by A. C. Fuller
After twenty minutes, Alex got up and did fifty pushups.
Camila rolled over on her elbows to watch him. “Why do you do that?” she asked, laughing.
“Clears my mind. You know, you might try moving your body at some point. It’s that thing just below your head.” He smiled at her. “Hey, can you go back to James’s desk, watch the video again, and find out exactly how long Santiago stood and stared at Martin?”
“The details, huh?”
“Yup.”
* * *
Alex finished writing at 2 a.m. He printed two copies of the story, folded one and put it in his pocket, and put the other in a folder with a sticky note.
Colonel-
I’ll call around for police and attorney denials after 8. Do we have any partnerships with TV stations we can leak the video to? —AV
He put the folder on Baxton’s desk, then led Camila to a ragged couch in the corner of the newsroom. “You can have it,” he said. She lay down on the worn upholstery and Alex lay on the carpet.
“You write well, and quickly,” she said, yawning.
His whole body was tired and he felt it melt into the floor as he stretched his legs. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me.”
Camila yawned again and rolled over, burying her head in the cushions. “Unless we count when I said you’re not an asshole.”
“Yeah, unless we count that. Good night.”
After a minute, Alex said, “Camila, what do you think my boss will do with my story? Camila?”
She was already asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ALEX WOKE WITH A START to find Baxton hovering over him.
“I didn’t know you existed before 0800,” Baxton said.
“Colonel? What time is it?”
“Five.”
Alex rubbed his eyes as he stood up. “Check your desk.”
“Who’s that?” Baxton pointed at Camila, asleep on the couch.
“Camila Gray, ex-girlfriend of Professor Martin. She helped me track down the video.”
“The video? You have it?”
“Check your desk.”
“Okay, my office in ten.”
* * *
Alex watched Baxton through the large window that looked into his office from the newsroom. As Baxton read his story, Alex pulled the copy from his pocket and read it again.
A video recording exists that casts doubt on the series of events that led to the death of NYU Professor John Martin on New Year’s Eve, 2001.
According to police statements and opening arguments in the trial, Eric Santiago—the NYU student accused of murdering Martin—administered a lethal dose of the opiate fentanyl in Washington Square Park at around 1 a.m. on January 1, 2002.
But the video, which was obtained by The Standard from a confidential source, shows a different version of the events of that night. In the video, Santiago enters the park from the east as Martin stands under the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, where police found his body at 2 a.m. For one minute and 21 seconds, Santiago can be seen staring at Martin, but it is clear that the two never came into contact.
The video does not show any other figures and does not give any indication as to the cause of Martin’s death. It does, however, call into question police and prosecutor statements regarding Martin’s death.
[B-Matter]
[Police denial or no comment]
[Attorney’s denial or no comment]
Santiago is currently being tried in the Manhattan Criminal Court and has maintained his innocence since his arrest last January.
Alex took a few steps toward Baxton’s office, but stopped when he saw Baxton pick up the phone. A knot formed in his stomach as he watched him speak, then listen. Baxton hung up and straightened papers on his desk, then waved Alex into his office.
“Helluva piece of work.” He held up Alex’s story. “But we can’t run it.”
“Why not?” Alex asked. The knot in his stomach tightened.
“You know how the Santiago case has gripped the city. Biggest story since 9/11. If we’re gonna blow it up now, we need something more than a video, which we don’t even know is authentic.”
“It’s authentic, Colonel. Watch it yourself.”
“It’s not enough.”
“What if I write about the source? I can write about how Downton got the video. I can find the two cops who gave him the recorder. I can talk to Santiago.”
“That could take weeks, and it still might not be enough. You’ve got daily reports due on the trial and I can’t have you running around the city on this. Alex, your desire to get yourself on TV is clouding your judgment.”
Alex looked at the phone on Baxton’s desk. “You know, Colonel, I’m starting to feel like Josef K. here. Can’t you tell me what’s really going on?”
“Who’s that?”
Alex pointed at the phone. “Who did you call earlier?”
Baxton stood up. “Alex, I know we’re informal around here, but spying on me during calls crosses a line. What I need from you is a story a day on the Santiago trial. Can you handle that?”
“Colonel, if we don’t run this, someone else is going to get the story.”
“Not without the video. It’s property of The Standard and we need it to stay here.”
“We?”
“I need it to stay here,” Baxton said.
Alex raised his voice. “Please tell me you’re at least going to give a copy to the police. At the very least, it complicates the trial.” He was surprised by his own anger. “Santiago may be innocent.”
“I’ll watch the video and look into the matter,” Baxton said loudly. “Where is it?”
“But I received it—”
“On company time. Your notebooks and stories—everything is the property of The Standard. Have you made any copies of it?” Baxton looked over Alex’s shoulder. Alex turned and saw that a handful of staff members were listening to their argument.
“Shut the door,” Baxton said.
Alex shut the door and turned to Baxton, who was sitting down. “Colonel,” he said, “If Santiago is innocent, that has to mean more than anything else.”
“Look, Alex. This will blow over. You’ll see.” His tone was final.
Alex felt his chest fold in on itself. “Just tell me one thing. When you said that a witness had seen a large black man fleeing the scene after Demarcus was killed, were you lying or had the police lied to you?”
Baxton adjusted pencils in a coffee mug. “Did you make any copies of the video?”
Alex dropped his head and turned to leave. “No. No copies,” he said weakly. “I’ll keep working the daily Santiago developments. James has the video. He hasn’t seen it.” He walked out without saying good-bye. He saw Camila from across the room and waved her toward the elevator.
* * *
Alex gave the driver his address, then stared out the window as the taxi drove north along Broadway.
Camila watched him. “What did your boss say?” she asked. “Alex, talk to me.”
“I’m such a coward.”
“What? Why?”
“The video. I barely even put up a fight.”
She put a hand on his knee. “You had no choice. It’s The Standard’s property if you got it while reporting for them.”
“That doesn’t help. The only piece of evidence that could get Santiago off and I barely put up a fight.”
The taxi turned onto Eighth Avenue. Alex stared at passing shops and restaurants, cursing himself in his mind. His cell phone broke the silence as they rounded Columbus Circle. He looked down at the caller ID and froze.
“It’s the guy again.” Alex flipped open his phone and tapped the speakerphone button. “Hello?” He braced himself in anticipation of the voice.
“Martin is the end, not the beginning. Go back in time.”
The voice echoed in the taxi and Alex slid the plastic divider so the driver couldn’t hear. He looked at Camila and raised an eyebrow
. She shrugged.
“Okay,” Alex said, “I know you’re going out on a limb here, but can you be more specific? Two people are dead and an innocent man is about to go to prison for the rest of his life. Is there any way we can meet?”
“We might meet at some point, but not yet.”
“Are you an officer?” Alex asked.
“I won’t answer that.”
“A lawyer? A witness?”
“I won’t answer that.”
Alex looked at Camila, who just stared at the phone. The voice said, “You must find out why Professor Martin was killed. You must go back in time.”
“How do I do that?” Alex asked.
“You said two people are dead, right?”
“Yes.”
“There are three.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ALEX STOOD AT THE DOOR to his apartment and turned the key. “Something’s not right,” he said. “I usually have to jiggle the key after a quarter turn, but this time it moved easily.” He swung the door open. “What the hell?”
Clothes, books, and papers littered the bed and floor. His dresser drawers and closet door were open.
“Didn’t take you for a slob,” Camila said as they walked in. “Not with the way you take care of your body.”
“This isn’t me,” Alex said, scanning the room. “Someone’s been here. The lock. Someone picked it.”
Alex threw his bag on the bed and crossed the room with two large steps. He shuffled through papers scattered over his desk. “They took some of my notebooks. At least I had my laptop and the Downton tapes in my bag.”
“They? Who?”
Alex grabbed the wooden pole from the closet, letting the blue cloth drop to the floor. “How the hell would I know? Can we go to your place?”
“Why the pole?” Camila asked.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
They each held their breath as Camila opened the door and peered into her apartment. “Everything seems to be in order,” she said.
Alex followed her in and leaned the pole against the couch as he sat. “What do I do now?” he asked. “At this point, I don’t know who to be more afraid of—the guy who killed Downton or my newspaper.”
“Your boss might be more pathetic than sinister,” Camila said. “He may just be getting word that the story shouldn’t be pursued. Doesn’t mean he knows what’s really going on.”
“But I was wrong about him.”
Camila walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
“I don’t like being confused,” Alex called after her.
Camila returned and sat next to him. She handed him a coconut water. “Yes, I can see that about you.” Alex studied the bottle’s label. “Just drink it,” Camila said.
Alex took a small sip. “I could go to the police and tell them everything. Tell them to get the video from the paper. They’d probably put me in some sort of witness protection program.”
“You’re not going to the police. First of all, the paper wouldn’t have to give them the video. The police could subpoena it as part of the trial, but the paper would withhold it since it’s confidential source material. The cops would get it eventually, but it could take weeks or even months.”
Alex looked at the woodblock print of the woman struggling against the rain. It made him uncomfortable so he got up and walked to the window. “What do I do?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, but do you want to know one of the things I do when I don’t know what to do?”
“Flip a coin?”
“Other than that. You want to know?”
“Not really, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I don’t do anything. I literally sit still and don’t do anything.”
She got up, took his hand, and led him back to the couch. He sat and she pushed his shoulders down gently and straightened them. “Sit up straight. Feet on the floor. Uncross your legs. Take a few deep breaths. Good. Now close your eyes and just sit still for a few minutes.”
Alex complied for a few seconds, then asked, “But what should I do?”
“Be still. That’s all.”
He opened his eyes. “Look, I’m freaking out here.”
“Just try it.”
Alex closed his eyes again and sighed.
“Just be confused for a while,” he heard her say. “Feel your feet on the floor.”
Alex felt his feet on the floor. After a minute, he became aware of a stream of images passing through him. Downton leaning over his coffee. The jungle fowl tattoo on his neck. Baxton, holding the phone. Greta in the bar the night Downton started following him—her long black hair and toned arms. Then he heard the voice, metallic and strange. There are three. Martin’s hat hitting the ground. An imagined memory of Downton playing basketball with his father. He felt a pang of sadness but quickly dismissed it. There are three. The look on Santiago’s face as he walked away from Martin. Why the smile? Was he in on it? What a sick bastard. Then Camila, walking in the park. Her image blurred with one of his mother, standing in the park the day before his graduation. Then the smell coming through his apartment window after 9/11, sour and dusty. What was in that smell? Then back in the park with Camila. Baxton again. The voice: There are three.
A name appeared in his mind. Denver Bice. Baxton works for Denver Bice.
“Alex?”
He opened his eyes. His forehead hurt and he had forgotten about Camila.
“Alex, what’s going on in your head?”
“How long was I sitting there?”
“Three minutes.”
“What?”
“I know. The mind can do a lot in three minutes, huh?”
“I’ve had enough of this.” He stood and walked back to the window. “Remember when you said that Martin kept everything? Where did his stuff end up?”
Camila crossed her legs on the couch. “Most of his records are with his daughter upstate, but I have a few cartons of papers from the last year or so.”
“Good. The source said to look into why Martin was killed, so maybe there will be something there.”
“Maybe, but—”
“And remember when you mentioned Martin’s interaction with Denver Bice at the funeral?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you had that hunch, and now I have my boss, who works for Bice, stonewalling me, and—”
There was a quiet tap on the door. Alex swung around on his heels.
“Don’t worry,” Camila said. “That’s Charlie from across the hall. I heard his door shut.”
Camila opened the door and a tall, brawny man of about fifty walked in.
“Hello! It’s just me, your friendly ‘gaybor.’” He was neatly dressed in black and wore thick black glasses and a tidy beard. He leaned forward and hugged Camila. “Can I borrow some sugar, sugar? I’m having the girls over for drinks and need to make some simple syrup.” He looked at Alex on the couch. “Mmm . . . Who is this young man?”
Camila led Charlie to the couch. “This is Alex Vane,” she said. “He works at The Standard.”
“Are you going full-on cougar?” Charlie asked.
Alex looked at the floor.
“No, it’s not that kind of thing,” Camila said, walking to the kitchen. “We’re working on something together. He’s covering the Santiago trial. You know, John’s case.”
“Oh yeah. Well, I’m glad to see him here. I was a little worried when I saw the guy coming out of your place earlier. I thought ‘Ooohhh, she’s slumin.’“
Camila walked into the living room. She stared at Charlie blankly. “What guy?”
“Your uncle,” Charlie said. “The guy who stayed with you last night.”
Alex walked over and took Camila’s hand.
Camila said, “Seriously, Charlie, what guy?”
“The little guy. Said he was your uncle visiting from Europe. Left early this morning. He said he was staying with you.”
Alex shot glances around the room. Ca
mila’s mouth dropped open. “How little was he?” she managed.
“Tiny. Weird accent, too. You mean that’s not your uncle?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“I LEFT MY POLE,” Alex said. They had bounded down the stairs of Camila’s building and hailed a taxi headed west on 98th.
“What’s the deal with that pole?” Camila asked.
“My dad took it from the gym near our house when it shut down. He brought it from home and gave it to me the day I graduated NYU. The next day, they died.”
“How?”
Alex looked out the window and closed his eyes. Camila put a hand on his knee.
They rode in silence, north on the West Side Highway. “We have to go to the cops,” Alex said at last. “I know some are corrupt, and some are inept. But most aren’t. And we don’t have any other options.”
“Right now, I feel safer in the back of a moving taxi than I would in a police station,” Camila said, staring out the window.
Alex took her shoulders in his hands and turned her toward him. “We have to go to the cops.”
“What do we do then?” Camila asked.
“Well, we—”
She put her hand over his mouth. “We tell them that, A, there’s a video that may or may not prove Santiago innocent and that, B, the guy who made the video is dead, and that, C, my neighbor saw a guy come out of my apartment who looks a lot like a guy who may or may not have killed the guy who made the video that may or may not clear a kid who everyone believes is a twisted killer? Is that what you want to tell them?”
Alex pushed her hand away. “But they don’t know Demarcus was killed right after contacting me about the video. They could use that to tie his murder to Martin. There could be a million little threads to the Martin investigation that never got reported.”
“And you think if you tell them they’ll drop all charges against Santiago and put the full weight of the department behind figuring out what really happened? That would humiliate the department, embarrass the press that ran with the story, and piss off millions of New Yorkers. If you think that’s what the cops would do, then you’re even naïver than I thought.”