04 Heller's Punishment - Heller

by JD Nixon

  “Do you fancy him?” I smiled again.

  He laughed. “I would if I was gay. Definitely! I love blonds. And he looks as though he’d give you the ride of your life.” He cut me a sharp glance. “He’s very protective of you. I thought he was going to bite my head off. Are you and he . . .?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He laughed again, a warm chuckle. “Have you and him . . .?”

  “Um, not quite.”

  Another laugh. “Well, you couldn’t be more enigmatic if you tried.”

  I shrugged. “Sorry, that’s just the way it is. It’s –”

  “Complicated?”

  “You guessed it.” I checked my watch. “We better leave. It’s not a good idea to be late for court. Judges are prone to become quite shitty about things like that.”

  The four of us caught the lift down to the basement of the apartment building to where Trent’s sporty red BMW coupe was parked. He threw his keys at the two men.

  “Can one of you guys drive? I have paperwork to catch up on.”

  Dubov caught the keys, a happy gleam in his eye at driving such a smart little car. Ozanne and he sat in the front, while I sat in the back with Trent. He opened his briefcase and self-consciously donning stylish glasses, sorted through some documents, reading some, making comments in neat writing on others. I watched him, interested in the serious, focussed expression on his face as he worked. It was very different to the bold and roguish one his face usually held. He glanced up suddenly and caught me observing him, frowning slightly.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just thinking how different you look with your glasses on.”

  His grin was irrepressible. “Oh, really? Better or worse?”

  “Better. Makes you look professional. Almost like a real journalist,” I teased.

  “What an impertinent young lady you are,” he tutted with mock-sternness, looking down his glasses at me. “I shall have to teach you some respect for your elders.”

  “Good luck with that, grandpa,” I smiled.

  “Hey! I’m not that old. I’m only thirty-five.”

  “That’s almost fifty.”

  He stared at me in amused disbelief. “You cheeky little madam! I’ll deal with you later, Tilly Chalmers.” I laughed to myself as I let him return to his work.

  A small media scrum waited for him outside the court, but nothing compared to the paparazzi we’d had to deal with when Yoni Lemere had visited. The three of us grouped around Trent loosely, standing by patiently while he stopped to answer media questions, his glasses safely stowed away so as not to ruin his image. He fiercely defended his commitment to exposing poor trade practices. He firmly stated that while he was sorry about the suicide of the hairdresser featured in his story, he would never apologise for revealing her appalling skills. Who was thinking about the women whose lives she’d ruined, he demanded, eyes sparking. He strongly denied that his story had been the impetus behind the hairdresser’s decision to end her life, and refused to rule out running similar stories in the future.

  He declined to answer more questions and flashed his impish grin, “See you later, fellows!”

  He jauntily jogged up the stairs into the court complex, halting briefly to sign autographs for a few elderly diehard fans, throwing me a wry glance as he did so. His lawyers were already outside the courtroom and he huddled with them about tactics for the day. The men and I stood around uselessly, the court complex having its own security officers, who eyed us territorially with unnecessary hostility. I smiled at them sweetly while the men wore their usual expressionless faces.

  I glanced over at the entrance and noticed a huge man heading in our direction. He was one of those bulkily muscled short men, with thighs so big that he lumbered from side to side when he walked. He was accompanied by a petite woman almost running to keep up with him, and a motley crew who trailed after him. They pulled up close to us and took a seat, the supporters jeering over at Trent in low voices. The man’s face was a mask of concentrated hatred, all aimed in Trent’s direction. Hmm, it must the plaintiff, I thought to myself. Trent valiantly ignored the jeering, probably on his lawyers’ advice, though he looked over at the crowd with some concern.

  All parties were called into the courtroom and I went in with Trent, leaving the two men to idle outside. I sat in the public gallery across the aisle from the plaintiff’s family and friends, feuding parties on either side of the court. The rest of the seats were taken by media, bored pensioners and unemployed sticky beaks. Prepared for a dull day of testifying, I sat next to a frantically crocheting elderly woman, who immediately introduced herself as Gloria. I hoped she didn’t remember my reputation with senior citizens, otherwise we might end up with a commotion on our hands. She favoured me with a blindingly white toothy dentures beam, her gnarled fingers moving at a mile a minute on the yarn.

  “Oh, I’m looking forward to this one, love. Some of them are boring, but this one is going to be good. I watch Trent Dawson every night. He’s such a hornbag, don’t you think?” she said. I nearly burst out laughing and had to clamp a hand across my mouth.

  “He sure is,” I agreed with admirable diplomacy when I could trust myself to speak again. Trent clearly had strong sex appeal for the older female demographic.

  Having found a happy common ground, we settled down together to watch the trial. We heard a lot about the deceased woman from the man’s lawyer. That petite woman skilfully painted a moving story of a loving mother, partner and friend and dedicated business owner, driven to ending her own life through the heartless and callous actions of Trent. She described him as the worst form of low-life, hounding hard-working small business people to their death just for sensationalism and ratings. He was a money-hungry, media-slut with no morals (as well evidenced by his personal life, she tried arguing, before being shouted down by Trent’s lawyers) who didn’t care who he hurt in his craving for scandal and popularity. The whole time she spoke, a large picture of the deceased woman, taken at some family celebration, was flashed onto the court’s media screen. She’d been a bleached blonde, blue-eyed, pale-skinned woman, and in the photo she was smiling and happy, surrounded by her loved ones, including her partner and their children.

  I didn’t know how Trent sat there so composed, his glasses reluctantly slipped on to read his notes, his face sombre, listening to such a diatribe of criticism and condemnation. He appeared calm and reasonable, and if you’d just arrived from another country, you’d be outraged by the slurs to which he was being subjected. But unfortunately, the whole nation was well acquainted with his numerous dalliances and belligerent on-screen personality. He’d never get a fair trial around here. I thought his case was doomed from the start.

  However, when he was called up to the stand to testify, the plaintiff, Gavin, didn’t do himself any favours. Edgy and sweaty, he quickly became aggressive under cross-examination. He stumbled over his testimony and backtracked so many times that everyone in the court ended up confused over his evidence, despite his lawyer’s best efforts to guide him back to the pre-rehearsed script.

  “Did he say he was in the house when she killed herself or at his brother’s place?” asked Gloria in a perplexed whisper, showing her sharp mind. She’d managed to keep up with the intricate details, but not with his jumbled recollections. Unfortunately, I couldn’t answer her because I hadn’t been properly listening, half of my attention directed to Trent’s grim profile. I didn’t know for whom to feel most sorry– the nervous, unpracticed Gavin who’d lost his partner in terrible circumstances with children left to care for, or Trent who was just doing his job and giving the public what they wanted, which his high ratings demonstrably illustrated.

  The trial closed for the day after hours of wretched testimony from Gavin’s side, including the victim’s psychologist, work colleagues and friends. We all filed out, exhausted and emotionally drained. This was when the fireworks would start, I thought, on alert. But Gavin’s team was obviously worn out with
the realities of the court process, and left quietly in low spirits. No doubt they would regroup tomorrow and we would face some trouble then. Personally, I was tired from sitting all day entertaining Gloria. She’d revealed a relentless determination to engage me in small talk during the court recesses, although she was respectfully quiet when the court was in session. Trent and I collapsed on the back seat of his car, the bored men in front driving us to his apartment. We looked at each other.

  “How do you stand hearing everything they say about you?” I asked with great sympathy.

  “They’re upset. I understand that. Someone they loved killed herself. That’s difficult for them to handle and they want to lash out. I’m a convenient target. I try not to take it personally.” He paused. “It’s not always easy though. She was tough on me today. I’m not that evil, believe me.” I thought he looked stressed, not as smooth and confident as when we’d left this morning. I guess the day had taken its toll on him.

  Trying to lift his mood, I suggested brightly, “How about I cook you a fantastic dinner tonight and help you forget all about today?”

  “You cook?”

  “Um, I’m no master chef. Do you cook?”

  He laughed. “That’s a big no from me. I burn water when I boil it. But I do have a professional kitchen in my apartment though.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I’m no expert.”

  “All I’m thinking right now is that you’re cute and you can cook. My mother wants to meet you. Soon.”

  I laughed. “My mother wants to meet you too, but not to match-make with me. She wants you for her own immoral purposes.”

  He groaned laughingly. “It’s my fate in life to appeal to older women. They’re my biggest fan base.”

  “Could be worse. Could be older men.”

  He laughed. “True. What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

  “I dunno. What’s in your pantry?”

  “Probably nothing. I eat out most of the time.” He tapped Dubov on the shoulder. “We have to go to the nearest supermarket.”

  Dubov didn’t blink twice, but immediately changed route to guide the car to an adjacent suburb. Trent and I shopped together while the men waited in the car, choosing some fresh pasta, salmon, capers, dill, salad vegetables and wine. He paid for the groceries, winking at the awe-struck teenaged cashier. She giggled excitedly, and took her phone from her pocket to snap photos of him carrying away the groceries.

  “Do you want me to confiscate those photos?” I asked irritably, looking back at her happily snapping away.

  “Of course not! She might end up being a fan one day. And it’s just something you get used to when you’re a celebrity. After all, everyone loves to meet someone who’s on TV!”

  Chapter 21

  Back at his place, the men gone for the night, I made salmon pasta and salad. It was deliciously light food and we both scoffed it, ravenous after the trying day, sitting on his balcony enjoying its spectacular view of the harbour. It was hard to think of a nicer place to have a meal.

  “Tilly, that was very tasty. It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal. Thank you. You were too modest about your cooking abilities before,” he flattered, wiping his mouth on a napkin. Replete, he sat back and sipped some wine.

  “I enjoy cooking,” I said taking our plates to the kitchen and surveying the mess of plates and saucepans I’d left with dismay. I called out to him. “Where’s your help?”

  “I don’t have any,” he admitted regretfully, coming in and viewing the damage as well. “I only have a cleaner in twice a week. But she doesn’t do dishes.”

  “What? Oh boy. I suppose we’ll have to do it ourselves,” I stated unenthusiastically. I wished now I hadn’t used so many dishes and utensils.

  “I suppose,” he agreed half-heartedly.

  “You wash and I’ll dry.”

  He commenced rolling up his sleeves, then stopped. “Hold on! I have a dishwasher somewhere in here. I distinctly remember using it once,” he protested, and after a few minutes was even able to locate and identify that particular appliance in his kitchen.

  Together we stacked the dishwasher, wiped down the benches and left the kitchen sparkling clean. Back on the balcony again, wine glasses refilled, we swapped summaries of our upbringings.

  He reminisced. “Working class. Five kids, two adults, a three bedroom rented house with only one bathroom. Father unemployed and sick. Mother stressed and overworked in boring, underpaid factory jobs, with the bulk of the housework and cooking to do when she came home. That woman is a powerhouse. And a saint. I was a hard worker at school, but smart-mouthed. Bad reports but good grades. Was accepted into university, the first one in my family. Studied journalism. Massive sacrifices from everyone, including me, to pay my way through. Obnoxious regional interviews as a newbie brought me attention, then I was offered the hosting job on People’s Pulse. And that’s my life so far.”

  I shared in return. “Middle class for me. Three kids, four bedrooms, two bathrooms. Dad a university lecturer, Mum a primary school teacher. Two older brothers, one a cop, the other a personal trainer. Big age gap between us, so my childhood was pretty lonely. I was an okay student. Dropped out of university without finishing. Drifted. Tried acting for a while. Then somehow landed my job with Heller. And here I am!”

  “Acting? What in?”

  “Nothing much. An ad and a small role in Summer Days. I played a psycho bitch who slept with everyone in town and then drove her car off a cliff. I hope you don’t remember it.”

  “I don’t watch that rubbish, even though it’s on my network. That’s interesting though. Why did you give it up?”

  I laughed. “Because I have no talent and couldn’t get any regular work. And when Heller offered me a job I turned my back on acting, something I’ve never regretted.”

  “He sounds a very demanding boss. How do you get on with him?”

  “We have our ups and downs,” was all I would admit.

  “I’d love to do a story on him and his business. My ratings would go through the roof, especially with the female viewers. Do you think he’d agree?”

  “I don’t know, Trent. He’s a very private person. But he’s also a hard-nosed businessman and it would be good publicity for him. You might be able to persuade him using that approach.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Tilly. I hope you don’t mind if I go do some work now. I’ll have a backlog of emails and phone calls to get through after being out of the office all day. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that your room is down the hall, second door on the left. It has its own bathroom.”

  “No worries. I think I’ll spend the evening admiring the view.”

  I took a quick shower and changed into jeans and a t-shirt and spent a relaxing hour on the balcony, watching the various watercraft meandering their way around and across the harbour. Seeing the boats made me think about Meili Eriksen for a sad few moments.

  I rang Heller and told him about my day. We chatted for a while and I described the beautiful view to him.

  “You’re making me jealous, my sweet,” he said. “I’m sitting here in my office looking at a brick wall.”

  “Maybe we should move from the Warehouse to a waterfront location. I’m finding it very calming. Have you noticed that we’re not even arguing about anything?”

  “Yes, it’s most agreeable. I wish we could be like this all the time. But I can’t afford a waterfront property, Matilda. I’m afraid that out in the suburbs here is more to my budget.”

  “Shame. I could really become used to this lifestyle.”

  “Don’t enjoy it too much. I want you to come back to me.”

  “I’ll always come back to you, Heller.”

  “I hope you mean that, my sweet,” he said quietly.

  “Of course I do.” I rudely yawned into the phone. “I better go. It’s getting late. I’ll ring you again tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Sweet dreams.”

  “You too, Heller. Bye.”

/>   I decided it was time to hit the sack and popped my head around the door to Trent’s office, knocking gently. He had his serious face on again, his glasses perched on his nose, peering intently at his computer monitor. He looked up and smiled.

  “Hello! Had a good evening? I feel guilty leaving you all alone for so long. I promise I won’t work every night.”

  “Trent, you’re not here to entertain me. Work if you need to. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I had a relaxing time on the balcony watching the boats. It’s such a lovely view. You’re very lucky.”

  He leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Do you know, I barely even notice the view any more? I guess I’ve just become used to it. Too busy working to sit back and enjoy it.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Embarrassment crossed his face. “I was watching tonight’s show. Wanted to make sure everything went smoothly without me there.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Okay, okay, you caught me. I wanted to make sure that my replacement wasn’t too capable. Have to keep an eye on the competition.”

  “Verdict?”

  “I’ll be back next week,” he said with confidence. “I’d love for the ratings to dip temporarily in my absence though, just to reinforce it. I have contract negotiations later in the year. Always useful to remind the bigwigs of my star power when I’m arguing for more money.”

  “You have a fairly high opinion of yourself, don’t you?” I teased.

  “Self-belief is critical in this industry, Tilly. No one else will promote me. I have to do it myself. And I’ve worked hard for my success. I won’t give it up easily.”

  “I can see that. You’re a driven man. Like Heller. Personally, I don’t get it.”

  “You’re not ambitious?”

  “Not at all. I just appreciate having a job, to be honest. That’s probably why I wasn’t a success at acting. No killer instinct. No self-promotion skills.”