"Even?" Alex turned away and watched a few raindrops slide down the window. "Butcher’s going to throw me in jail."
She put her hand on his shoulder. "He’s bluffing."
"He’s done it before."
Joey didn’t say anything.
"Look," Alex said. "I can’t tell Butcher you’re my source."
"No, you can’t."
Alex turned toward her and her hand fell off his shoulder. "But you can." She didn’t seem to understand. "I’m not going to take the fall for this, Joey. The only thing Butcher has on me is that I won’t tell him who the source was. If he already knows, he can’t do anything to me."
"But why would I admit it?"
Alex pulled the digital recorder out of his pocket. "Because if you don’t, I’ll leak the audio of you telling me that you’re the source of the photos."
Joey stared at the recorder in his hand. She didn’t look at him, but Alex imagined her lunging for it.
He leaned away just a little and said, “Well, technically I won’t leak it. I would never out a source. But someone will.”
"That is low, Alex.”
"Think about it, Joey. I could have my lovely new tech intern cut the parts of me talking out and splice together your clips. What was it you said a minute ago? ‘You must have known there was a chance the photos were fake.’ Something like that. Newspapers these days love multi-media stories. Helps them push web traffic." She narrowed her eyes and Alex thought she might hit him. "My bet is that TV will pick it up by end of day tomorrow. I wonder if my editor knows anyone at Court TV?" He switched to his news anchor voice. "Vixen prosecutor uses fresh-faced reporter to frame Diego Blanco. Will she be arrested, or just disbarred? Details at eleven."
She was looking right at him, her jaw tight. "You wouldn’t."
She was right. He wasn’t going to leak the recording. It was an outright bluff.
"I’ll be honest," he said, holding her gaze, "I was ready to go to jail. Not for you but because it’s what journalists have to do. But I spoke with my editor and he offered me some wisdom. What he said, essentially, was that journalism is a dirty game. When they go low, we go lower." He paused, dangling the recorder a few inches in front of her face. "I’m willing to ruin you."
The taxi slowed in front of the courthouse but Joey asked the driver to circle the block a number of times. They rode in a thick silence interrupted only by the occasional blare of a horn or the splash of a puddle. Alex could feel her mind working. Scheming. Even then, he was attracted to her. He couldn’t hate her for what she’d done. She was more experienced than him, and she'd beaten him this time. As low as she’d stooped, it was no lower than a hundred things Dos Santos had done over the years.
He respected the game she was playing. His only regret was that he hadn’t played it better.
After a full loop of the courthouse, Joey said, "If you do this, Alex, no one is going to believe it. And if they do, it might take me down but I can drag you down with me."
"I’m going to be in jail in about eighteen hours, Joey. I’m going down either way."
She reached for the recorder but Alex turned away.
"If that’s all you have," she said, "I’ll be able to weather it. Claim it was fake."
"Maybe. But it will be enough for Butcher. He and my editor are friendly. He’ll believe the recording is real and he’ll drop his demand for me to testify. You might be able to weather it, but you might end up in jail." He paused, watching her think. "There is another way, though."
She smiled at him. "Are you thinking what I’m thinking?
He smiled back but said nothing.
"I was right about you, Alex, you’re a good guy. You would never lie in court. Never lie to a Judge."
"But you have no such qualms."
"You know, Alex, for the record, I would have slept with you either way."
Chapter 12
Friday
Judge Butcher surveyed the courtroom, starting with the lawyers. He scanned the spectators and press, who were packed into every corner, and slowed just a little when he saw Alex.
Alex was sweating and fidgeting, but he flashed a confident smile even though he felt Butcher’s glare like a laser boring a hole through his chest.
Butcher had started the proceedings on time, as always, but the room had been packed earlier than ever. He said, "I see that a press scandal brings even more attention than a murder trial. Interesting."
A few people chuckled and The Post reporter next to Alex whispered, "You’re famous."
Butcher waited for the room to go silent. "I plan to move past this issue as quickly as possible so that the defense can continue its case. But there have been attempts to interfere with this trial, and the reporter responsible is here today."
All of a sudden, Joey was on her feet. "Your honor, may I approach the bench?"
Dos Santos leapt up as well. Butcher just raised his glasses. It was his, "Go on" look.
Joey said, "Your honor I have information about this."
"The jury isn’t present, Ms. Bonner. Just say it.”
"I know, your honor, but this issue is sensitive."
He nodded. "Both of you. Quickly."
Joey and Dos Santos approached the bench and the whole courtroom leaned forward. Of course, no one could hear what they were saying, but they all leaned anyway. Joey seemed to be doing all the talking.
After a minute, Judge Butcher took off his glasses, then put them back on. Alex wasn’t sure, but he thought Butcher looked even more displeased than usual. When the lawyers returned to their seats, Butcher frowned at Alex, who was holding his breath.
"Ms. Bonner has informed me that the source of the leaked photo was her office. She has claimed that opposition research by a low level member of her staff unearthed the photo and sent it, unsolicited. And though it was wildly irresponsible of The Standard to run it without any concrete proof of its validity, I’m not able to charge the reporter who was responsible with anything at this time.”
Alex’s whole body relaxed. Joey had done what she’d said she’d do.
“Of course, Mr. Dos Santos may choose to bring a libel case, but that’s not the purview of this court." Butcher paused and sighed deeply. "I will be doing everything in my power to confirm Ms. Bonner’s story and, if it turns out to be untrue, Ms. Bonner herself will be held in contempt. Further, Ms. Bonner has requested a mistrial. A highly unusual move for a prosecutor. I have declined. This case will go forward. Mr. Dos Santos, are you prepared to call your next witness?"
Dos Santos stood and turned toward Alex but he didn’t make eye contact. "Your honor, we will be calling Brittney Deerborn."
Butcher asked the bailiff to bring in the jury and, five minutes later, Dos Santos called his star witness.
Deerborn was tall like a runway model, and walked like one toward the front of the room. She was slim and her black hair reached exactly to her waist. She wore a form-fitting white pantsuit and looked to Alex like she was auditioning for a role as a smooth-talking political consultant, or possibly a European heiress.
At the front of the room, she swore to tell the truth, but Alex didn’t believe a word of it. She seemed a little too polished, a little too sincere. He’d believed Joey when she told him that Deerborn been coached and possibly bribed by “friends” of Mendoza.
Dos Santos took his time establishing her as a witness. This was his moment of glory, and he wanted all the camera time he could get. Deerborn testified that she’d worked at Vinny’s for over a year and had waited on Mr. Mendoza dozens of times. Every Friday night and often once or twice during the week. She added that he was “always polite, always respectful, and always tipped well.” When she spoke of Mendoza she sounded like she was describing a favorite uncle who held a special place in her heart. Definitely not a murderer who ran drugs up and down the east coast.
Next, Dos Santos asked her about Victor Alvarado. According to her testimony, he’d accompanied Mendoza to the restaurant once or twic
e but that he made her “very uncomfortable.”
At this, Joey leapt from her seat. “Your honor, this is speculation, character assassination.”
“Overruled. The witness will be allowed to share her impression of the victim.”
“But the victim isn’t here to defend himself.”
Butcher gave her his “sit down” look. “Noted, and overruled.”
Dos Santos paced for a moment, as if he wanted the jury to revel in Butcher’s decision along with him. “What was it about the victim that made you uncomfortable?”
“He grabbed me once. A few months earlier. I was getting him a beer and he came up behind me at the bar and grabbed my…” She teared up, looked down at her lap.
“It’s okay, Ms. Deerborn. I know this is hard to relive, but—”
She looked up suddenly. “He grabbed my butt...and pulled me against him. Just out of nowhere. Like he owned me.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“I just turned and swiped his hand away. I pretended like it hadn’t happened.”
After fifteen more minutes of questions relating to Mr. Alvarado’s previous visits to Vinny’s, Dos Santos finally got to the night in question. The entire court room became still. Necks craned forward. The only sound was the tap of the court reporter’s keyboard.
Dos Santos turned slightly toward the cameras. He was on stage, and he knew it. “When Mr. Alvarado appeared, what was the first thing you noticed?”
Deerborn looked at the floor, as though she couldn’t bear to relive it. “He seemed upset. His face was blotchy and he walked right up to the table where Mr. Mendoza was eating.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“Objection!” Joey’s voice, exasperated.
“Sustained.”
“Apologies,” Dos Santos said. “Just tell us, in your own words, what happened next? Did you hear any conversation between the victim and the defendant?”
“A little, but not all of it. I was afraid of Mr. Alvarado...of the victim. So when he came in looking angry I went to the back. The kitchen.”
“And you were afraid of him...because?”
“What I said before. From when he grabbed me.”
“And when did you come back into the dining room?”
“Probably five minutes later. I brought Mr. Mendoza his dessert, a tiramisu.”
“And what was going on when you came back in the dining room?”
She took a moment to compose herself, then glanced at the jury. “They were talking loud but not shouting. Something about how the victim, Mr. Alvarado, had lost money gambling. I tried not to listen to the details. I set the plate down in front of Mr. Mendoza and was going to return to the kitchen. And—”
“And where was Mr. Alvarado at this time?”
“He was standing up to my right as I set the dessert down across the table.”
“And Mr. Woodrow was?”
“Sitting down, to my left.”
“And what happened next?”
“Mr. Alvarado reached across the table and…” She trailed off.
The room was quiet. Even Alex was immersed in her story, though he was ninety percent sure she was lying.
Dos Santos let her inability to speak hang there for a few seconds. “I know this is difficult. But please, what did he do?”
“He slapped me.”
“On your arm?”
“No.”
“In your face?”
“Not my face. He slapped my breasts. With the back of his hand.”
Dos Santos shook his head, appalled. Quietly, full of compassion, he asked, “Ms. Deerborn, did he say anything at that time?”
“He said to Mr. Mendoza, ‘How about I turn this bitch out? I can make ten grand a day with her on the street. Then I can pay you back.’”
A few tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped with a small splash, staining her pantsuit.
“And what happened next?” Dos Santos asked.
“I was stunned, and Mr. Mendoza said something like, ‘Don’t talk to her that way.’ But Mr. Woodrow stood right up. And that’s when Mr. Alvarado lunged at Mr. Mendoza. I jumped back toward the kitchen just as Mr. Woodrow wedged his body between them and pushed Mr. Alvarado away. It wasn’t even much of a shove but Mr. Alvarado stumbled. And that’s when he struck his head on the bar.”
She held up her hand, like she needed a minute. Even though Joey had convinced him that she was lying, Alex had a hard time not believing her. If she was acting, she had a bright future in the movies.
Dos Santos would go on for two more hours, and Joey would do everything she could to poke holes in Deerborn’s story. But Alex knew what the jury knew, what Dos Santos knew, and what Joey herself had known the day before.
It was over.
* * *
When the trial broke for lunch, Alex found Bearon sitting on the courthouse steps, eating a sandwich from a wax paper bag. He sat next to him and patted him on the back. "She may be lying, but Deerborn just got Mendoza off."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. She was great."
"What about you?"
"Joey did what she said she’d do. She lied her ass off to the judge.”
"Will it work?"
Alex stretched out his long legs and watched the TV crews set up for their stand-ups along the street. "Already did. Joey will try and fail to find out who in her office leaked the photo. I’ll confirm the story she told the judge, that I got it from an anonymous source who sent it in an unmarked envelope, and no one will ever get to the bottom of anything. The legal system will roll on as though nothing happened."
“You’ll lie to the judge?”
“I’ll confirm her lie. And he may not even ask me. His beef is with the source, not me.”
Bearon finished his sandwich, balled up the wax paper bag, and threw it at Alex.
“I know it’s a fine line,” Alex said. “But I’ll be able to sleep at night.”
“You’re lucky as hell. You know that, right?”
Alex sighed. “Yeah, I really dodged a bullet.”
“A bullet you shot yourself.”
The TV crews went live and Alex watched them carefully. He thought he might want to get into TV some day. But not yet. He was lucky The Colonel was going to let him keep his job at The Standard, and no other news organization would touch him for months, maybe years.
"Anyway, it’s worth celebrating,” Bearon said. “You wanna hit Bar 76 tonight?"
"I don’t know. You might have a better chance of meeting someone uptown. Plus, I think I’m gonna stop hanging out at the bars near the courthouse. It’s not worth the trouble they get me in. Let’s try Dive Bar, okay?"
"Okay,” Bearon said, “but you’re buying."
Thanks for Reading!
I’ll be honest. Besides my family, nothing makes me happier than the thought of a reader finishing one of my books.
So…thank you!
As an indie author, I work hard to bring you excellent work as fast as I can. I’ve got many books in the works and I plan to be at this a long time. I hope you’ll come along for the ride.
The best way to do that is by joining my reader club. I never sell or rent your email address. I never send spam or junk, but I do send:
inside information about my books
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Flip forward a few pages for a free preview of The Anonymous Source, the first full-length novel featuring Alex Vane. Though it was released before The Cutline, it takes place two years after the story you just read.
* * *
Here’s what people are saying about The Anonymous Source:
"A keep-reading-until-your-eyes-hurt book, each chapter more intriguing than the last...Elite Indie Reads anticipates that Fuller will soon be a household name."
-Elite Indie Reads
"The Anony
mous Source evokes comparisons to John Grisham's finest—The Firm and The Pelican Brief—with a touch of Woodward and Bernstein's All the President's Men...A high-stakes, explosive debut novel from a talented new writer sure to do damage to the best-seller lists."
-Robert Dugoni, New York Times Bestselling Author of My Sister's Grave
"Read the literary equivalent of heroin."
-Josh, online reviewer
"An ode to American news served just the way I like it--fast, bloody, and utterly righteous."
-Roger Hobbs, New York Times Bestselling Author of Ghostman
Here’s the story:
One year after the 9/11 attacks, Alex Vane—a brilliant, fitness-obsessed reporter for The New York Standard—wants nothing more than to break into the flashy world of TV news. But when he uncovers the scoop of a lifetime, his tightly controlled world is rocked: his editor buries his story, a source turns up dead, and Alex finds himself at the center of a violent media conspiracy.
As he receives tips from a mysterious source, Alex enlists the help of a captivating professor, Camila Gray. Aided by an Internet genius, a billionaire's sexy widow, and a washed-up sports reporter, Alex and Camila discover a $500-million secret that could derail the largest media merger in history.
It's a secret that unearths dark memories from Alex's past. It's a secret that leads back to the morning of 9/11. And it's a secret that could get them both killed.
Prologue—Preview of The Anonymous Source
World Trade Center, South Tower, 99th Floor
September 11, 2001, 8:46 a.m.
Macintosh Hollinger heard a faint rumble. As he set his comb on the edge of the sink, he noticed a small vase of pink carnations wobbling on the marble vanity. When had New York City last been hit by an earthquake? He tried to recall as he checked his short gray hair in the mirror and adjusted the lapel of the blue suit his wife had given him that morning for his eighty-fourth birthday. It wasn’t worth the four grand Sonia had probably spent on it, but he did look sharp. When he glanced again, the vase was still. It was probably nothing.
The Cutline (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 0) Page 8
