Relieved at last to be in a quiet room, Enrique rocked lazily back into his leather chair and crossed his feet atop the corner of his desk. He knew about Denise's agreement to go on the tube tomorrow morning, which meant that she wouldn't sleep the entire night. Instead, she'd spend the night preparing for her two and a half minutes in the spotlight. As her producer, sounding board and designated hand-holder, he knew that, like it or not, sleep was not in the cards for him, either.
If any rest lay in his immediate future, it would be during the next couple of hours, while Denise was basking in her recent glory. It wouldn't be till 2:00 A. M. that her serious self-doubt would materialize, and that's when his real work would begin. He'd never understand why she kept doing this to herself. Before drifting off for his power nap, he checked his watch. It was 5:03.
Enrique nearly fell backwards when his sleep was shattered by a ringing phone. His watch now read 5:08, and he prayed that it had stopped working.
"I thought I turned you off," he grumped at the phone, but by the second ring, he realized that it wasn't the 800 line. It was Denise's private line. By the third ring, it was clear that she wasn't going to answer it herself, so he snatched it to his ear. "Bitch," he answered. It was the usual one-word salutation to callers, but this time it seemed to ring with emotion.
The female voice on the other end of the line was at once cordial and efficient. "Mr. Dorfman calling for Ms. Carpenter."
Enrique's feet shot to the floor, and he was instantly wide awake. "One moment, please," he said. Ronald Dorfman was president of Omega Broadcasting. Headquartered in New York, Omega was the company that syndicated Denise's show and wrote their paychecks. In all the five years that The Bitch had been on the air, Mr. Dorfman had never called the show personally. Whether his presence on the phone was good news or bad, he had no way of telling. But one thing was certain: he needed to find his boss right now.
As he'd expected, Enrique found Denise at the coffee pot, accepting kudos from a group that rarely showed interest in the work she did-the news staff.
A card-carrying pessimist at heart, Denise naturally assumed that she was in trouble. Unlike Enrique, Denise had, in fact, spoken with Mr. Dorfman twice: once on the day she signed her syndication contract, and a second time when a caller pushed her a little too hard and her language exceeded FCC standards by a significant margin. That latest occasion was three years ago, and since then she'd been perfectly content to limit her contact with the Big Guy to the sterile holiday greetings he sent to all on-air personalities at Christmas.
Three minutes after Enrique had pushed the hold button, Denise was on the line. "Hello, this is Denise Carpenter," she said, her voice full of business, and totally devoid of the talk host jive. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting."
"Not at all, Ms. Carpenter," the secretary said. "Please hold for Mr. Dorfman?'
So now it was Denise's turn to wait. Enrique sat anxiously on the worn sofa across the tiny office from her desk. There were many perks in radio, and countless ways to stroke the substantial egos of on-air talent, but among these was not plush office space. Hers was little more than a cubicle, ten by ten feet, if you cheated a little with the yardstick. The walls were adorned with pictures, mostly of or painted by her children. There was no degree to post, no brag wall in the traditional sense of lawyers and doctors. Her bragging rights belonged to her single-handed rise through the ranks to command a top-rated show. As she waited for Mr. Dorfman to pick up her line, she sent up a private prayer that she hadn't inadvertently done something to risk all of this.
"Good afternoon, Denise, this is Ron Dorfman." His tone was quite friendly, causing Denise's shoulders to slump a little, a visible sign of relief that made Enrique relax as well. "It's been a very long time since we talked. How have you been?"
"Really quite well, Ron, thanks for asking. The show seems to be doing rather well."
The smile stayed in her boss's boss's boss's voice. "Indeed it has," Dorfman agreed. "In fact, I had the opportunity to listen to you today. Please don't take offense, but with my job, I really don't get that opportunity very often:' She could tell that he was talking around his ever-present stogie.
"Oh, I certainly understand?' Her shoulders tensed again, bringing Enrique to the edge of his cushion. This was going somewhere.
"This business with the boy who killed the prison guard. Tell me what you think about it."
"I think it's great radio," she said without hesitating. It was the answer she thought he wanted to hear.
"No, that's not what I mean. What do you think about the situation?"
Denise's instincts told her to fall into a defensive mode, justifying her decision to talk with Nathan on the air. But she opted to hold back instead; to feel out Dorfman's purpose for calling. "If you're asking me if I think he's telling the truth, the answer is, yes, I do."
"And why do you think that? There's an awful lot of people out there who don't agree with you."
"With all due respect, Ron, those people haven't been calling our station."
"Trust me on this, Denise. There are people, and then there are people. The ones who wear badges don't agree with you, and they're making their positions to that effect very well known here in New York." There was nothing at all adversarial in his voice. "Now, please, tell me why you believe the young man's story."
Denise looked to Enrique, who, of course, had no idea what was being said. How do you answer a question like why? How do you sum up a feeling, an intuition, in a way that would make sense to the head of a seven-hundred-million-dollar corporation? Put in the same situation, a child would respond with the most honest answer of all: "Because." But that wasn't the kind of answer Ron was looking for, was it? She shrugged and stammered a bit as she tried to find the words.
"That's a tough question to answer, Ron," she tried, hoping for a reprieve.
"I understand. Take your time."
He was not going to let her off the hook. "Pardon me for being so unscientific," she said at last, "but the main reason I believe him is because I have kids around the same age, and I just know when they're lying. His telling of the story was just too . . . real."
Dorfman was quiet for a moment as he considered the answer. "And if we accept that he is, in fact, telling the truth, what does that mean in the grand scheme of things?"
Denise was ready for this. "It means that there are a whole lot of policemen wandering around northern Virginia scouring the countryside for an 'escapee' who never had any choice but to run away. I'm not sure what the grand scheme of things is, but I know where my sympathies lay. Nobody-not even Nathan-disputes the basic events, that he killed the supervisor and ran away. What's in play here is who really is the murderer and who is the victim. Sometimes you can't tell that merely by counting who's standing and who's laying down."
There was a deep sigh on the other end of the phone, perhaps a drag on the cigar. "Very eloquently put," Ron Dorfman said at length. "And I agree with you. I had the same feeling, but it's been so long since I've been around twelve-year-olds that I needed some affirmation from a second source. It was a sensational interview."
Denise would have thanked him, but she sensed there was another shoe to drop. She didn't have to wait long.
"A New York State Trooper was in my office just a half hour ago to present me with a summons to appear at the Braddock County Courthouse (wherever that is) tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock to argue against an emergency petition filed by one J. Daniel Petrelli, Commonwealth's Attorney for Northern Virginia. Seems they want to have access to our telephone records. What do you think about that?"
Once again, Denise was at a loss as to the right answer, so once again, she opted for honesty. It had been working pretty well so far.
"I think it stinks, Ron." Hearing those words out of context, Enrique nearly fell off the sofa, certain that Denise had finally lost her mind. "You said you listened to the show today. Did you hear my conversation with the policeman?"
Dorfman chuc
kled. "Yes, I did. And I'd be real careful not to be caught speeding any time in the next couple of years."
"Well, I think I stated my position pretty clearly then."
"And so you did. But Denise, I want you to understand what the stakes are here. First of all, our attorneys tell me that your First Amendment argument is viable only if the government is put in a position to compel us to hand over the records. If we simply agree to do so, then that whole argument is moot. Follow me so far?"
"Yes, I suppose. But Ron-"
"Hear me out." He sounded like a CEO now, his words delivering a direct order. "The attorneys also tell me that if we refuse to allow access to the records, and we prevail in the court proceedings, we open ourselves up to enormous civil liabilities if the kid turns out truly to be a murderer and he goes forth to do it again. All of this before we even try to calculate the public relations disaster that would result from that turn of events:' He paused a long moment to let his words settle in Denise's brain.
"So here's where we stand," Dorfman summarized. "On the one hand, we have an obligation to the greater good, to assist the police in their efforts to protect society, and to bring an admitted killer to justice. On the other hand, we have an ethical obligation to ourselves and to our industry to protect that which is ours, if only on principle. You can probably guess what the legal department wants me to do, but you're the one who talked to the boy. You're the one who got us into this. I want to hear what you think we should do:'
This wasn't fair! Denise wasn't an executive, never wanted to be.
She was a talk show host, nothing more and nothing less. She wasn't paid to carry this _ sort of burden. Where did Dorfman get off unloading this on her shoulders?
As quickly as the protests flashed through her brain, they were followed by the answers. She had forced him into a crack. She had taken such pleasure defending the high ground against attacks from that cop, Thompkins, that she'd left Dorfman with no "wiggle room," no face-saving route of escape or compromise. And she'd done it in front of millions of people. Suddenly she was filled with admiration for her great-grand boss. He wasn't even angry at her for pushing him into a very public corner. He was, however, waiting for her answer.
"Ron, I think you might have missed one important issue here," she said carefully. "I know what the legal department says, and everything you said makes sense, but this is bigger than just our rights versus the rights of the community. There's a scared little kid in the mix here. Maybe my emotions have been sucked deeper into this than they should have, but my heart really goes out to that boy. I want to hold his hand and help him out of this. But I can't do that. I can't do anything to help him at all. I guess . . . Dammit, Ron, the odds are stacked too high against him. He's just one little boy trying to fight a losing battle, and it just doesn't seem fair to give them access to computer records when they already hold all the cards." There, she said it. And she sounded just like an irrational, overly emotional woman.
Ron chuckled. "You'll forgive me if we don't present that argument in court," he said. While the words were patronizing, the message was not. Another deep draw on the cigar, followed by a long, measured exhalation. "Well, Denise, here's what we're going to do tomorrow. I'm going to bet my job, and yours, and a substantial chunk of this company's assets, on the assumption that this boy is telling the truth, and that he will not, in fact, embark on a multistate crime spree. We'll argue to the court that our telephone records are private, and that we won't share them with anyone."
Denise was stunned. It was not what she'd anticipated. Able to think of nothing more profound, she simply said, "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This might be the stupidest decision I've ever made."
"It's certainly one of the most courageous?' The words came directly from her heart.
This time, it was Dorfman who was caught off guard. "Why, thank you, Denise," he said. "We chief executives don't get to hear things like that very often." He cleared his throat. "Listen, you did a good job today. I appreciate it. Hope you sleep better tonight than I will:' He hung up, leaving Denise staring at her phone.
Enrique couldn't stand it anymore. "Well?" he insisted.
A huge smile blossomed on Denise's face. "He said we did a good job."
Chapter 15
JDC Superintendent Harold Johnstone went ballistic at the very notion that Sergeant Hackner would believe such slander about one of his most loyal and effective employees. "I heard what that little bastard had to say on the radio this morning, and every word of it is a lie. Ricky Harris worked at this facility for five years, and had a spotless record. I will not allow you to defame the-"
Hackner cut him short with a quick gesture of his hand. "We're not defaming anyone, Mr. Johnstone. We're simply asking questions." In the manner of most police officers on official business, Hackner referred to himself in the first person plural.
"Then you should know that your questions are offensive," Johnstone retorted. He was a big man, at least sixty pounds overweight, who apparently bought his clothes hoping that one day he'd fit into them comfortably. His shirt collar was perpetually open, with his tie cinched as tight as the girth of his neck would allow. The buttons on his shirt strained to the point of causing danger to anyone sitting in front of him. A walrus mustache completely concealed his upper lip. Large, flapping jowls completed the image of a bureaucrat who'd been in his position a few years longer than he should have.
Even though he'd repeatedly relearned the evils of judging books by their covers, Hackner found it difficult to muster respect for this man.
"Mr. Johnstone," Jed said measuredly, clearly annoyed at the irrelevance of all of this, "you may take offense if you wish, or you can answer the questions in the spirit in which they're offered. I really don't care. Either way, there are issues that remain unresolved, and it's my job to resolve them. Your job is to cooperate. Unless, of course, you have something to hide." Hackner couldn't resist that last jab. Johnstone was one of those guys who was simply fun to piss off.
The superintendent rose from his chair, using his arms to lift at least half of the load. "How dare you imply that I'm somehow culpable-"
Hackner waved him off again, instantly sorry that he'd goaded him further off the subject. "Sit down, sit down. I'm sorry about that last comment. It's been a long day."
Johnstone studied Hackner's face for a long moment, gauging the other man's sincerity. Hackner was well-practiced at concealing his real thoughts, so Johnstone was appeased.
"Indeed, it has been a very long day," Johnstone said, returning to his seat. "This entire episode has been very unsettling. Nathan Bailey killed a fine supervisor whom I will miss a great deal:'
Hackner's eyes narrowed considerably. "You know, that sentiment is a substantial departure from what we've been led to believe."
Johnstone frowned. "After the lies that Nathan told on the radio, I don't wonder that you feel that way."
Hackner shifted in his seat. He sensed that there was a game being played here, the rules of which he was only dimly aware. Johnstone was certainly smart enough to know that Nathan's allegations would make a huge splash in the press, and that his career trajectory would ultimately be determined by the public's perception of how he ran his little domain. He had every reason in the world to equivocate.
"Why was Nathan placed in the Crisis Unit last night?"
Johnstone looked embarrassed. "I'm afraid we can only conjecture. Ricky hadn't had a chance to write any notes before he was murdered." His choice of words demonstrated that he, too, knew how to goad a potential adversary. "My guess is that there was some sort of behavior problem."
"Did the other kids notice any behavior problem?"
Johnstone chuckled and shook his head.
Now the fat fuck is patronizing me, Hackner thought.
"Sergeant Hackner," Johnstone explained, "in this facility, we use a lot of euphemisms in an effort to project our mission as something less . . . well, disturbing than it really
is. We are, in fact, a prison. Our residents are really inmates, our housing units are really cell blocks and our supervisors are really guards. We know this, you and I, because we are part of the system. But it makes us feel better somehow to think of this place as a sleepover camp for disadvantaged children. It is no such thing. Even the children are not children, in the sense that people in the world think of them. They are human flotsam, assigned here by the courts because society doesn't want them anymore. In this place, a behavior problem becomes a very relative term. In your world a fight among kids in the hallway in school is a behavior problem. Here, it's an everyday occurrence. I don't ask our kids questions about other kids' behavior. Not only would I not believe their answers, but I wouldn't put them in a position of having to give information to me. To do so may well involve them in a behavior problem from which they would not be able to walk away."
"So, what's your point?'
"My point is that you can't believe what the residents tell you, and that to solicit their input is an exercise in futility."
Jed couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Right or wrong, then, your staff is always right."
Johnstone considered the statement for a long moment before buying into it. Then, "In a word, yes."
"Jesus Christ, Johnstone, you're inviting corruption!" Hackner protested. "You're telling me that your staff can do whatever they please, and as long as they hide it well, that's okay with you."
Johnstone slammed his fist on his desk, sending a ripple through the surface of his abundant torso. "Don't lecture me, Sergeant. Open your eyes. This whole system is corrupt already! We pretend there is hope for these kids when there is no such thing. We use words and phrases to soften realities that no one wants to face. These kids are animals, Hackner. Animals. And we are the fucking zookeepers. So, do I think the residents here lie? Yes, because they do. And do I accept what my staff tells me as true? Yes, because I have to. In a place like this, it's the only reality there is."
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