The sudden childhood memory jolts her, and Julia starts to sprint as if she could race fast enough to outrun the passage of time and warn her younger self to lock the door the night her older brother, Ben, was taken.
Julia finally reaches home, nowhere left to run. She drops onto the front step, looks up at the first soft lights of dawn finally penetrating through night’s heavy cloak of darkness, and chokes back a sob. She knows how to get through the pain. She always has. Julia pushes her emotions down deep and focuses on what she can control.
Her mind clicks off the pieces of the Rossi story she will have to assemble and file into some kind of compelling piece to run in the paper’s online edition before opening arguments. The facts will be the bones of her story: Nick Rossi’s illegal Detroit empire is believed to encompass hijacking and shipping stolen goods, mainly computers and electronics, illegal gambling, and drug trafficking. Both the feds and the Detroit PD had been trying to nail him for years. Rossi finally got busted in a city police sting courtesy of hidden cameras placed in the VIP suites of the MGM Grand Hotel. Images on the tapes showed payoffs to the former Detroit mayor and a city councilman, in addition to drug trafficking and cash exchanges for high-stakes gambling bets.
Julia kicks at the frozen ground with the toe of her sneaker and assembles the color elements she will add as sidebars to the main article, the ones that will make the story real to the readers and ultimately make them care: the seventeen-year-old West Bloomfield high school track star who overdosed and died at a party after he graduated that night from ecstasy to heroin for the first and final time, courtesy of Rossi’s stash. Then there is the story of Rossi himself, only nine years old when he witnessed the rape and murder of his mother during a home invasion while the young Rossi bore silent witness as he hid inside a closet and watched the horror unfold through a crack in the door. Since Rossi’s dad had taken off before his son was born, the young Rossi moved in with his uncle, Salvatore Gallo, who ran a moderately successful dry cleaning business with a small bookie operation on the side. Julia and Salvatore Gallo have history, and Julia makes a mental note to call Gallo before she gets to the courthouse to see if he’ll talk.
Julia’s cell phone buzzes inside her waist pack. She looks suspiciously at the phone. 6:15 a.m. Even as a reporter, no one calls that early unless it’s an emergency, and she knows David is still at the house with their boys, Logan and Will, who are sound asleep. She is about to hit the ignore button but stops at the last second when she recognizes the number. Gavin Boyles, the acting mayor’s chief of staff. The other piece of color she needs for the story.
“Gooden here. You’re lucky I’m up.”
“You told me you ran at dawn, so I figured I’d catch you before you got into the newsroom,” Boyles answers. “I checked online a few minutes ago, and I didn’t see your story posted yet.”
“It’ll be up later today. Do you have something for me?”
Boyles, a former TV news anchor before he became a flack, still has the oozing, ultrasmooth voice of a game show host. Julia met him ten years earlier at the scene of a major fire that obliterated a Detroit high-rise and eighteen of its residents who were trapped inside. Boyles showed up late and asked Julia if he could take a look at her notes and she could debrief him on the situation.
“Always working the story, that’s why you’re so good,” Boyles says.
“You’re too kind,” Julia answers, and plays the pleasantry game while she waits for Boyles to cut through the bullshit.
“Are you including Mayor Anderson in the story?
“Acting Mayor Anderson?” Julia asks.
“Semantics. We’d prefer not to have Mayor Anderson’s name mentioned unless it pertains to how he is working tirelessly to turn the city around since former mayor Slidell’s indictment for his involvement in the Rossi case. If you write another story about how Slidell took bribes from Rossi to shut him up, you’re doing a disservice to the people of the city. Detroit has suffered enough, don’t you think? You could turn this into a positive story.”
“And how has Anderson turned the city around exactly?”
“Public perception. I want to share something with you. This is off the record for now, all right?”
“Of course,” Julia answers, and wonders whether the call might not be a complete waste of her time after all.
“Mayor Anderson will be holding a press conference today announcing a strategic task force dedicated solely to promoting all things positive in Detroit, including a volunteer-driven beautification project to help improve blight. It was my idea. Detroit is trying to make its way back. The residents don’t need a rehashing of another corrupt city official story.”
“Politics isn’t my beat.”
“Neither is business, but your articles are hurting the casinos. Detroit got gutted after the auto industry crashed, and God knows we can’t afford to take any more hits. There’s a responsibility, a fine line, we journalists need to ethically tow.”
“I’m still a journalist. Last I checked, you weren’t.”
On the other end of the phone, Boyles blasts an obnoxious guffaw.
“Always blunt, aren’t you? The press conference is scheduled for twelve-thirty on the steps of City Hall. I assume you’ll be available since the trial will break for lunch. Mayor Anderson specifically asked for you to be there.”
“Thank you for the invitation. I’ll run this by my managing editor and let her decide who to send. You know how this works. It’s not my call.”
“Got it. I’ll call Margie myself and put in the request. I’m surprised the paper is letting you cover the story when your husband is prosecuting it. Good for you, though. You won’t have to work as hard this time.”
Julia grits her teeth and forces herself to still play nice. She may need Boyles in the future.
“I always work hard.”
“I just meant . . .”
Julia cuts off Boyles before he can finish. “Thanks for the call and the heads up on the press conference.”
Julia gives her phone the finger, the sentiment she’d really like to give Boyles directly. Instead, she shuts her phone off and heads into the warmth of her house, which hits her like a blowtorch. She strips off her North Face jacket and then peels off her running pants and nylon shirt, which are sticking to her clammy skin. She frees her curly, dark brown hair from its ponytail and pads softly down the hall so as not to wake the boys. Inside the office, she leans over the desk and begins to search for her competitor’s coverage of the Rossi trial. She pulls up the Detroit News website and feels a tug in her stomach. In addition to a big picture preview story on the case, Julia knows the Detroit News reporter is writing a sidebar profile on David as first chair for the prosecution and his likely run for D.A. next year, a promise David made to himself after he gave up a lucrative private practice partnership six months earlier to become a public servant. Still standing, Julia bends down closer to the desk and begins to search whether the Detroit News found out about the surprise witness or, worse, if they got the name before she did.
“Nice view.”
Julia spins around to see David inside the office doorway. He is half-dressed for trial in a pair of blue slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt that hangs below his waist. Julia stares at his close-cropped blond hair he recently cut short for the case, finally losing his California laid-back surfer look and longer hair he had worn since Julia first met him ten years earlier.
“Do I know you, sir?” Julia asks.
“It’s the hair, isn’t it?”
“You look like a lawyer now.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You used to have a Matthew McConaughey look going,” she says.
“Not The Lincoln Lawyer, I’m guessing?”
“No, more Magic Mike or Surfer, Dude.”
“Never seen either of them,” David answers.
“You need to get going before the kids wake up and find you here. But it’s still early.�
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Julia pulls away from the desk, still in just her running bra and panties, and tries to slide inside David’s open shirt.
“I like your new look. It’s like I’m cheating on my husband with a preppy stockbroker or something. Despite the hair, I bet you still have moves that would make Magic Mike blush.”
“Sorry, babe. I have to get to the courthouse early. I don’t have time for a second shower either. It’s probably not a good idea for me to show up on the first day of the Rossi trial smelling like sex and my wife’s sweat.”
Julia, feeling suddenly exposed, spots one of David’s University of Michigan sweatshirts hanging on the back of the door and pulls it over her head.
“Thanks for making me feel like a leper. Did I do something wrong?”
“I need to stay focused on the case and my A game this morning without a hot reporter distracting me. It would probably help if I could sleep in my own bed without having to run out in the morning before the kids see me. When do you think I can move back in? I know all the employees at the Marriott Residence Inn so well at this point, the front desk manager invited me to her daughter’s wedding.”
“I just need to be sure. I don’t want the kids to get hurt if anything goes wrong again. Moving back to Rochester Hills to be near you is a good first step.”
“A typical Julia Gooden safe step, you mean. The kids are going to be happiest if we make it permanent and become a family again. I need to be back here with all of you. I’m not myself otherwise.”
“Let’s talk about it after the trial is over. I know it would mean a lot to the boys.”
“Is that the only reason? You are so damn romantic, Gooden,” David says. He pulls Julia close and then turns her around so her back is facing him.
“Are we about to play pin the tail on the donkey or is something kinky about to happen?”
“Neither. I bought you a present. Don’t turn around until I tell you.”
Julia waits impatiently as David digs inside his briefcase.
“Okay, you can turn around now,” David says, and hands Julia a small red box.
She feels a strum go off inside of her as she opens it and discovers a long silver necklace with a blue topaz in the center that glints against a shaft of morning light shining through the office window.
“It’s beautiful,” Julia says.
“I planned for the light to hit the necklace like that when you opened it, you know.”
“Sure, you did. Can you put it on?”
Julia pulls her dark, wavy hair away from her face, and David brushes his lips against the nape of her neck as he clasps the necklace in place. Julia looks at their loving reflection in the mirror, a seeming portrait of domestic bliss but with some deep, hidden fissures that she knows still lie beneath. Julia fights an urge to turn around and tell David that she wants him back for good, but she knows what broke their marriage the first time. After ten years of trying to help Julia get over the loss of her brother and his growing concerns for Julia’s hyper-overprotectiveness of their own children, David had walked. He packed up his suitcase one night after getting back from his practice and announced he was sick of trying to fix her. And following David’s brief and clandestine fling with another lawyer during their separation, trust needed to be re-earned.
Julia feels stiff under David’s embrace and stays firm in her resolve that she has to be certain about David moving back, not just for herself but mainly for Logan and Will. She won’t let them suffer the consequences if things don’t work this time, leaving them casualties of a failed marriage like those children who are reminded of their doomed status each weekend as their parents bicker bitterly during the ceremonial exchange of kids to ensure the court’s visitation rights are met.
“The necklace is beautiful,” Julia says.
“But it won’t buy me a key back into the house yet. I can deal with baby steps if that’s what you need.”
“I started to see Dr. Bruegger again. I actually think it’s helping.”
“The shrink? Aren’t you the one who called psychiatrists useless quacks who take advantage of people’s emotions and manipulate their thoughts by asking over and over, ‘How do you feel?’”
“Dr. Bruegger says if I let go of some of the pain and guilt over what happened to Ben, it doesn’t mean that I’m abandoning his memory. He says I can still love Ben without feeling the hurt that goes along with it.”
“That’s some serious progress. I’m proud of you, Julia.”
David pulls Julia into his arms and is about to kiss her when his cell phone sounds on the table. David groans as he looks at the incoming number.
“Sorry. I have to take this. It’s Don Brewbaker from the D.A.’s office.”
“Get your A game back. It’s okay,” Julia answers as David retreats to the hallway and away from her curious reporter’s earshot.
Julia thinks about her own A game on the Rossi coverage and returns to the computer to see what the Detroit News has on the story. A trickle of dread moves through her as she worries she’ll get beat, the cardinal sin and biggest downfall any reporter can face.
Julia feels a temporary reprieve as she finishes a quick scan of the headlines and doesn’t see a new story filed by her competitor. She plugs in a flash drive that contains all the information she’s gathered so far on the Rossi case and the bones of the story that she will fill in and file later, after opening arguments.
The dark star of the article is Rossi, the once poor, young boy who witnessed his mother’s rape and murder and was later adopted by Gallo. Julia pauses over an article about the mother’s funeral, including a photo that shows a grieving and very young Rossi, his shoulders stooped in front of his mother’s grave as Gallo’s arm is draped protectively around the boy.
Julia clicks through the rest of the material about Rossi. He returned to Detroit four years ago from California to take over the family business after Gallo suffered a series of heart attacks. The police and Feds believe Rossi expanded his uncle’s legitimate dry-cleaning business to a vast and powerful illegal empire.
Julia reviews her bulleted list that will run along with her main story.
Ten million: as in dollars, the annual estimated revenue Rossi reaps from his illegal and legitimate businesses each year.
Forty-two: Rossi’s age.
Zero: the number of times Rossi had been arrested until now.
Julia quickly scans another folder that contains pictures of Rossi, the handsome criminal caught smiling in thousand-dollar suits.
“I’ve got to head out and meet Brewbaker before seven,” David says as he reenters the office and leans over Julia’s shoulder. “Is that your story?”
“So far, but it’s got some holes. What’s the name? The witness who is going to flip on Rossi?” Julia asks without turning around.
“How do you know about that? Did Navarro tell you?”
“If Navarro told me, I’d know the name as well.”
David, still as strong as when he played lacrosse at Harvard, picks up Julia’s chair and turns her around to face him. He drops to his knees so their faces are level. His green eyes shine with anger and intensity as he looks into hers.
“Listen to me, Julia. I mean it,” David says in a sharp tone he’s rarely used with her before. “If the identity of this witness comes out before the trial, he’ll be killed. No question. I’m skating a razor-thin line here, and if I have to beg, I will. I’ve spent weeks trying to gather enough evidence to convict Rossi, and what I’ve got is circumstantial at best. Rossi is smart and didn’t leave a trail that could connect back to him. I gave the witness my word I’d protect him and his family in exchange for his testimony. That includes not leaking anything to the press.”
“The Detroit News can’t get this story before I do.”
“This isn’t about getting beat on a story. It’s about doing the right thing.”
“That’s the second time I heard that this morning,” Julia says. “The witness should be i
n protective custody, if he’s not already. The Feds should be handling this.”
“This is my case. The FBI had its chance to nail Rossi on hijacking and selling stolen goods, but they couldn’t. Now, stop digging around about my witness, understood?”
“It’s not my responsibility to protect your guy. I have a duty as a journalist to write the truth.”
“Bullshit. There’s no public good achieved in reporting the name of this witness ahead of his testimony. Whatever mighty responsibility you think you have, take a step back and really think about it.”
David puts his hand under Julia’s chin and lifts her face toward his so she can’t look away this time. “I know you. You’re a good person. You would never hurt someone on purpose. Please think about what you’re doing here.”
“Okay. I understand where you’re coming from, and I promise I’ll think about it,” Julia concedes.
“Maybe when this is all over, we can get away, just you and me. We can ask Helen if she’ll watch the boys overnight and we can escape to Mackinac Island. No cars, no kids. No distractions. Just us.”
“I’d like that.”
“I promise I’ll pull out my best Magic Mike moves.”
“So you’ve seen the movie?”
“On a flight once. It’s not a good thing for a guy to admit. I looked at it as merely research for my woman.”
“So do we need a code of conduct in the courtroom?” Julia asks as she swings back to reporter mode.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to approach you in the hallway to ask questions, just as I would if you were any other lawyer.”
David takes a moment to consider this as he buttons up his shirt and then begins to fasten a bright blue tie around his neck. “Good luck with that. The only comments anyone will get from me are written statements I’ll send to every member of the press and whatever is said if we hold a press conference after the trial. That’s it.”
“You know how to use the press. You may need to plant something, and I know you’ve done it before. Just don’t discount me. All I’m asking for is a fair playing field. And that blue tie is too monochromatic with your blue suit. You need some color,” Julia answers, and hands him a light gold tie with blue stars.
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