But real blondes are the best of all. Their pubes are smooth as silk.
I love it when they suck my dick and drink my manly milk.
As Diggs continued to recite, the beatboxing dribbled to a halt.
I like ’em young and tender, I like ’em with long legs.
I like ’em when they spread real wide. I love it when they begs.
Blondes hunger for the black man, their most forbidden fruit.
They cry like they don’t want it, but they shiver when I shoot.
Inside I only dream of them, lying on my bunk.
But when I’m free, I’ll fuck them all and fill them full of spunk.
As Diggs returned to his seat, his fellow inmates stared at him in stunned silence.
“Loved the beat, hated the lyrics,” Mulligan said. “I give it a six out of ten.”
“Why would he do that?” Mason said. “Didn’t he know how it would look?”
“He probably never thought it would go public,” Mulligan said. “Or more likely, he didn’t think at all.”
“It’s not going public,” Mason said. “I mean, we’d never post something like this on our Web site, would we?”
“Probably not,” Mulligan said. “But if the wrong person gets a hold of this, it’ll get ten million hits on YouTube.”
“Let’s check the rest of the files,” Mason said, opening the first one. It was a standard surveillance video. Black-and-white, no audio.
An empty corridor lined with cells appeared on the computer screen. The light was dim. Nothing stirred. The time-and-date stamp in the lower right corner said, “October 20, 2011, 12:01 am.”
“Isn’t that the day Diggs allegedly assaulted Galloway?” Mulligan asked.
“It is,” Mason said. “According to court testimony, the assault occurred just after two P.M.” The reporters sat in silence as Mason fast-forwarded fourteen hours.
Three guards strutted down the corridor and approached one of the cells.
“Recognize them?” Mulligan asked.
“The one with the Schwarzenegger muscles is Galloway. The tall, lean one is Quinn. And of course you know Pugliese.”
A pair of big hands reached through a slot in the cell door, and Galloway slapped handcuffs on them. Then the door slid open, and Diggs lumbered out. Galloway scowled and appeared to say something. Diggs responded with a grin.
“Wish we could hear what they’re saying,” Mason said.
The guards led Diggs down the corridor beyond the range of the camera.
Mason clicked the video off, opened the next file, and fast-forwarded to two P.M. again. A few seconds later, Diggs and the guards appeared, walking calmly down the corridor and out of sight. Mason repeated the process with the remaining four files until Diggs and his escort reached the exit to the exercise yard. There, Galloway uncuffed him. Then he and Quinn roughly shoved him out of sight through the door.
“Holy shit,” Mulligan said.
“This proves the assault never happened,” Mason said.
“That’s what I meant by ‘Holy shit.’ I wonder why nobody ever deleted this.”
“They probably just forgot about it.” Mason said. “They had no reason to think it would get out.”
“Is there any video from the 2005 assault?” Mulligan asked.
“Apparently not. My source told me they usually delete the video files after five years.”
“Doesn’t really matter,” Mulligan said. “You’ve made your case.”
“I’m going to look at all the rest of the video,” Mason said. “Just to make sure there isn’t anything else interesting on it. After that, I’ll write my story.”
“It might be better if you didn’t.”
“I disagree.”
“Think Lomax will publish it?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
56
“Aw, shit,” Lomax said.
“Yeah,” Mulligan said.
“Any chance the kid got it wrong?”
“No. He’s done a brilliant job on this.”
Lomax removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Guess I’ve got a big decision to make.”
“You do.”
“If I kill the story, the publisher might back me up,” Lomax said. “He’s never second-guessed me before, so I doubt he’ll start now. Not even for his son.”
“So kill it,” Mulligan said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Jesus. You want to be responsible for Diggs getting out?”
“Or course not. But I’m not keen on being responsible for covering up perjury and obstruction of justice, either.”
Mulligan took a deep breath and slowly let it out through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get what you’re going through. As a journalist, your gut tells you to publish. But as a husband and father … I’m just glad I’m not the one who has to make the call. So what are you going to do?”
“First I’m going to read the story. Then I’m going to look at the video myself and make Mason show me all of his notes. After that, we’ll see. If I don’t kill it, I’ll have to walk it upstairs and talk things over with the old man. This one is above my pay grade. There’s a lot at stake here, Mulligan. If we publish, Iggy Rock will have a field day, we’ll lose a few thousand more subscribers, and we’ll probably have a horde of angry protesters at our door.”
They looked at each other for a moment.
“Any chance you’re going to bail me out?” Lomax asked. “What’s the word on those DNA tests you’ve been waiting for?”
“Nothing yet,” Mulligan said, “but it shouldn’t be long now.”
57
Two days later, Mulligan checked his phone messages and found one from Jennings asking him to call right away.
“Hi, Andy. What’s up?”
“I just heard from Chief Hernandez, and the news ain’t good. The crime lab couldn’t find any viable DNA.”
“Aw, crap.”
“All the samples were either contaminated or degraded because of improper storage.”
“So that’s it, then,” Mulligan said. “We’ve got no way to connect Diggs to the attack on Susan Ashcroft.”
“’Fraid so.”
“I’ve got some bad news, too.”
“What’s that?”
“At least one of the assault charges against Diggs was definitely faked, and there’s a chance the news is gonna go public soon.”
“Jesus!”
“Yeah.”
“Goddamn ACLU! I hate those bastards.”
“Yeah … about that … I haven’t been entirely straight with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s not the ACLU that’s been digging into it,” Mulligan said. “It’s another Dispatch reporter.”
“Iggy Rock was telling the truth?”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Mulligan said, and then gave Jennings the rest of it.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was hoping the kid would flame out, so I’ve been trying to keep a lid on it.”
“The Dispatch is gonna publish this shit?”
“I don’t know. The brass hasn’t made up its mind yet.”
“We’ve gotta do something,” Jennings said.
“Yeah, but what?”
“No fuckin’ idea. Why don’t you come on over tonight and we’ll brainstorm over a few brews.”
* * *
Jennings answered the door with a Narragansett in each hand.
“Evenin’, Mulligan. Didn’t know you were bringing a date.”
“Andy, this is Gloria Costa, a photographer at the Dispatch. She’s been helping me out on the Diggs story.”
“What do we need a photographer for?”
“She’s not here to take pictures, Andy. She’s damned smart, and she knows the story inside and out.”
“Humph,” Jennings said. He handed each of his guests
a brew, told them to make themselves at home, and trudged into the kitchen for another beer.
“Where’s Mary?” Mulligan called to him.
“I’m right here,” she said, walking in from the kitchen with a plate of oatmeal cookies. She placed it on the coffee table beside her husband’s murder books.
“Is it really true?” she asked. “Are they going to have to let Diggs out?”
She was still bending over the table, not letting go of the plate of cookies. She was holding her breath.
“It’s possible,” Mulligan said.
She stood slowly and said, almost to herself, “He killed my twin sister.”
“I know.”
“What if he comes after me?”
“Then I’ll shoot him dead,” Jennings said as he walked back into the living room. “I’ll fill him full of lead and dance on his fucking corpse.”
“Andy, you know I don’t like that kind of talk,” she said. “But I know I can count on my big handsome lug to keep me safe.” She turned and hugged him hard and quick. “I’ll leave the three of you alone now. What you’ll be talking about is something I don’t want to hear.”
After she left, Jennings sat on the sofa between the two journalists. Together they paged slowly through the detective’s murder books on the Medeiros and Stuart cases, looking for something, anything, they might have overlooked. It was an hour before any of them spoke.
“You know what’s bothering me?” Gloria finally said.
“What?” the men said in unison.
“The gap.”
“What gap?” Jennings asked.
“The two years between the Medeiros and Stuart murders.”
“That bothers you why?” Mulligan asked.
“We think he attacked Ashcroft first, right?”
“We’re sure of it,” Jennings said. “Just can’t prove it.”
“And that happened just a year before he killed Becky Medeiros, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t serial killers usually escalate?” Gloria asked.
“They do,” Jennings said.
“So why did Diggs wait so long before his second attack?”
“I’ve always wondered the same thing,” Jennings said.
“What I’m thinking,” Gloria said, “is that maybe he didn’t.”
58
“Are the attorneys present?” Judge Needham asked.
“Felicia Freyer representing Kwame Diggs, Your Honor.”
“Attorney General Malcolm Roberts for the State, Your Honor.”
“Then let’s proceed. Miss Freyer, I believe you have a motion.”
“I do, Your Honor. I respectfully ask that this hearing be closed to the press on the grounds that—”
“Did I miss some big news this morning, Miss Freyer?”
“Your Honor?”
“Has the First Amendment been repealed?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then your motion is denied.”
“I would appreciate a chance to argue it, Your Honor.”
“That would be a waste of the court’s time, Miss Freyer.”
“Then I would ask at least that the television pool camera be removed.”
“On what grounds?”
“As Your Honor is aware, this matter is highly controversial. The presence of cameras can only serve to further inflame the public, to the detriment of my client.”
“Miss Freyer,” the judge said, making the name sound like something he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe, “are you concerned that pretrial publicity could prejudice the jury pool?”
Freyer stood there, speechless.
“Perhaps I should remind you that this is not a trial and that there will be no jury.”
“I understand that, Your Honor, but—”
Needham cut her off in midsentence.
“This issue will be decided by the presiding judge, Miss Freyer. Are you suggesting that the presence of cameras will somehow prejudice my ruling?”
“Certainly not, Your Honor,” Freyer fibbed. The diminutive judge was notorious for playing to the cameras.
“Well then, this motion is also denied. Do you have anything further?”
“Not at this time, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Mr. Roberts, you may proceed.”
The attorney general rose to address the court: “Your Honor, the People of Rhode Island come before you to request that Kwame Diggs, currently an inmate in the High Security Center of the State Department of Corrections, be ordered to submit to a psychiatric evaluation to determine whether—”
“I have read your petition and supporting briefs, Mr. Roberts,” the judge said. He turned from the attorney general and faced the camera. “Do you have anything new to add, or are you also determined to waste the court’s time?”
“Nothing further, Your Honor,” Robert said, and sat back down.
“Miss Freyer?”
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“I have read your submission as well. Do you have anything to add?”
“I do, Your Honor. I would ask that my client be allowed to address the court on this matter.”
“For what purpose, Miss Freyer?”
“Surely Your Honor will want the opportunity to hear from Mr. Diggs himself before deciding whether the State’s order should be granted.”
“Miss Freyer, are you under the misapprehension that I have a degree in psychiatry?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Psychology, perhaps?”
“Not that I am aware of, Your Honor.”
“So I ask you again. What purpose would your request serve?”
“I withdraw it, Your Honor.”
Needham turned again to the cameras.
“You will have my ruling by early next week. Court is adjourned.”
59
The publisher’s fourth–floor corner office was paneled in solid Ecuadorian mahogany. A bank of high windows looked out over a parking lot, a McDonald’s, and a neon-splashed strip club called the Sportsman’s Inn. The office was furnished with calfskin chairs and an antique cherry desk big enough to hold a map of Rhode Island its actual size. In the center of the desk, a video was playing on a twenty-seven-inch Apple monitor.
“Okay, Ed,” the publisher said. “Turn that contraption off. I’ve seen enough.”
“So what do you think?” Lomax asked.
“I think my son is turning into a damn fine newsman.”
“Yes, sir. He surely is.”
The old man opened his humidor, drew out two fifty-five-dollar Opus X cigars, clipped the ends, and handed one to Lomax. He set fire to his with a gold S. T. Dupont butane lighter and leaned over to give his managing editor a light. Then he rose from his desk chair, crossed an expanse of Persian rug, and stared out the window. For a long minute, he smoked in silence while red and blue lights from the strip club licked his face clean. With his back still to Lomax, he finally spoke.
“I need your best judgment on this, Ed.”
“Well,” Lomax said, “it’s a tough call.”
“That’s what I pay you for, Ed. To make the tough ones.”
Lomax drew hard on his cigar and blew a slipstream across the desk.
“It’s an important story, sir, but publishing it will have serious consequences.”
The old man spun on his heels and thrust a bony finger at Lomax.
“Don’t tell me what I already know. Tell me why you believe we should run this.”
“Sir?”
“I know you think we should, Ed. Otherwise you would have killed it already, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Lomax dragged himself up from the plush leather visitor’s chair and joined his boss at the windows.
“Here’s how I see it,” he said. “If we suppress a story about perjury and obstruction of justice, the First Amendment purists on the staff will be outraged. One of them will leak it, and we’ll be crucified in the Columbia Journal
ism Review and every journalism blog on the Internet. But if we run the story and it leads to Diggs’s release, the criticism will be far worse. More readers will cancel their subscriptions, and we’ll probably lose some advertisers to boot.”
“And if Diggs gets out and kills somebody else?” the old man said.
“We’ll have a hard time living with ourselves.”
“What’s your bottom line, Ed?”
They both puffed again, blue cigar smoke mingling in front of their faces.
“For a hundred and fifty years, the Dispatch has been fearless in its pursuit of official corruption,” Lomax said. “Sometimes our stories have been applauded. Sometimes they’ve been met with howls. But we have never given in to pressure from readers or advertisers. We’ve always given the public the facts and let the chips fall where they may.”
“Things are different, now, Ed. The paper is in more financial trouble than even you know. The board is increasingly apprehensive about the losses. It has directed me to put the Dispatch up for sale.”
“I see.”
“Our recent circulation losses have already made several potential buyers shy away,” the old man said. “We can’t afford to lose any more readers.”
“I understand,” Lomax said. “Shall I kill the story, then?”
The old man blew three perfect smoke rings.
“Walk with me,” he said.
They stepped out of the office and strolled down a corridor lined with framed photographs of historic Dispatch front pages: The assassination of Abraham Lincoln. The annihilation of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry. The Battle of the Somme. The 1929 stock market crash. Pearl Harbor. The Kennedy assassination. The moon landing. The Challenger explosion. The election of the first black president.
The publisher opened the door to the boardroom and snapped on the lights, illuminating a meeting table surrounded by two dozen antique leather chairs. The table was big enough to land a Boeing 747. On one wall, a huge glass case was crammed with plaques, medals, and trophies.
“See that medal right there?” the old man said. “It’s the Pulitzer Prize George Boyle won in 1919 for exposing corrupt military contractors during World War One. It was just the third year the Pulitzer was awarded. That one up there? It’s the Pulitzer Mulligan won twelve years ago for blowing the lid off bribery in the state court system. That’s the last Pulitzer Prize the paper won. Probably the last we ever will win.”
Providence Rag: A Liam Mulligan Novel Page 23