Live to Air

by Jeffrey L Diamond

  Ethan dropped the pictures on the table and scooped up the final batch, carefully looking at each one. Three wide shots showed Cynthia’s lifeless body, the Standard Grill in the background, and dozens of cops and lab techs hovering in the foreground. Ethan could see her arms and legs sticking straight out, but little else—a clean shot of the corpse blocked by all the activity going on around her. Walking back to his desk, he rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass. After angling a floor lamp to throw more light on the photos, he moved the magnifier back and forth but soon gave up. The images became too fuzzy. “Damn, why can’t I see any blood?” he said to himself, frustrated.

  He lit another cigarette and punched a number into his iPhone. “Hey, Mindy, it’s me.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Has David called the DA’s office yet?”

  “He’s just about to.”

  “I have another request. I’ve been poring over the crime scene photos. Most of them are pretty good, but there are only a couple of Cynthia, and I can’t see any blood. Tell David to ask them for close-ups of her body.”

  “Why is the blood so important, Ethan? We know Feodor shot her in the chest. It’s in the autopsy and in all the police reports.”

  “I know, but I wanna see what she looks like.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the missing ballistics report?” Mindy said, wondering out loud.

  “Maybe,” Ethan said, the wheels in his head spinning.

  “More proof for our attorneys?”

  “No. More proof for me.”

  “So you do have doubts about the case.”

  “Yeah. I guess I do,” Ethan said. “Have David talk to his contact and tell him not to send up any red flags that we have questions about the murder.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s careful.”

  “Good. Let’s talk after my meeting with O’Malley.” He hung up the phone and looked at his watch. Shit. Almost two o’clock. No time for lunch.

  He walked over to a another stack of file folders sitting on a chair and rifled through them until he found what he was looking for—a thick document bound by a rubber band—the transcript of Pavel Feodor’s confession. It was dated March 29, six days after the murder, and stamped with the official logo of the Sixth Precinct in Lower Manhattan. The names of two cops were clearly printed on the top of the first page—Officer Randy Tempko and Detective Edward Jenkins. So Jenkins was one of the cops who interrogated Feodor. That made sense. He was the lead detective and knew more about the murder than anybody.

  He pulled off the rubber band, sat back down at his desk, and flipped to the second page. Written on the bottom was a notation by the transcriber saying the confession had been videotaped. Ethan didn’t remember seeing a video in the court docket. Any videos for that matter. He picked up his iPad and added it to the list of things he needed to track down.

  Then he began to read.

  The first fifty pages were pretty straightforward, the interrogation handled mostly by Tempko, who asked a lot of background questions establishing where Feodor had grown up, where he lived, and about his history in and out of juvenile detention. The officer had done his homework and seemed to know everything about Feodor’s long criminal past. As he continued reading, he noticed that big sections of the transcript were blacked out. Somebody had redacted his copy of the document. But who and why? He wrote himself another reminder to request a clean copy.

  At the top of page 69, he finally found what he was looking for—Pavel Feodor’s account of the shootout and the murder:

  TEMPKO: I just want to make sure I’ve got your story straight. You were in the parking lot behind Fernelli’s in the Meatpacking District. You were with a bunch of guys you’d met earlier that night. Where did you say you met them?

  FEODOR: We’ve been going over this for hours. Are you guys stupid or something? I told you I met them in a bar. I have no idea who they are. We were drinking.

  TEMPKO: How many drinks did you have?

  FEODOR: I can’t remember. I was drunk.

  TEMPKO: Funny, there was no alcohol in your blood when they found you. I don’t believe you were drinking or in a bar that night.

  FEODOR: Believe what you want; that’s my story.

  TEMPKO: Fuck off, you little asshole! You’re a liar! We know you weren’t at a bar. Who were you really with? I’m tired of your stinking bullshit.

  FEODOR: I’m not talking anymore. This guy’s out of control. And besides, I’m hungry. I haven’t had any food or water since this morning. And my leg hurts. I need a break.

  JENKINS: No break, Pavel, but you can have some water. Randy, go get him a bottle. (Transcriber’s note: There’s a brief pause as Officer Tempko leaves the room.) Sorry about that. My partner sometimes gets a little hotheaded. So let’s pick up where we left off. You were in a bar where you met these guys, some random guys you didn’t know.

  FEODOR: You got it.

  JENKINS: What happened next?

  FEODOR: Man, I’ve told you over and over again. I’m sick of this. They told me they were going to buy some junk from some wetbacks they knew. They asked me if I wanted in on the deal. I said yes. It sounded like easy money. So we left the bar and went to Fernelli’s and waited for the Mexicans to arrive. That’s it. That’s how I ended up in the parking lot. End of story.

  JENKINS: What happened when the Mexicans got there? (Transcriber’s note: There’s another pause as Detective Tempko walks back into the room and hands Feodor a bottle of water.)

  FEODOR: I’m not answering any more questions if that guy stays in here. He’s crazy.

  JENKINS: Calm down, Pavel. Just talk to me. Forget about my partner. You and I have an understanding. I’m just trying to help you. I’ll ask the questions. What happened next?

  FEODOR: Man, I’ve told you. The Mexicans tried to cheat us and somebody started shooting and all hell broke loose.

  JENKINS: Did you fire your gun?

  FEODOR: Yeah, I fired it. Everybody did. I got one of the Mexicans in the arm, and then I ran after their cars and emptied my gun, but I didn’t hit nobody else.

  JENKINS: Did you see Cynthia Jameson on the corner?

  FEODOR: No. I didn’t see no girl.

  JENKINS: Did you kill her?

  FEODOR: No. How could I shoot her if I didn’t see her?

  JENKINS: Come on, Pavel, you’re not telling me the truth. We found you lying in the alley. You were holding a Beretta. We found the bullet that killed Cynthia. It came from your gun. You killed her. Tell me what happened.

  FEODOR: (Transcriber’s note: There’s a pause as Feodor takes a sip of water.) I don’t remember what happened. I may have seen her, but I don’t remember shooting her.

  JENKINS: So you admit seeing her?

  FEODOR: Maybe. I think so, but it’s all pretty fuzzy.

  Ethan paused and reread the passage. Could Feodor have been close enough to the street to see Cynthia? Ethan didn’t think so. He’d been way back in the alley when he was shot, and the buildings were in the way. So why did Feodor say he’d seen the girl? Was he telling the truth or just trying to get the cops to stop harassing him? Ethan added the questions to the list on his iPad and picked up the transcript, puzzled. The document was missing page 71. Where was it? Was it somehow omitted when the district attorney’s office made his copy? Did somebody pull it out on purpose? He checked his watch. No time to make another call and find out—not until later. He had to finish up and leave for O’Malley’s. So he continued reading until he got to the top of page 75. Then he found the critical passage:

  JENKINS: Did you murder Cynthia Jameson?

  FEODOR: I don’t remember.

  JENKINS: Come on, Pavel, we know you did it. Tell us the truth! (Transcriber’s note: Both officers stand up and start pounding on the table.)

  FEODOR: Fuck off. I don’t remember.

  JENKINS: You’re lying!

  TEMPKO: Tell us! Did you murder Cynthia Jameson! Confess!

 
; FEODOR: Well, maybe I …

  TEMPKO: … killed her! You did it, Pavel! Admit it! You murdered Cynthia Jameson!

  FEODOR: Maybe, maybe I shot her. I’m getting mixed up.

  JENKINS: You murdered her!

  TEMPKO: In cold blood!

  FEODOR: Yeah, I must’ve done it. I must’ve murdered her. I did it! It had to be me.

  There it was, the confession—Pavel Feodor admitting to firing his handgun and murdering the girl. He opened a thick notebook and flipped through his research until he found a Post-it marking a New York Daily News article written the day the confession was played in court. The text in the newspaper matched word for word. His transcript appeared to be accurate—or was it? There was that missing page and those redactions. Were they important? And if so, why?

  He had to get a clean copy.

  He just had to.

  Ethan checked the time. It was almost four o’clock. He had to go. Placing the confession in his briefcase along with Jenkins’s police report and the crime scene photos, he headed to the street where he hailed a taxi and began the thirty-minute trip to the public defender’s office.

  CHAPTER 7

  ETHAN HOPPED OUT OF THE CAB on the corner of Broadway and Fulton Street and gazed around the intersection. The neighborhood was one of the oldest in the city, the buildings packed together like sardines, some quaint but ramshackle, some ready for the wrecking ball. Hordes of people paraded like a marching band—couples pushing babies in strollers, upwardly mobile executives heading home from work, and young college kids scurrying in and out of cheap restaurants and dive bars. After getting his bearings, Ethan hiked down Broadway until he got to number 57, a small nineteenth-century office building that was under renovation. Pallets of bricks and bags of concrete were stacked on the sidewalk, and new windows were lined up on wooden pallets near the front door. He hurried past a work crew building a scaffold and climbed a rickety staircase to the fourth floor.

  The offices of Frankie O’Malley, attorney-at-law, were at the end of a short hallway facing the back of the building. Ethan pushed his way into the waiting room and was greeted by a platinum-blonde receptionist who was showing a lot of cleavage and typing away on a computer.

  “Mr. Benson?” she said.

  “Yes, that’s me.” Ethan smiled on the inside at her heavy makeup, puffed-up hair, and long, fake fingernails, thinking she was straight out of central casting for a cheap Hollywood crime thriller. “I have a four o’clock appointment with Mr. O’Malley,” he said cheerfully.

  “He’s expecting you. Go right on in.” She batted her baby-blue eyes and went back to her typing.

  Ethan noted the fresh paint, thick carpeting, and new furniture as he walked through an inner door and into the attorney’s office, where he was stunned by the opulence. There was a fifty-inch digital television and a state-of-the-art sound system, original artwork, fancy wall sconces, crown moldings, and a custom-made picture window with sweeping views of Lower Manhattan. It looked like the office of a Fortune 500 executive, not the humble abode of a public defender. Where had all the money come from?

  Frankie O’Malley was reading a legal brief and immediately got up to greet him. “Mr. Benson, so pleased to meet you.” He shook hands vigorously. “Come, let’s sit by the window where we can gaze at the wonderful view of the city.” He waved Ethan over to a soft leather couch in a formal seating area. “I wanna thank you for dropping by this afternoon,” he said. “My client, Mr. Feodor, wants to know your take on his case before he agrees to tell you on camera what really happened the night Cynthia Jameson was murdered. I’m sure you understand he has to be careful before doing the interview.”

  Ethan stared at the attorney. Was there a hidden agenda in the meeting? Was he here to pass some kind of test? He decided to choose his words carefully. “Well, I know you’ve been talking to my boss, Paul Lang, and I’m sure he’s been filling you in on the direction of our story.”

  “Paul and I have had several conversations. But he’s the executive producer and you’re the producer. I know how it works in television. This is going to be your story and not his. So I want to hear your vision of the segment, then I’ll discuss it with Pavel before I take you out to Rikers Island so he can meet you in person.”

  “So the interview isn’t locked in stone?” Ethan said cautiously.

  “No. Pavel’s 99 percent sure he wants to do it, but you need to convince me and then him of your intentions before we sign off.”

  Ethan shifted in his chair. This wasn’t his understanding. Nor Paul’s. He was going to have to sell himself and the show all over again. “I understand Mr. Feodor’s concerns,” Ethan said diplomatically. “But I can assure you I’m gonna produce a fair and balanced story.”

  “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear,” O’Malley said, flicking a piece of lint from his thousand-dollar Paul Stuart sports coat. “So tell me, what’s your take on his case?”

  “It’s pretty straightforward. My story’s gonna follow what’s been reported in the newspapers and magazines. I’m gonna give some background on Mr. Feodor—who he is, where he came from, how he got to this moment in his life, how he feels about killing Cynthia Jameson—and then I’m gonna describe the murder, his arrest, and what happened during the trial. That’s about it, Mr. O’Malley. Unless I dig up some new angle on the case.”

  “Ah, that’s what I was hoping you’d say, Mr. Benson, that you were looking for something new that’s never been reported. My client may have confessed to the police, but he says the cops and the prosecutor don’t know everything that happened the night of the murder. So far he hasn’t told anybody the names of the people he was with. He hasn’t even told me, but he keeps hinting he’s now ready to reveal who was behind the drug deal.”

  “Are you saying he’s been lying about who was involved in the shootout that night?” Ethan said, trying to decide where the public defender was heading with all this. “I just read the transcript of his confession, and by the way, I’m missing a page. Page 71. Have you seen it?”

  “Of course,” O’Malley said, “and everything else the prosecution redacted.”

  “Anything important?” Ethan said, hoping O’Malley would shed some light on the sections that were omitted.

  “No. Just a lot of gobbledygook. A lot of crosstalk and loud banging. The prosecution removed page 71 and the other meaningless sections to make it easier for the jury. It’s quite clear why they did it when you read the full transcript and screen the entire video.”

  “I don’t have the video. The DA’s office didn’t send it to me. Can you give me a copy? I’d like to check the redacted pages myself.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Benson. The tape isn’t here anymore. This is just a small office, and I carry a big caseload. So I shipped it and most of the evidence from Pavel’s case off to storage. It’ll be much easier and faster if you ask Nancy McGregor. I’m sure it’s just an oversight. She’ll give it to you.”

  But Ethan wasn’t so sure about this.

  Or that O’Malley was telling him the truth.

  “Okay, I hope to meet McGregor in the next week or so,” he said, deciding not to push the issue any further. “I’ll ask her when I see her.”

  “That would be best,” O’Malley said, straightening a stack of magazines sitting on a side table. “May I ask you, Mr. Benson, what did you think of Pavel’s confession?”

  “Well, for one, he definitely admitted to shooting and killing Cynthia Jameson.”

  “Yes, indeed, he did.”

  “And he definitely said the shootout started after the Mexicans tried to sell them some bad heroin, but he was adamant that he didn’t know the names of the other gang members and that he just went along for the ride to make some extra money.”

  “That’s what he told the police, but now he’s telling me he has names and wants to tell your show who they are and what really happened the night poor Cynthia was murdered.”

  Ethan paused and leaned back in his sea
t. “You know, Mr. O’Malley, I don’t really get it. Why’s he changing his story now? If he’d come clean during the trial, he might have avoided a first-degree murder conviction.”

  “Good point, but I can’t answer that. I pleaded with Pavel to tell me the truth and to tell the jury, but he’s a peculiar young man. Kinda marches to his own drummer.”

  “But why does he want to talk now?” Ethan said, still questioning Feodor’s motive. “I still don’t understand.”

  “Because,” O’Malley said.

  “Because of what?”

  “Because he’s afraid he’s going to be executed. The sentencing hearing is coming up in a few weeks, and Nancy McGregor in the district attorney’s office is pushing hard to convince the governor to make an exception of my client because of the heinous nature of his crime and allow the judge to sentence him to death. The state of New York hasn’t executed anybody for over half a century. And Pavel doesn’t want to be the first. He may be tough on the outside, but he’s really a coward on the inside.”

  “But do you think that’s gonna happen?” Ethan said, remembering that Sarah had told him the district attorney was working on the sentencing behind closed doors. Maybe that’s why there was so much secrecy and why she couldn’t find out anything about the discussions.

  “It’s hard to tell,” O’Malley said. “There’s a big law and order movement in New York that wants to bring back the death penalty—not only for this case. And there’s a good chance the governor will bow to the pressure. That’s what Pavel’s afraid of.”

  “So he’s hoping to buy himself a deal by coming forward and giving us some new information about the murder,” Ethan said.

  “That’s exactly right,” O’Malley said.

  “And you agree this is a good strategy?”

  “Yes, I do,” O’Malley said. “It can’t hurt. It can only help him.”