by Ben Miller
Bo bounced his head, never taking his eyes off the papers in his hands. “I’ll get a fact-checker on it. If it flies, it runs.”
“Tonight? It’s gotta run tomorrow.”
Bo scowled. “It doesn’t ‘gotta’ run tomorrow. You want it to run tomorrow. Not until we’re one hundred on this. Not ninety-nine—one hundred.”
“Can we get Silver?” Corinne pleaded. Eli Silver had only worked at The Post for two years, but he had established himself as an ambitious, meticulous fact-checker. “He’s the best.”
“He’s the fastest,” Bo corrected.
“And the best.”
“I’ll get Silver, if he’s available.”
Corinne breathed easily perhaps for the first time all day. “And then it runs?”
“If it all flies,” Bo repeated. “Maybe tonight’s run. We’ll see.”
“Thanks, Bo. Keep me apprised.” Corinne briskly arose and rushed out of her editor’s office. Once out of sight and earshot, she got out her cell phone to call Eli Silver. She wanted to call in a favor for an expedited job.
57
“So we’re in the same purgatory we were four days ago?”
Heath Reilly nodded, though everyone else in the incident room recognized Jeff Pine’s query as rhetorical and did not offer a response.
“Forensics did find DNA on the pillowcase from Sara Gardner,” Camilla offered hopefully. “We could get that back soon, maybe get a hit.”
Rita began to reply but had to cough to clear her throat first. “Tina Langenbahn’s pillowcase only had Tina Langenbahn’s DNA on it,” she reminded them.
“Right,” Jeff concurred. His countenance brightened, these past twenty seconds likely the deepest and most prolonged period of despondence his personality would allow. “And we still have our uni’s questioning the area around Charlotte Hadden’s place, looking for witnesses.”
“This was probably the most public of all the attacks,” Camilla observed. “I think we might get something here. Someone who saw something.”
Reilly wanted to shed his ray of hope on the situation. “And we still don’t have a proper interview of Charlotte Hadden herself. She could offer something.”
“You met her, right?” Rita asked.
“Yeah. Did you?” Reilly replied.
“Briefly.” Rita cleared her throat again. “Let’s just say I’m not overly fucking optimistic. Did you get anything from her? At all?”
“Not a word.” Reilly conceded. “A lot of blubbering. No words.”
Camilla shifted in her seat. She squinted her eyes and looked at Rita, as if trying to focus on some tiny speck of dust on her blouse. “Rita, remember our conversation with Jack after we interviewed Tina Langenbahn together? She acted so cold. We hypothesized that maybe Tina didn’t want the baby in the first place.”
“Uh-huh,” Rita recalled. “We wanted to revisit that. We wondered if maybe she had something to do with it. Do you think Charlotte had something to do with her missing baby? Or Tina did?”
Camilla shook her head. “No, neither. But Charlotte’s mother said something interesting.”
“She wanted to have an abortion,” Reilly interrupted, picking up Camilla’s trail of thought.
Camilla half-glared at him, moderately pissed for stealing her thunder. “She considered terminating the pregnancy. Could that be some sort of connection?”
“I don’t know.” Jeff Pine seemed skeptical. “How many young, single mothers think about having an abortion?”
Reilly, himself the child of a single mother, sputtered in agreement. “Most. Maybe all, at least at some point.”
Camilla turned to Reilly. “Catholic girls?”
Reilly sat back, wary of an attack. “I don’t know. How do you know she’s Catholic?”
“Didn’t you notice all the crosses in that apartment? The rosary hanging from that large cross on the wall by the kitchen?”
“I saw the crosses,” Reilly admitted. “That was a rosary?”
“Yeah,” Camilla replied as she turned away, back to the group. Episodes like this challenged her ability to hide her occasional contempt for Heath Reilly.
From the front of the room, Jeff Pine tried to unify his team. “I think it may seem like a rather commonplace occurrence—”
“Happens all the fuckin’ time,” Rita translated.
“—But we should leave no stone unturned,” Jeff finished.
“I’ll interview Tina Langenbahn tomorrow,” Reilly averred. “I haven’t had a crack at her. Maybe she’ll think of something new with a different voice asking the questions.”
Reilly’s own statement flinted a spark in the recess of his mind: the voice. Since news landed of this latest abduction, he had forgotten about Jack’s notion of the importance of the Piper’s voice. He now wanted to ask Tina Langenbahn about it, to see if she also independently endorsed the “tinny” quality or the oddly mismatched volume that Sara Gardner had mentioned. He thought about bringing this up to the group now, but he quickly reconsidered. He wanted more information first. It had been Jack’s baby, but Reilly was the one nurturing it, raising it, making it into something important. The idea needed to be fully developed before he could offer it to the group as his own. So he decided to keep the thought to himself. For now.
58
Jack stared at the photograph on his tablet, studying every crack in the sidewalk, every window in the background, every shadow in the grass. As much as he liked holding files in his hands, he had grown to greatly appreciate the ability to easily zoom in and out using digital photography.
The scene of Ella Hadden’s kidnapping from her mother’s arms deviated significantly from the Piper’s previous abduction sites. This one seemed much more public, with scores of opportunities for witnesses. Either the Piper’s confidence had grown, or his carelessness had. Jack suspected more the former than the latter.
Alternatively, perhaps they were dealing with three sets of perpetrators—the Piper of the first two abductions, Aiden Dolan and Wendy Jenkins of the third, and a new criminal in this fourth. He wanted to abruptly reject this concept. It was too much to consider right now, with too many variables. He jotted down a note to remind him of this notion later, but then forgot about it.
Jack raised his head from the tablet to see Vicki standing in the doorway to his study, the blood drained from her face. Jack had no idea how long she had stood there before he noticed her. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked as he stood and moved toward her.
Vicki opened her mouth but no sound emerged. Her chin quivered. A spit bubble formed between her lips as a large tear spilled from her eyes down her cheeks. After a few seconds she closed her mouth to suppress a wave of nausea. Jack didn’t think he had seen her do that since the first trimester of her pregnancy with Jonah.
“Babe, what is it? Are you OK?”
She pivoted a half-turn and weakly raised a hand toward the TV in the family room behind her. She mumbled a few syllables.
“What?” Jack’s heart raced. He leaned in close to put his ear near her mouth while keeping his eyes glued to the TV screen several yards away, which showed a commercial promoting one of the erectile dysfunction drugs. He couldn’t imagine how seeing the middle-aged couple go bowling and then hang out in separate bath tubs in the wilderness could spark such a reaction in her. He and Vicki hadn’t been intimate in several months, but…
“Mistrial,” she mumbled again, but this time discernable to Jack.
“What?” Though he heard the word, Jack didn’t understand.
“Mistrial,” Vicki repeated again. “It’s going to be a mistrial.” The tears flowed freely now, and Vicki let out a helpless wail as she backed into the family room and plopped down on the couch. “I can’t take it, Jack. I can’t go through this anymore. I just need this be over, and it’s not. It’s not going to be over. It’ll never be over.”
Jack saw her laptop on the coffee table in front of her and realized she had pointed to that and not the TV.
He sat down beside her and read the online article on the screen.
59
LAWYER FOR PLAYGROUND PREDATOR HAD PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIP WITH VICTIM
By Corinne O’Loughlin, senior staff writer
Victor Upshall, an outspoken and highly publicized defense lawyer, had a previous personal relationship with one of the alleged victims of his most recent client.
Earlier today the trial of the Commonwealth of Virginia versus Dr. James Randall Franklin commenced. Dr. Franklin is accused of committing three murders and two kidnappings within the state, as well as additional murders in Pennsylvania, Maryland, and the District of Columbia. He chose as his defense lawyer Victor Upshall, who has provided counsel in numerous high-profile cases, including the defense this past summer of Howard Keevil, the young man eventually convicted (by plea bargain) of the hit-and-run vehicular homicide of Georgetown student Allison Branford.
Sources close to The Washington Post have confirmed that in 2001, Mr. Upshall met and entered into a personal relationship with fashion model Melissa Hollows (nee Tidgewell) while both were admitted to an inpatient substance abuse program at a facility in Maryland called New Affirmation. Mrs. Hollows would later meet and marry NFL star Lamond Hollows, at that point adopting his last name. Their only child, Lamaya, was famously kidnapped and murdered in 2012. Melissa Hollows herself was murdered this past spring, allegedly a victim of the so-called Playground Predator, Dr. Franklin.
Both Melissa Hollows and Victor Upshall discharged themselves from the sobriety clinic on the same day in October 2001. One witness stated they left hand-in-hand, suggesting a romantic nature to their relationship. Mrs. Hollows’ credit card showed charges at a hotel in Ocean City, Maryland, for the next four nights. The hotel record logged two occupants for the room for the entire weekend. Perhaps most telling, in later personal correspondence, Mrs. Hollows mentioned Mr. Upshall among a list of former lovers.
According to employment records, Mr. Upshall applied for a leave of absence from his job at the time with the litigation law firm Verre, Roth, and Hartog under the Family and Medical Leave Act. He did not mention substance abuse in that documentation.
Mr. Upshall is currently licensed in good standing through The State Bar Association. They show no record or any report of substance abuse or impairment. With each license renewal, Mr. Upshall would be required to state whether he has any impairments to practice law, including issues with substance abuse.
“Mr. Upshall does not need to disclose substance use or abuse to the State Bar,” states Norman Richhart, a lawyer who has practiced law in Virginia for over 30 years, including a period of time as an officer of the State Bar Association, and serves as a legal analyst for The Washington Post. “However, if he ever practiced law while under the influence of drugs or alcohol, this would be an offense of Bar regulations, and it would, of course, require self-reporting. Failure to do so can result in suspension or loss of his license.”
The involvement with one of the alleged victims of one of his clients may represent a less straightforward complication. “Obviously there may be a potential conflict of interest there,” Mr. Richhart, who has never met or worked with Mr. Upshall, says. “But if Mr. Upshall revealed his prior relationship with Mrs. Hollows to his client, and his client decided to retain Mr. Upshall’s services nevertheless, then I don’t think this would constitute any misconduct.”
Dr. Franklin, in an exclusive interview, denies any knowledge of that prior relationship. “He never mentioned it.”
In that case, with this new knowledge Dr. Franklin would have the legal right to request a new lawyer. The presiding judge, The Honorable Gerald Banks, Jr., would have the option of granting such a request.
“Given the circumstances I would think any judge would permit a change in counsel,” comments Mr. Richhart. When asked what that would mean for the current proceedings, Mr. Richhart answers, “In a case of this magnitude, I imagine new counsel would require significant time for preparation. In my opinion, the judge would have no choice but to declare a mistrial—reshuffle the deck and start all over.”
60
“What the hell, Corinne?!” Jack yelled into his Bluetooth.
“Back off, Jack,” Corinne responded with an air of calm confidence.
“This is not breaking news. This shit happened over a decade ago! Why are you breaking this story now, one day into the trial?” Jack normally showed much more restraint, but he consciously decided to let his emotions fly. It felt cathartic.
“This just came together,” she lied. “A ton of research went into this, and all of it had to be checked by my staff before it went to press.”
“Do you have any idea what this trial, this process, is doing to my wife? To me? My whole family?”
“I’m sorry for Vicki, Jack. She has been through so much.”
“Bullshit! You never thought once about her, or about me. You hit this now because you knew how it would blow up. Fame whore.”
“You’re one to fucking talk, Jack!” Corinne finally raised her voice to match Jack’s.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Jack forced himself to look down at his speedometer: 86 miles per hour. He lifted his foot off the accelerator; as his emotions ramped up, so had his speed.
“You know what that means. Don’t—” Corinne stopped and took a breath, trying to reinstate her tranquility. “This isn’t about you, Jack. Not everything is about you.”
“This affects me, and this affects my family, and you know it!” Jack did not say anything for a brief moment, contemplating whether he should just hang up. “This is what you went to see him about last night, isn’t it?”
“I had to get Randall’s reaction to this. It was imperative to the story.”
“At least you could have given me a heads up. I saw you. You knew you were writing this story. We’re supposed to be working together, Corinne.” Jack’s fury began to ease up, following suit with his car’s velocity.
“You’re right. I could have.” Though she didn’t frankly apologize, Jack could hear contrition in her voice.
“Vicki’s got to go through this whole thing again. The depositions, and… and the waiting. The waiting around is the worst. We just…we need this to be over.”
“I’m sorry for that, Jack. I am. But there are greater things at play here, and this had to be done.”
Jack pulled into a parking spot at Coffeewood Correctional Center. “I gotta go,” he said, and hung up his Bluetooth.
A few minutes later the same guard who had escorted him last night brought Jack to a visitation chamber. When Randall entered the room on the other side of the dividing glass, his lips turned down into a nervous smile. Jack picked up his telephone and waited for Randall to sit down and do the same.
“If you ask for new counsel, and the judge declares a mistrial, we’re done,” Jack began, staring a hole through Randall.
“We had an opportunity to get Upshall. We had to take it. The slimy prick deserves everything he is going to get. He’s odious, Jack. He’s the worst human being I know.” Randall looked playfully over both shoulders. “And I’m in prison!”
“We’re done,” Jack repeated.
“Done? What do you mean, Jack?” Randall sat back and feigned surprise. “Are you reneging on our deal?”
“You’ve fucked with me and my family for the last time.” Jack began to hang up his phone.
“Uh! Uh!” Randall put his hand up, giving Jack the international sign to stop. Randall half-whispered, “Not the last time, Jack.”
Jack brought the receiver back to his ear.
“Don’t forget about our deal, Jack.”
“Fuck the deal.”
“Jack, I know you don’t want Vicki to endure any more. What’s worse: her awaiting another trial, or her finding out the truth about you?”
“You’ve got nothing,” Jack dared. “It’s all a bluff. All bullshit.”
“What, the journal? Where do you think I discovered Melissa’s r
elationship with Upshall? Everything I did before this was carefully planned, orchestrated by me. But this—the Upshall stuff—it just fell in my lap. It was beautiful, wonderful, glorious luck. I read that whole journal. Cover to cover. She’s actually a pretty gifted writer, by the way. Egotistical, sure, but it’s her private journal—she’s allowed to be. And she uses way too many exclamation points when she writes about food. Who gets that excited about food? ‘Pasta with shrimp, scallions, and peanut butter! Home run!’ Lots of baseball analogies too, which was weird considering she married a football player. And there I am, not even a third of the way through it, and she writes about running off with Upshall from drug rehab in her early twenties. I’d seen him on TV and already hated him. It just came together perfectly.”
“And the stuff about me?” Jack didn’t want to believe him, but the specifics and details added up. Additionally, Jack’s read on Randall’s body language indicated that he told the truth.
“Oh, it’s in there, Casanova. In some detail, I might add.” Randall smiled.
“What are you gonna do about it? There’s nothing you can do from here.” Jack fanned his fingers out to emphasize the four walls constantly enclosing Randall.
Randall tilted his head with a disapproving look on his face. “Jack…”
Corinne. Of course, Jack thought. “Shit,” he said aloud.
“There it is.” Randall conveyed a sense of pride that Jack figured it out on his own.
Jack started at the shallow countertop above his knees, breathing slowly. He hated to admit defeat. He had come here with such rage and such certainty. He yearned for finality. Even a respite would no longer do. He needed closure. “What about…,” he began before deciding to rephrase. “Let’s assume that this does, eventually, go to trial. And you get convicted.”
“Uh-huh,” Randall replied, going along with Jack’s scenario.
“And you get the death penalty.”
“Yep.”
“What happens then? What happens with this information once you’re gone?” The cogs in Jack’s head churned, but he tried to keep a flat affect. He didn’t want to reveal anything to the ever-perceptive Randall.