by Sydney Bauer
‘What a bitch,’ said Susan, never one to hold back when it came to sharing her opinion of others. ‘What’s up her ass then, Chief?’
‘We’re not sure, but we’re on our way to find out if that’s any consolation.’
‘Well, she already has this info. SAIC King would have called it through to her sometime today. But if it makes any difference I can give you a jump on what she’s up to by reading you the conclusions on the two reports.’
Despite his predicament, Joe could not help but smile. ‘Fire away, Leigh,’ he said. ‘And I’ll put you on speaker so that Frank can hear you too,’ he added, pressing the speaker button on his cell.
‘What’s up, McKay?’ she said. ‘You still as crazy as all hell?’
‘He’s wearing a raincoat so he looks like Columbo,’ said Joe.
‘And you two might want to can it so you can fill me in,’ returned a grinning McKay.
‘Okay,’ said Susan. ‘And you better listen up, because if this stuff means what I think it does, this new evidence is gonna blow this case sky high.’
‘Joe,’ said David, staring at Sara from across the candle-lit dinner table. As soon as his cell rang he had intended to turn it off, but then he saw Joe’s number shining back at him on the miniature blue screen and Sara urged him to pick it up. ‘This better be good because I’m at L’Espalier having dinner with Sara.’
He had been feeling like a heel for days for allowing Jeffrey Logan to get under his skin – and worse still, for taking it out on Sara. In the end it was Nora who had set him straight – his serious-faced secretary waiting until Sara had gone out for coffees late that afternoon before bounding into his office and delivering him a good ten minutes of her acerbic Irish disapproval.
And she had been right; he’d been acting like an ass, which is why he’d made a reservation at one of the best restaurants in the city so that he might apologise and explain to Sara exactly why he’d been acting the way he had.
‘Well, I hope you’ve made it past your entrées because I need you at CBC studios in ten.’
‘What? Why?’ asked David as Sara mouthed ‘What’s happening?’ from across the table.
Joe filled him in – told him everything he knew about O’Donnell and Carmichael and Susan Leigh’s extraordinary analysis report, before backtracking to Starkey’s tip-off about Logan and his slickly dressed lawyer friend.
‘Jesus, Joe, what is going on here?’
‘I have no idea. There is a lot of shit to sift through, David. But as for our immediate priority, Frank thinks Logan and Carmichael are planning something on air – either separately or together.’
‘Caroline Croft has been after him,’ said David – and he could almost hear Joe ticking this over.
‘Which makes me all the more nervous,’ said Joe. ‘Especially since you’re the kid’s lawyer and Logan failed to give you a heads up. The guy is playing with us, David.’
‘I know,’ said David, relieved that Joe had a similar take on the situation. ‘That is what I have been trying to tell you, Joe. I don’t care what your gun nut from Maine told you, or what the mysterious Jason Nagle told Rigotti. I just know . . . in my gut . . . that this whole thing leads back to Jeffrey Logan, and that we just haven’t been able to work it out – at least, not yet.’
‘Take Sara home and get her to turn on the TV,’ Joe said after a few moments. ‘If Frank’s instincts are right, and if Carmichael is playing true to form, this thing is probably going to go live.’
‘And if Croft is involved they could already be on air. It’s just gone nine, Joe – which means Newsline has already started.’
Joe was silent again.
‘We’re moving,’ said David as he met Sara’s eye and she nodded, collecting her handbag and raising her hand at a passing waiter for the check. ‘I can be at the studio in fifteen. Just promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you let me have a go at him.’
‘Can’t do that, David.’
‘And why the hell not?’
‘Because I plan to get to him first.’
‘Abuse is any behaviour that is designed to control and subjugate another human being through the use of fear, humiliation, intimidation, guilt, coercion, manipulation and so forth,’ said Professor Hinds, her expression calm but serious. ‘And emotional abuse is any kind of abuse that is emotional rather than physical in nature. It can include anything from verbal abuse and constant criticism to more subtle tactics, such as repeated disapproval or even the refusal to ever be pleased.’
Croft nodded, urging the professor to go on.
‘It has often been described as a form of brainwashing in that it systematically wears away at the victim’s self-confidence, sense of self-worth, trust in their own perceptions, and self-concept. Whether it is done by constant berating and belittling, by intimidation, or under the guise of “guidance”, “teaching”, or “advice”, the results are similar. Eventually, the recipient of the abuse loses all sense of personal value as the mistreatment cuts to the very core of the person, creating scars that may be far deeper and more lasting than physical ones.’
‘And in fact, the research shows exactly that, doesn’t it, Professor?’ asked Croft, her blue eyes narrowing in curiosity. ‘That emotional abuse victims suffer the consequences of such cruelty for years.’
‘Yes,’ said Hinds with a nod, her pale green eyes glistening under the deep indigo lights. ‘With emotional abuse, the insults, insinuations, criticisms and accusations slowly eat away at the victim’s self-esteem until he or she is incapable of judging the situation realistically. The victim becomes so beaten down emotionally that they blame themselves for the abuse. In many cases the victim’s self-esteem is so low that they cling to the abuser.’
‘And while we often associate the dominating figure in a family to be the patriarch,’ Croft went on, ‘is it not also true that the number of female abusers is on the rise?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the professor. ‘I have seen numerous cases where the mother is the domineering force in the family. There have been cases where the woman, who may lack the ability to proffer physical domination, uses manipulation, verbal aggression and emotional blackmail to establish her authority.’
‘So a mother – or mother figure – might belittle, criticise and demean her fellow family members. She might deny their emotional needs, denigrate their feelings and use blame, sarcasm and humiliation to maintain her control.’
‘Exactly,’ said Hinds. ‘Of course it is all a matter of degrees, but in my professional experience, abuse from the mother figure can be even more damaging to the victim psychologically, given the societal stereotypes whereby children expect their mother to be loving, understanding, kind.’
Croft nodded again before casting a glance at her now mesmerised audience and turning to the man beside her.
‘Doctor Logan,’ she said, acknowledging the expression on Logan’s face – pained, but with just the right amount of concern and sympathy. ‘I know this is difficult, but perhaps you could tell us – is what Professor Hinds describes familiar? Does this emotional abuser prototype mirror the personality and behaviour of your late wife?’
Logan hesitated.
‘Yes,’ he said finally – his head downcast, his shoulders slumping but the determination in his voice suggesting he needed to get this out. ‘In fact, the professor’s description is spot on. Of course, I was aware of the habits of emotional abusers through my training – but somehow had difficulty, at least initially, recognising such abusive characteristics in a person I loved.
‘Stephanie was an incredibly bright woman who appeared outwardly hospitable to those she met but was secretly obsessed with maltreating those closest to her,’ he went on. ‘And I was remiss in not acting sooner, in not removing our children from her influence. But then,’ he paused, shaking his head, ‘all of this is easy to say in hindsight, as for a very long time my coping strategy was simply to act as a shield for
my children by doing everything I could not to rock the boat. A cowardly approach, I know, and one I will regret passionately, deeply for the rest of my life.’
‘Excuse me, Doctor,’ said Professor Hinds then. ‘But cowardly does not factor here and from my perspective you should be congratulated for offering yourself as a protective barrier between your wife and your children.’
With that they were up again – the entire audience, on their feet, clapping and cheering for the ‘heroic’ TV Good Samaritan before them. And Katherine felt an unexpected second wave of nausea – unsure as to why the adoration she had counted on for all of these years suddenly reeked with the stench of exploitation.
One ad break later, after Croft had spent a good ten minutes quizzing Logan on examples of his wife’s tyranny (during which Logan spoke of the rationing of food and unwavering daily schedules, the unrealistic academic expectations and monitoring of phone calls, the coveting of the children’s possessions and control of their limited social activities, and Stephanie’s general obsession with regulating every aspect of their lives), Croft finally got to show that all-important video.
Katherine could see the horror of it play across the spectators’ faces – the shock, the revulsion and finally the acceptance of it all. And she realised that she, along with Logan and Croft, had taken this case and set it on a course from which there was no return.
‘Doctor,’ said Croft, just as the video went to black, ‘I believe I can say, on behalf of everybody watching, that we had no idea what your family has had to deal with – how every day was a nightmare, every second spent in anticipation of what minefield you would have to negotiate next.
‘And I also believe that I speak for all concerned when I congratulate you on your ability to hold it all together, to function, to protect your children in a household run by fanaticism and intolerance and fear.’
Logan shook his head and lifted his hands at his audience – all of them on their feet by now – in a gesture which said: ‘I do not deserve your applause’. ‘I appreciate your sentiment – all of you. But in truth, it was I who was at fault, for I left it too long to ask for a divorce. And even when I did, I made matters significantly worse by doing so in an environment where my son was able to overhear.’
‘J.T. heard you ask your wife for a divorce?’
‘Yes, the night before she died.’
‘And you believe that his terror, his absolute panic at the prospect of being left in the sole custody of your wife was the trigger that led him to . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Logan, as if he did not wish Croft to voice it.
Croft nodded. ‘A natural assumption to make, Doctor,’ she said. ‘But, as I think we will all soon agree, one which is totally unfair to yourself.’
Katherine felt an icy sliver of concern slip quickly down her spine.
Croft then gave another knowing nod and looked towards the camera, as a producer in headphones lifted his hands to count her down into another break. And just as the Newlines theme music rose to swallow the audio, she promised viewers another explosive, exclusive surprise guest – immediately after the break.
‘O’Donnell,’ said Joe as he strode across the studio car park towards the side entrance O’Donnell had directed them to. ‘What gives?’
‘Hey, Lieutenant,’ said the grey-haired cop, moving slightly to the side so as not to be overheard by the four uniforms marking time near a now darkened loading bay filled with lighting equipment, audio wires and props. ‘I have no fucking idea to be honest. Carmichael called a minute ago, says she is on her way. She told us to sit tight and not to make a move until she got here and gave us our instructions,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘What’s going on in there?’ asked McKay, pointing to the far right-hand corner of the room – at the red studio ‘on’ light, now blinking brightly in the semi-darkness.
‘It’s the Doctor Jeff set – and they’re filming,’ said O’Donnell. ‘According to one guy we saw passing, they let a studio audience in about an hour ago. He said nothing had been scheduled for tonight but that he heard the rumour the show was going live. He also said when the light is on that the door is locked. Which it is – I checked.’
‘Shit,’ said Joe. ‘We need to get to a TV.’ It was ironic, he thought, that they had been on the road for close to an hour trying to find out what the hell was going on – but everyone else in this fine fucking country was getting a live-to-air preview into the ‘case’ that he had been ceremoniously ‘bumped’ from by a media-obsessed ADA. It was even more ironic that they were in a television studio and could not find a single Goddamned television – until Joe forced the door to an office next to the main entrance of the loading bay and found a small-screen Sony sitting on top of the filing cabinet against the far back wall.
‘Frank,’ he yelled as he tried to get a signal on the fuzzy set. ‘I need you to ring Cavanaugh and see how far away he is.’
Just as Frank dialled David’s cell once more, a car sped up to the side entrance of the loading bay carrying a tall, slender blonde wearing a pair of designer glasses and an impeccably cut suit.
In that moment the red blinking light above the studio door caught his eye again and Joe could have sworn he heard a loud voice inside say ‘three minutes everybody’, just as Carmichael came striding in the door.
‘Jesus, Caroline,’ said Katherine de Castro. ‘What the hell is going on?’ Katherine knew she only had a few minutes before they were back on the air, and she was determined to find out what the manipulative interviewer was up to.
‘Who is this mystery guest?’ she asked. ‘And why the hell haven’t I been told about it? Jeffrey,’ Katherine turned to her partner, ‘did you know about this – because if you did you owe me an explanation?’
Katherine met his dark brown eyes, his face wearing that ‘I am doing the best that I can’ expression he had used so effectively of late.
‘Look, Katherine,’ he said. ‘This is difficult for us both – we are not used to having to transfer the control of our show to another, but we all agreed in this instance that the shift was best for J.T.’
‘You mean, you know what this is all about and you haven’t . . .’
‘Caroline had an idea and I supported it,’ he said, an edge of intolerance creeping into his voice. ‘Trust me,’ he said, reading the shock on her face. ‘This is not going to be a problem, Katherine. Everything is going to be okay.’
‘Shit,’ said Carmichael as soon as she saw Joe. ‘What in the hell are you doing here, Mannix?’
‘This is our case, Carmichael,’ he said loudly as he moved towards her. He wanted to humiliate her in front of the uniforms, and everyone else within earshot.
‘Wrong, Lieutenant,’ she said, pushing past him and heading directly towards O’Donnell. ‘Sergeant O’Donnell here is quite capable of handling an arrest and considering you and your Keystone Cop partner here have managed to fuck this case up from the get-go, I suggest you step back and cut your losses.’
‘We haven’t needed to fuck anything up, Carmichael. You seem to have been doing a pretty fine job of that all on your own. I mean, what the hell are you going to do now – arrest the whole Goddamned family until you can make a murder charge stick?’
Carmichael stopped in her tracks, before swivelling on her toes and striding back towards Mannix with determination, stopping mere inches from his face, her long neck stretched up so that she might meet him eye to eye.
‘All right, Lieutenant. Feel free to stick around. For you might even learn something about the art of competent criminal investigation. Have you been calling your friend, Mannix?’ she asked.
But there was no need for him to answer, for at that moment Joe saw a familiar Toyota LandCruiser screech into the car park behind them.
‘Jesus,’ said Carmichael, reading Joe’s expression before following his eyes to the loading dock behind her. ‘You people are truly pathetic. Not that it matters,’ she added. ‘Because nothing, not even your
glorified hero of a friend, has a chance of successfully defending this one.’
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ It was the question of the night. David came running around the loading bay doors aiming his query directly at Carmichael, the attractive ADA now placing herself physically in front of him, her hands on her hips, right hand extended as if ordering him to stop.
‘None of your business, Cavanaugh,’ she said.
‘It certainly is my business if it has anything to do with the Logan case,’ said David, taking a step forward.
‘Wrong again, Cavanaugh. You only represent the kid.’
But David would hear none of it, for he was already moving past her, nodding at Joe before he headed directly towards the studio door.
‘You can’t go in there,’ said a young studio hand with earphones, pointing a set of keys at the solid red light indicating the broadcast was now live to air.
But David ignored him completely, nudging the kid aside before snatching his keys, unlocking the door and grabbing at the thick stainless steel handle before yanking at the heavy soundproof door and moving into the studio beyond.
‘Welcome back,’ said Croft, calm, composed but with a new level of intensity in her expression.
‘A moment ago I spoke of another guest on our program this evening, a guest who I believe can cast even more light on the goings-on in the Logan family household – and indeed, on the events leading up to Stephanie Tyler’s death.
‘I would like you all to welcome . . .’ she said, as David, Joe and Frank, and behind them a determined Amanda Carmichael and an entourage of police entered the studio and adjusted their eyes to the lighting, ‘. . . Chelsea Logan.’
‘Jesus,’ whispered David to Joe, who had immediately followed him into the studio. ‘I think he’s about to fuck over his other kid, Joe. The bastard is going for broke.’
Chelsea Logan appeared the vision of innocence, wearing a pretty white dress with a perfectly cut jacket over the top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her face free of make-up as she walked towards the stage and Professor Hinds moved to a fourth chair, allowing Chelsea to sit next to her father. Logan embraced her, a perfunctory, awkward gesture which Chelsea appeared reluctant to return. She took her seat, her blue eyes wide, her body language anxious, her short nervous breaths causing her shoulders to rise and fall in double time.