“Well, your job is to make sure Benson doesn’t find out, and if it comes up during your interview—deny, deny, deny at all costs,” the deputy mayor said urgently. “The last thing we want is for Ethan Benson to learn that I told you to ignore the DEA and leave organized crime out of the murder to make it easier for us to convict that little shit. If this gets out, the judge’ll call a mistrial in a heartbeat, you’ll be the laughingstock of the legal world, and my run for mayor will be dead in the water before it ever gets started. I don’t want that TV show figuring out what really happened that night or uncovering the truth about my daughter. That’s my secret. It’ll ruin me and my family.”
“So what should we do about Sampson?” Nancy said, trying to get the deputy mayor to agree on a strategy before they left. “If we can just get through our interviews and hold on until the sentencing, then the press will lose interest like it always does, and this case will fade into history.”
“We shouldn’t change a thing. We should hammer away that Pavel Feodor is a monster. You brilliantly painted a picture of him in court as a cold-blooded killer. You need to do the same thing tomorrow with Sampson.”
“I will, Bernard. I’ll protect you and your daughter,” she said faithfully. “You know that.”
“You better, Nancy. Otherwise, we’ll both take the fall.”
• • • • •
Lloyd Howard was still waiting when Nancy McGregor strode past the doorman and onto the street. Ducking behind a group of teenagers eating dinner at a table in front of him, he aimed his camera and started snapping away. Within seconds, the man in the gray charcoal suit walked into the frame, ran his hand down the ADA’s lower back, blew her a kiss good-bye, then climbed into the limo and drove away. “Goddamn,” he whispered under his breath, “that was the fucking deputy mayor.”
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Ethan. “Well, you should’ve joined me,” he said as soon as Ethan answered the phone.
“Why?”
“The same guy I told you about just walked out with McGregor, and they were mighty friendly—maybe too friendly.”
“Who was it?” Ethan said, shouting at Joel to turn down the sound in the edit room.
“Bernard Jameson.”
There was a long silence. “What the hell was he doing there?”
“Beats me. But he blew her a fucking kiss and put his hand on her ass before he left.”
“Do you think they’re having an affair?” Ethan said, astounded.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“And you got it on camera?”
“The whole thing.”
“Shit, Lloyd. Did McGregor go with him?” Ethan said.
“No. She’s still standing in front of the building, trying to hail a taxi.”
“I need to figure out what’s going on between the two of them before Peter does their interviews,” Ethan said keenly. “Email me the pictures. I’ll get Mindy and David to do some digging. Call me back with updates.”
Howard hung up the phone, then grabbed his camera and hurried back to his van, watching as Nancy McGregor found a taxi and headed downtown in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Easing away from the curb, he pushed in behind a Chevy Trailblazer and began to follow. Then his contact at the DMV called. “Hey, thanks for getting back to me, Benny,” he said, “but I already know who owns that fucking limo. It belongs to the deputy mayor, and he’s been a very bad boy.” Chuckling, he clicked off his cell, fell back two car lengths behind the taxi, and tailed the ADA as she slowly made her way back to her apartment.
CHAPTER 34
ETHAN WAS STILL HALF ASLEEP when his phone rang, buzzing away like an alarm clock. He fumbled for his cigarettes and grabbed his iPhone. “God, what time is it?”
“Well, good morning to you too,” Mindy said buoyantly. “It’s seven o’clock and you sound wiped out. Another rough night?”
“I didn’t leave the edit rooms until four. And didn’t get into bed until five. It’s taking much longer to cut together the interviews than I thought. Hold on a second.” He sat up, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag. “That’s better. Now I can think straight. Are you at the district attorney’s office?”
“I’ve been here an hour. The crew’s setting up in the law library.”
“And you’ll be ready at ten o’clock?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. We’re running ahead of schedule.”
“Good,” Ethan said, relieved that Mindy was prepping the set like clockwork. “Did you get the JPEGs I emailed you of McGregor and Jameson?”
“Jeez, Ethan, I got them,” Mindy said, sounding shocked. “What the hell were they doing together?”
“That’s a damn good question,” Ethan said, taking another long pull on his cigarette.
“Do you think Jameson is tied up in all the bullshit swirling around the murder of his daughter?”
“I don’t know,” Ethan said, pausing a moment. “Sure would be nice to find out before Peter does the interviews. Have you filled in David?”
“Already forwarded him copies of the pictures,” Mindy said pointedly. “He’s gonna call his sources at City Hall as soon he gets to the office.”
“We don’t have a lot of time. Our first interview with McGregor starts in three hours.”
“He’ll do the best job he can, Ethan. You know that.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I know,” Ethan said, worried the pictures were somehow the key to unlocking the truth and that he wouldn’t have an answer until it was too late. “Has Sampson seen them?”
“He’s got them.”
“How’d he react?”
“Appalled.”
“Did you tell him to show them to McGregor during the interview?” Ethan said, now fully awake. “Maybe he can get her to tell us on camera what they were doing together last night.”
“He said he would,” Mindy said levelly. “But he’s not happy about it. Thinks we’re blindly chasing a lead we know nothing about. But I prodded him, and in the end, he said he’d hand her the pictures and see how she reacts.”
“Good. Make sure he understands how important this is,” Ethan said, hopping out of bed and heading to the bathroom. “One last thing before I go. Tell Herb to shoot the B-roll we discussed—McGregor walking around her office, sitting and working at her desk, and talking on the telephone. Then get her looking at all those documents we saw in the war room. I want to make it appear as if she’s working on the case.”
“You want me to shoot the visuals before the interview?”
“Yes. As soon as she gets there. I’m not sure she’ll stick around after the interview is over. Sampson’s gonna ask her a lot of tough questions, and she’s not gonna be happy when we’re done.”
• • • • •
An hour later, Ethan walked through the front door and picked his way down the long hallway and into the law library. Sampson had already arrived and was sitting on the set in full makeup. Ethan grabbed a copy of the latest set of questions from Mindy, quickly scanned through them, then faced his anchorman. “Good morning, Peter. Are you ready for the interview?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, grumbling.
“Do you have the documents and the photos we wanna show McGregor?”
“Right here in this folder,” Sampson said, waving it in front of him. “Does she have any idea we’ve got all those nasty pictures of her with the deputy mayor that your Mr. Howard shot last night?”
“She doesn’t know about the pictures, and may not know we’ve got the documents. But I’m sure she’s talked to Jenkins and O’Malley and has heard about the Feodor interview. So she probably knows we’ve figured out she doctored the evidence and framed Feodor.”
“I’ll show her the documents and see how she reacts, but Ethan, are you sure you want me to hand her those damn pictures of Jameson?”
“Positive,” Ethan said unflinchingly.
“But we know nothing about them. They could be perfectly harmless.”
“Has David talked to his sources? Mindy said he’s trying to find out what they were doing together in that apartment building.”
“There’s nothing yet. He’ll call if he hears anything.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll show McGregor, but I don’t like the idea. It seems downright lurid to me,” Sampson said, peering into a monitor. “Why’s my face so shiny?”
Ethan smiled. Always the same Peter, he thought, amused. Beauty before substance. Then he waved to hair and makeup to attend to his anchorman and looked around the set. The crew was still blocking camera shots, moving light stands, adjusting sound equipment, and dressing the background with props. “Are we almost finished?”
“Almost there,” Herb Glickstein said. “We just need to white-balance the cameras, and we’ll be ready to go.”
Then, as if cued by the stage manager, Nancy McGregor strode into the conference room, followed by Nelson Brown and a bevy of assistants. She made a beeline over to Sampson and graciously introduced herself—her chin jutting forward, her head held high, her voice strong and confident. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. Ms. Herman just finished my B-roll, and I’m ready for the interview. But I gotta warn you that I’m scheduled to depose a witness on another case later today and don’t have a lot of time. So shall we get started?”
“I believe we’re ready,” Sampson said reassuringly as he walked her onto the set where Anthony Petulla, the soundman, clipped a microphone on her blouse, and the cameramen did their final light-check. Ethan carefully examined each shot in his monitors—the two close-ups of McGregor and Sampson and the big, wide shot with all the equipment in the background. “The set looks fabulous,” he said, nodding to Mindy who was sitting next to him. Then he stood and shouted, “Turn off your cell phones and let me know when you have speed.”
Herb Glickstein glanced about the room, made sure all the cameras were running in sync, then said, “We’re rolling.”
Ethan put on his headset and nodded to his anchorman. “We’re good to go, Peter.”
Sampson took one last look at his questions, puffed up his chest like a peacock, and said, “Ms. McGregor, thank you for sitting down with us today and for agreeing to talk about your brilliant handling of the case and the trial.” The ADA instantly relaxed, Sampson playing right into her sense of vanity. “Let’s begin with the murder. Tell us what happened that night.”
For the next fifteen minutes, McGregor discussed the facts of the case—the bloody scene in the parking lot, Cynthia’s lifeless body sprawled on the sidewalk, and Pavel Feodor lying unconscious in the alley holding the murder weapon. Step by step, she walked him through the police investigation, the decision to charge Feodor, and the ins and outs of the trial.
The questions were straightforward.
The answers deliberate.
Then Sampson zeroed in on the evidence.
“Ms. McGregor, one of the turning points in the trial came when you introduced a transcript and showed a video clip of Pavel Feodor confessing to the murder of Cynthia Jameson. How would you characterize what he said?”
McGregor didn’t hesitate, her answer strong and straight to the point. “Mr. Sampson, I’m sure you’ve read the transcript and watched the video, and I’m sure you know Mr. Feodor admitted several times during the police interrogation that he pulled the trigger and gunned down Cynthia Jameson. It was as clear as day in the document and in the clip I showed the jury. Pavel Feodor is the murderer.”
Sampson paused a moment to allow the cameras to capture the look of confidence on the assistant district attorney’s face. “Are you sure that’s what he said? Are you sure he confessed to murdering Cynthia Jameson?”
“Yes. I’m positive. So was the jury. They convicted him. Pavel Feodor is the killer. No doubt about it.”
Sampson pulled two documents out of the folder he was holding on his lap. “Ms. McGregor, I want you to take a look at these documents. They’re both stamped with your name and the seal of the district attorney’s office.” He handed the first one to the ADA. “As you can see, I’ve given you pages 69 through 73 of the confession. They’re part of Exhibit 16 that you submitted into evidence and showed the jury. You also gave this to my producer as part of the public record of the trial.”
McGregor carefully scanned the pages. She looked up and smiled at the anchorman. “Yes, this is one of the sections of the transcript where Mr. Feodor clearly confesses to the murder. It’s one of the many times he did so.”
“Would you read me the first four lines on page 72?”
The ADA put on her reading glasses. Ethan sat behind his deck of monitors looking at each shot and listening on his headset as McGregor cleared her throat and started to read. “‘I was firing my weapon at anything that moved. Bullets were flying everywhere. I hit the main guy who was trying to cheat us out of the heroin. I know I got him because he was covered in blood.’” She pointed to the document and looked into the camera. “It says here, right in the transcript, that Mr. Feodor laughed at this point.”
“Yes, it does, Ms. McGregor. Please keep reading. Just the next few lines will do.”
“Okay. ‘I think I saw a girl under the High Line at the end of the block. I think she was standing near the corner. I was firing my weapon in her direction. One of my bullets hit her. I killed her when she got caught in the crossfire.’” She finished reading and took off her glasses. “That’s what it says here at the bottom of page 72, Mr. Sampson. It sounds like a confession to me.” She handed the document back to the anchorman and waited for the next question.
Sampson looked at the document and then looked at the ADA. “Ms. McGregor, your office crossed out a lot of words in this section of the transcript. You see all of the black marks?” He pointed at the redactions. The ADA leaned over to take a look, the cameras capturing the moment from all three angles. “Ms. McGregor, what didn’t you want us to see?”
The prosecutor stared at the sheet of paper. She looked back at Sampson, the camera zooming into her face. Her left eye was twitching. “Well, if I remember correctly, there was a lot of noise in the background on the videotape. You couldn’t understand what anyone was saying. So to make it easier for the jury, we blacked out all the extraneous gibberish in the transcript.”
Sampson stared at the ADA. There was a long pause before he asked his follow-up question. “Are you sure that’s why you blacked out all these sections? There’s quite a bit missing.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes. I’m positive.” There was irritation in her voice.
“Ms. McGregor, my producer has gotten his hands on a second copy of the transcript. It was given to him by a source. It, too, is marked with a stamp from your office.” He pointed to the top of each page. “There are no sections blacked out in this document. I’m going to read you the same section you just read us.” He paused and stared at the ADA. She was visibly shaking. She knew what was coming. “According to this version of the transcript, Pavel Feodor never confessed to the murder. Let me read you the passage.” He paused again to let the weight of his words sink in. “‘I think I saw a girl under the High Line at the end of the block. I think she was standing near the corner. And I may have fired my weapon in her direction, but I really don’t remember. Everything happened so fast.’ And here, Ms. McGregor, is where there’s a big discrepancy in the two documents. It says right here, ‘I can’t imagine how one of my bullets hit her when she got caught in the crossfire. I emptied my gun into the back of the fucking Mexican drug dealer’s getaway car. I’m a good shot. I know I didn’t shoot her.’” He handed the document to the ADA. “Now, that doesn’t sound like a confession to me.”
McGregor took the document, beads of sweat forming on her upper lip. She began stuttering as the camera zoomed in for an extreme close-up. Then Sampson cut her off before she could answer. “Hold on just a moment
, Ms. McGregor. I’ll give you plenty of time to respond, but I want to read you one more section from this second version of the transcript, the one my producer got from a source in your office. It’s from page 71, and to refresh your memory in case you’ve forgotten, you didn’t give us page 71. It was missing from the document we received from you,” Sampson said, his tone tough and accusing. “It says right here, and I quote, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t kill that girl. You’ve got the wrong guy.’” Sampson handed her the document. “That seems more like a denial than a confession to me, Ms. McGregor.”
Ethan watched, holding his breath, as the ADA carefully read the missing page and then handed the document back to the anchorman. “I don’t know where Mr. Benson got this, but I’ve never seen it before. It’s a fake.”
“Are you sure it’s a fake?”
Ethan couldn’t have scripted Sampson’s line of questioning any better. He’d totally underestimated the anchorman. Peter was a much better interviewer than he’d thought.
“I’m positive,” McGregor said. “This is not real. Somebody’s trying to mislead you. Pavel Feodor never once denied killing Cynthia Jameson during the police investigation. He confessed to the murder many times. I just read you one of his admissions of guilt.” The ADA had regained her composure, the camera picking up every nuance of incredulity on her face.
“Well, Ms. McGregor, I don’t think I believe you. I think you’re hiding something you don’t want to tell us, and so does my producer. I’ve screened the videotape, not the forty-second video clip you entered into evidence, but the one you hid during the trial—the full two hours and four minutes of the interrogation you refused to give to my producer.”
“What are you talking about? The police interrogation didn’t run nearly that long. We didn’t hide anything from you or the jury.”
“I beg to differ. I have a copy, and I’ve screened it many times. Pavel Feodor never confessed to murdering Cynthia Jameson, not once during the entire videotape. I think you’re lying to us, and I think you lied to the jury.”
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