“Seems simple enough,” the deputy mayor said, turning to his wife. “Do you understand what they want us to do, Sandy?”
“Perfectly, dear,” she said stoically.
He squeezed her hand and stared straight ahead, focused and confident. All he had to do was maintain the web of lies he’d so carefully constructed, and if the audience didn’t believe him, well then, it was just too bad for them.
• • • • •
A moment later, Ethan heard Stanley yell into his headset. “Three, two, one—cue the deputy mayor. You’re on the air.” Ethan frantically waved to his cameraman, and the Jamesons slowly walked onto the set, the deputy mayor somber, his wife downcast. They approached Sampson and shook hands, Herb slowly circling, making a sweeping pan shot as they said their hellos and sat down—Sylvia Rosenberg slipping off to watch the interview from the corner of the room.
Ethan waited for his next cue, then stood and said, “We’re in the commercial break and have three minutes before they come back to us live.” There was a frenzy of activity—the lighting director eliminating a hot spot on Sandy’s forehead, the soundman balancing audio levels, and the cameramen adjusting the framing of each shot. “One minute,” Ethan said, his voice now booming. Grabbing his questions, he stared at Peter, hoping his anchorman was on his game, ready to work his magic and get to the truth. “Five seconds. Four seconds. Three. Two. One. Go, Peter. We’re back on the air.”
Sampson peered into his camera. “I know losing a daughter who was so young and full of life must be devastating, but thank you, Deputy Mayor and Mrs. Jameson, for putting aside your grief and sharing your thoughts with us tonight.” He paused as Sandy grabbed a tissue to wipe away a tear. “Mrs. Jameson, I’d like to begin with you. May I call you Sandy?”
“That would be fine,” she said, heaving a deep sigh.
“Sandy, what’s it been like to wake each morning knowing your beautiful daughter, Cynthia, isn’t asleep in her bedroom? Isn’t coming down for breakfast? Isn’t part of your life anymore?”
Ethan looked down and checked off the first question on his list.
“I’m not quite sure words can express my feelings,” she said, the camera zooming into a tight shot as she struggled to control her emotions. “Cynthia was my oldest child, and I loved her with all my heart. And she loved me and her little brother and sister, Ned and Susan. We did everything together. We talked and laughed and shared secrets. I miss her terribly—every moment of every day.”
Sampson turned to the deputy mayor. “I want to ask you the same question, Mr. Jameson. What’s it like for you? Knowing you’ll never see your daughter again?”
“Cynthia was my princess, the light of my life,” he said, struggling to find the right words. “I rocked her when she was a baby, took care of her when she was sick, and watched her grow into a happy and responsible young woman with a great future ahead of her. Now she’s gone, just a memory, and I’m never going to get over the loss.”
For the next two minutes, Sampson asked about Cynthia’s childhood—the Jamesons responding with a series of poignant anecdotes about their favorite memories, about her friends and boyfriends, about her hopes and dreams—their answers heartfelt and filled with melancholy. Peter’s sticking to the game plan, Ethan thought as he drew a line through each question.
Then Sampson asked about the murder.
“Sandy, describe that night to me. What were your first thoughts when you found out Cynthia was dead?”
Mrs. Jameson’s lip began to quiver, the camera slowly zooming into a tight shot of her face. Ethan studied the image in his monitor and whispered to Herb to move even tighter. “I remember the phone ringing next to the bed as if it was yesterday, and I remember thinking something was wrong. It was four o’clock in the morning, and it’s always bad news when the phone rings at that hour. I remember Bernard waking up and asking me to answer it.”
The deputy mayor interrupted. “Yes, I looked at her and wondered why she was letting it ring on and on and on like that.”
“I was afraid to pick it up, Bernard,” she said, glowering at him. “I knew something bad had happened.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “Then I remember this very nice policeman asking if he could speak to the deputy mayor. And I said, ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ And he paused a moment, then said, ‘It’s your daughter, Mrs. Jameson. We just found her.’ And I remember screaming, ‘Is she all right? Is she all right?’ And he wouldn’t answer me. He just kept asking for my husband. But I wouldn’t put Bernard on the phone until he told me.” Tears were now flowing down her cheeks, the moment captured on all four cameras as the deputy mayor leaned over and touched her hand.
“I know this is difficult, but tell me, what happened next?” Sampson said soothingly.
“I remember screaming into the phone,” Sandy said. “‘Please tell me. Is Cynthia hurt? Is she okay?’ And the policeman wouldn’t answer me—”
“—It was actually the police commissioner, darling. He was the person who called us—”
“—Oh, you’re right, Bernard. It was the police commissioner.” She wiped her eyes, her emotions overflowing. “He told me they’d found our darling Cynthia and that somebody had shot her, and that she was dead.” Her voice trailed off as she began shaking hysterically.
“Would you like a moment to compose yourself?” Sampson said, waiting for Sandy to stop sobbing before asking his next question. “I’m sorry to be dredging up all these difficult memories, Mrs. Jameson, but this is very important. Can you tell me what Cynthia was doing that night before she was murdered?”
Sandy wiped her eyes with another tissue. “She was out celebrating the end of midterm exams with friends, and you know how kids are, they went down to the Meatpacking District and were going from one bar to the next having a good time.” She paused, gasping for breath. “Then she met her boyfriend, Jacob Lutz, and had dinner at that high-end steakhouse, the Standard Grill. But he went home about one o’clock, and she stayed behind for some reason. When she finally decided to leave, she walked straight into that dreadful gun battle. That’s when she was shot and murdered by that horrible man. Now she’s gone forever, and I’ll never see her again,” she said, covering her face with her hands.
Paul yelled into the headset. “This is great television, Ethan, but you’ve only got four minutes. Give Peter a cue. Let him know we’re running out of time and that he has to pick up the pace.”
Ethan held up four fingers, and Sampson nodded as he turned to the deputy mayor, his face hard and challenging. “Mr. Jameson, what was your daughter really doing in the Meatpacking District that night? I know it’s trendy, but parts of that neighborhood like Little West Twelfth Street are downright scary at three o’clock in the morning.”
“Well, well, well, I know it can be dangerous,” Jameson said, stuttering. “But I really don’t know why she didn’t go home with Jacob and remained there all alone in the middle of the night. Like Sandy said, she was just trying to have a good time with her friends.”
“But wasn’t she a bit young to be hitting the club scene?” Sampson said, pushing the deputy mayor a little harder. “All those places serve alcohol, and Cynthia was underage, wasn’t she?” Ethan leaned forward, watching the change on Jameson’s face as fear began creeping into his eyes.
“Yes,” he said bitingly. “She was underage, and my wife and I talked to her many times about why she shouldn’t go out drinking at all those fancy nightspots. But she had a mind of her own, and like many young adults, she refused to listen to us.”
Ethan ran through his questions, than caught Sampson’s attention and mouthed, “Number twenty-five.” The anchorman shook his head, then turned to Sandy. “Mrs. Jameson, do you know who Cynthia was really partying with that night?”
“I told you she was with friends and then Jacob,” she said, puzzled.
“Yes. But I want to make sure she didn’t see anybody else that night. Think hard, Mrs. Jameson.”
“There
was nobody else,” the deputy mayor said, interrupting. “What are you insinuating, Mr. Sampson? Everything we’ve told you is in the public record. We’re not making it up.”
“I know it’s in the public record, Mr. Jameson. I’ve read it and so has my producer. But I’m not sure you’re telling the truth. Is there any possibility that your daughter may have spent at least part of the night with somebody else?”
“No,” the deputy mayor said indignantly.
Ethan smiled to himself. Peter had just caught the deputy mayor in a blatant lie. His scheme to pin his daughter’s murder on Pavel Feodor was about to unravel live on national television.
Sampson asked his next question, his expression skeptical. “Well, that’s not what we’ve heard, Mr. Jameson. My producer just interviewed Jacob Lutz, and he told us a far different story about the night Cynthia was murdered. He also told us that you ordered him not to talk to us.”
“That’s not true. He’s lying.”
Ethan turned to David and whispered, “Here we go.”
Sampson pressed on. “Mr. Lutz says you bribed him with a lot of money to keep his mouth shut. A half million dollars to be precise. We have his allegation on camera and just aired it to millions of Americans watching our special.”
“That’s preposterous. I never gave him a single penny,” the deputy mayor said dismissively. “And I’m gonna sue you and your television network if you dared to report that on the air.”
“I’ll ignore your last comment,” Peter said, looking into the deputy mayor’s eyes. “But let me tell you what Jacob Lutz insists is the truth. He said that your daughter only spent a short time partying with her friends and only a few minutes with him the night she was murdered. That her friends lied to the police and to the jury and to us when we interviewed them. Did you also bribe Cynthia’s college friends?”
“I won’t answer that question. You have no proof,” Jameson said, beads of sweat soaking his brow.
“But I do have proof, Mr. Jameson,” Sampson said confidently. “All three of Cynthia’s friends signed legal affidavits admitting to us that you paid them quite handsomely to say they were with your daughter most of that night.”
“Bernard, what’s he talking about?” Sandy said, gaping at her husband.
The deputy mayor smiled tentatively. “It’s nothing, dear. Jacob is the one who’s lying. I didn’t pay anybody any money to make up a story about our Cynthia. You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“But that’s exactly what you did, Mr. Jameson. You fabricated most of what Cynthia did that night. Jacob told us that your daughter was working the night she was murdered.”
“What are you implying?” Sandy said, shocked.
“I’m not implying anything. Cynthia’s boyfriend, Jacob Lutz, told us on camera that your daughter was a high-priced call girl.”
Sandy Jameson gasped. “Bernard, why is he saying these awful things about Cynthia?” Her voice cracked as she fought off another round of tears.
“Don’t believe him, dear,” the deputy mayor said pleadingly as he turned and faced the anchorman. “Mr. Sampson, these allegations are outrageous. Jacob Lutz is trying to smear my daughter’s good name, and you’re trying to destroy my family’s good reputation on national television.” He looked directly into the camera. “My daughter was not a call girl. She was an outstanding young woman.” He pounded his fist on his knee for emphasis, then wheeled on Sampson. “This is why I didn’t want to do your interview. This is why I told your boss, George Pierce, not to run your special. You’re doing exactly what I said you’d do. Lying. Lying. Lying. And you have no proof. None whatsoever.”
Ethan leaned over and handed Sampson the folder with the Jacob Lutz documents. “Thank you, Ethan.” He pulled out the evidence. “Mr. Jameson, I wasn’t planning to show you this, but you’re leaving me no choice. I’m going to ask you one last time. Was your daughter, Cynthia, a high-priced call girl who worked for an escort service called the Sophisticated Lady?”
“No,” Jameson said scornfully. “My daughter was not a prostitute.”
“Well, these telephone records beg to differ.” He passed Jameson a printout showing a dozen phone calls from the Sophisticated Lady to Cynthia’s cell phone made the night of the murder. “I’ve also got copies of your daughter’s email records and credit card receipts, and they’re all real. I can assure you of that. My office checked out everything.” He handed the documents to the deputy mayor. “How do you explain all this? It seems pretty clear to me that Cynthia was working for an escort service.”
Stanley boomed over the headset, “Ethan, Paul’s killing the credits. You’ve got another two minutes before we go off the air.” Ethan held up two fingers, motioning to Sampson to keep going, hoping they had enough time to get to the end of the interview and the truth.
“Well, Mr. Jameson, doesn’t that look like proof to you?” Sampson said.
The deputy mayor scanned the documents, shot a quick glance at his wife, then turned back to Peter. “These are all fake. I don’t know where Jacob Lutz says he got them, but they’re not real.” He tossed the documents on the floor.
“I’m confident they’re real, Mr. Jameson, and I’m confident you’ve known about Cynthia’s secret life for quite some time.” There was a momentary pause as Herb Glickstein locked his camera on the deputy mayor’s face, and Bobby Raffalo tightened on his wife. “Is that why you sweet-talked Nancy McGregor, took her to your bed, and promised her a place in your election campaign so she’d frame Pavel Feodor and protect your daughter’s reputation?”
The deputy mayor sat motionless, his face contorted in a mask of hatred as he glared at Sampson.
“Come on, Peter,” Ethan whispered. “You’ve got him. Don’t let him off the hook.”
Sampson shifted and faced Sandy. “Mrs. Jameson, your husband had an affair with the prosecutor so he could manipulate the evidence in the court case. We have pictures of them together, and my team worked very hard checking it out with sources in his office. I’m afraid it’s all true. Would you like to see the pictures?”
“No. No. Please. I don’t need to see proof. I know he’s been cheating on me. He’s cheated on me all through our marriage.” She lowered her eyes, ashamed.
“And there’s something else, Mrs. Jameson, something else your husband has been hiding from you and the public for a very long time. Something I think you may have known about but were too afraid to confront.” He turned to the deputy mayor, his eyes boring into him. “Cynthia hated you and everything about you, didn’t she? And that’s why she turned to a life of prostitution. To get even with you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jameson?”
“That’s ridiculous,” the deputy mayor shrieked, spittle flying out of his mouth. “My daughter loved me, and I loved her.” He spun around to his wife—Herb’s camera capturing the panic on his face. “Don’t believe a word of this, Sandy. Not a word. None of it is true.”
Sampson grabbed another set of documents from the folder, and this time handed them to Sandy. “My producer was skeptical, too, when Jacob told him about your husband’s relationship with your daughter—until he gave us the evidence you’re now holding—police reports you won’t find anywhere at the NYPD. Your husband made sure of that. He threw around lots of money to get them deleted from their computer system. Didn’t you, Mr. Jameson?”
“Where’d you get them?” Jameson said, stunned.
“Cynthia kept copies and gave them to Jacob in case something happened to her,” Sampson said fiercely. “And we know they’re real because we’re working with a private investigator, a former NYPD narcotics agent, who authenticated them with his contacts in the police department.”
Jameson turned ashen gray on camera.
Ethan knew they had him.
Sampson went on. “Mrs. Jameson, those police reports are legal proof that your husband beat your daughter, and on at least one occasion, even tried to rape her.”
“You tried to rape Cynthia? You beat her? Why, Be
rnard? Why?” Sandy said, devastated, the documents slipping through her hands and floating to the floor. “I knew you didn’t get along. I knew you fought like cats and dogs. But you physically abused our Cynthia? You sexually molested her? Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She tried, Mrs. Jameson. She tried. But she told Jacob you never listened to her,” Sampson said. “And that’s why she became a prostitute, isn’t it, Mr. Jameson? She was so desperate—so emotionally destroyed by you—that she spiraled into this dark world to get even.” Sampson paused, waiting for Herb Glickstein to pan from the deputy mayor to his wife and then back to the deputy mayor. “Your daughter knew if she ever went to the press with her secret life—the secret life you pushed her into—she could bury you forever. And according to Jacob Lutz, you discovered right before the murder that she was planning to go public with everything. Isn’t that what really happened, Mr. Jameson?”
The deputy mayor began to laugh, a high-pitched, maniacal laugh. “You think you have it all figured out, don’t you, Mr. Sampson?”
“Not all of it, Deputy Mayor. Care to enlighten me?”
Jameson just smiled.
Ethan checked the time.
They were down to their last forty-five seconds. There wasn’t enough time to get to the end of the interview. Whispering into his headset, he said, “Paul, you gotta go to the network and tell them to bump the top of local news. Something big’s about to happen. I can feel it.”
“Ethan, it’s me, Stanley. Paul’s already on the phone with George Pierce and network operations. Hold on a second.”
Ethan waited breathlessly, time ticking away.
“Got it,” Paul said, his voice booming over the headset. “Pierce says we can go five more minutes, but that’s it.”
“I owe you, Paul,” Ethan said, turning to Sampson and flashing five fingers.
The anchorman glanced down at his questions, then back up at the deputy mayor. “Okay, Mr. Jameson, here’s your chance to come clean. Tell us what really happened to your daughter the night she was murdered.”
Live to Air Page 32