“I wanted to take ten. I scaled it back to three.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“No, I don’t think I have a concussion, just a whopping headache. There’s not even a bump. The helmet saved me. Plus, I’m too tired. If I go to Northwestern, I’ll be there all night, and I have to go on-air in about seven hours.”
“I’m really sorry, Iz.”
“Aw, don’t be,” I said, trying to make light of the situation. “Everybody needs to get smacked around once in a while.” But really, the fear was still ringing inside me. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jane. About what she’d gone through. About me being a person of interest.
I told Mayburn about it.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Mayburn said. “A person of interest is not a good thing.”
“Thank you. I think I know that.”
“You gotta get the cops not to talk. They’ll smear you with this stuff if you let them.”
“Maggie is working on it.” Please, please, please let Maggie be able to do something.
“When can I pick up that pearl thong you bought tonight? I want to check it out.”
“Hey, no sharing Maggie’s pearl thong with Lucy.”
“Oh, she’s going to be getting her own, trust me.”
“I don’t know what’s with these thongs, but the odd thing is Josie seems to have two kinds-one that comes in a black box and one, like mine and Maggie’s, that comes in silver boxes. I’m not sure if they’re just different colors, but they seem to be from different manufacturers.
“Another odd thing is she keeps them locked up.”
“And the guy who delivered them was probably the one who smacked the hell out of me.”
He grunted. I could tell he was thinking. “We need to get both kinds of these thongs-the black and the silver-if I’m going to really check them out. When are you supposed to work again?”
“Sunday. But please don’t make me go back there. I’m even more scared of Josie than I am of Steve. Or whoever he is.” I leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed my forehead with my hands.
“I don’t know if I want you going back there, either. Look, let’s take it one thing at a time. When can I get the thong you got for your friend?”
“I can bring it tomorrow to Trial TV.” I gave him the address.
“Got it. Call me if you don’t feel good.”
“I will.” Again, I thought of Sam and how I hadn’t called him earlier. It bothered me deeply. I told myself I shouldn’t place too much significance on it. After all, I was working on a case for Mayburn, and I’d promised him that I wouldn’t tell anyone. So it was natural that I’d think to call Mayburn.
But how natural was it that when Sam had called an hour later, I told him I wanted to be alone tonight?
Despite the connection we’d had last night, and the one we’d probably always have, that connection was no longer permeating our daily lives.
Something had come between Sam and me. And that something-that feeling of a gap, a vacancy where we used to be sealed tight-couldn’t be denied.
I went to bed by myself.
42
O n Wednesday morning, two days after Jane’s death, I sat in the studio’s interview area.
“This morning for our Coffee Break,” I read from the prompter, “we’re discussing a recent ruling on behalf of the plaintiffs in a lawsuit against King Pharmaceuticals. King is the target of a class action suit filed by famed Chicago lawyer Jackson Prince on behalf of patients he claims were injured or killed by the arthritis drug Ladera. Yesterday, a U.S. District Court denied a request by King to dismiss the suit.”
I glanced down at the written script and squeezed my knees together tight, just like C.J. told me. I heard her other instructions in my head-shift a little toward your guest then turn your torso slightly back to the camera. I did so, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her giving me a thumbs-up.
I looked up at the prompter. “Joining us today is Jackson Prince himself. Good morning, Mr. Prince.”
I turned my body farther to face Prince, whose slate-gray suit complemented the blue leather of the chair behind him. He looked both casual and elegant, both scholarly and handsome. “Good morning. Thanks for having me, Isabel.” He beamed a megawatt smile full of perfect, white teeth.
“Can you tell us the impact of the judge’s ruling?”
Prince gave a nod of his head. “Judge Wainright’s ruling will finally put an end to the stalling tactics employed by King Pharmaceuticals, so that the many patients who died or were harmed by their drug can be compensated.” Prince went on, describing the lawsuit and the conduct of King Pharmaceuticals in more detail.
I nodded and smiled and occasionally furrowed my brows at the alleged wrongdoing of King Pharmaceuticals, but really I was thinking about Jane.
If Prince had been anxious and on guard when she had interviewed him two days ago, he certainly wasn’t now.
“He’s ready,” I heard in my ISB. “Go to satellite.”
“Joining us via satellite,” I read from the script, “is Howard Lemmon, attorney for King Pharmaceuticals. Mr. Lemmon, how does King respond to these allegations?” I looked at the monitor, trying not to squint at the sharp lines of light that beamed across the set, and watched as the attorney gave the standard corporation-being-sued statements, similar to those I used to give when defending Pickett Enterprises. “Thanks, Isabel. Although we believe the motion to dismiss should have been granted, we look forward to a trial on the merits…” Blah, blah, blah…“We want to show America and our stockholders that we have nothing to hide…” More blah. “We are proud of our research and the drugs that help to save millions of lives.”
I asked each lawyer a few more questions, then read, “Stay tuned to Trial TV, where we’ll be closely following the King Pharmaceuticals lawsuit. Thanks to our guests for joining us.” I turned to a different camera. “Coming up…” I read from the list of stories that would follow.
The monitors showing the King Pharmaceuticals attorney went blank. The lights over the leather chair grouping went dark. Jackson Prince stood and extended his hand to me, then grasped my hand with both of his, meeting my eyes and smiling in a way that appeared warm and friendly. Prince was used to connecting with people, I could tell, and under normal circumstances, I, too, would have been swayed by that gaze and that grasp. But there was something going on with Prince, according to Jane, something she had been about to reveal. And yet with her gone, he seemed very much at ease.
I hated, suddenly, that Jane was dead, that I was essentially standing in her shoes and yet neither Prince nor I was mentioning her.
“I saw you at Jane’s memorial,” I said.
Something crossed Prince’s eyes. I couldn’t tell what. “Ah, yes. A tragedy.” He dropped my hand. “I was very fond of Jane. We had worked together for years.”
“Worked together? How do you mean?” I’m not sure why, but I wondered for the first time if Prince had been one of Jane’s dalliances.
“I frequently gave interviews to Jane before anyone else.”
“You trusted her to cover your stories well.”
“I did indeed.” His eyes flicked around the newsroom. “Well, I must be going. It was a pleasure.”
“Izzy,” I heard C.J. call from behind me. “I need you on the desk in one minute.”
“Got it,” I called over my shoulder. I turned back to Prince and moved a little in front of him so he couldn’t walk away. “Were you and Jane working on any stories recently? I mean, other than the King Pharmaceuticals lawsuit?”
“No, not recently. And this case has been in a holding pattern for some time. I would have called Jane about this recent ruling, but we didn’t even know when the judge was going to issue it, and by then, of course, Jane was…”
“Killed.”
“Yes.”
Did you do it? Did you need to keep her from the story she said was going to nail you the wall?
<
br /> “What was the last story you gave Jane to break?”
“Izzy,” C.J. called. “Let’s go.”
I held up one finger and began backing toward the desk, but my eyes were still on Prince, waiting for his answer.
“I can’t recall,” he said. “Possibly a fire case I had at the end of last year. Anyway, good luck with your broadcast.” He turned and left, but after a step or two he looked back, as if to see that I was still there. And he gave me that charming and warm smile again. One that left me cold.
43
A s soon as the morning shift of Trial TV was over and the afternoon anchors and producers started taking over the set, C. J. Lyons held a meeting to recap the show and quickly summarize the stories for the next day.
When everyone left, I stopped C.J. “Can I ask a question? Do you know about a story Jane was working on that involved Jackson Prince?”
“Just this King case.”
“What about the case exactly?”
“You know-the motion to dismiss, whether the lawsuit would go forward.”
I frowned. It didn’t seem like anything that would make Prince stalk off the set a few days ago. “What about the members of the class action and how they got to become members? On the first broadcast of Trial TV, Jane was asking Prince about that.”
C.J. nodded. “I saw it. She was just asking basic questions to get the audience up and running.”
I bit my lip. “It sounded like something bigger. Something involving Prince himself.”
C.J. squinted a little behind her black glasses. “Prince is squeaky clean. I mean, he’s at the top of his game. I can’t imagine a story about him personally.”
“You used to write most of Jane’s stories, right?”
She nodded. “Used to. That’s not how it usually works-most newscasters write their own stories-but somehow we fell into this pattern where Jane did the interviews, but I wrote the pieces and put them together.”
“Were there any stories about Prince?”
She shook her head. “But I don’t know what she was working on recently.” C.J. flipped her glasses up on top of her short black hair. “Now that we’re on this topic, we should talk about you starting to work your own stories. Not that it’s absolutely required when you’re riding the anchor desk, but it would be good if you had experience pulling in your own stuff. Especially if you want to stay in this business.”
I thought about this for a second. This business was nothing I’d ever envisioned for myself, nothing I’d ever considered even for a second. But I liked it. More than liked it. The minute-to-minute nature of it thrilled me. I loved how working in the news put me so squarely in the present, unable to think, at least for a while, about Sam, or Theo, or Zac’s accusations, or even Jane.
I wondered if Jane could somehow see me now. I wanted her to be proud of me. “If Jane was working on a story about Prince, would she have taken notes?” I asked C.J.
“Sure.”
“Where would those be? I’d like to pick up the stories where Jane left off. Would that be okay?”
“That’s great. But we might have a problem with the notes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Follow me. I’ll show you her desk.” C.J. and I walked through the set. The afternoon people were scurrying around, their anticipation ramped up. We crossed through the newsroom, making our way through the obstacle course of reporter and producer desks.
Finally we came to Jane’s. As lead anchor she had been allotted one of the nicer desks-large and tucked slightly behind a curving wall.
And it was a mess.
“The cops went through it last night,” C.J. said. “I came here after the memorial, and they were here.”
“Was it Detective Vaughn?”
“That’s the guy. He’s a bundle of fun, huh?”
“Yeah.” I looked at Jane’s desk. “Did he find anything?”
“No idea. Took a few things, like notebooks and her computer. Made me sign some chain of custody sheet. Then he left.”
“Is it okay to go through it now?”
“I don’t see why not. We didn’t get any instructions not to touch it, and to be honest, I’d love to know if Jane had any good stories that we could finish up for her.” She exhaled. “Except…”
“What?” C.J. crossed her arms over her clipboard and glanced at the desk. “Maybe I should do it. Jane had some…well, some personal issues, and I just wouldn’t want them to come to light now. You know, now that she’s…”
She and I studied each other. I thought I knew what she was talking about-Jane’s affairs. And her issues with Zac. I knew C.J. and Jane had been close. She probably knew about these things, but I didn’t want to blow any confidences Jane had trusted me with.
“I mean…” C.J. shrugged. “I guess the cops might have taken anything like that, but in case there is something…”
“I’m just looking for stories on Prince,” I said, “or other good leads Jane had. If I find anything personal, I’ll…” I’ll what?
C.J. shook her head. “It should be fine. Jane didn’t keep diaries. She never wanted a record of her personal thoughts or actions.”
Again, C.J. and I studied each other, and again, I think we both knew that we were talking about, without mentioning, Jane’s affairs.
“But if you find anything,” C.J. continued, “let me know, okay?”
“I will.” We gazed at the handwritten notes, newspaper clippings and printouts of Web pages that littered the desk.
“Find a story if it’s there,” she said. “Do it for her legacy.”
I spent the next four hours at Jane’s desk. At first I read everything-magazine articles on a missing person’s case in Tahoe, lists of people to interview in a large product liability case. But even after the cops had picked through her research, there still wasn’t enough time to read it all in one sitting. Jane might not have been writing her own stories for years, but she had clearly put in a lot of work in the last few months.
I decided instead to organize piles based on topics-the Tahoe case, the product liability one, the trial of a celeb in L.A. for domestic assault. No mention of Jackson Prince.
Had the cops confiscated anything like that?
I managed to shape the desktop into a field of small piles based on general topics. As I did so, I unearthed a large number of pages printed from Web sites, all of them about class action cases and how plaintiffs opted into certain lawsuits, particularly medical cases. This was the same topic Jane had been questioning Jackson Prince about. I felt a flicker of excitement as I found more and more material on the topic, most of it about how advertisements would target potential plaintiffs. But then I got frustrated. There was nothing specific about the King Pharmaceuticals case or about Prince. Again, I wondered if the cops had taken that stuff. Or maybe Jane had kept such notes in her computer. The one the cops had.
I opened the desk drawers and looked inside. In the top left drawer, I found a small photo of Jane and Zac. She was looking at him, her eyes adoring, while he was looking at the camera, his hand around her shoulder. The photo was encapsulated in a tiny red alligator frame.
I went through the other drawers, finding some cosmetics, an extra pair of shoes, some hair products, office supplies. But there was no more research. No notebooks telling me Prince had done something wrong. I decided to take home the information on class action cases and read it over.
I pulled open the drawer with office supplies, found a manila file folder and started putting the class action material in there. As I did so, I noticed some notes in Jane’s handwriting on the back of one of the pages.
I turned the sheet over. Fifteen names were written there in a list, toward the bottom of the page. The first was Carina Fariello. The next ones were Rick Dexter, Jerry Hay, Trace Ritson, Angela Hamilton-Wood. The list went on.
I took it with me to the cubicle Tommy Daley assigned me on Monday. Compared to Jane’s desk, it was barren except for the computer an
d TV monitors.
I looked up the names on the list on Google. I got nothing for Carina Fariello. I found entries for a number of different men named Rick Dexter. Jerry Hay was a physician. Same for Trace Ritson, who appeared to be a rheumatologist from South Carolina. Hamilton-Wood was also a rheumatologist. As I typed in the rest of the names, most appeared to be doctors. I found a physician locator Web site and typed in all fifteen names, one by one. With the exception of Carina Fariello, whose name I didn’t find, all were physicians. All rheumatologists.
I used the computer to look up rheumatology. Rheumatism is a term used to describe any painful disorder affecting the loco-motor system including joints, muscles, connective tissues, and soft tissues around the joints and bones. Basically rheumatologists, the site said, dealt frequently with arthritis and prescribed treatment for the disease-like the drug Ladera, the one made by King Pharmaceuticals.
I thought of Jane questioning Prince about whether he obtained medical records to learn if certain patients had taken the drug Ladera and, therefore, could be members of a class.
But there was nothing about Jackson Prince on this list.
I went back to Jane’s desk, picked up her phone and started to dial Grady’s number. Grady worked in the medical malpractice department of Baltimore & Brown, my old firm. He defended doctors and had represented some physicians as part of class action cases. He was the perfect person to ask about the topic.
But then there was the last time I’d seen Grady-at the Old Town Ale House. I felt strange now, calling only because I needed something.
Before I could decide whether to call, an intern came up to me. “Izzy, you have a visitor,” he said. “Some guy named John Mayburn. He’s outside.”
“Thanks.” I had forgotten he was coming by to pick up Maggie’s pearl thong. I put it in my purse, along with my cell phone and the list of names from Jane’s research.
Outside, Mayburn was standing on the cracked front sidewalk, his hands in the pockets of a leather jacket.
“I thought this was some big news outfit,” he said, glancing with disdain at the building.
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