by J. B. Turner
O’Neill cleared his throat. ‘Tony, gimme it straight. And no bull.’
‘I think you’re in deep shit, Jack.’ Stone stretched back in his seat, hands behind his head. ‘Okay, I need to know where I stand. Firstly, is what’s in the paper true?’
O’Neill took a deep breath and looked around the oak-paneled boardroom. The oil paintings on the wall showed every president of the company since it had been founded in 1885. They all seemed to glower down as if they knew he had a guilty conscience.
‘You really want me to answer that?’ O’Neill said.
‘Yes.’
He had to pick his words carefully. ‘The story is not incorrect. That answer your question?’
Stone picked up a pen and nibbled the end. ‘You bribed your maid to keep her quiet?’
The words didn’t sound good and the senator felt his neck flush. He’d done all this out of misplaced devotion to his son. A son he couldn’t have loved any more if he’d tried.
‘And Richmond got Rachel Harvey lined up with a Hollywood agent which kick-started her career, again to keep her quiet?’
Would Stone still want to be his friend after hearing all this? Would he be flying down for his election-night party? That would certainly not go down too well with his other clients who included a couple of Hollywood directors who’d used Rachel Harvey in their films.
O’Neill nodded.
‘Fuck a duck, Jack, this is bad.’ Stone leaned forward, elbows on the highly polished boardroom table, and clasped his hands together like a pious priest. ‘Who knows the truth?’
‘You, me and Richmond. And now, just about the whole world.’
Stone shook his head. ‘Jack, before I talk about how we’re gonna tackle this, I need to say something you might not like.’
‘Fire away.’
‘John Richmond is Mafia.’ Stone took off his glasses. ‘I know it, you know it, everybody knows it. I know he’s helped you move into the big time, but believe me, you don’t need friends like him. I’m a friend. He’s not.’
‘I’ve known Richmond since I was a boy. I didn’t know what he was until it was too late. That’s the goddamn truth.’
‘Ditch him. Now.’
‘I can’t. We look after each other’s interests.’
‘Jack, you’re involved in illegal activities. You want me to list them? Just for starters, let’s see, there’s bribes and corruption of an elected public official which could result in grand-jury subpoenas, court proceedings, search warrants for your house and whatever else they care to throw at you.’
O’Neill looked at his watch—quarter to three in the morning. He sighed and picked up Stone’s copy of the Herald. He scanned the story’s headline for the umpteenth time since Lomax had faxed it through, just before eleven the previous night.
Florida Senator Covered Up Son’s Sex Attacks
The byline was that of Deborah Jones. What did this woman have against him? Had this become personal for her?
O’Neill’s mind drifted.
Wonder how Rose is taking it?
He’d phoned her just before midnight at their beachfront house in Southampton and had woken her up. He gave it to her straight. She didn’t freak out. Just listened. She knew about the foibles of politicians, their tricks and their bullshit. She was friends with Hillary Clinton and knew about the darker side of political life, but all she said was, ‘We’ll discuss it at a more opportune moment.’ O’Neill already had a small plane waiting to fly him to the Hamptons for the showdown. It crossed his mind to leave the country. Richmond had suggested that. He’d said that Belize would be a great place to disappear to. But O’Neill knew that if he disappeared it would make it far more likely that Craig would be moved off death row.
That couldn’t happen. Never. He couldn’t allow Craig to live, despite any reservations Rose had.
O’Neill shook out a Winston from a silver cigarette case and lit up. He watched the smoke drift towards the huge windows.
‘He was my son,’ he said, ‘and I’m going to defend him until I die. My son is my life. Like Josh is your life.’
Stone shook his head. ‘Jack, listen to me. Joe’s dead. You need to move on and forget about loyalty and family ties.’
‘Not an option.’
‘Are you prepared to lay down your career and liberty for Joe?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Jack, we could sort this out. We could explain away the Gonzalez bribe, the driver or whatever they’ve thrown at you. But not your involvement with actresses who mysteriously fall to their death.’
‘There’s something you need to know,’ O’Neill said. ‘I met up with Richmond after it happened. I asked him to find out some stuff about Deborah Jones of the Herald.’
Stone winced. ‘Okay, here’s the choice. Either you deal with it my way or your way. My way, you stay a senator but Craig will be released. Your son’s accusers are vindicated, in effect.’
‘Tony, I want to sue those bastards at the Herald. Can I do that?’
Stone shrugged. ‘Sure, you can sue them. But it’ll cost you a fortune and you’ll also foot their costs as well, if you lose. It’s high-risk, but since you intend to defend Joe it’s probably your only option. It can be done. It could buy you time.’
O’Neill nodded. I’ve got plenty of that, unlike Craig.’
‘I see. You plan to string this out through the courts, tie down the paper in litigation so Craig gets executed before everything is done and dusted, right?’
O’Neill gave a thin smile. ‘It’s my only option.’
‘You want us to sue the goddamned Miami Herald?’ Stone shook his head. ‘You’d be risking everything for one throw of the dice.’
‘I’m a politician. That’s what we do.’
• • •
An hour later, O’Neill was enjoying a stiff whiskey as his private jet took off from Reagan National, bound for the Hamptons, before flying on to Naples in the morning. He knew the press vultures would be waiting for him at the gates of the community when he returned home.
He wondered how the party would react. He remembered the Jesse Jackson affair when he didn’t answer his home phone for a week. Lomax had insisted on it. Another time, during the Clinton scandal, he’d gone to Puerto Vallarta and had claimed it was a fact-finding mission. Everyone knew it was politics.
He felt relieved to have told Stone the story, but there was one thing he hadn’t revealed. He figured that was a secret only Richmond could keep.
The phone on his seat rang and he picked up.
‘Richmond here.’ He sounded as if he’d been shouting. ‘Looks like someone’s gonna pay for what that bitch has done.’
‘Listen,’ O’Neill said, as the plane climbed into the dark sky, the lights of Washington below, the rippling water of the Potomac visible with the full moon, ‘I’m handling this in my own way.’
‘I’m sorry, Jack, but that won’t do. We’re gonna deal with this.’
‘I’ve spoken to my lawyer and we’re gonna sue.’
Richmond snorted in derision. ‘Know something? I’m sick of talking.’
26
Deborah strode into the office just after nine, and was cheered by her colleagues. She’d already read her sensational exclusive—which spanned pages one, two and three—down at the News Cafe on Ocean Drive, accompanied by the two Feds assigned to protect her. They had agreed to stay in reception vetting everyone who entered the building, as opposed to tracking her every move. It was all a bit scary and unsettling. But she was glad to have them in the building.
Frank Callaghan, Sam’s closest friend at the paper, looked up as she passed. ‘You’ve crossed the Rubicon, Deborah. You’re in with the big boys now.’
‘Thanks.’
She smiled as an old-timer on the National Desk held up the front page and shouted across, ‘Way to go, Debs. Kick their asses, that’s why I say. The senator won’t know what
’s hit him.’
Then it was Larry Coen, the great crime reporter, who came up and shook her hand, smiling. He was, without a doubt, the man with more exclusives on Colombian drug gangs and corrupt Miami police officers and Miami-Dade County officials than anyone alive. He’d filed thousands of homicide stories. And in 1999 he’d won a Pulitzer for ten unrelated police-beat stories, out of the two hundred he had covered that year.
‘I’ve been trying to pin something on that bastard for years,’ he said, in his languid style. ‘If you’re looking for a job on the crime desk, just let me know.’
‘Hey, Debs,’ a female voice said. She turned round and Michelle Rodriguez, the features editor she still technically worked for, came to give her a big hug. ‘I never in my wildest dreams thought you were cut out for the hard-edged stories. Shows what a poor judge of character I am. Unbelievable, honey. Everyone is raving about what you’ve done. I’m so proud of you.’
Deborah smiled, feeling slightly tearful with all the attention. ‘What can I say? I got lucky.’
‘Like hell. You worked your ass off, and you got your rewards.’
Deborah’s head was spinning with all the compliments. And it continued.
Goldberg came out of his office and presented her with a magnum of champagne in front of everyone. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she didn’t drink anymore.
No one could fail to notice that as everyone congratulated Deborah, Kathleen Klein remained serenely in her seat, phone pressed to her ear, studiously avoiding eye contact with Deborah. She didn’t even glance up or give a little smile.
Goldberg came over to Deborah. ‘Can I see you for a couple of minutes?’ he said.
‘Sure.’
She followed Goldberg into his office.
‘Pull up a seat,’ he said, and pointed to the chair opposite his desk. ‘Proud as hell of you. But now for the comedown. Harry phoned me ten minutes ago. The senator’s lawyers have been in touch. Apparently, Jack O’Neill is refuting the allegations.’
‘I see.’
‘That’s not all. They’re launching a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against us.’
‘But we’ve proved—’
‘I know what we’ve proved,’ he said. Goldberg undid his red tie. ‘Jack O’Neill is a dangerous man with dangerous friends. And he’s mega rich. You don’t need me to tell you that rich men love libel lawyers.’
‘We in trouble?’
‘To be frank, I’d have been surprised if the senator didn’t set his lawyers on us. Whether he carries out his threat is another matter. Don’t worry about it. You did great, but this is a time for caution. Ms Gonzalez has been taken into protective custody and is safe from Fachetti. Jimmy Brown’s speaking to the Feds in LA. That leaves you.’
‘I’ve got two Feds following my every move.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Waiting in reception, checking everyone’s IDs.’
‘I’d be happier if you stayed away from your condo for now. Maybe even from Miami, just for a couple of days.’ Goldberg cleared his throat. ‘We need to move this story on. Fancy a six-hour trip back up to Raiford with your Feds and interview Mr Craig? Find out how he’s feeling?’
That was what Deborah had planned anyway.
‘Sure.’
‘His hopes and dreams are important to understand. His story is now taking center stage. But this turns everything on its head.’
‘In what way?’
‘Deborah, your safety is paramount. The Feds will be with you. But I want you to stay in a different motel or hotel every night. May seem crazy, but just do it, okay? And file your stories to my e-mail address from your laptop, okay? Any questions?’
Deborah leaned back in her seat and smiled. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘When do I get a raise?’
Goldberg pointed to the door and tried hard to stifle his laughter.
• • •
It was a tedious six-hour journey up the Florida Turnpike with her two Feds for company. The heavily wired Pete, who chewed gum as fast as he talked, and Robert, laconic to the point of being mute, obviously didn’t get on. They disagreed about everything. How many houses did Shaq own? Three? Five? They even argued about CNN’s Paula Zahn’s beautiful teeth. Pete thought they were perfectly natural, while Robert disagreed, saying they were all porcelain veneers.
Halfway up the turnpike they tried to put on a show of unity. It lasted for about half an hour during a painful silence. Before long, Pete was teasing Robert, asking him when had been the last time he’d fired his gun. Robert tried to make light of the comment, inferring he wasn’t usually in the front line of operations. Eventually Robert went quiet, preferring not to goad his colleague into further comment.
The last two hours of the journey were relatively good-natured. They sat back and enjoyed the scenery, asking Deborah about her work. They seemed genuinely interested, especially Robert, whose brother worked on a local paper in Memphis.
It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at Raiford.
Deborah went through the pat-downs and metal detectors like the last time. The stale smells of cheap perfume, body odors and bleach still hung heavy in the air. She took her seat and waited.
The heavy steel doors screeched open on the other side of the Plexiglas and made her flinch. Craig’s cropped hair came into view. His orange prison-issue top was stained with sweat under the arms and down his front.
Craig sat down and picked up the phone, double-handed. ‘Good to see you again, my dear.’ He smiled and the lines around his eyes creased up.
‘And you.’ Deborah held up the front page of the Miami Herald and pressed it against the Plexiglas.
It took him about five minutes to read everything.
‘You can put it down now,’ he said. His face was white. ‘Christ, I’m lost for words… The senator’s involved in all this?’
‘All down the line. After this, it’ll be difficult for them to keep you on Death Watch.’
‘Deborah, I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I’m scheduled to die in twenty days. They’re watching me every second until they strap me down.’
‘Polls show only ten percent support your execution.’
‘But it’s the influential people who make up that ten percent.’ Craig scrutinized her face. ‘You look tired, my dear.’
Dog-tired would’ve been more accurate. Craig himself seemed to have aged since her last visit. His skin was grayer as if the blood had stopped pumping properly.
He leaned forward and winced as the chains restricted his movement. ‘Once this is all over, Deborah, I’d appreciate if you could do me a favor.’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell Jenny I love her. Tell her I understand why she couldn’t come and see me these last few years.’
Deborah felt her throat tighten. ‘Don’t speak like that, Mr Craig. It’s not over.’
‘It might’ve been misguided, wrong or whatever, but I did it for her. If you’re lucky enough to have a family one day, you’ll know what I mean. You’ll run through walls for them.’ It was ironic, because that was probably how Senator O’Neill viewed his own position.
Deborah found herself thinking of Brett and what could have been. He had talked about it at Berkeley. They’d planned to get married as soon as they graduated and set up home together. She imagined taking their kids to the zoo, Disneyland or whatever else came to mind. It would’ve been great.
‘If you were my daughter, I’d be damned proud of you.’
Why did she crave Craig’s recognition so much? It was like when she was a little girl and wanted her father to compliment her on her piano playing. He never did, not coming up to the mark. If she got ninety-five percent in a piano exam, he wondered what happened to the other five percent. It was never enough, but she strived to please him.
This man did not seem embarrassed to wear his heart on his sleeve. That meant everything to Deborah.
&
nbsp; As she was escorted out of Raiford, Deborah reflected how glad she was to have told Craig what type of young man he had killed. Not an innocent, but a serial sex attacker. It hadn’t vindicated his actions, but it explained them. Craig saw what kind of man Joe O’Neill was when no one else did. That was to his eternal credit. And only he took action when no one else could or would.
Pete and Robert leaned against the cruiser beneath the archway, jackets slung over their shoulders. They straightened up and smiled back at Deborah as she approached.
It’d been a long day for everyone, but it had been the best in her short career.
Robert opened a rear door for her and she ducked down to get in. Just then her cell phone rang.
She rolled her eyes at the agents who nodded as if they understood what it was like to be at the beck and call of a demanding boss. But it was her mother.
‘Deborah,’ she said, letting out a long sigh. ‘Got some news for you.’
‘Momma, what’s wrong?’ She got back out of the cruiser and turned to face the chain-link fence. The razor wire glistened in the last remnants of the early-evening sun.
‘It’s your daddy, Deborah.’
‘Daddy? What about him?’
‘There’s not an easy way to tell you this. Daddy’s in the hospital. Two men threatened him.’ Her mother’s voice broke with the emotion. ‘Deborah, your father collapsed, clutching his chest. He’s fighting for his life.’
27
Early the following morning, after an exhausting ten-hour drive north through the night in pouring rain with the same two Feds, Deborah arrived at the Cardiac Observation Unit on the first floor of the Mississippi Baptist Medical Center in Jackson.
Her father’s eyes were closed as he snored softly, hooked up to an intravenous drip that she knew administered thrombolytics to help destroy clots.
Sitting at his bedside and holding his hand was her mother. She looked up and gave a weak smile.
Deborah walked over, threw her arms around her and broke down in tears. It seemed so long since she’d done that. ‘What happened, Momma?’