by J. B. Turner
She was more concerned about the fate of William Craig. Thirteen days after she’d been rescued, Deborah caught a train to Miami and returned to work.
• • •
Deborah sat at her desk and read the short handwritten note. It said simply: Glad you are okay and unharmed. Love, Brett.
She felt teary as she looked out of her window, glad to see the waters of Biscayne, even the thick clouds overhead. Despite everything that had happened between them, part of her still cared for Brett Pottinger.
He had helped her into the Cessna at Naples, and had held her hand throughout the journey, occasionally squeezing it to comfort her, knowing that she had become terrified of flying since her rape. He couldn’t look her in the eye, not wanting her to see the tears streaking his face.
Deborah picked up her cell phone and called Raiford, where she waited to be put through to William Craig’s Death Watch cell. He had three days left to live.
She felt edgy and imagined people were following her back to her condo. And she still couldn’t understand the intervention of the man in the shadows. Who was he? Had he been the one who’d spared her? But then again, maybe she’d imagined the man in the cellar. Perhaps she was hallucinating.
Most of her colleagues were shocked that Deborah had returned to the office so soon. She found it uncomfortable to talk about what had happened to her, without therapists there to hold her hand. But it felt good to be back, although everyone was caught up with the upcoming elections. Kathleen Klein, in all her blonde glory, was in her element, barking orders to the Washington bureau on her cell phone as she stalked the newsroom floor like a panther. Deborah felt as though she had been away for a lifetime. Whose numbers were going up? Whose going down? It was Chutes and Ladders for political anoraks.
Larry Coen’s stories had rocked O’Neill’s bandwagon, but still he rolled on. Pressing the flesh, meeting the minorities, the defense workers and the Jewish snowbirds. Even under the cloud of an FBI investigation, O’Neill talked the talk and walked the walk. It seemed as if he was on every talk show, where he portrayed himself as the victim. It was bizarre and worrying. His numbers were respectable, putting O’Neill on course to reenter the Senate.
Deborah pulled a loose thread off her black trousers. Eventually, she was put through to Craig. She pictured him in an airless cell, guards monitoring everything he did.
‘How are you keeping, my dear?’ he said. ‘Heard about your father. I’m so sorry.’
Deborah had put that to the back of her mind.
‘I was speaking to your boss, Sam Goldberg,’ Craig went on.
Curious, Sam hadn’t mentioned that when she’d seen him first thing that morning.
‘Told me about the FBI protection and what happened to you at O’Neill’s home.’
Deborah shifted in her seat. ‘He might’ve exaggerated a little.’
‘They kidnapped you—that’s not an exaggeration. Look, Deborah, can I talk straight?’
‘Sure.’
‘You think putting your neck on the line is smart? It’s not. It’s bloody stupid.’
‘I don’t want you worrying about me.’
‘I want you to promise me that you’ll drop your investigation. I appreciate all your efforts. Christ knows I do. But you must not push these people too far.’ Craig paused for a moment. ‘Are you still there?’
Deborah sighed. ‘Mr Craig, if you honestly think I’m gonna walk away at this time, you’re crazy. There’s a whole team working here for you, not just me.’
‘I don’t want any more blood on my hands.’
‘You’re not to blame for what happened to Rachel Harvey or my father.’
‘If you hadn’t investigated my case it could’ve been avoided.’
‘Mr Craig, I care what happens to you. My father might be in the hospital because of them, but I wasn’t brought up to run away at the first sign of trouble.’
There was no reply.
‘Look, we’re finding out things all the time. I don’t want to say too much but, from what I’m hearing, the senator, Richmond and the police chief may be involved in something. Problem is, we don’t know what it is.’
Craig gave a weary sigh. ‘I hope I don’t come across as an ungrateful old bastard. For what it’s worth, your stories are going down a storm here on death row. Even the guards are talking about the investigation. Everyone is talking about Deborah Jones. Now they all want to be interviewed by you.’
Deborah spotted Frank Callaghan holding up his phone. ‘Mr Craig, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call back. Someone’s on the other line. We’ll talk again soon.’
The new call was diverted through to her desk phone.
‘Where the hell y’been?’ It was Manhart, her mystery detective. ‘Been tryin’ to reach you.’
‘Been tied up with the Feds. You got something for me?’
‘Not now.’
‘Time’s running out, mister, or don’t you realize that?’
‘The story about Dennis Morrison’s trip to Mexico is raising a few eyebrows at HQ. Things are startin’ to loosen up. I’ve had my suspicions for a long time that he mixes with the wrong kind.’
‘Isn’t that an occupational hazard?’
‘Kind of. But not playing golf with the fuckers. Or staying on their yachts.’
‘You got proof of that?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Oh come on, Manhart.’ Deborah didn’t mean to sound so ungrateful. After all, he had pointed her in the direction of Jimmy Brown, which had kick-started the investigation at a very low point.
‘I have a friend at Fort Meade.’ Manhart was talking about US intelligence’s biggest agency, the global eavesdropping facility of the National Security Agency. ‘He’s their top computer geek. He’s got an inside track on everything, and I mean everything.’
‘I need you to come through for me. Gimme something.’
‘Not on the phone.’
‘Things are getting desperate. I need information now. I thought you were in on the original investigation?’
A beat. ‘Look, I’m trying to get it to you. But things are tricky. I think I’m being watched.’
Deborah remembered the previous afternoon, when she was escorted back to her condo by some Feds. She had received a steely glance from a man in the underground parking bay. Not to mention this morning, when she’d seen a middle-aged woman across the street who spoke into a cell phone and stared at Deborah as though she was relaying information to others. Deborah mentioned her suspicions to the FBI special agent in charge, but he said that she was being paranoid. ‘You wanna gimme a clue?’
‘It’s another piece of the jigsaw.’ The line went dead.
35
Sam Goldberg sat in his office with Frank Callaghan as they watched live Fox News pictures of the senator being greeted as a conquering hero in his old Brooklyn neighborhood. The whole spectacle was surreal. The guy was being humiliated in the press every day—cartoonists, political commentators and radio shock jocks, all unable to make up their minds whether O’Neill was in the pocket of the Mob, or just a crazy grieving father.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught sight through his office’s wooden blinds of Deborah walking through the newsroom. He had tried to speak to her about what had happened, but all she’d said was that she was ‘coping’. It didn’t fill him with optimism.
As for his own well-being, he hadn’t had much time to think about it as William Craig’s execution day got closer. He knew he was drinking too much, staying up too late, reluctant to return to his empty home with all its painful memories. The office had become his real home, the place where he spent nearly all his waking hours, apart from his drinks after work when he liked to listen to the blues and jazz standards being belted out at Tobacco Road until early in the morning.
And all the time he was running his paper, making sure that the stories were solid. That day the Miami Herald was packed with good
material. Cuban exiles alleged to have blown up a Cuban plane in 1976; a German plane with faulty gear landing safely at Miami International; predictions of a record number of hurricanes by an amateur weatherman; two thirteen-year old black kids shot dead by police in Liberty City; and a small story by Deborah about how William Craig had refused to choose a final meal.
Goldberg swiveled on his chair and stared out over Biscayne. He felt as low as the encroaching dark clouds.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said to Callaghan. ‘Why hasn’t Craig been released or clemency offered? After all Deborah’s uncovered, it’s unbelievable.’
‘She’s still making the calls out there. The kid’s not giving up. Unlike Harry Donovan who seems hell-bent on reaching a settlement with O’Neill.’
That was a sore point that Goldberg didn’t want to contemplate. At the end of the day, Donovan was the top guy. ‘When lawyers are involved it’s always messy. Frank, we’re leading this story nationwide.’ He picked up that day’s Herald and pointed at the front page. ‘Feds are saying on the record that they’re investigating O’Neill. What more do they need?’
‘Who the hell knows?’ Callaghan answered. ‘The senator’s team is playing this real cute. You read Kevin Skerl’s column today? Interesting how he said the PR offensive is turning O’Neill into a cult celebrity across the networks. Everyone wants a piece of him.’
At that moment on TV, O’Neill was being hugged by a small Italian-American woman. ‘He’s a cool bastard. What’s the latest bulletin on the hunt for Richmond?’
‘Zilch.’
‘Craig’s got ratings politicians would kill their mother for, right…?’
‘What’re you saying?’
‘I’m saying, why’s the governor going ahead with this execution?’
‘He’s a twenty-four-carat knucklehead. By the way, you see O’Neill on Good Morning, America?’
Goldberg loosened his tie with his right hand. ‘Guy deserves a fucking Oscar.’
He stared out of the window. It would be nice, he thought, to disappear up north for a few weeks to escape the Miami madhouse. The bitter cold of Wyoming where his sister had a ranch would be the perfect place to blow away the cobwebs. Horseback riding, doing ordinary, simple things, watching his hot breath turn to steam, that would be heaven.
His doctor wanted to prescribe Prozac. But Goldberg declined, preferring the buzz of Jim Beam any day.
‘Y’know, Frank,’ Goldberg said, ‘there’s something more to all this. I can’t put my finger on it. But I think we’re real close. But I can’t figure what the governor’s playing at. He’s not listening to anyone.’
‘Why don’t you give him a call? We could turn it around into a “Governor justifies execution” angle.’
Callaghan had a crafty news brain. He saw angles. Goldberg flipped through his Rolodex and punched in the number for the governor’s press secretary. He had to endure some maudlin country song for nearly ten seconds.
Then a cheery voice answered. ‘Hi, Tania Beckwith, governor’s office.’ He knew all about Tania Beckwith. A former Playmate of the Month, bizarrely she’d been taken under the wing of straight-laced Wilkinson for her photogenic qualities, among other things. Secret liaisons with fundraisers, bed-hopping with oil billionaires and summers in St Tropez were an integral part of her job description, according to informed gossip in Tallahassee.
‘Tania, Sam Goldberg here. Looking to speak to my favorite governor.’
She groaned like he’d asked her to do his shopping. ‘Not a great moment, Sam. Election’s taking up all our time.’
‘That’s not why I’m calling.’ The sound of phones and faxes could be heard in the background.
‘Don’t tell me, you’re still trying to get that crazy old man off the hook?’
‘You’re a quick learner, Tania.’ Goldberg pictured her curling her hair cutely behind her ears.
‘I’ll check and see if he’s got a spare moment,’ she said. ‘He’s due to go walkabout any moment.’
‘Just a couple of minutes of his valuable time. I’m sure the readers of this fine paper will be interested in his views.’ He tried to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.
The line clicked twice. After a brief pause, on came the man himself, his voice expansive and commanding like that of a Shakespearean actor.
‘Sam, good to hear from you,’ he said.
Insincere bastard. ‘How’s the weather in the Fort, governor?’
‘Not much blue, but pleasant. Receptive crowds. You see my Town Hall meeting on C-Span?’
‘Sorry, gov, a million and one other things.’
‘Surprised you missed my little soiree in Clematis Street for the press last week. Everyone was there.’
‘Kinda busy time, y’know.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Governor, I’ll come straight to the point. It’s about William Craig.’
Wilkinson paused for a moment. Then he let out a long sigh. ‘That’s old hat, Sam. Look, I’m gonna have to dash, some cable channel’s wanting five minutes—’
‘With respect, governor, it’s not old hat. Our polls show your numbers are heading south over this issue.’
‘We’ve got our own numbers people and we’re doing real well, thank you. If you ask me, Craig’s lucky to have enjoyed nearly a dozen extra years of life on this earth. Something denied to Joe O’Neill.’
‘Governor, can I be frank?’ Goldberg glanced at Callaghan who was listening in to the conversation on the speakerphone.
‘Sam, y’know I like straight talking.’
‘I’m curious. Does your dismissal of Craig’s case have anything to do with your relationship with Senator O’Neill? He’s treated you to more junkets around the world than anyone I know.’
The line went quiet. Had Goldberg hit a nerve?
‘Now you listen to me.’ Wilkinson’s voice was harder. ‘Since when were fact-finding missions at trouble spots around the world considered a junket?’
‘Are you telling me that all those trips were necessary to help the people of Florida?’ Goldberg winked at Callaghan.
‘Foreign policy’s an integral part of good government. Whether it’s inward investment we’re trying to attract from the Far East or just keeping our ear to the ground in developing countries.’ Wilkinson sounded weary that he had to explain the fundamentals of economics and politics to a newspaper editor. ‘Sam, the world’s moved on. This is a global village we’re living in. Not some shit-kicker media world. We need to keep abreast of developments and, frankly, your tone offends me.’ When Goldberg didn’t reply, Wilkinson continued, ‘Are you seriously telling me that as a young politician I shouldn’t have hooked up with a respected, experienced senator, no matter what our political differences were? Know something? I think you’ve been taken in by this crazy old killer.’
‘William Craig may be old and he may be a killer, but can you imagine how many other women Joe O’Neill would’ve raped if Craig hadn’t got to him?’
‘You suggesting we build statues in his honor?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Did you know that my young reporter, Deborah Jones, was kidnapped from the senator’s house? And did you know that this involved John Richmond, long-time associate of O’Neill?’
Wilkinson went quiet.
‘Just move the guy off death row,’ Goldberg said. ‘I’m begging you, please think again. The guy’s got a heart condition. I’ve got mail from all over the States. From all over the world. Our Internet site crashed yesterday because of the number of hits.’
‘And what about the victim’s family?’
‘Check today’s paper. O’Neill’s up to his neck in a conspiracy and you, as governor, should be taking control of the situation.’
‘I ain’t got time for this bleeding-heart bullshit. You’re the one who’s been discredited. Your paper’s been made to look foolish. A fifty-million-dollar lawsuit? That could cripple you.
And that reporter of yours, Deborah Jones, she’s just—
The line went dead. Wilkinson had hung up.
Goldberg slammed down the phone and buried his head in his hands. Maybe he’d played that all wrong.
The governor’s rise in politics hadn’t surprised anyone. Goldberg could see how he had done so well. He was photogenic, only in his late forties, had a mediocre business management degree from Yale, became a McKinsey consultant in New York and downsized everything in sight throughout the 1980s. But he got his big move into politics in the early 1990s when he got hooked up with the movers and shakers in Florida. Big money, real-estate brokers and billionaire fruit growers bankrolled his campaign in the mid-1990s, and he took up residence in the governor’s mansion in Tallahassee…
Wilkinson quickly forged links with right-wing Democrats, including O’Neill. But there was nothing new in that. The illusion of confrontational ideological politics was for the electorate at large.
There had to be a catch somewhere.
The governor seemed to be a happily married man. He had seven children, and was vehemently against abortion. He was signed up to the Christian Right agenda and was a devout Roman Catholic.
Callaghan said, ‘If you ask me, Deborah’s opened up a real can of worms.’
‘She’s still hoping this mystery detective’s gonna come through for her.’
‘Maybe the governor has some skeletons in his closet?’
He was clutching at straws.
‘Frank, the guy’s Mr Family Values personified. Fundraising for disabled charities, disadvantaged kids. He’s…’ Goldberg paused. It was so obvious. It had been staring him in the face all along. ‘He’s too good to be fucking true.’
