by Camryn King
Mallory wouldn’t go into details like that. Not on a phone where she might be recorded. And not with a man whom she’d tried to convince but who never believed her. “I thought a lot of things, Charlie. Some were right. Some were wrong. But for the record, I’m glad Christian’s name was cleared. The golden boy is still golden, and I know you’re glad about that.”
“Yeah, all of New York is breathing a sigh of relief.”
“You called a bunch of times. Anything besides ass kissing on the agenda?”
“There sure as hell is. I’d like to unfire you, give you back your job.”
“Wow, Charlie. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say that you’ll think about it.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Other than that, how are you, kid? I was highly pissed off when you went and did what you did, and with Asshole Anderson of all people, for God’s sake, but I still genuinely care about you. Not only as a reporter, but as a human being. How are you holding up?”
“There’ve been good days and bad days, but your phone call has made this day better.”
“You reached out to Rob?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“No. I can’t imagine you’d let him get away with what he did.”
“He will, but I’m not going to dwell on it. Unfortunately, when it comes to writing a piece in a way that avoids the possibility of lawsuits, Anderson taught me everything that I know. It’ll be my word against his that what he did was deliberately malicious, or that he intended the outcome to be what it was.”
“Sounds like you’ve already talked to a lawyer.”
“Feels like I’ve become one.”
“What about Christian? Have you talked to him?”
“I’m not discussing the Grahams, or anything related to Leigh’s murder. With you, or anyone. Nothing personal, but anything related to that situation is off limits.”
“Okay. Got it. Then how about them Yankees?”
“Ha! You nut.” The line reminded Mallory of how much she loved Charlie, how aside from the later articles about Leigh he’d almost always championed her projects. They spent another thirty minutes talking casually about the business and other news headlines, and what shape the “Knightly News” column would take if Mallory returned.
“Honestly, Charlie, it’s hard for me to think about work in that context right now. Until this conversation my professional life was in limbo, and there are other multi-layered matters crowding my brain. Can I think about it and email over a few options in a few days?”
“Sure, Mallory. Take all the time you need. But not too much.”
“I appreciate the offer, Charlie. Thanks.”
Mallory hung up the phone and after checking the fridge and the time decided it was time to get some fresh air. There were several eateries nearby, but after checking them out she decided to assuage her taste for a Newsroom burger. She texted her friends that she’d be there and hoped they could meet her, then jumped on the subway with visions of grilled onions, green peppers, and mushrooms dancing in her head.
Trepidations arose as she neared her favorite eatery, but Mallory ignored it and reached for the door. For all the years she’d come here, the restaurant had always been a safe haven. She prayed that today it wouldn’t let her down. Inside, she was relieved to see the crowd was light, due in part to the hour, just after two. She’d missed the lunch rush and beat the happy hour crowd. Perfect. She relaxed even more as she strode to the bar and sat down.
“Hey, Mallory!”
“Hi, Joe.”
“Long time no see.”
“I’m sure you’ve read why.”
“I don’t believe half the crap I read. Unless it’s your column.”
“Good answer.”
“What can I get you?”
“I’ve been dreaming of a Newsroom burger with sweet potato fries.”
Joe, a part owner of the restaurant, smiled at her mentioning a menu staple he’d helped create. He punched her order into a computer than reached into a cooler for a chilled mug, poured a pale ale from the tap, and slid it over.
“That’s the new pairing for the burger. Tell me what you think.” Leaning against the bar with his massive arms folded across a chest that easily bench-pressed one-fifty, he watched and waited for her reaction.
Mallory took a sip of the light, fruity beer. “Nice.”
Joe nodded. “Better than wine or vodka?”
“Works for me. And you know I’m not a beer drinker, so that’s saying something.”
“I’m glad you like it. It’s good to see you, Mal. You okay?”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“Saw that the News let you go. We all thought that was fucked up.”
“I agree. But I kinda fucked up, too, though, so Charlie had the right.”
“By giving the article to the Reporter?”
“Exactly that.”
“But what Rob did in response to it? That was as underhanded a journalistic move as I’ve ever seen.”
Mallory shrugged. “Made big news. I’m sure it sold a lot of papers. The end justifies the means in the cutthroat world of rags.”
“If you say so.”
They chatted awhile longer. The computer dinged. “That’s your burger. Be right back.”
Mallory enjoyed a long swig of beer as she looked around the nearly empty dining room. She wiped a frothy mustache away from her lips as a nice-looking man with windblown hair and a clean-shaven face entered the restaurant, looked around, and headed for the bar.
He sat a couple seats down from her, looked over and said hello.
“Hi.”
“Not that many people here. Hope that isn’t a sign that the food is lousy.”
“No, the food is great.”
“Ah, so you’ve eaten here before.”
“Plenty of times.”
“Cool. Recommend anything in particular?”
“The Newsroom burger. I took the subway over just to get my fix.” She looked up as Joe came out of the kitchen. “Here it is now. Take a look at that masterpiece. Want to try it?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to take your food.”
“There’s almost a half-pound of ground round here. Joe, bring me a knife.”
He did. She cut off a fourth of the burger, placed it on a napkin, and slid it to the friendly stranger. He took a bite, closed his eyes and groaned.
“You’re right. That’s insanely delicious.”
“Can I get you one, buddy?” Joe asked.
“No, I’m waiting for someone and will just have a beer for now.” He nodded at Mallory’s glass. “Whatever she’s having.”
He finished off the slice of sandwich and reached for a napkin. “That was really kind of you to share your food.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Henry.”
“Mallory.”
“Mallory Knight?”
Mallory hesitated for the briefest of seconds. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Wow, that’s crazy! I know who you are.”
“I take it you’ve seen the news.”
“Actually, no. I just returned from a month out of the country. But I was reading this on the way over.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a large envelope.
“What’s that?”
“Take a look. I think you’ll find it interesting.” Mallory looked skeptical. “Okay, I admit there’s parts of it that may piss you off, but overall the piece is pretty evenly balanced.
Curious, Mallory picked up the envelope and reached in to pull out the papers inside.
The man stood up. “Then again, balanced is a matter of perspective. Mallory Knight, you’ve been served.”
“Henry” was halfway to the door before Mallory could react. He reached the door and turned around. “Thanks again for sharing your burger. It was really good.”
Bites of said burger began to roil in her stomach as she looked at the document the envelope had contained. She was bei
ng sued by Christian, Pete, and one of their companies for libel, slander, and character assassination and defamation.
Just like that, her appetite was gone, replaced by a lawsuit for one hundred million dollars.
* * *
After recovering from the shock of a) being sued and b) for how much, Mallory got busy assembling a legal dream team. Two days later she stood in front of a podium in the conference room of her attorney, Valerie Kau, who had taken the case pro bono, flanked by the feminist lawyer and activist on one side and her new publicist, Micah Shore, on the other. A select group of twenty journalists had been invited to the press conference, Ava among them. Her best friend sat front and center, an anchor for Mallory, who gripped the sides of the podium and met many of the eyes trained on her steadfastly. Repositioning the prepared speech that lay before her, she took a breath, squared her shoulders, and spoke.
“Good afternoon, and thanks for coming. My name is Mallory Knight. I am an investigative journalist specializing in the unsolved murders and disappearances of women across the United States, particularly women of color, whose stories are often overlooked or ignored. Almost two years ago, I was shocked and saddened to arrive at a crime scene as I’d done dozens of times before, and recognize the woman lying on the bed before me, grotesquely displayed amid a scene set up to suggest a suicide had occurred. There was only one problem. I knew that woman, a journalist also. Beautiful, intelligent, vivacious, driven. Not only a capable journalist but my best friend. One who would not go outside without lipstick, much less take her life without clothes.
“As most of you know by now, the death was rather quickly ruled a suicide. I knew with every instinctive fiber of my being that they were wrong. That Leigh Jackson had been murdered. But at least on the surface and on the face of things, there was no proof. Now, there is.
“Because the NYPD initially ruled her death a suicide, I was limited professionally to the coverage I could give on this story. As a serious journalist, I hesitate to print conjecture. ‘Just the facts, ma’am,’ is often our bottom line. I was driven to keep the story going, and her memory alive in the public mind, but seeing as there was no case it was a difficult, if not impossible challenge. The New York News’s illustrious editor, Charlie Callahan, was brave enough to allow a couple of articles, and I thank him for that opportunity, but there was only so much I could do in that professional capacity.
“So I opened my own investigation. I followed my gut and the crumbs of evidence found along the way. I worked with a couple other people who also had doubts and followed their instincts. The path led to New York Navigator Christian Graham’s uncle and manager, Pete Graham, who was indicted for her murder.
“I have not been shy in my coverage and reporting of events surrounding the death and investigation of Leigh Jackson. Much of what has printed has been my opinion. When possible, I’ve cited facts. Everything I’ve written has been within the scope of the law as it pertains to journalism and the coverage of public figures in national news. Still, earlier this week, I was served with papers naming me, Rob Anderson, and the New York Reporter in a lawsuit for one hundred million dollars.”
Reporters had been casually writing and typing as she talked. With this news, the scribbling increased, along with the pecking on tablets and keyboards.
“Pete Graham is innocent until proven guilty, and regarding these charges, I am innocent—period. I will fight these false accusations as vigorously as I worked to uncover who killed Leigh. My sole purpose in trying to keep the story of Leigh’s death alive was to see her killer be prosecuted and imprisoned. To get justice for a woman who didn’t deserve to die. Again, Pete Graham is innocent until proven guilty. But for whomever killed my friend and fellow journalist Leigh Jackson, I hope they die in prison and then rot in hell.”
Attorney Valerie Kau then stepped up to the microphone, adjusted it to her height of five foot one, and then asked, “Any questions?”
There were many, most of which pertained to the case and couldn’t be answered. But the next morning Mallory smiled at the front-page headline in the New York News—short, sweet, and true:
Knight Fights!
33
May had arrived and with it the Eastern regional finals. It hadn’t been easy over the past month, but with discipline and focus honed since he was fifteen years old, Christian was able to force Pete’s indictment and the media circus that followed out of his mind and focus on work. The effort paid off. The Navigators had fought their way to a place at the table, going up against the Miami Heat. The last team standing would meet up with the Western regional winners. In Christian’s mind that would likely be Golden State. He didn’t care who was on the other side of the tip-off when the finals began. The Navigators would beat them. That had been Christian’s mind-set all year. He’d never entertained losing one time. The only picture he’d envisioned was winning it all. For Christian, losing was not an option in any area of his life.
He would have chosen otherwise, but game one wasn’t happening at home. The team had traveled to Miami the night before. To make sure he was not distracted by anyone or anything, Christian had passed on staying at the designated hotel and rented a private home on the beach for him and his entourage. Besides the usual practice, physical therapy, and training, Christian’s routine for the finals included meditation and yoga. By the time he got to the arena he was calm and relaxed. When they gathered in the locker room, all the guys looking at the captain who had led them to this decisive moment, Christian spoke with the authority of a king and the certainty of a sage.
“Here we are, fellas. Heading down the last lap of our race with destiny. We already know how it’s going to end. We’re already holding up the trophy and feeling the confetti on our face. All we need to do is stay focused, remember what we’ve practiced, and have each other’s back for forty-eight seconds.
“We’re in Miami, but tonight, this arena’s our house. The court’s the same size. The net’s the same distance from the floor. And we’re the same badass muthafuckas who’ve won this bitch eight times. Let’s go out there and do it again!”
The speech worked. The men went out determined to set the tone for what they hoped would be a conference sweep in just five games.
That’s not what happened.
The Navigators lost, and badly.
Afterward, Christian didn’t want to talk with anyone. He wanted to be alone to figure out what the fuck had happened from them being up by five at the end of the first half to him fouling out and them losing by fourteen points less than an hour ago. He wanted to punch walls, and maybe a few people. But he didn’t do any of that. He had a responsibility. So he followed his coach into a packed room for the mandatory press conference to a barrage of camera flashes and questions that started almost before he sat down.
“Christian, what happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened? We lost, that’s what happened. Did you not see the game? Or the score?”
“Sorry for being so general, Christian. You guys came out firing on all cylinders in the first half but struggled overwhelmingly in the second. What factors led to the two halves being so different?”
Christian took a sip of water and leaned into the microphone on the table. “We lost our focus. Became impatient. Got into foul trouble. Got off our game and started playing theirs.”
“Speaking of foul trouble, Christian, you’ve only fouled out of a game twice this whole year. It was clear that Navigator fans felt you were being singled out by the officials. Do you agree with them?”
“I’m not going to sit here and blame our loss on anyone outside of our locker room. No matter what anyone else does, at the end of the day I am the master of my fate. If we’d won, I wouldn’t be blaming the officials for that. So win, lose, or draw, I am always going to accept responsibility for what happened.”
There were a few other questions about Christian’s performance and that of his teammates. When the organizer signaled there was just time for
two more questions, Christian chose a reporter with whom he wasn’t familiar, a pretty young woman with an engaging smile.
“Hello, Christian. Tough loss tonight. Many would say that considering everything happening in your life outside of the arena, it’s impressive that the Navigators are here at all. What impact has your uncle’s indictment had on your ability to keep your head in the game?”
Christian fell back against the chair. “Next question.”
“That’s a fair one,” another reporter said. “Along with the foul trouble there were several shots that while impossible for most have up until this point been makeable for you. It’s a fair assumption that your uncle being accused of murder would have an impact.”
“Doesn’t seem like I need to answer the question, then. You already have it all figured out.” Christian stood up and walked out. When his coach walked into the locker room a few minutes later, he had only one thing to say before he went back to the house.
“That’s my last press conference until the championship, the one that we win.”
Video from the press conference went viral. The young reporter, who happened to be an intern for ESPN, was dismissed by the network and vilified by the public. Christian thought it a fair outcome. He felt that she’d asked the question to stand out, make a name for herself. She’d done that.
Christian used the anger at losing game one in the conference to raise his game to another level. Changes were also made when it came to outsiders and access. A wall of protection was built around him. From that interview until game seven of the NBA Finals, he didn’t go anywhere alone. On the rare moments he’d gone out publicly, his entourage protected him as fiercely as his bodyguards, two of whom were also with him at all times. There was slight concern that some misguided fan might try and hurt New York’s savior. But the bigger reason for the stalwart efforts to provide him sanctuary was basketball. The love of the game.
Game seven happened at home, in New York, in the Navigators’ arena that Christian had built. Tickets were advertised online and sold for six figures. Every A-list celebrity was in the house. All eyes were on Christian.