin’s attorney arrived shortly after that—a tired-looking, bearded man who didn’t really care what happened to his client just as long as he could finish up in time to get home by eight that evening. Murray and Morales were extremely happy. Tommy gave them his bill: two steak dinners at Gallagher’s Restaurant. One would pay his debt to Tony Lomanto. The other would give him a free meal.

  It was twilight as Shannon Michaels drove along Ocean Parkway heading west. To his left were Jones Beach and the Atlantic Ocean, to this right the coastal marsh. Shannon had walked the beach for two hours, thinking about his situation and Ashley Van Buren.

  Navigating onto the Wantagh Parkway, Shannon saw the sun dip behind the horizon. A crescent moon was rising. What he didn’t see was the dark blue Chevrolet about a quarter mile behind him. The car had been following him since he had left his home early that afternoon. The two men in the car had radios and nine millimeter pistols. They were New York City police officers.

  “Tell him to come up,” Ashley Van Buren told the doorman through her apartment intercom. The invitation was extended to one Thomas O’Malley, NYPD Homicide Detective.

  Tommy had seen many apartment buildings like Ashley’s. Second Avenue modern. Forty-three floors. In the lobby, tacky fake leather furniture the color of butterscotch that clashed with the black and white tile floor. A few lonely plants huddled in the lobby corners, and a big sign signaled the world that “All visitors must be announced.”

  The doormen at these places always seemed to be leering, Tommy thought. They kept track of who went to whose apartment and how long they stayed. They were unbelievable gossips who accumulated information on everyone they could.

  Ashley’s one-bedroom flat was on the fifth floor. Tommy stood in the elevator alone holding a small bouquet of flowers. This wasn’t Tommy’s style, but he had a major favor to ask Ashley Van Buren. He hoped the flowers would soften her up.

  Ashley opened the door and greeted Tommy with a warm kiss on the cheek. He liked it. The only other person on earth who would do that was his mother. Ashley’s eyes lit up when Tommy handed her the bouquet. This was her day for flowers, she thought.

  Upon entering the apartment, Tommy’s ears met a loud, pulsating noise that seemed to resemble music. “What’s that you’ve got on the stereo, Ash?”

  “Hootie and the Blowfish.”

  “Whatie and the Whofish?” Tommy rolled his eyes. “They are really good, Ash.” Tommy brought sarcasm to new heights.

  “Okay, what would you like to hear, Detective?”

  “Let me introduce you to some good music.” Tommy walked over to the stereo, shut off the CD player, and tuned the radio to WCBS-FM, the oldies station in town. A staccato rhythm flowed out of the speakers:

  Duke, duke, duke

  Duke of Earl, duke, duke

  Duke of Earl . . .

  “What’s that?” said Ashley, seemingly horrified.

  “The Duke of Earl. It’s a classic. Come on, you’ve gotta know this song,” Tommy said.

  “What song? All I hear is someone shouting in pain.”

  “Come on. This is a gold record.”

  “Nothing can stop me now, ’cause I’m the Duke of Earl—yay, yay, yay, ah ooooh . . .”

  “Detective, if you don’t change the station right this minute, I’m calling the cops.” Ashley broke out laughing, and Tommy smiled through his phony scowl. They compromised on some elevator music by Gloria Estefan.

  Ashley brought Tommy a beer, and then poured one for herself. She was still off balance about the entire Shannon Michaels situation—didn’t know what was real. And her therapist hadn’t been much help. She told Ash to “slow down.” Such valuable wisdom for just ninety bucks an hour. Ashley tried to analyze what she was going through but only knew that her feelings were changing every hour on the hour.

  “Tommy, thanks again for helping me out with the column. You’ll see your words in print tomorrow.”

  “Can’t wait,” Tommy said, yawning.

  “So what’s up with the GNN case?” Ashley asked, sitting down on the love seat adjacent to the couch where Tommy was sitting. She thought he looked weary. There were circles under his eyes and his hair was getting long. He had been funny about the music, but she sensed he had something serious on his mind.

  “I’ve got to ask you a favor, Ash . . .”

  She cut him off. “Tommy, just don’t tell me not to see Shannon Michaels. I can’t have that. I must make my own decisions.” Ashley surprised herself with her vehemence. She was very tightly wound.

  “I want you to see him.”

  “What?” Ashley was shocked.

  “It’s the only way I’m gonna catch the son of a bitch.”

  Tommy looked at Ashley Van Buren, who clearly was waiting for an explanation, and maybe not the one he had been rehearsing in his mind all afternoon. The one that now came pouring out.

  “Look, Ash, I spent an hour with this guy. My gut tells me he’s the killer. But I can’t prove it, and I don’t expect you to believe me until I can. I do expect you, though, to wanna know the truth about this Michaels. So I want you to help me.”

  Ashley didn’t say anything. She had absolutely no idea how she could be of help.

  “Michaels says he has a house way out on the island. It’s his alibi. He’s always alone
writin’ at his retreat. So, we wanna know if there really is a house that he goes to. And if there is, we want you to look around that house and the one in Sands Point, to see if there’s anything out of the ordinary lyin’ around. Like, say, receipts from Los Angeles, or Martha’s Vineyard, or gloves, stuff like that.”

  “So you want me to spy on him?”

  “Yeah, Ash, that’s what I’m askin’ you to do.”

  Tommy looked at Ashley, and then looked down at the floor. He didn’t like putting the woman on the spot. He realized that, by asking this favor, he was jeopardizing his personal relationship with her. If she refused to help him, things might never be the same between them again. He also knew there could be danger involved. A man like Shannon Michaels would not be pleased if he found someone snooping around his house. Tommy looked up. His blue eyes were sympathetic, his voice very soft.

  “Ash, I hate to ask ya. I really do. But it’s the only thing I can think of. We have to get a look inside this guy’s life. You’re the closest person to him. I’m just askin’ for the truth. If you don’t find anything, so be it. If you do find something, then you’ll finally know what I believe is the true story here. David Wayne could be the guy, I guess. He’s back in town, I’m told, and we’ll talk to him again. But Jackson has come up with some circumstantial stuff that points directly to Michaels. My gut tells me Michaels is the killer. But without your help, we’ve got nowhere to go right now.”

  Ashley Van Buren wanted to just shriek at the top of her lungs. All of this was much too complicated and emotionally draining. How could she spy on someone with whom she was intimately involved?

  Tommy saw her pain. His instincts were honed to pick up on emotional confusion. He didn’t want to think about Ashley’s attachment to Shannon Michaels. He had blocked that out. But here it was on silent display. Tommy began feeling his own emotional pain. He wanted Ashley Van Buren for himself, and was hurt that she felt so strongly for someone else.

  Ashley looked at Tommy O’Malley and knew what her answer would be. She had to know the truth, and recognized that this might be the only way to get it. She didn’t care about the risk. She only cared about getting rid of the confusion that was turning her life into an emotional bungee jump.

  “I’ll help you, but for one reason only. I want to know the truth. I can’t believe this man is a ruthless killer, but I have to know why you think he is.”

  Tommy was truly surprised. He thought she would turn him down. “Thanks, Ash. Really, thanks. I know this is very hard for you. And I don’t want you to put yourself in any danger. Just casually look around. Don’t toss the house or anything.”

  Ashley did not say a word. She looked away from the detective and covered her face with her hands. When she turned back toward him a couple of minutes later, Tommy saw that she was crying.

  * * *

  22

  MANHATTAN

  SEPTEMBER 1993

  In the late summer of 1993, just a few days after the Labor Day weekend, US troops were engaged in combat against Somali gangsters, and a powerful New York state judge, Sol Wachtler, was sentenced to prison for making bizarre threats against his former lover and her teenage daughter. Newscenter Six and its competitors were already pushing hard on the stories.

  For the television news industry, autumn is the busiest, most important time of the year. Local TV stations all across America begin to compete in earnest, gearing up for the vitally important November “sweeps” period. Four times a year, in November, February, May, and July, the A.C. Nielsen Company measures the size of the audience watching each individual television station. These ratings, or numbers as they are called, are used to set the prices advertisers pay for commercial time on specific TV shows. The higher the ratings, the more the station can charge. Thus, the “sweeps” periods are vital. And the November “sweeps” are the most important of the four because they’re the first ratings measurement of the new TV season, which starts in September and ends in May. November numbers set the tone for the entire season.

  Shannon Michaels was extremely competitive, and he understood the ratings system as well as anyone. In fact, he made it his business to monitor the ratings every day. In large cities like New York, the Nielsen Company provides overnight ratings. That way management can see what the audience is watching every day of the year.

  As he sat in his spacious office at the far end of the Newscenter Six newsroom, Shannon knew that Channel Eight, “New York’s Hometown Station,” was gaining audience and creeping up on his own Channel Six, which had been rated number one at the six o’clock news hour for the past three years. Michaels did not like the situation. When he took over as the primary anchorman of Newscenter Six in 1983, ten years before, the station had been a mess.

  It took four years of hard work to get the news product to a respectable level. Good reporters were hired and paid well. Tough investigative stories were encouraged, and each reporter was given the mandate to angle as much information as possible through the eyes of the people the story affected most. In other words, the reporters were asked to make their reports as personal as possible. Once the new tone of the newscast was set, a brilliant promotions woman was brought in from NBC to create a compelling advertising campaign touting the aggressiveness and special New York touch of Newscenter Six. The ratings slowly advanced, and the six o’clock broadcast became very competitive.

  Shannon Michaels was, in large part, responsible for the turnaround of Newscenter Six. He worked closely with management, suggesting strategies and personnel. He also wrote most of the news copy in a straightforward, no-nonsense, New York style.

  Though born and raised in Colorado, Michaels became an aficionado of all things New York, learning all he could about how the mammoth city and the surrounding suburbs—including half the state of New Jersey—had developed over the years. He turned himself into a New Yorker, to the point where he could even do a perfect Brooklyn accent on demand.

  Newscenter Six got a major break in December of 1988 when Channel Eight’s legendary anchorman, Preston Millard, was pulled over for driving under the influence. When two New Jersey state troopers searched his car, they found an ounce of cocaine in the glove compartment. The tabloid newspapers went wild. Millard, who had built his image as a solid family man, was humiliated and forced to take a long leave of absence. Channel Eight’s news product collapsed.

  It took another two years but, by early 1991, Newscenter Six had become the dominant force in television news in New York City, beating, by a fairly wide margin, the four other stations that broadcast an early news program. That first-place ratings finish coincided with yet another major development: the arrival of new News Director Lance Worthington, who couldn’t have walked into a more splendid situation—except for one thing. Shannon Michaels had worked with four news directors since coming to Newscenter Six. The high turnover was due to promotions and burnout, not lack of ability. In Shannon’s estimation, Worthington was by far the worst qualified.

  Shannon Michaels and Lance Worthington clashed almost immediately. Both men possessed huge egos, and both could be ruthless. Worthington was six years younger than Michaels and had made his reputation in Dallas by introducing flashy technical gimmicks. The computerized graphics he championed lit up the TV screen. His whiz-bang approach gave the newscast a high tech look that younger audiences found especially appealing. Worthington also loved scandal and gore. If the story was sensational, Lance Worthington was all over it. His news programs in Dallas were great ratings successes.

  But Shannon Michaels firmly believed that Worthington lacked the basics required of a news manager. He had never covered news in the field. He didn’t recognize a good reporter from a hack. And he was obsessed with research, so other people were always telling him what direction the news should take. A true newsperson, Shannon thought, knew that direction instinctively.

  Shannon’s office door was closed as he perused the latest overnight ratings sheet dated September 9, 1993. Once ag
ain he saw what he had been seeing for the past six months: Channel Eight was rising in the ratings, while Newscenter Six was stagnant. It had taken Channel Eight a couple of years to reorganize, but the station now had a new, young anchor team: A former Miss Connecticut and a good looking man from Seattle. Channel Eight had also hired a retired New York Met to do sports, and the guy was amusing and energetic. If the trend continued—and Shannon was a firm believer in momentum—Channel Eight would pass Newscenter Six in the ratings by November. To Shannon, that was intolerable.

  He placed the blame squarely on Lance Worthington. The man was not spending enough money to cover breaking news, and had fired some excellent reporters who wouldn’t sex up their news stories. Shannon had strongly protested but, increasingly, management was backing Worthington. This, of course, made Shannon furious. He was not about to lose everything he had worked so hard for because of some idiot news director. Even though the GNN disaster had happened more than ten years ago, Shannon knew that his career could not withstand another debacle.

  After leaving GNN, Shannon was a damaged commodity in the news business and his agent was forced to call in serious chits to get Shannon the anchor position at Newscenter Six. In the end, only two reasons explained his getting the job at all: The station was desperate, and he agreed to work cheaply. In the first year of his contract, Shannon earned $150,000, a pittance compared to what other New York anchors were making. Ten years later, his agent negotiated Shannon’s salary into the stratosphere: $1.1 million per year, plus a few perks—another major reason Shannon had to protect the station’s news franchise.

  As Shannon leaned back in his swivel chair, he placed his hands behind his head and stretched his long legs across the side of his large, wooden desk. His feet hung in the air like two fishing poles over the side of a bridge. The major news story on this Friday, the tenth of September, was the mutual recognition agreement reached between Israel and the PLO. Many Americans cared little about this historically pivotal development.