by Julie Kramer
Neither of us mentioned Toby, so I was under the impression he had not said anything to Noreen about his role in the fatal wind bombing. Being an accused murderess myself, I didn’t have the influence or evidence to call anyone else a killer.
Meanwhile, in Mexico, the butterflies were running late. And Sophie had been told to just sit back and wait for the monarch migration.
CHAPTER 43
Under the circumstances, I wanted to shut down my Face-book page. But Benny thought that might make me look guilty.
“Just don’t discuss the case with anyone—in person or online,” he warned me. “The police could be posing as ‘friends’ just to get you to talk.”
Noreen considered my notoriety the opportunity of a lifetime.
I just hoped the whole ordeal didn’t hand me a lifetime in prison. An ex-con once told me prison wasn’t nearly as bad as the first hours of jail. Especially not women’s prisons. But I wasn’t buying it. Behind bars is behind bars. I’d always joked that I was just one felony away from thinner thighs, but suddenly I saw the merit in diet and exercise.
Now everybody on Facebook was requesting my cyber friendship. Having a nefarious friend gave them bragging rights. It was like saying Squeaky Fromme went to prom with your uncle.
As a news anchor, I had plenty of time to confirm computer friends. And my number neared three thousand. I wasn’t sure how those related to the glory days of 40-share TV ratings, but I knew I had more friends than Clay. And so did he.
When I logged on, I saw one of his Texas gal pals had friended me back after I’d poached her off his list. She’d also sent me a personal message. Puzzling.
“I see you work at the same television station as Clay Burrel. I’m a friend of his wife’s and have been trying to get in touch with her. Have you by any chance met?”
Her name was Sally Oaks. According to her profile she was twenty-seven, worked at a small library, and had a pet cat. She posted several pictures of the cat on her Facebook page. It was calico. She also posted covers of the books she was reading. Currently, it was a best-selling tearjerker that showed bare feet on sand.
This was awkward.
Not wanting to get involved in dissecting a shaky marriage for a third party, I sent her a reply suggesting she talk to Clay directly.
Let him explain his own troubles. I had enough of my own.
Meanwhile Xiong was helping me add video to my Facebook page and teaching me how to do it myself so I didn’t keep bothering him.
“Go to hell,” he said suddenly.
I was surprised to hear such strong language from him. The comment was uncharacteristic. I didn’t think I’d done anything to deserve it and told him so.
“Bastard,” he replied.
“Knock it off,” I said.
“Target dirtbag.”
“What’s wrong with you, Xiong?”
“Not me,” he said. “You.” He pointed to my bulletin board, at the surveillance photo of Daisy carrying my flowers, plus the collection of her mysterious messages.
He explained that the first letter of each word spelled out a hidden code. The one by Sam’s grave—“God Overpowers Those Outside His Extended Limitless Love”—GO TO HELL. The funeral bouquet—“Be Assured Sam Took A Righteous Direction”—BASTARD. And the one she sent to me—“Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip”—TARGET DIRTBAG.
Daisy is such a harmless-sounding name, but names can be deceiving. I didn’t know what these messages meant, but I knew I needed to have a talk with her.
I was used to being tired when I got home from work; anchoring the late news made me wired instead. The kind of wired that made me want to play Ping-Pong, except I didn’t have a Ping-Pong table, or an opponent. If it wasn’t the middle of the night, and I wasn’t going through a scared-of-the-dark phase, I’d have gone running outside.
I wished I had a dog to walk. Or a man to walk with.
My cell phone vibrated; Garnett’s number came on the screen. I didn’t know what to say, so to buy time, I let the call roll to voice mail. Except he didn’t leave any message.
That steamed me, so I called him back. And he must have let it roll to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message, either. I hung up, set the phone down, and stared at it like it was a test I hadn’t studied for.
Thirty seconds later Garnett called back, and I picked up.
He spoke first. “What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.”
Those were the last words I had said to his face before he turned his back on me down at the wind farm. But instead of responding with Cool Hand Luke movie trivia, I replied, “And whose fault is that?”
There was a long pause on the line. “I’ve been waiting for you to call,” he said.
“You’ve been waiting for me? I’ve been in jail. I’ve been in court. I’ve been through hell. Where have you been?” The fact that I still cared so much surprised me.
“Hey, I thought you wanted me to stay away. You were pretty clear that you didn’t want people to see us together. You thought that would make things worse. With all the media swarming, I figured you’d feel even more strongly that way.”
He sort of had a point. But he still should have known better.
“I thought if I showed up,” he continued, “the police might go even harder on you just to prove they weren’t playing favorites.”
I informed him that the cops couldn’t go any harder on me than they already had.
“I’m so sorry, Riley.”
“You should have called.”
“I’m calling now.”
I was trying to decide whether now was just in time or too late.
“I can be there tomorrow,” he said.
I yearned to say yes, but deep down, I suspected that tomorrow was too late. And I told him so. I think I set it up as a test. To see if he loved me enough to come anyway.
CHAPTER 44
If being targeted for ridicule by Sam was bad, it was nothing compared to the national gossip rags. To be fair, as a professional journalist, I could understand how a television anchor accused of murder might be newsworthy. But the coverage went viral overnight, even in the mainstream media.
My anchor efforts were posted on YouTube and scored the number of views usually reserved for controversial reality-show contestants or unusual pets.
And my snickering mug shot was everywhere.
Wall-to-wall satellite trucks were parked outside the station so all the network morning news shows and cable channels could go live with updates about Murder in America’s Heartland.
Because I wasn’t allowed to talk about the case, Noreen did several live interviews explaining that the station kept me on the air because of a patriotic belief in “innocent until proven guilty.”
“What about ratings?” she was asked. “Isn’t putting a murder suspect in the anchor chair just an unprincipled stunt to increase your numbers?”
It was for the best that I wasn’t doing any interviews, because I would probably have screamed back something like, “Do you idiots think I’d kill a human being to help the station’s ratings?” But their answer might have taken the discussion down an uncomfortable path.
Noreen had a much smoother reply. “Channel 3 prides itself on impartial news coverage. Viewers can rely on us for objective reporting. We believe everyone deserves their day in court and are prepared to take whatever action is appropriate at that time.”
The media appeal of my case came down to it being a slow week for celebrity dirt (Tiger Woods hadn’t had his tree/SUV accident yet), and no famous people died. So the National Enquirer put me on the cover, running a handcuff photo they bought from the Minneapolis newspaper. Normally, traditional media organizations shun tabloids and their checkbooks. But during a media meltdown, integrity has a price. I’d heard a rumor that the Minneapolis paper got twenty grand. That was the kind of detail Sam would have nailed in his column had it not involved his own employer.
The scandal sheet’s headline read media murderer wins ratings. “Alleged Media Murderer,” I wanted to shout.
The Globe published gossip grudge leads to murder.
Again, “Alleged Murder.” Or “Murder Charges.” In neither case was I in any position to demand a correction.
I imagined the graphic designers preferred not to clutter up the covers with extra words. I also imagined their media attorneys vetted the copy knowing I’d never actually sue them, because I needed to budget for my criminal defense.
Inside, the Globe ran a sidebar interview with the first boy I’d ever kissed. We once climbed to the top of the water tower in town and talked for hours under the moon. I read the item eagerly until I got to the part where he told them he had a hunch way back then that I could be dangerous and that’s why he dumped me. I had recalled being the dumper in that relationship. Again, I was in no position to insist on a correction, from either them or him.
People magazine showed better news judgment. Their cover raised the question of whether Kanye West was a jackass and included only a small inset of my mug shot in the cover corner. I considered rewarding their discretion with an exclusive interview, should I ever be able to talk. But by then, the odds of them remaining interested in me were dismal.
My mom and her Red Hat ladies were making a scrapbook of all the coverage to give me for a Christmas present.
What really bothered me was that I was being portrayed as a sociopath … psychopath … even lunatic. Sam was being painted as a victim. And not just a murder victim, either. A First Amendment martyr.
A pile of flowers, American flags, and photographs of Sam made a giant memorial in front of the Minneapolis newspaper offices. In the middle was an old typewriter. Beside it was a familiar crystal vase full of spectacular wildflowers. The card read “Those Remaining Are Irate Though Often Regretful.”
I took a picture with my cell phone but didn’t need Xiong to tell me the message spelled TRAITOR.
TARGET DIRTBAG. BASTARD. GO TO HELL. TRAITOR.
“I’d like a bouquet of wildflowers,” I said, walking into the floral shop before my news shift.
Daisy immediately recognized me and put down an almost-finished Sudoku puzzle. Baby Jimmy watched in a playpen with his thumb in his mouth, holding a stuffed white teddy bear.
“Why don’t you tell me about you and Sam?” I didn’t offer up that Jeremy had already briefed me.
She starting making wedding corsages as we spoke. The story she told was similar to his. After being deceived and dumped, she saw no reason to tell Sam she was pregnant.
“I never wanted to see him again.”
I didn’t point out that now she didn’t have to. But I did ask what prompted her to reach out to me.
“I wish I’d thrown a drink in his face,” she said. “So when you did, I wanted to give you an ‘atta girl.’”
I told her if I could take back that drink, I would. And if I could raise a baby with his father, I would. And if I could go back and introduce my most recent love to my parents, I would.
“My life is full of regrets,” I said.
“You have to also make it full of hope.” She picked up Jimmy and hugged him tight. I watched closely, trying to understand what might motivate Daisy, as both a mother and a murderer.
“Raising a child alone is a huge challenge,” I said. “Weren’t you tempted to make Sam share the cost at least?”
“I didn’t want his money.”
Just then the phone rang, and it sounded like an order for a green plant to be delivered to a hospital. Daisy handed her little boy to me as she wrote down the details. He and I stared at each other. As far as I could tell, he didn’t have Sam’s piercing eyes or big mouth.
“I didn’t kill your dad,” I said as I bounced him in my arms.
His mom hung up the phone fast and took him back from me. But I felt I had scored a victory. She never would have let me hold her baby if she thought I was a cold-blooded murderer.
I handed her pictures of her flower notes with the codes written underneath. TARGET DIRTBAG. BASTARD. GO TO HELL. TRAITOR.
I didn’t say anything because I wanted her to speak first. But all she said was that she needed to get back to work and that it was time for me to leave.
Clearly she hadn’t wanted Sam’s money while he was alive. Perhaps she decided his death would make it bearable.
• • •
That night when I drove up to my garage, my headlights shined on a vase of flowers sitting in front of the door. I got out of my car to move them so I could park. The bouquet was Daisy’s signature arrangement. The note merely said, “I hated him, but I didn’t kill him.” This time there was no hidden code.
I wasn’t sure what to believe.
CHAPTER 45
One of the jobs of Channel 3’s phone operators is to keep written logs of viewer complaints. I think it’s an FCC rule. Sometimes people complain about explicit violence on a prime-time show. Other times they fuss about talent, hair, or clothing in a newscast.
The main focus of complaints, the last couple days, was me behind the anchor desk. “Trashy.” “Insulting.” “Offensive.” But because the ratings continued upward in our favor, Noreen ignored all the adjectives, figuring our competitors to be the source behind them.
One call it would have been better not to ignore was from a viewer named Lois Tregobov. Rubbish, is how she summed me up. Turned out to be Judge Tregobov, the same one I faced after throwing the drink in Sam’s face. The one who, on any ordinary day, hated the media with the same passion as any conservative radio talk-show host.
But her grumbling got buried along with that of folks miffed that our meteorologist didn’t predict approaching rain and others mad about some line in a political story they considered too liberal.
So it was a surprise when my attorney, Benny Walsh, stopped by the station to check if I had any boots and work gloves. “Judge Tregobov is insisting you do your community service garbage pickup duty tomorrow.”
Noreen was irritated by my sudden unavailability to read the day’s news. “That’s a Thursday. Don’t these sentences usually take place on weekends?”
“Often work schedules are considered,” Benny admitted, “but the judge thinks a day off the anchor desk is just the lesson Riley needs.”
“You’re supposed to be such a hotshot attorney,” Noreen said. “Can’t you get this changed?”
Benny shook his head. “Judge Tregobov is insistent.”
“What about the station? This is only penalizing us. Why should her employer suffer?”
“Normally, that is taken into account, but the judge actually thinks Channel 3 needs to learn a lesson as well. So the less you say, the better.”
I could tell Noreen didn’t like the sound of that. “So Riley’ll miss the early shows but should be back in time for the late newscast, right?” Noreen asked.
The ten o’clock had the most viewers and the highest ad rates. And my boss didn’t care that I’d be stiff, sore, and smelly from hauling trash.
“Certainly she’ll be done in time for the ten,” Benny said. “No way they’ll make her pick up garbage past sunset.”
I actually didn’t mind the idea of a day off the anchor desk, I’d just have rathered any scoops I made be news—not filth. Especially when Benny explained that I was to report for cleanup duty the next morning on Boom Island, along the muddy Mississippi.
I knew the assignment was going to stink.
Liquor bottles, used condoms, hey, once human body parts even washed up on shore after being caught in the St. Anthony Dam.
• • •
A city employee handed out orange fluorescent vests, giant garbage bags, and long trash tongs to me and a dozen other minor lawbreakers, then split us up into groups of three.
“Now get busy” was the order.
My garbage team immediately recognized me from the news and felt lucky to be on assignment with me. To them, my presence made the chor
e more of a perk than a punishment.
“Can I have your autograph afterward?” asked a plus-size woman named Thelma.
“Sure,” I replied.
Thelma was there for a drunk-driving offense. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat, she seemed a trifle wobbly but sober enough to spear trash.
Our other colleague, Mitch, had just had his second conviction for shoplifting. He bragged about being a pro at litter cleanup, having done it once before.
“Try to do most of your reaching with the tongs.” He demonstrated for us. “Less bending you do, less sore you’ll be at the end of the day.”
Because the end of the day could have been six hours away, that was useful advice. Our trio developed a system to pick up debris along the river’s edge. Occasionally, we’d come across a real mushy item popular with maggots, so we’d do Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine whose turn it was to clutch the junk.
The station sent a photographer to shoot some quick video of me to explain to viewers why I wasn’t on the news set.
((ANCHOR, CU))
RILEY SPARTZ IS ON
ASSIGNMENT TODAY.
((VID NAT SOT))
SHE’S OFF HELPING
CLEAN THE ENVIRONMENT.
SHE’LL BE COLLECTING
TRASH ALONG THE
MISSISSIPPI RIVER
AS PART OF A COMMUNITY
SERVICE PROJECT … BUT
WILL BE BACK IN TIME FOR
THE NEWS AT TEN.
Our rival stations were in a quandary. Normally they’d have liked to remind viewers that I was a criminal scofflaw, but currently that sort of journalism just seemed to backfire against them in the ratings. So the only other camera on the scene was the newspaper’s. I could only imagine the cutline under the photo to be something along the lines of “Trashy reporter right where she belongs.”
Thelma and Mitch delighted in the prospect that they might end up on television if they stuck close to me. I tried telling them being on TV isn’t always a coup.
“How are you going to explain your criminal record to your friends?” I pointed out.