by Sydney Bauer
‘I know,’ said David. ‘But we have no other option. Carmichael will be going through the motions just like us – charging Jeffrey with involuntary manslaughter, and then waiting for the forensics to come in so that she can arrest J.T. and hand him over to juvie.’
‘She isn’t going to like that,’ said Sara.
‘She won’t have any choice.’
‘And you?’ asked Sara after a pause. ‘Is that going to be enough for you?’
David knew this discussion was coming – and he loved her for bringing it up.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that this whole case comes with so many questions it is hard to know where I should stand. Stephanie was so generous, so selfless, so full of ideas and opinions and dreams. And for her life to end the way it did – at the hand of her only son . . . part of me needs to know what went down, Sara, and not just for Stephanie, but for me.’
Sara nodded. ‘It’s like you knew her at “A”, and she ended up at “C” and “B” is . . .’
‘A sixteen-year mystery I owe it to her to understand.’
‘Stephanie didn’t ask you to do this, David.’
‘She didn’t have to.’
The look of understanding on Sara’s face said it all.
‘So we start by supporting the lie, and after that, well . . . we see what we can do about unveiling the truth.’
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s not like we haven’t come at things backwards before,’ she said, reaching across the table to kiss him.
‘Really?’ he said, managing a smile at last. ‘And I thought all our cases were a piece of cake.’
‘That’s because you work with me,’ she said.
9
Caroline Croft stretched back in her red leather ergonomic chair and took in a long, cool breath. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair was freshly combed and cut in the standard newscaster’s style, her arched stockinged feet now crossed and resting on the glass-topped office desk before her. Her husband, Bernard Jefferson, the executive producer of their high-rated Newsline program was now watching and listening anxiously from across the room. He had a bet with her that she wouldn’t be able to pull this off, knowing the thrill of competition would make her all the more determined.
‘I want this, Allen,’ she said into the phone, her smooth ‘anchorwoman’ voice now tinged with the slightest hint of frustration. ‘Boston is my city. Stephanie was my friend. I’ve known the family for years, even attended Chelsea’s high school graduation.’
‘The daughter is sixteen, Caroline,’ said the network CEO who was now on speaker. ‘She won’t graduate high school until . . .’
‘Well, I went to something with square hats, Allen – and what the fuck does it matter? May I remind you Newsline is the number one current affairs magazine program in the country. We make 60 Minutes look like two and half hours of total indigestible crap and you know it.’
Bernard was cringing by this stage, obviously concerned his fearless wife with the big TV profile and the even bigger balls had overstepped her mark. Allen Greenburg was one of the most powerful media execs in the country, and Jefferson obviously doubted even Greenburg’s mother had the guts to speak to him like this.
‘Bob Prescott wants it to go to his news teams,’ said Greenburg, referring to his President of News. ‘He says he can stretch any interview over days – chop it up for a late night bulletin, leave the softer stuff for the morning programs, milk the exclusive for maximum return.’
‘Bullshit,’ Caroline said. ‘Prescott is an idiot and you know it. He wouldn’t know a decent story if he fell over it, which isn’t such a stretch given the last time he attended an industry awards ceremony the man drank three bottles of red and had to send his deputy up to accept the award – for the network’s exclusive on the latest treatments for alcohol abuse, no less.’
When Greenburg fell silent, Caroline knew she had hit a nerve and took it as her cue to move in for the kill.
‘Have you spoken to de Castro?’ she asked, her dislike for Logan’s ‘partner’ barely disguised in the sharpness of her tone.
The silence continued – and Caroline’s instincts told her Greenburg knew something he was not sharing.
‘Come on, Allen, we all bat for the same team. If Katherine needs our help in making sure any interview is treated with respect and sensitivity . . .’
‘Katherine just needs a little time . . . to square things up with Jeffrey’s lawyers. She is meeting with them this afternoon and she promised me she’d call and talk interview as soon as things were locked down.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ said Croft, her mind now adjusting to this latest news. She and Cavanaugh had a history and not all of it was rosy. ‘But you can tell Katherine I am happy to talk to Cavanaugh direct. I know him, Allen, and I have his trust. Besides, I have always felt Katherine was a little threatened by my success – and I don’t want any ill feeling on her part resulting in the network losing the best chance it has to send this interview into the May sweeps ratings stratosphere.’
But Greenburg wasn’t biting – at least not yet.
‘Look,’ she said at last, knowing she had only one chance to get the CEO’s green light. ‘I really don’t need your permission to chase a story, Allen, but I am calling out of respect, for you and for the network. You give me the go-ahead and I promise you I will deliver one of the best two hours of news journalism this country has ever seen.’
‘You think you can fill a two-hour?’ asked a now interested Greenburg, questioning her ability to provide an extra hour to her one-hour Friday night news magazine program, while no doubt counting the potential prime time share in his head.
‘I’ll fill three if you fucking let me,’ returned Croft.
And then, further silence.
‘It’s already the twelfth of May,’ offered Greenburg after a time. ‘You have to deliver before the end of the month.’
‘Don’t worry, Allen,’ said Croft, looking across at her husband with a smile. ‘You think I’d waste this gem out of sweeps?’ she asked. ‘This Friday or Friday week at the latest. The exclusive is all yours, Allen, all you have to do is . . .’
‘Okay,’ said the network chief. ‘I’ll talk to de Castro. You have my blessing, Caroline, but I promise you, if you fail to deliver . . .’
‘Have I ever let you down before?’ she asked, the honey now returning to her previous stinging tone.
Greenburg did not reply.
‘No, I didn’t think so.’
10
Deputy Raul Delgado had seen many things in his years as a security guard at Boston’s county jails. He had been with the Sheriff’s Department for nearly thirty-five years, having started his career as a junior corrections officer at the now defunct Charles Street Jail (which, ironically, had been transformed into some fancy four star hotel) before moving to Nashua Street back in 1990 when the new and improved Suffolk County facility opened its double glass doors to some of the meanest sons-of-bitches in the city.
But nothing – nothing – had prepared Delgado for the scene he was witnessing this afternoon as Asian Boyz head honcho Damien Chi, one of the meanest street gang leaders in the city, embraced the new white guy like he was his long-lost brother, before quietly starting to cry.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ said Delgado’s fellow sixth floor deputy, a cold-hearted whippersnapper by the name of Snipe. Snipe, like Delgado, had seen Chi and his cronies approach the new guy and, like Delgado, he had assumed there was trouble afoot.
‘Nothing,’ said the new inmate, the famous one with the chiselled jaw. ‘Mr Chi just asked me for some advice and I gave it to him. He was just showing me his appreciation, Deputy, and I am happy that I could be of some help.’
Delgado looked at a teary Chi who, to his surprise, nodded in accord.
‘All right then,’ said Delgado, whose wife swore by the advice dished out by the man now standing before him – and given the events of
the last few minutes, he could certainly understand why. ‘No harm done now. Get back to your cells.’
‘Of course,’ said Logan graciously, before gesturing a nod of encouragement towards the silent Chi. ‘I want you to think about what I said, Mr Chi, and if you like, I can assist you in sharing your misgivings with your friends. I am glad I could be of help, and like I said – if there is anything else I can do . . .’
Chi nodded, and Delgado had to pinch himself on the back of his leg, just to prove this was not some merry fucking fairy tale in the lunatic land of louts.
Flip, slide, turn, thought Jeffrey Logan, as he relaxed back on his grey blanketed bunk. It was that easy.
Jeffrey Logan had learned years ago that whenever you were confronted by an antagonist set on rebuke, you simply flipped the balance of power by preying on the protagonist’s weaknesses, slid your agenda under the confused aggressor’s radar, and turned what could have been a potentially negative experience into one where you came out in front. He had in fact found that it was these unexpected potential altercations that often acted as catalysts to acquiring some previously unanticipated ‘gift’ – his first meeting with his wife being the ultimate example.
That is not to say that this most recent situation had not been a precarious one, he considered, as he shifted on the less-than-comfortable bed. The man called ‘Chi’ had been angry – very much so, and Chi’s obvious role as ‘shepherd’ meant his equally as pissed off ‘sheep’ had approached Logan with the intent to do damage – and then some. What was worse was that it took Logan a minute or two to work out the source of Chi’s resentment – for he had not, in a million years, expected to come face to face with an inmate who had been the subject of one of his shows.
‘You’re a mother-fucking asshole,’ had been Chi’s opening line. ‘But now you stuck in my hole, mother-fucker, with nowhere to fucking run.’
‘I am sorry Mr . . . ah . . . ?’
‘My name is Chi, and I rule the Asian Boyz, you bitch, and you mess with my mother’s head you meddling son-of-a . . .’
Then it had come back to him. Chi, mother, the Asian Boyz – that was it! The show had been titled ‘Move On’ and had focused on parents of children who had ‘lost their way’ by becoming drug addicts or prostitutes – or, in Chi’s case, leader of the notorious Asian–American street gang known as the Asian Boyz.
Now, Jeffrey Logan had to admit, if he were to consider Chi’s choice from a purely entrepreneurial point of view he might have even championed the young man’s ingenuity, given Chi swapped his legitimate job at the local chicken shop for a position at the top of an organisation that was turning over millions of dollars a year (in what Logan’s researchers had discovered was professional theft, arms dealing, drug running, prostitution and, more recently, skilful intimidation and then extortion of those foolish enough to express a willingness to testify against an Asian Boy at trial). But ‘Move On’ was not so much about what Chi had gained but, more poignantly, what his widowed mother had lost – a ‘beautiful, intelligent, loving young boy’ who, despite his being given ‘every opportunity to lead a good and decent life’, had chosen evil over goodness, darkness over light.
‘You told my mother to disown me,’ Chi had said. ‘And after she go on your show she not take my calls or answer her door.
‘And since that day I vow I will return the favour, you stinking white mother-fucker son-of-a-whore. I gonna make it so your momma doesn’t recognise you!’ And then Chi and his plebian puppets laughed, and Logan could not help but smile at the ‘height’ before their fall.
Flip.
‘Come here,’ Logan had whispered.
‘What?’
‘Come here,’ he had repeated, this time using his right pointer finger to beckon Chi close. And Chi, not one to appear scared of a skinny, middle-aged white man who stood at least a foot shorter than himself, had moved forward and bent in low as if humouring his prey before moving in for the kill.
‘You listen to me, you Goddamned idiot.’ Logan had gone in strong. ‘We did not screen the whole program, you ignorant son-of-a-bitch. There was more. Your mother told me about your sexual dysfunction, about how you had been born impotent and how she reasoned your lack of sexual prowess had been the trigger for your radical “change of lifestyle”. So, my good friend, my advice to you would be to shut the hell up and listen to exactly what I need from you.’
Slide.
‘I want you to leave me the fuck alone,’ he had said, while maintaining a fixed smile on his face. ‘But by the same token, if I ever need a favour, I want you to return it, no questions asked. And if you do not agree to these terms, Mr Chi, I shall call in my chips and get my producers to re-run the entire episode in full.’
Chi had held his breath and Logan had known he had him.
‘So, now that I assume we are in agreement,’ he said, placing his hand on Chi’s shoulder as if in consolation, ‘I want you to step back, you stupid Chinese prick, and then start the fuck crying – so I can explain away this incident to those nosey deputies approaching stage left. Are we on the same page, Mr Chi?’ Logan had asked then, as he took a slight step to the side.
Chi had nodded.
Turn.
It was that easy.
Just as it had been with her.
‘You’re lying,’ said the gorgeous red-haired woman with the striking blue eyes and the killer figure in the expensive navy blue suit. She had agreed that he could buy her a third drink, a vodka martini no less.
‘Lying?’ said a young Doctor Jeffrey Logan, still basking in the glow of the six-figure deal he and his partner had just signed with America’s number one TV network, and the early, record-breaking ratings of his first few shows.
‘I asked you what your parents did and you told me your father was in accounting and your mother in the arts. But I could tell by your eyes that you were lying, and if there is one thing I cannot stand, Doctor Logan, it is a liar, TV show superstar or not.’
There was something about her forthrightness that aroused him – no doubt the fact that it was screaming out to be curbed.
‘It wasn’t a lie,’ he said, lying freely about the lie not being a lie. ‘My father was a freelance financial advisor. And my mother reached the top of her field in artistic expressionism.’
‘Artistic expressionism?’ she said. ‘Well, I would believe you, if I knew exactly what the hell that was.’
He had noticed her the minute he had walked into the bar, correctly picking her as one of the lawyers attending another conference in the similarly sized meeting hall downstairs. Logan was in Miami to speak at the Annual American Psychological Association Symposium, and the high-cheekboned red head next to him was doing likewise at her own legal shindig below.
‘Your profile says you were born in Nevada,’ she went on, picking up the conference brochure he had handed her minutes earlier and turning to the section where his biography and the accompanying B&W publicity shot was given full page pride of place.
This harping on his origins was both grating and stimulating at the very same time – the unique combination, which always made him stir.
‘That’s right,’ he said, accepting the martini and scotch on the rocks from the pristinely dressed barman before handing him a twenty and suggesting he ‘keep the change’.
‘Vegas,’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Vegas, you were brought up in Las Vegas.’
‘Well . . .’ he began, knowing his bio did not specify his actual city of origin. Logan had always been irritated by the fact that his parents had chosen to rear him in the City of Sin. It did not exactly scream ‘credibility’, at least not in his chosen line of work.
‘Honestly, Jeffrey,’ she said, referring to him by his first name for the first time, her Boston brogue making her sound like one of those outspoken Kennedy daughters – all breeding and class but with an edge of congenital bravado. ‘If anything, you should be proud of your home town. Vegas has
guts – it’s full of colour and adventure and . . .’
‘Debauchery,’ he finished, his eyes never leaving her own.
And then she laughed, a deep alluring chortle, throwing back her long pale neck, allowing her thick red hair to fall lusciously across her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day – during which I sat through endless sessions on corporate trust and communication issues. We even did the role playing thing – had to break off into little groups and try to guess when a fellow delegate was lying.’
‘Which is why you suspected I was lying about my parents.’
‘Something like that.’ She smiled, taking a long slow drink of her martini.
‘My mother danced nights in the casinos while my father made ends meet by working days doing the books for a local Vegas car dealer,’ Logan admitted, knowing he had her, and it would not matter in the end.
‘And you are ashamed of them?’ she asked, the slightest furrow in her brow.
‘They are not around to be ashamed of. They died in a car accident when I was a teenager.’
He saw it then, the embarrassment in her eyes, the mortification at her own insensitivity, the regret at having ‘judged him too soon’.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘I have had too much to drink, and as a result, have been uncharacteristically rude.’
‘Apology accepted,’ he said, offering his right hand for her to shake as if they were agreeing to some sort of deal.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, her hand still firmly in his grip.
‘Are you doing anything after this?’ he asked after a pause, his agenda now firmly in place.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes. I am taking you out to dinner.’
‘Well then.’ She smiled. ‘I most gratefully accept.’
‘In spite of the fact that my mother was a whore and my father a sap.’
‘No, Jeffrey,’ she said. ‘Because of it.’
11
There was an old saying about Boston’s wealthy Beacon Hill and neighbouring Back Bay – something that went along the lines of: ‘Only real Americans lived on Beacon Hill and Back Bay – and they were Unitarians and medics and members of the Somerset Club with blood lines that dated back to the earliest of brave and adventurous settlers.’ And it was still true today, to a point, with Back Bay second only to Beacon Hill as the most expensive suburb in the city – its historic town-houses fetching around a cool three mill and the super-chic shopping strips of Newbury and Boylston streets screaming upmarket fashion with prices to match.