Friday, June 23, 2017
A SEARING PAIN SHOT THROUGH HIS HIP AS HE REACHED FOR THE remote control. He turned up the volume and fumbled with his glasses before righting them on his face and staring at the flat screen that hung on the wall. A reporter’s face filled the television as she offered a tutorial on skull fractures. The scene flashed to a pathologist dressed in scrubs as she explained on a skull model what was happening to the cadaver as they struck the back of the head with an oar. It was a chilling and engrossing sight that brought Gus back to his past, vicariously reliving through television the moments of his career when he spent time with medical examiners in the morgue.
He pressed a button on the guardrail and the bed hummed as it pushed him upright. A few deep breaths and the pain in his hip settled as he squinted at the television. He’d requested a larger one weeks ago, even offered to purchase it himself, but “Nurse Ratchet” ignored him.
“If we give you a bigger television, then we’d have to give everyone a bigger television, Mr. Morelli,” she had said in her condescending voice.
“Then do it,” he had responded. “Damn things are practically free nowadays. And I’m sure most poor folks in this place are half blind. Don’t you want them to be able to see Alex Trebek’s face each evening?”
His request went over about as well as when he refused to use the bedpan just after surgery. Now, weeks from the night he lost his right leg—a difficult choice between his lower limb and cancer—the pain was more manageable, his health no longer on the brink, and his attitude toward the staff, although far from pleasant, was certainly less hostile. Except for Nurse Ratchet. She was a cruel woman the day he met her, and would continue to be counted as such until the day she died.
“What’re you watching, Gus?”
The young physical therapist named Jason walked into the room in his purple scrubs. Out of every miserable person he’d encountered on this road to hell, Jason was a standout. Young and vibrant, he appeared to be, besides Riki the Friday-night nurse, the only one in this godforsaken place who enjoyed his job. And evidenced by his muscular biceps and forearms, Gus guessed that Jason pushed himself as hard in the weight room as he pushed his patients in therapy sessions. Handsome and charismatic, he reminded Gus of himself decades ago before the job and life and cancer had turned him bitter to the world.
Jason stood in stark contrast to the robots that strolled from room to room, jabbing needles and yanking catheters on their way to five o’clock. Gus Morelli had spent his fair share of time in prisons during his career, and these ladies would fit in just as well barking at inmates at the local penitentiary as they would screaming at the elderly patients here at Alcove Manor.
Most patients were here to rehabilitate from some catastrophic disease that had placed them at death’s door. Many, Gus determined as he snooped through the hallways in his wheelchair, would be better off if someone had answered.
“Some documentary,” Gus said.
“Here,” Jason said. “Let me help you.”
The young man pulled Gus forward in bed, rearranged the pillows behind his back so he sat more upright.
“Oh, Jesus. That feels better.”
“Gotta keep pressure off the hip,” Jason said. “Lean left and your incision will heal faster.” He pulled bedsheets that had become tucked and trapped around Gus’s leg and behind his back. “Did you get into a wrestling match?”
“I’ve been tossing and turning for an hour, trying to get myself free.”
“Just call the nurses.”
Gus smiled at him. “That’d be like little Anne Frank calling the Nazis to help her out of the attic.”
Jason laughed. “That’s pretty cold. Funny, but cold.”
“At least you appreciate my humor. My charisma has been lost on the rest of the staff. Except the nice nurse that helps me Friday nights.”
Jason shrugged. “I heard you called Ruth an icy bitch the other day. Not exactly the definition of charisma.”
“Hell, I can’t argue with you there. When I hear it like that, coming from you, I feel like a piece of shit for having said it. They manage to bring out my ugly side. I’m really not such an asshole.”
“You lost your leg,” Jason said. “You deserve to be a little bit of an asshole. Just pick your battles. Fighting with Ruth is pointless.”
“I’m figuring that out. Have you seen this show?”
Jason turned to the television. “Oh, yeah. I’m hooked.”
“What is it?”
“The Girl of Sugar Beach. A documentary about Grace Sebold.”
“Who?”
“Grace Sebold. From when she killed her boyfriend down in the Caribbean.”
Gus blinked at the screen as a still shot of Grace Sebold from medical school filled the television. The documentary cut to an interview of the girl, now a woman, slightly haggard with short-cropped hair, which was graying in random areas. Prison-issued, thick plastic glasses covered her eyes and reflected the overhead lights.
“It’s addictive,” Jason said. “It’s a real-time documentary. The investigator is producing the episodes from week to week and then airing them. The audience is finding out what she discovers almost simultaneously as she discovers it. It’s very popular with . . . younger people. And it looks like she might actually be innocent.”
“What episode is this?”
“Four,” Jason said as he typed information into Gus’s chart. “I’m trying not to pay attention. It’s on every television in this place. Mostly for the staff. I’m not sure the residents are keeping up with it.”
“I thought you said you were watching it.”
“I am. Gotta see what happens now. See if she did it or not.”
Gus pointed at the screen. “You’re missing it.”
Jason smiled. “I’m DVR’ing it.”
Gus lifted his chin, squinted at the young man.
“Recording it. I’ll watch it tonight, so don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“How can I do that?”
“Record it? You can’t. No DVR in this place.”
“How can I watch the first few episodes? Are they replaying them?”
“Replaying?”
“Yeah. Like a rerun.”
“It a prime-time documentary, Gus. Not I Dream of Jenny.”
“It’s Jeannie, you snot-nosed teenage punk.”
“I’m thirty, but I’ll take that as a compliment. No reruns, but you can stream the earlier episodes. Watch them whenever you want.”
“What’s that mean? Stream?”
“Watch ’em off the Internet.”
“I don’t have Internet here.”
“Sure you do. Whole place has Wi-Fi.”
“Can I do Wi-Fi through the TV?”
Jason smiled. “I thought you used to be a cop. Didn’t you use computers?”
“I was a cop when you were in diapers. I finished my career as a detective, and I’ve never loved computers. I’m sixty-eight years old and don’t plan to learn now.”
“TV’s don’t have Wi-Fi, unless you have a smart TV. You don’t. You need a computer to stream old episodes. Laptop or a tablet.” Jason plugged more information into Gus’s chart. “You still having trouble sleeping?”
“If by still, you mean for the last twenty years, then yes.”
“Nurses can give you something to help you sleep.”
“I’m sure they could. Probably cyanide.” Gus looked back at the television. “Say her name again.”
“Grace Sebold.”
“Who was the guy she killed?”
Jason glanced at the screen, where he saw Grace Sebold sitting in a St. Lucian jail cell talking directly to the camera. “Julian Crist. Her boyfriend. You don’t remember this story?”
“I do. My mind is just slow from all the meds they’re pumping through me.”
Gus cocked his head as he stared at the television, brought his eyebrows together so they looked like wings of a diving hawk. It was something he di
d often, back in the day, to get his mind into the right mode for thinking. It took him a while longer now to get his brain churning than it used to when he was working and sharp and on his game. Despite the delay, his mind finally made the connection.
“Looks like she’s innocent, though,” the young man said. “That’s what’s all over the Internet. Everybody’s talking about it. Tonight’s episode is supposed to feature a medical examiner who ran some experiments that blew the forensics straight out of the water. People are starting to scream for her release.”
“Son of a bitch,” Gus whispered to himself.
CHAPTER 28
Monday, June 26, 2017
GRAHAM CROMWELL STROLLED INTO THE CONFERENCE ROOM ON Monday morning with a stack of papers in his hands. Half-spent coffee cups and pastry crumbs filled the long table, where morning sunlight slanted across the mahogany and the bright New York sky screamed of summer.
“Okay, people,” Graham said. “Numbers are in and we officially have a hit on our hands!”
He tossed the packets into the middle of the table, and the herd of television personalities converged like a school of starving fish. Monday mornings were when the suits revealed the ratings from the week before, when numbers were discussed, when hierarchy was established. It was when each host discovered where he or she fared across all of American prime time and, more importantly, where they ranked within the network. Each of them wanted to beat their same-slot rival from competing networks, but bragging rights came from within the network.
“The Girl of Sugar Beach reached its highest audience yet with episode four. With a push from Wake Up America and Dante Campbell, who previewed the explosive forensic discovery, twelve million viewers tuned in Friday night. Sidney, you’ve got a ratings juggernaut. Congratulations!”
Sidney nodded and waved a thank-you as her colleagues applauded. Twelve million viewers was something special, and Sidney felt her stomach stir with anxiety. She’d seen other documentaries deliver in the middle and fizzle by the end. She wanted to make sure she didn’t follow the same course, but one-upping Dr. Cutty’s episode would be a tall task. Already, memes and GIFs had circulated since Friday’s episode of Dr. Cutty’s powerful swing of the boat oar to Damian the cadaver’s skull. In one video, created by someone who clearly had too much time on his hands, side-by-side videos compared the swing of Dr. Cutty to Derek Jeter. Sidney had to admit they were eerily similar. The YouTube segment that featured Dr. Cutty’s morgue experiment had already generated 3 million views.
As if Sidney’s thoughts had been broadcast to the room, the applause quieted and the deep, practiced voice of Luke Barrington rang out from the head of the table.
“Grand audiences can mean grand falls.”
Sidney kept the paper-thin smile. “Thanks for your confidence, Luke. You’ve had a grand audience for years. When should we tune in for your fall?”
“No time soon, I’m afraid.”
“Actually,” Graham said. “The projections are just the opposite. At least based on the website traffic. The first four episodes are being downloaded in huge numbers. The Girl of Sugar Beach is the most popular video streaming on iTunes.”
“What does that mean?” Luke asked.
“Streaming is when people download videos from this thing called the Internet and watch them on something other than a television and outside of the eight o’clock time zone,” Sidney said.
This brought a few chuckles.
“Cute,” the Bear said. “What does it have to do with ratings? Nielsen ratings, which the network uses to determine advertising prices, are not based on downloads.”
“Of course,” Graham said. “Nielsen ratings are based on actual viewers who watch the broadcast during the time zone in which it airs, and those who DVR the episode and watch it within twenty-four hours. So Sidney’s downloads don’t count toward her actual numbers, but the idea is that all those viewers who are discovering the documentary through word of mouth are racing to watch past episodes from our streaming platforms. Once they catch up, the assumption is that they will tune in to the Friday-night network broadcast. So we are all thrilled with twelve million viewers, but the projections are for that number to grow. Based on the downloads, projections of twenty million viewers tuning in to the Friday-night broadcast is a real possibility.”
Graham shuffled some papers and then looked back at Luke Barrington.
“Any other questions?”
The Bear, for once, was silent.
“Okay,” Graham continued. “The Girl of Sugar Beach was the big news from last week. Looking forward. Luke, this is your weekend. The Fourth of July is Tuesday, a week from tomorrow, and Part One of your four-part White House special debuts this Friday and runs through Monday, the eve of the Fourth. We expect a big audience, as usual. For the unveiling on Friday night, we’ve decided to air your special after The Girl of Sugar Beach.”
“After? I thought I was the lead-in?”
“Originally, you were. But with Sidney’s audience as large as it is, the execs figured you could piggyback. Based on models, you’re going to pull four to six million alone. If you draw a quarter of Sid’s audience, your numbers will be huge. And she’s doing well in the eighteen-to–thirty-four demo. Killing it, actually. So following Sugar Beach will help you with younger viewers.”
Sidney thought briefly of commenting on the fact that the star of the network would be borrowing from her audience, but decided against it. So fragile was the Bear’s ego that an outright blow in front of the Monday-morning crowd might send him into a tailspin. Instead, she badly suppressed a smile and caught a glance from Leslie Martin, who held down the same expression while flashing Sidney a quick wink.
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
JANET STATION WAS THE U.S. ATTORNEY FOR THE SOUTHERN DISTRICT of New York, appointed six years ago by the previous administration and a carryover now. She, like most leftovers, was waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the call to come that the new gang in Washington had decided on her replacement. But it had been several months and the turnover slowed, if not stopped altogether. So when the call from Washington had come the night before, she was surprised by the identity of the voice on the other end—the Assistant U.S. Attorney General—and more so by the request.
The call had sent her to midtown this morning, away from her office at 1 St. Andrew’s Plaza in lower Manhattan. It was an unusual request, but only took a bit of digging after the phone call ended for Janet to understand Washington’s concern.
Sidney Ryan’s past three documentaries had all resulted in exonerations. It was, by any measure, an impressive string of success. Clemency took more muscle than any one filmmaker could manage on her own. Exonerations took the Innocence Project and attorneys and usually some politically connected individuals, who either had a relation with, or could apply pressure to, the district attorney’s office that had originally indicted and prosecuted the subject. It took the discovery of new evidence, too, and usually some public outcry to gain a D.A.’s attention. When celebrities got involved, things usually turned ugly. And though most district attorneys basked in any media attention directed their way, certain forms of attentiveness—the negative kind that could ruin a career—was avoided at all cost.
It was never an easy decision for a D.A. to overturn a conviction, as this was typically an admission of incompetence. Some fast research the night before told Janet Station that the three individuals highlighted in Sidney Ryan’s searing documentaries were pardoned, not by the D.A. or judge who had put them behind bars, but years later by a new prosecutor who filled the hole left by the retiring D.A. This new district attorney had less to lose from looking at a decades-old case and admitting that it was handled incorrectly by the previous administration.
These fights were hard and long, and no one came out clean on the other end. But Grace Sebold’s case was different. Prosecuted and convicted by a foreign government, Grace had never returned to the United S
tates after Julian Crist was killed. Sidney Ryan’s documentary was chugging along, gaining a voice and an audience, and a hell of a lot of attention.
The conclusion being whispered around Washington? That a United States citizen had been wrongfully accused and imprisoned by a foreign government. The inevitable question that will be asked? Why had the government of the United States sat back and done nothing? The question and its implication was a runaway train Washington wanted to get in front of, and so the call had come to Janet Station to see how far along that train had gotten, and how fast it was running.
Her cell phone rang.
“Yeah?”
“She’s in a booth in the back. Lady with her is Leslie Martin, a producer for the documentary.”
“Got it,” Janet said as she climbed out of the black Denali, which was parked across the street. She walked across West Forty-second Street and into the café. She spotted Sidney Ryan and walked directly over to the booth.
“Ms. Ryan?” Janet asked.
Sidney looked up. “Yes.”
“Janet Station, U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. Do you have a minute?”
Sidney looked at her producer, then back to Janet. “I guess, sure.”
“May I?” Janet pointed to the booth.
“Of course,” Sidney said.
Janet slid into the booth next to Leslie, across from Sidney.
“Sorry to intrude on your breakfast.”
“This is Leslie Martin,” Sidney said.
“Yes,” Janet said. “One of the producers, correct?”
“That’s right,” Leslie said. “Is there a problem?”
“That’s what I’ve come to find out.”
A waitress approached. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee, please.” Janet looked back at Sidney. “Your documentary is all the rave.”
“You sound concerned.”
“Concerned is a good word,” Janet said.
“What are you concerned about?” Leslie asked.
“I remember the Grace Sebold case from back when it was in the news. Back then, it looked pretty cut-and-dry. I’ve refreshed myself since your documentary has become so popular. Some people in Washington are worried about the situation. That a U.S. citizen is sitting in a foreign jail for a crime she, perhaps, did not commit. The simple question is how much of what you’ve been airing is fact, and how much is pop-culture fiction?”
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