“He’s the guy.”
“And so far, no luck?”
“No luck.”
“I’ll make sure to ask McGregor,” Ethan said, making a mental note not to forget. “Where we linking with this guy?”
“In front of the building. He wants to escort us up to Homicide on the ninth floor and personally introduce us to the ADA.”
The taxi snaked its way through the chaos, exiting at Fourteenth Street, then weaved through a series of side streets until it reached One Hogan Place and the entrance to the building. Ethan climbed out, paid the twenty dollars on the meter, and gave the driver a handsome tip for making good time. “Do you see Nelson Brown?” he said, gesturing to David.
“He’s coming down the steps,” David said, pointing to a portly man dressed in a rumpled blue suit, white shirt, and yellow tie who was racing toward them, a grin on his face.
“You must be Ethan Benson,” Brown said, thrusting out his hand.
“Yes. And this is my associate producer, Mindy Herman. And of course, you know David.”
“Indeed, I do,” he said, pushing his eyeglasses up his nose. “Nancy told me to bring you up through the freight entrance. That’s where you’ll bring your equipment when you do her interview. Follow me. It’s not too far.” He led them around the massive sixteen-story structure, occupying an entire city block and housing more than five hundred attorneys, to a loading dock in the back of the building. Above the massive double doors, emblazoned on a bronze plaque, were the words: “Justice is the firm and continuous desire to render to each man the due process of the law.” Ethan wondered if the same principle had been applied to Pavel Feodor. After meeting the lead detective and the public defender, he was having his doubts. Maybe the case would look different after he sat down with McGregor.
Maybe.
Brown flashed his ID, and a security guard waved them into the building. They hustled down a winding corridor with no doors and windows until they reached a bank of elevators.
“This is perfect,” Ethan said, gesturing back down the hallway. “There are no stairs, and it’s just a short run from the loading dock.”
“Will there be a lot of equipment and a big crew, besides you guys?” Brown said, ringing for an elevator.
“Not too big,” Ethan said. “Two cameramen, two soundmen, a grip to help with the equipment, maybe a lighting director, my anchorman, Peter Sampson, and of course, the cameras, audio decks, and lighting gear.”
“Sounds big to me. You’ll need a large space to do the interview,” Nelson said, rubbing his chin. “Nancy’s office won’t work. It’s too small and cluttered. But there’s a good-sized law library just down the hall from her. Rows of red and green books, cherry paneling, and beautiful tan leather chairs.”
“That might work,” Ethan said.
“I’ll show you after the meeting,” Brown said as an elevator opened and they stepped in. “Nancy’s in Suite 903. She’s cleared the rest of her day for you. Time to go on up and meet her.”
• • • • •
The ADA was sitting at a long table in a conference room two doors down from her office surrounded by piles of papers and dozens of exhibits from the case. There was a bank of telephones, a fax machine, and a brand-new Xerox churning out documents. She stood up and walked over to Ethan, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “I’m Nancy McGregor, and welcome to our war room.”
“I’m Ethan Benson, and this is my production team.” He introduced Mindy and David. “Thanks for meeting with us this afternoon.”
“It’s all part of my job,” she said, flashing a toothy smile. “You know, I had lunch with Sarah today, but I bet she already told you that. We talked about you and your family and what you’ve been doing all summer, but she was very protective about your story. I couldn’t get one word out of her. Not one.” She shook her finger and rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll have more luck with you.”
Ethan grinned.
McGregor was younger than he’d expected, not a day over thirty. She was petite, maybe five foot two and a hundred pounds, with long, silky-black hair pulled back in a ponytail and emerald green eyes that sparkled when she talked. She was dressed in a light-blue business suit, a cream-colored silk shirt, and beige high-heel shoes. “Shall we get started?” She motioned to the table, and they all took seats. “So Ethan, what do you plan to ask me in the interview?”
Ethan studied her countenance before answering. She seemed pleasant enough, at least on the surface, but her voice had a slight edge to it, direct and no-nonsense, like a seasoned courtroom litigator. “I can’t give you the questions,” he said. “That’s against company policy. But I put together a list of bullet points that’ll give you a pretty good idea of the topics I hope to cover.”
He slid the document across the table.
McGregor put on her reading glasses, glanced at the two pages, then looked up at Ethan. “This seems pretty straightforward to me. The topics are all about what happened the night of the murder, the police investigation, and the trial. I sent you the case documents. So I’m sure your interview will be based on the evidence. What about Cynthia and her parents? Are you going to ask me about them?”
“Bullet points sixteen and seventeen,” Ethan said, gesturing to the memo.
“Yes. Of course. Must’ve missed them,” McGregor said, removing her glasses. “I hope you ask lots of questions about the Jamesons. Cynthia was a lovely girl, so sweet and innocent, and they’re such a tight-knit family.” Her voice trailed off as if she were feeling their pain. “They’ve suffered so much since her murder, and your story, if it’s handled the right way, might ease some of their anguish. Have you met the deputy mayor and his wife yet?”
“We spent the morning with them,” Mindy said, speaking for the first time. “They were very broken up about the murder, but nonetheless, very gracious.”
McGregor smiled, shifting her eyes from Mindy to Ethan. “I knew you’d like them. They’re very outgoing—warm and loving—in spite of everything they’ve been through. What about the kids. Did you get to meet Ned and Susan?”
“Not this morning,” Ethan said. “We’re hoping to include them in our story, but we’ll have to see how they’re doing when we go back to shoot the interview.”
“I hope you have better luck than I did,” McGregor said reflectively. “I only met them once or twice and couldn’t convince either Bernard or Sandy to let me put them on the stand. The trial was just too big a media circus. In the end it didn’t matter. The evidence against Feodor was so overwhelming; I got my conviction without needing their testimony.” She paused, straightening a stack of papers on the table before abruptly changing the subject. “So Ethan, have you gotten through all the documents I sent you? Do you have everything you need?”
“I’ve read most of the docket and think we’re in pretty good shape, but we are missing a few things.”
“I can’t imagine what,” McGregor said. “I had Nelson send you everything I thought was important.”
Ethan hesitated a moment, trying to read the stony expression on her face. “Well, first off,” he said, “I don’t seem to have the ballistics report. I need a copy to show my audience how you tied the bullet that killed Cynthia to Feodor’s gun.”
“We didn’t send you the ballistics report? Must be an oversight,” McGregor said impetuously as she turned to Brown. “Get them a copy right away, Nelson. Anything else, Ethan?”
“I don’t have all of Pavel’s confession,” he said, grabbing his copy from his briefcase and showing it to the ADA. “I’ve gone through the transcript very carefully. Your detectives did a great job, but big sections have been blacked out, and there’s a page missing—page 71. Any way I can get a clean copy?”
McGregor shot Brown another quick glance, then turned back to Ethan. “We sent you the same copy we entered into evidence. All we did was clean up references to crosstalk and extraneous sounds to make the transcript easier to follow. I explained that in court, and the judge signed off wit
hout a problem.”
“That’s what Frankie O’Malley told me when I met him the other day, but I’d like to read an unedited version, if that’s possible,” Ethan said in his most persuasive voice.
“I don’t see any harm in giving them a clean copy, do you?” McGregor said, shifting her eyes back to Nelson Brown. “We gave one to O’Malley. Send it along with the ballistics report.”
“And what about the videotape? Can I get a copy of that, too?”
McGregor hesitated, nervously tearing at the corner of a file folder she was holding. “I can’t release that to you, Ethan. I didn’t enter the raw video into evidence and never showed it to the jury. So it’s not part of the public record. But I sent you the short clip I played in court. You should have a copy of that.”
“Do we have it?” Ethan said, peering at David.
“No. I haven’t found it.”
“Another oversight,” she said, waving her hand. “Send that over as well, Nelson.”
“But why can’t you give me the full confession?” Ethan said, turning back to the ADA. “The public defender told me it was okay with him if you gave me a copy. Is there any reason to keep it from the public now that Feodor’s been convicted?”
McGregor stared at Ethan suspiciously. “Maybe not. I’ll have to discuss it with my staff. Get back to us in a couple of days, and I’ll let you know what we decide,” McGregor said as her iPhone pinged. “It’s the district attorney.” She paused and read the email. “He wants to meet right away about the sentencing. So I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Any more questions?”
“Only one,” Ethan said levelly, “and it happens to be about the sentencing.”
“Shoot,” McGregor said as she began stuffing documents into a folder.
“Frankie O’Malley told me that the district attorney has been talking to the governor about reinstating the death penalty for the Feodor case and that you’ve been pushing very hard to make that happen.” Ethan paused and watched as the ADA’s lower lip began to quiver. “Is that what you’re about to discuss with him?”
McGregor tensed. “I’m not going down that road,” she said frostily. “That’s for the district attorney and the governor and maybe the state legislature to decide, not me. But if you want my opinion, I think Pavel Feodor is the worst kind of predator. He murdered that poor girl in cold blood and shows no remorse. None whatsoever. There’s no doubt in my mind that spending the rest of his life behind bars is too good for him. He needs to be put to death for his crime—pure and simple. That’s what I believe. And that’s what I hope happens.”
Ethan paused, stunned by the hatred in the ADA’s eyes. Why had her mood suddenly shifted so dramatically? Why had she become so vehement? Was he missing something? “You know, I’ve read the police reports and a good portion of the trial transcript,” he said, “and I know Pavel Feodor has a long rap sheet of violence, but that doesn’t make his case any different from all the other murders that take place in this city. Why do you want to execute him? Is it because the victim is the deputy mayor’s daughter?”
“Of course not,” McGregor said, still agitated. “If you look at the crime scene photos of Cynthia’s angelic face, at her lifeless body, at the torrents of blood soaking her clothes and covering her skin, then you’d understand my reaction and why I believe he deserves the ultimate punishment.”
“But I don’t have those pictures,” Ethan said softly, trying to diffuse the tension growing in the room. “All you sent me were wide shots. Maybe if I could see some close-ups of her body, some images that show what Pavel Feodor actually did to her, I’d understand why you feel so strongly that he deserves to be put to death.”
“Not gonna happen,” McGregor said firmly. “I’ve sent you all the images I’m willing to release. I don’t want the public—or the deputy mayor’s kids for that matter—seeing the more graphic pictures of Cynthia. I won’t take that risk, and neither will the deputy mayor.”
Ethan stared at the anger in McGregor’s face and decided to back off. She wasn’t going to change her mind. She wasn’t going to give him the crime scene photos with all the blood—just as Frankie O’Malley had warned him. “I understand,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll go with the pictures I have to describe the murder and use documents to explain your position on the death penalty. And I’ll do it tastefully to protect the deputy mayor’s family. You can trust me, Ms. McGregor. I’ll make it work.”
“Good,” she said, her iPhone buzzing back to life. “It’s the district attorney again. I can’t keep him waiting any longer. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ethan. Let me know when you’re coming back with Peter Sampson, and I’ll work you into my schedule. I’m more than happy to sit down and do the interview with him. I think your story is important, and I want to be part of it.” She smiled and shook everybody’s hand. “If you need anything else, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call.”
• • • • •
Ethan accompanied Nelson Brown to the law library with its rows of books and fancy furniture, told him the room was perfect for the interview, then rode the elevator down to the lobby where David and Mindy were waiting.
“That went well,” Mindy said, a little too loudly. “But she sure got flustered when you asked her about the death penalty. Why’d you put her on the defensive like that?”
“Not here. Too many people. Somebody from her office might overhear us.” Walking out of the building, they headed west on Hogan Place until they reached the No. 4 subway. “You’re right, I was a bit too hard on McGregor at the end of the meeting, but I had to find out just how willing she is to continue helping us with our story.”
“But she promised to give us almost everything we’re missing,” Mindy said quizzically.
“True,” Ethan said knowingly. “But I think she’s finished cooperating with us—except for the interview.”
“Why? Do you think she’s hiding something?” she said, tilting her head.
“Maybe.”
“What could she be hiding?”
“I don’t know yet. But we need to find out.”
“Jeez, Ethan, you said the same thing after we met with Jenkins,” Mindy said, connecting the dots. “Think they’re working together—trying to cover up something?”
“That would sure throw a monkey wrench into our story, wouldn’t it?” Ethan said, intrigued.
“So how do we prove any of this?” she said warily.
“First, when you get back to the office, check in with your sources at the NYPD and see if there’s anything going on between McGregor and Jenkins beyond the case. Then ride Nelson Brown and make sure he sends us the documents McGregor just promised us. Let’s see if they cooperate.”
“And what do you want me to do, Ethan?” David said eagerly.
“I want you to start digging into Fernelli’s Beef and Poultry, find out if there’s a connection between the company and the murder, and if Jenkins or maybe McGregor swept it under the rug.”
“And what’re you gonna do, Ethan?” Mindy said as they climbed into a taxi.
“I’m gonna take the night off and spend some quality time with my family. I need to get away from our story and relax. Maybe then something inspirational will pop into my head and I’ll figure out what we’re missing here.”
CHAPTER 11
ETHAN SCOOTED DOWN THE red hallway and up to Monica’s desk feeling rested and motivated after spending a leisurely evening at home with Sarah and Luke. He hadn’t been tempted to hide in his study or lose himself in the court docket, not even for a moment, and had somehow withstood his craving for a glass of scotch that had pounded every square inch of his body from the second he’d walked into his apartment. Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe it was time to stay away from the bottle. Time to stay sober.
“Is Paul free for a minute?” he said, peeking into the executive producer’s office through the half-open door.
Monica didn’t look up from a crossword puzzle. “He’s busy. He’s going over the fal
l programming with Lenny.”
“Well, I need to see him about the Feodor story.”
“Can it wait? His morning’s all booked up. I can schedule you in sometime this afternoon,” she said, continuing to work on the puzzle.
“I need to see him right away,” he said, smiling as he pushed his way past her desk and into Paul’s office.
Lang was sitting at a table near the window reading a script, his expression tense, his body rigid, as his senior producer stood at a large metal board moving story ideas around in the schedule. Ethan pulled up a chair and waited patiently, watching Paul cross out sentences, trim sound bites, and slash airtime with the precision of a master architect wielding a red pencil to the blueprint of a carefully designed floor plan. “We need to talk,” he said, interrupting the heavy silence.
“Indeed, we do,” Paul said frostily as he neatly placed the script on the table. “What’s happening with your story? You were supposed to brief Lenny every day on your progress, but he hasn’t seen you in quite some time. Why is that, Ethan?”
“I’ve been busy,” Ethan said calmly, “slugging my way through the court documents and preinterviewing characters. I’ve already met with the lead detective, the prosecutor, the public defender, and the deputy mayor, and they’ve all agreed to go on camera. Mindy’s working on a schedule, and we hope to begin the field production soon.”
“Does Peter know?” Lenny said as he pulled up a chair next to Ethan.
“I’ve been updating him on a regular basis,” Ethan said, turning to Paul. “I’m planning to meet him in East Hampton later in the week and go over everything.”
“How do you plan to convince him to shoot with you?” Paul said stonily. “He doesn’t want to interrupt his vacation.”
“Haven’t figured that out yet, but I’ll twist his arm somehow,” Ethan said confidently.
“You better,” Paul said, glancing back at the script. “I’m still planning to run your story in September.” He crossed out another line of narration. “Is there anything else I should know about?”
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