by Sydney Bauer
‘Was Father there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was he . . . ?’
‘Cooperative? He practically carried them out to their cars for them.’
J.T.’s forehead furrowed in confusion, that familiar crease now dissecting his brow in two.
‘And that’s not all. I heard Father on the phone, talking to another lawyer by the name of Bishop. They had an appointment in court yesterday – but I don’t think it had anything to do with you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said J.T.
‘Neither do I. But then they started discussing something about sub judice, about what they could and couldn’t say on TV.’
‘Father is going on TV?’
‘I don’t know.’
J.T. said nothing.
‘I am so sorry, J.T.,’ Chelsea said, swallowing back the lump in her throat. ‘None of this is working out like we thought it would. And I just feel so . . .’
‘You wish it had been you,’ he said, reading her mind.
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t. I was where I was and it is what it is, and if anything I am safer in here than you are out there.’
She nodded. ‘Is it all right?’ she asked – the first time she had asked it. ‘In here, I mean.’
He looked at her then and she could see that her brave little brother felt an all-encompassing need to comfort her. Everyone thought he was the mirror image of their father, but in truth, he was just like their mom.
‘I’ve stayed in worse.’ He smiled.
And she understood.
‘What if?’ she asked, as if trying to raise a smile.
‘What if?’ said J.T., the slightest crack in his otherwise steady voice.
‘We were playing “what if?” ’ she said, placing her other hand on top of his.
‘Just you, and me, and Mom.’
42
The Doctor Jeff studio set was a mammoth circular construction which sat low and round opposite a wall of plush, violet-coloured audience chairs that hugged the main stage in a semicircle of anticipation. The floor was carpeted in a complementary mauve, with various wooden platforms (used for guests’ entrances and exits) leading like the spokes of a wheel from the circle’s nucleus where Jeff would sit in his modern but comfortable cream-coloured armchair.
His higher-than-usual perch was angled so that he could be easily seen by the spectators before him and be equally as accessible to his guests de jour, who hunkered down on the slightly less comfortable wood-framed chairs beside him. The basic lighting was all subtle pinks and blues – but, as Katherine de Castro had explained, could be altered depending on the subject matter, wavering from the deep purple illumination used for more serious topics, a more upbeat lilac for the lighter episodes which, she went on to elaborate, ‘balanced with the heavier topics and gave Jeff a chance to show the down-to-earth cheerfulness that audiences loved’.
Caroline almost puked. These talk show divas thought they ruled the airwaves, she thought. But throw them into the battlefield that was news and current affairs and they would not last a Goddamned week.
It was after eight and Caroline Croft was in her element. She had compromised by allowing Doctor Jeff to stay in his usual leading man’s chair but asked that another seat – identical to that of her ‘subject’s’ – be provided so that in the very least she and the clinical psychologist star would appear on equal footing.
She was buzzing, her hair and make-up already in place. She was re-checking her questions, talking to the camera operators about angles and demanding that the lighting on her own right profile remain particularly soft. She could not believe she had talked Logan into it – adding the third guest, that is, and was even more surprised when he agreed it was best not to tell de Castro. As tough as Katherine de Castro was purported to be, there was no doubt that Logan wore the pants in that business relationship. Which, if she were honest, surprised Croft somewhat – as she sensed the ‘power’ had only shifted of late.
Maybe he was fucking her, she thought. No, de Castro was not his type. Caroline got the feeling Jeffrey Logan liked his women minus a pair of balls – which was why, after tonight, she suspected she would probably have made herself an enemy for life, given de Castro was not the only one who was in for a surprise this evening.
‘It’s Frank,’ said Marie Mannix as she handed Joe their red telephone handset – the one in the kitchen, with the extra long cord.
They had just finished dinner, the four Mannix boys, aged from seven to thirteen, now raiding the freezer of the oversized refrigerator for chocolate-chip ice cream.
‘Boys!’ whispered Marie. ‘Keep it down. Your father is on the phone.’ But Joe had already pulled the lead around the corner into the living room annexe so that he could hear his partner properly on the other end of the line.
‘What’s up, McKay?’
‘No idea, Chief – but nothing it is not, and something it definitely is.’ Frank had a tendency to talk like Yoda when he was agitated, and this didn’t sit well with a now curious Joe.
‘I just got a call from O’Donnell down at the station,’ began Frank, ‘who just got a call from Carmichael, asking him to meet her downtown.’
‘What?’
‘O’Donnell said he just wanted to give us a heads up. Carmichael told him to high-tail it to CBC’s studios. He said he knew it had to have something to do with the Logan case – which was originally our collar so . . .’
‘It’s almost nine o’clock on a Friday night. Why the hell is she going to the studios?’ Joe asked himself out loud.
‘Like I said, Chief, no idea. But O’Donnell says the ADA asked for at least two units of back-up.’
‘It’ll be on the police wires,’ said Joe, thinking ahead. ‘The media will pick this up.’
‘Maybe that’s the idea,’ said McKay.
Joe nodded.
‘I wonder if Cavanaugh knows about this?’ he asked after a pause.
‘Well, given Jeffrey Logan was last seen in the company of some other big shot lawyer, my guess is probably not. You think we should call him?’
‘I think that is exactly what we should do.’
‘Maybe we should have told him about Starkey’s call as well, boss,’ said Frank, referring to their decision not to tell David about George Starkey’s ‘gossip’ until they discovered exactly what had gone down.
‘Yeah, Frank. I think maybe you are right.’
Joe had rung David late the day before with the disappointing news of his conversations with Calvin Galveston from Maine and they then had discussed Rigotti’s news regarding Jason Nagle and his kick-ass rifle. But he had stopped short of telling his disheartened friend about George Starkey’s ‘intelligence’, hoping he could find out (a) if what Starkey claimed was correct and (b) if it was, what the hell Logan had been up to.
But the day had gotten away with him, and thanks to a fatal hold-up in Mattapan, Joe had missed a Friday afternoon call back from his court administrator friend – which meant he still did not know if Jeffrey Logan had indeed been at Boston’s Municipal Courthouse yesterday afternoon, and if he was, what his slick visit was all about. Just like he had no idea what he was up to right now.
‘I could be wrong, Frank, but I don’t think Amanda Carmichael is going to cut us into her loop on this one – given we haven’t got the call and the woman hates our guts.’
‘I would tend to agree with you there, Chief – but I think if we chew on this one a little, we can probably figure it out for ourselves.’
‘What are you thinking, Frank?’ Joe asked, guessing Frank had his own take on what was about to go down at CBC’s studios tonight.
‘Well, it seems to me that Carmichael likes the attention, and her way of getting it is to think out of the box.’
‘She likes to screw judicial convention for personal gain,’ said Joe.
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Chief. That’s why she arrested the big-time TV star, dragged him into court,
and then chose that high-profile forum to release the guy and arrest his kid while the cameras were still rolling.’
‘A kid she is trying as an adult,’ said Joe.
‘Two for two. So my guess is, she is on a roll. She thrives on two things: the element of surprise and the opportunity to drop her bombshells in front of the biggest audience possible.’
‘She’s planning something on TV.’
‘Well, considering this is a woman who defines the word “court” as something you do to the media when you want to see your own mug on the box . . .’
‘She doesn’t want us crashing her party, Frank,’ said Joe, continuing McKay’s thought process. ‘She likes playing everything solo, and given she knows she cannot count on us for applause . . .’
‘We can safely assume we didn’t drop off her invite list by mistake.’
Joe said nothing.
‘You got a problem with writing our own invitations to this studio shindig, Frank?’ asked Joe after a time.
‘Seems to me it was rude of her not to include us in the first place.’
‘And you’re free this evening?’
‘Well, I was planning to catch that Columbo rerun on A&E.’
‘I’ll pick you up in ten then.’
‘And I’ll grab my raincoat.’
‘It’s not raining, McKay.’
‘True, but it worked for Columbo.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Caroline Croft after the opening credits had rolled and a voiceover announced this presentation as a special, exclusive, two-hour Newsline ‘event’ live from CBC’s studios in Boston.
Katherine de Castro had made a mistake. In her dogged determination to win at least one victory over the dictatorial Caroline Croft, she had demanded that they introduce a studio audience into the mix – ‘so that Doctor Jeff’s loyal followers would see the broadcast as an open, honest presentation as was every production of his show’.
But now, as the excited spectators sat on the edge of their seats like a pack of predatory animals – animals who were squashed in edgewise, thanks to CBC running promos throughout the day saying a ‘special live broadcast’ needed a live studio audience that night – she realised that she had allowed her bruised ego to get the better of her. She had a bad feeling about this – and was praying that, for once, her instincts would be proven wrong.
‘We wish to welcome you tonight to a very special television event,’ Croft began. ‘There is no doubt each and every one of you has seen the recent headlines, read the latest internet blog, heard the TV and radio news and basically been bombarded with a great deal of conjecture and speculation regarding the events surrounding the death of Stephanie Tyler – the local Boston attorney who was killed in her Beacon Hill kitchen exactly one week ago tonight.’
Pause.
‘You are also no doubt aware that her husband, Doctor Jeffrey Logan, the respected television clinical psychologist who has dedicated his life to advising others on how to achieve healthy, respectful and loving relationships, originally confessed to accidentally shooting his wife in order to protect his fourteen-year-old son, J.T. Logan, who was eventually charged with his mother’s murder.
‘What you do not know,’ said Croft then, tilting her head just a little to the left, ‘what you have not been told, what has not been revealed until tonight are the facts behind this killing – the reason young J.T., at only fourteen, is about to face an adult jury in an adult court where, if found guilty, he will face the ultimate sentence of life without parole.’
Small shake of her head.
‘The Logans are a private family in the public arena. Both J.T. and his older sister, Chelsea, have been largely protected from the limelight by their father – and their mother who, fiercely private herself, chose never to become involved in her husband’s popular television career.
‘But while Jeffrey Logan encouraged his children’s anonymity in order to assure them a stable upbringing, his wife saw her role as “protector” in a completely different light. A light that we can finally reveal, involved the constant, incessant, daily ritual of unfathomable emotional abuse. An abuse we will explore in full detail as I am joined by Doctor Logan and others involved with the case.’
Others? thought de Castro. Others involved in the case? Croft must be referring to Professor Georgia Hinds, she reassured herself, thinking about the emotional abuse expert she had organised for tonight’s broadcast. Georgia Hinds was a Harvard-educated behavioural psychologist who had a PhD in emotional abuse and what she called ‘relationship extortion’ – an attractive and intelligent-looking strawberry blonde with a calm and studious demeanour.
‘But before we go on,’ said Croft, tossing her shoulder-length blonde hair over her left shoulder so that she might twist slightly in her cream armchair to face the special ‘guest’ beside her, ‘I would like to thank Doctor Jeff for inviting me to his television home this evening – a place where he has welcomed thousands before me in the spirit of consideration and hospitality. I would like to assure him that I understand the difficult circumstances under which he has agreed to speak with me here tonight and thank him for his bravery in coming forward.
‘Doctor,’ she said.
Logan nodded . . . and the entire audience was unable to hold back. It was the first time their dear Doctor Jeff had faced them since the tragedy, and their sympathy flowed in torrents. The applause was deafening as the spectators rose to their feet, prompting Katherine to take a breath. They love him, she told herself. Perhaps everything is going to be all right, after all.
‘I would also like to introduce the special guest sitting next to Doctor Jeff, emotional abuse expert Professor Georgia Hinds from Harvard University,’ she said, tilting her head back towards camera one to gesture at the conservatively dressed woman sitting adjacent to Logan on one of two ‘lesser’ chairs.
And then she rattled off Hinds’ impressive credentials, spoke a little further about the nature of the interview to follow, and assured her audiences that this event was unrehearsed (a lie, considering Jeffrey had seen most of her questions in advance), unscripted (a half truth, given Jeffrey had discussed some of his prospective responses with Croft so that she might ‘bounce off the genuineness of his distress’), and guaranteed to move and shock the millions of viewers watching this exclusive exposé tonight (and that one, Katherine knew, was right on the money).
Croft threw to the first three-and-a-half minute ad break, giving all a chance to take a breath – and Logan the opportunity to stand and strut around his own familiar set like a Goddamned peacock. And in that moment Katherine felt a distinct wave of nausea rise in her throat – at the sight of her partner’s confidence, at his ease with the whole fucking mess. And then, as if Croft had been reading her thoughts, Katherine saw her glance towards the posturing Logan before shifting her eyes to meet Katherine’s straight on, and then, of all things, offering her a smile.
‘Shit,’ said Joe as his cell phone rang in his hand – he had just fished it from his left-hand shirt pocket so that he might call David and expand their little gate-crashing party to three.
‘This is Mannix,’ he said then, manoeuvring the phone to his ear as his foot hit the brake for the umpteenth time – he and Frank were on Huntington, travelling east, the traffic leading up to the popular Copley Square now in a Friday night gridlock.
‘Chief,’ said the familiar voice of FBI Agent Susan Leigh. Susan was Frank’s old partner – an over-enthusiastic workaholic who traded her Boston PD shield for its FBI equivalent a little over a year ago.
‘Susan,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Pretty good. I put in my form for Boston today,’ she said, referring to what Joe knew was her application to be transferred to the FBI’s Boston Field Office – an office run by their mutual friend, Special Agent in Charge Leo ‘Simba’ King.
‘They getting sick of you down there in Virginia, Leigh?’
Susan laughed. ‘Well, my supervising agent says he cam
e down with a bad case of gluteus painous maximus the day that I arrived in Quantico.’
‘I’d be disappointed in you if you weren’t being a pain in somebody’s ass, Leigh . . . but listen, I hate to be rude, but me and Frank got something going on here.’
‘Okay sure, so I’ll be quick.’
Susan went on to explain that SAIC King had been trying to reach Joe all afternoon, but that Joe had failed to return his calls. And this was true, Joe had got a message that King had called late, but once again Joe had simply run out of time to call him back. The two were friends, so Joe assumed it was more of a social call than anything else, and he figured he would ring him back on Monday and set up a time for them to catch up.
‘Anyway,’ Susan continued, ‘since SAIC King had some bureau dinner to attend, I told him I would keep trying to reach you so that I could confirm the results on the voice mail and email analysis. As far as the voice comparison thing goes, the gang from Forensic Audio, Video and Image got you a one hundred per cent match – and our Computer Analysis and Response Team confirmed the exact laptop the emails came from, along with the username and password used to log in mere moments before the emails were sent. And those two bits of information put together well . . . let’s just say, as sad as it is, everything falls into place.’
Joe shifted in his seat. He had just hit another red light on Boylston, he had no idea what the hell Leigh was talking about, and something about this whole night was starting to piss him off.
‘Susan,’ he began, ‘I don’t know anything about any voice mail or computer analysis.’
Susan paused on the other end of the line. ‘But it came from the DA’s Office,’ she said after a beat. ‘And I assumed, given you and McKay are working the Logan case that . . .’
‘Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘Listen to me Susan, Carmichael’s playing “cut the cop out of the picture”. If someone gave her a recording of a voice mail, we know nothing about it. She must have got Simba to send an ERT to the house,’ he said, referring to the FBI’s Evidence Response Teams, ‘. . . and confiscate the computer so that it would be sent straight through to you guys in Quantico.’