The 3rd Woman

by Jonathan Freedland

  So he had kept it in, Leo noted. That reference to those who had once been rivals. Was that just force of habit, a line from the pre-canned stump speech that just came out automatically? Or a deliberate show of defiance, sticking to his message of amity between Americans and their new Chinese neighbours despite the bomb Madison Webb had dropped this morning? Maybe he wanted to show he was not to be diverted, that he was a man of principle. But it was high risk. More likely, the mayor had simply not had time to absorb what he had heard from Ross and adapt accordingly.

  Then it was time for questions. The permatan acted as moderator, picking out hands, naming those who were his friends. Two questions in and it came, a bald-headed guy who introduced himself as a ‘Californian and a father’, asking about the Webb story. He referred to ‘reports on Weibo that a serial killer is on the loose and he’s from the garrison’.

  Luckily, that wording allowed Berger to duck the question entirely.

  ‘Well, thank you for that question. I think I speak for everyone here when I say that our hearts go out to the Webb family on the terrible loss they suffered this week. I know that I am not the only Californian who has them in my prayers.’ He made the slightest, almost imperceptible dip of his head, a nod towards reverence. ‘Sadly, given my position, it would be irresponsible for me to comment on an ongoing police investigation. But of course we need to get to the bottom of what happened here. For the family’s sake. For California’s sake. We need to know the truth. But it won’t surprise any of you to hear me say,’ slight pause, ‘I believe in letting the police do their job.’ The voice rose for that final clause, bringing a small surge of applause. Berger glanced towards the moderator as if to say, Next question.

  He was more effusive on everything else: jobs, education, whether Californian farmers had a moral obligation to ensure their produce went first to the domestic market, rather than being sold for more lucrative export to China. ‘I know they’re paying top dollar, I get that,’ the questioner said, conceding that pollution, excessive use of pesticides and soil contamination had made the Chinese super-rich distrustful of their own homegrown food and understandably keen to buy in high-quality fruit and vegetables from north America. ‘But I want more children to be able to taste oranges from the San Joaquin Valley or strawberries from Oxnard. American children, I mean.’

  Berger was about to answer when a voice from another table called out, unbidden. ‘And our land, too. There should be more restrictions on selling off our farmland. Pretty soon we won’t have any left.’ Leo noted the nodding heads around the room.

  The mayor had handled it all fluently and deftly avoided making any unscheduled news. As he watched the room empty and the donors file out, the richest among them receiving another mega-watt smile from Berger, Leo considered that it had been a successful morning’s work. The answer on the Webb case was sufficiently bland to have neutralized the issue for now. It wouldn’t have worked at a press conference and he’d have to say more next time he was confronted by a journalist rather than pliant members of the public. But it would buy them an hour or two.

  He had begun to say as much, as he and the candidate were led back to the holding room where there would be a couple of final hands to shake. It was shameless, but it worked on most politicians: flattery and reassurance to smooth and soothe. He needed to pre-empt the attack that was surely coming: Now I’m accused of letting some Chinese psycho stalk the city killing our women!

  But Berger interrupted him.

  ‘You spoken to your friend yet, Leo? The sister?’

  ‘Not this morning, no.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s in a bad way. Hacking into the Times system, Goldstein hanging her out to dry like that. Christ, that woman can be vicious. She reminds me of my first wife. Do you think it’s a menopause thing? You know, the compassion gland shrivelling up, along with the ovaries?’

  Here we go, thought Leo. The mayor – whose public, pro-feminist stance on the issues had won him a one hundred per cent rating from the National Organization for Women – often defaulted to crude misogyny when under pressure. If anyone ever recorded or, worse, filmed even one of these outbursts, Berger’s career would be over in an instant. Leo had thought of doing it himself, as an insurance policy. But this time he said simply, ‘That’s disgusting, Mr Mayor.’

  ‘So you haven’t spoken to Madison. Do you think there’s something we can do?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Perhaps we can help somehow. She could probably use some help right now.’

  Leo hesitated, scanning his boss’s eyes for a clue.

  ‘Does she need some help grieving, do you think? Is that something you could help her with? Maybe she’s pursuing this whole investigation thing as a way of avoiding dealing with that. Look, I’m no expert but this cannot be healthy for her. I think it would be really good if she stopped all this poking around. Really good. Why don’t you see what we can do for her, Leo? Helping people, Leo. That’s what I’m all about.’ And he gave his best and brightest politician smile.

  Chapter 27

  Black-and-white, exterior shots of a chicken-wire fence, the camera panning across to find a padlocked gate. Gloomy, baleful music in a minor key. Cut to an image of a damaged road surface, pitted and potholed. Cut to a rundown street, smudged by rain, flashing red lights out of focus; in the foreground a stretch of police incident tape.

  Then the voice, deep, gravelly and reliable.

  ‘You hoped for better. But our factories are shuttered and our towns are falling apart. You know we can do better. But not with a political insider, a man who doesn’t want to beat our enemies but to show them the white flag.’

  Over those last words, the screen fills up with a grainy, too-close picture of Richard Berger addressing a rally, his hand chopping the air, his face caught in what looks like a dictator’s grimace. An edited recording of his voice, played as if through an old, crackling radio says: We should join with those we used to call our rivals. There is an echo on the voice, as if the radio is playing in an old, abandoned warehouse.

  The baritone voice continues. ‘This weakness has gone too far. Now there are reports of a Chinese serial killer running rampant – and it’s happening on Dick Berger’s watch.’

  The music builds to a climax now, the voice growing more intense:

  ‘We’re sick of being second best. It’s time to end the decline. It’s time to take back America.’

  And then, on screen for less than a second, the ad’s first appearance of colour. An image of a woman in a red suit, smiling into the middle distance, a powerful shepherd ready to lead her people out of the wilderness.

  I’m Elena Sigurdsson and I approved this message.

  Chapter 28

  Maddy had half-thought about telling Katharine about this rendezvous, just in case. In case of what, she could not answer. Obviously, Howard Burke posed no physical threat to her. He was tired, overworked and unfit, a man who panted after two flights of stairs. But he had also turned up at her home unannounced just after daybreak, a move so unprecedented, so out of tune with Times custom, that she now believed anything was possible. Merely writing the story had prompted a dawn house call from Howard. God alone knew how he would respond to her disobeying his direct instructions and publishing the piece anyway.

  So Maddy had responded warily to the bombardment of calls from Howard, screening the first three. She had tried calling Jeff Howe, but was repeatedly answered by his voicemail. For a man who normally leapt on a call from her in a single ring, she could only conclude he was now wary of any association with her. It was hardly surprising: she had gone so far off the reservation, she was now toxic.

  To be certain, she resorted to the technique tried and tested by everyone from undercover reporters to spurned lovers: she left it for ten minutes, then called him from a landline whose number would show up as ‘Unknown’. If he really were avoiding her, rather than all calls in general, he would pick up. Which he did.

  ‘Ho
we.’

  ‘Hi Jeff. It’s Madison.’

  His voice fell to a whisper. ‘I can’t talk to you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they think I’m the source of your story. They’ve suspended me. I’m on traffic duty.’

  ‘Jesus. But you weren’t the source on—’

  ‘I know that. But what does it look like?’

  ‘That means I must have got it right.’

  ‘I can’t do this, Madison. I’m sorry. I can’t afford to get fired.’

  ‘Just tell me, does it mean my story was right?’

  ‘Madison.’

  ‘Just one word, Jeff. Yes or no. Am I right?’

  ‘Please, Madison.’

  ‘OK, don’t say anything. But if I’m right, stay on the line. If my story’s plain wrong, there’s no connection between my sister and those other deaths, hang up right now. OK?’

  She waited, listening intently to the dead air between them. There was no click. She let the seconds pass, counting in her head. Eight, nine, ten. At last she broke the silence. ‘Thanks, Jeff. I appreciate it. And you didn’t say anything. Not a word.’

  ‘Bye, Madison.’

  Soon after that, there had come the fourth attempted call from Howard Burke. Heartened by what she had just heard – or not heard – from Jeff Howe, she picked up and agreed to meet. But before heading out, she dipped into Weibo and other forums, taking in the reaction to her story. She had thrown a stone in the pool and had sat fascinated, watching the ripples spread further and further outward.

  The first weibs were simply passing on the story, linking to it with minimal comment. A ‘Whoa’ or ‘Jeez’ or ‘Big’. That was followed by a sudden surge of people noticing that the story had been taken down, providing the link that led nowhere, only to an LA Times error message. Then a wave of media-related commentary, short weibs denouncing the Times for lacking balls and praising Maddy for ‘having a pair’. Most, she noticed, were wary of discussing the actual substance of what she had written. For all their bravado, she thought, they were as twitchy around this subject as Howard and the paper.

  But once the mirrored version of her story was up, a few voices and then a few more began to express their outrage. They demanded action from the LAPD, from the mayor, from the president. Several pointed out that there was nothing the US authorities could do. Get it into your heads, numbskulls. That place is off limits. Ever since the Treaty, we can’t set a foot in there. Others, usually those whose accounts were under pseudonyms, vented what Maddy suspected was long pent-up suspicion of the Chinese garrison. It’s about time that place was opened up to proper oversight. What the hell goes on in there?

  Those were the coherent ones. There was also plenty of garbage, some of it plain racism. The yello man wants white woman, drugging her and fucking her. Get them out!! Several dwelled on the supposed sexual inadequacy, and physical proportions, of Asian men. The weibs were piling up, dozens turning into hundreds and, as the hours passed, thousands. And that’s just counting the ones that mentioned her.

  She called Katharine, the tone instantly confirming Maddy’s fears. ‘Oh, hi.’ And then, ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s been quite a thing. I didn’t realize—’

  ‘What? What didn’t you realize, Maddy? That there are a fuck of a lot of people in this country who really hate Chinese people?’

  ‘No, I mean, I didn’t realize that the—’

  ‘Look, Maddy. We all loved Abigail, you know that. And I will do whatever I can to help you. But I don’t know what you’re doing right now. I really don’t. You can’t just make wild accusations like that. You just can’t.’ Her voice was wobbling. ‘It has an impact. What you say, what you write. It affects people.’ And Katharine had hung up. Not so much in anger, but saving herself from breaking down completely. Or that’s what Maddy told herself, at any rate.

  So she didn’t get to tell her friend about her planned meeting with Burke, right here in the café around the corner from the office – the same one where Katharine had hacked her way into CleanBreak’s system. She didn’t get a chance to explain that she had agreed to meet her boss chiefly because she didn’t quite know how to refuse, not without risking him reappearing at her door at some creepy hour. And because she was curious to see how exactly he fired her, and whether he would admit the real reason or whether he would maintain the charade that news outfits like the LA Times could say whatever they want and offend whoever they want.

  He was already there when she arrived, at a table, latte in front of him. Surprising: she had expected him to keep her waiting, make a statement.

  He brought her a coffee and launched straight in. ‘Madison, Jane and I have been talking. About what happened. And about you.’

  ‘Howard, don’t do the concerned, sincere shit. Really. It just comes over as simpering. I prefer you when you’re punching holes in the wall.’

  His face fell. She did not soften. ‘Come on, Howard. Spit it out. Let’s not make it any more painful than it has to be.’

  ‘All right, Madison. All right. So here’s the thing. I haven’t yet run it by Jane, but I wanted to sound you out first. This is my plan.’

  Maddy stiffened, her muscles growing rigid in preparation.

  ‘As you know, the Chinese president is making his farewell state visit here next week. He’ll be in DC from Tuesday.’

  ‘I know.’ She could feel herself frowning.

  ‘So what I thought was, if you’re so determined to keep on working, even though I think – we all think – you need to be taking time off to grieve, but if you’re not going to stop, well, this could be a really good opportunity.’

  Maddy stared at him, attempting to process what she had just heard. Burke apparently took her confusion to be indifference, because he moved into persuasion mode.

  ‘This is a step up, Madison. Covering politics. It’s going to be a big story. You can write a long thinkpiece. You know, Is the special relationship with China still special? Does America punch above its weight in the world? Or colour: What gifts will their president give our president?’

  ‘Not a boxed set.’

  ‘Exactly! You’ve got it. All that stuff. Besides, it’ll be a chance to get away from all the, you know, unhappiness here.’

  Maddy took a sip of coffee. ‘That’s really sweet of you, Howard. It really is. Very sweet.’

  ‘Good. So that’s arranged. I’ll get Maria to book the—’

  ‘No, I mean it’s sweet of you to think I’d fall for that.’

  ‘What? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘The obvious thing to do is fire me. That’s what I deserve. But then it becomes a censorship story. Which is actually even worse for the Chinese. “PLA gags journalist.” Everyone starts saying she must have hit a nerve, no smoke without fire. No way they’d want that, especially on the eve of a presidential visit. So do the opposite. Make a big show of how great and independent the LA Times is: “See, we didn’t gag her, we gave her this plum assignment.” The Times looks strong, but the garrison, the PLA, they get to look cool and tolerant. And I’m out of the way. Win, win, win. Can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t see through that, Howard. I’m even a little bit offended.’

  He paled.

  ‘I’d have more respect for you if you just gave me the sack. You’d be right to do it. What I did was completely unacceptable, against all editorial standards. But this isn’t about journalism any more. If my story is right, this is way bigger than that. Way bigger.’

  She stood up. ‘But you know that. That’s why you took the story down so fast.’

  He began an effort at defence, ‘I made that decision because you had acted in an unauthorized …’ But he couldn’t keep it up. He stayed in his chair, avoiding her eye.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee, Howard.’

  As she walked out, her phone was buzzing. Caller unknown. She watched it ring, then ring again. She had been screening all calls since Abigail’s d
eath and there had not been many: most preferred the less intrusive text or Weibo. But once she had posted the story that morning, it had become a bombardment. It had begun, curiously, with media-watching blogs, hunting for crumbs of Times gossip, fascinated by the newsroom intrigue that surely explained why a story that went up could come down again within a few minutes. Then came the LA news channels wanting her to come on and talk about ‘the garrison killer’. In the last hour or so, the texts and emails had started arriving from national media outlets based in New York and DC. She had also had calls from a radio station in London and a news organization in Moscow. She had ignored all of them.

  The phone was still buzzing. On a whim, with no logic she could explain, she pressed the green button.

  ‘Maddy, it’s me.’ Leo.

  ‘Hi, Leo.’ Her voice sounded remote, even to her.

  ‘I need to see you. Right away.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me on your cell? Why does it say “unknown”?’

  ‘Please. I’m at UCLA for the debate. Meet me here.’

  ‘What’s this about, Leo? I can’t just drop everything, I have things I need to—’

  ‘I have something you should see.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’ve got the classified police report into the murder of Rosario Padilla.’

  Chapter 29

  Thanks, Dana. ‘A thousand points of light,’ they’re calling it and you can see why. A vast crowd assembled here, each person clutching a candle, forming a kind of sparkling mass, steadily filling up this park. And they’re still coming as we speak. We’re told organizers did not anticipate anything like these numbers for this rally. The turnout has, according to one of those involved, speaking to me earlier, ‘blown us away’.