Ten minutes later I was sitting in one corner of the green room with Rita and Margy, trying to stay calm. Jackie Newton came bursting in, clipboard in hand.
“Okay, just about ten minutes to showtime! And our other guest is already here, so . . .”
“He’s not coming in here, is he?” I asked, sounding desperately jumpy.
Jackie patted my arm. “Now, as they say in Jersey, I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid. And considering your ‘shared history,’ we thought it best you guys didn’t meet until you were on the set. So, don’t sweat it, Hannah. Anyway, just to run through some stuff you already know, your segment will be ten minutes exactly. We’ll need you to sign the following release form. And the good news for you is that we’ve decided to make it the first item on the program, so there won’t be a long wait. And Jose will be dropping by in a moment, just to say hello and make you feel at home. So hey, kick back!”
As soon as she was out of earshot, Margy said, “You know, I’ve never really trusted anyone who talks in exclamation points.”
Then the green room door burst open and Jose Julia waltzed in. Naturally, I’d seen him on television before—he’d been around since the mid-seventies, first when he was a roving reporter for NBC and sported long hair, a leather jacket, and a big liberal conscience. Since then, he’d reinvented himself several times over—as an anchorman on assorted cable stations, then as a front man on a failed ABC newsmagazine, then as a wandering journalistic gadfly—before finding his niche, in the late nineties, as a scandalmongering rabble-rouser on cable. And though he always proclaimed himself to be “apolitical,” the fact that he had done an extended stint on Fox News before switching to New America Cable News more than hinted that he had embraced his conservative paymasters. So too had the patriotic bilge he had spouted after 9/11—and the way he made headlines around the country after browbeating a Muslim cleric on his show and telling him, “You hate our way of life,” a comment that won him a great deal of positive feedback in right-wing circles. This is what I dreaded most about Julia—the fact that he’d play the patriotic card with me and question my allegiance to my country.
“Well, hey there, Hannah Buchan!” he said, bearing right down on me.
I hate to admit it, but for a man edging toward sixty, he looked amazingly fit. Dressed in a very well-cut black suit, with an English spread collar shirt and a subdued polka-dot tie, he had a full head of thick, slightly ruffled black hair, a big Zapata-style mustache, and a thousand-watt smile. He exuded designer good taste and aerobic high maintenance.
“It is so great to have you here,” he said, giving me a two-handed handshake. “Like just so great. You feeling good about being here?”
“Well, to be honest . . .”
“I know! I know! That man! Can’t say I blame you—but once we’re out there, mixing it all up, you’ll have your chance to put the record straight—and on national television. So, hey, it’s Dealer’s Choice here, right? And the thing is, Hannah, the real object of the show . . . is to have fun.”
Fun? Did he actually say fun?
“That’s right, fun,” he said, reading my mind. “Because even though we’ll be touching on some pretty heavy personal stuff, well, confrontation and catharsis are a great kick, right? And one of the reasons why I’ve always wanted this show to be taped without an audience is because confrontation is always more forceful without the crowd from the Colosseum cheering the warriors on, right?”
I nodded.
“So, hey, if you want to get angry out there, you get angry. You want to tell him what you think of him, you tell him. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“You’re going to do great. Just great. See you in five.”
And he waltzed out.
I turned to Margy and hissed, “I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not,” she hissed back.
“It’s going to be a freak show out there. Especially since he’s probably told him the same thing as me. ‘If you want to get angry out there, you get angry. Tell her off. Call her a harlot!’ I’m going to look like an idiot . . .”
“You can’t get out of this now,” Rita said, placing one of her big hands on my wrist and squeezing it very hard. “The die is cast. And you will do just—”
I stood up. Rita yanked me down again. And said, “Hannah, this is your one shot to set things straight. You walk out now, the cause célèbre multiplies by the power of ten. You do the show, you have the chance to close the deal, and get your life back. What’s the better option here?”
Margy jumped in.
“And if you dare leave now, I’ll die on the spot and haunt you for the rest of your life.”
“That’s not funny,” I said.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Jackie returned, clipboard in hand, exclamation points bubbling out of her mouth.
“Moment of truth time, Hannah! Ready to rock?”
I stood up, feeling woozy. If I feigned a collapse, if I fainted . . .
I’d never forgive myself for not going through with it.
I shut my eyes. I tried to steady myself. I opened them again.
“I’m ready,” I said.
Margy reached for my hand. “You’ll be fine.”
I followed Jackie into the studio. En route she said, “We can’t invite your support team in here, as Jose likes to keep it strictly off-limits to everyone except the crew and the participants. Still, they’ll be able to follow everything on a monitor in the green room.”
The set was simple. A large thronelike chair for the host, with two narrow armchairs facing each other over a small coffee table. The logo, JOSE!, covered the plain blue backdrop. A sound technician approached me with a wireless microphone that he attached to my jacket lapel, then asked me to hide the battery pack in an inside pocket. I was shown to my seat, where I crossed and recrossed my legs in an attempt to get comfortable. A makeup woman arrived to patch up any gaps in the foundation base that might have shown up in the last half hour. I closed my eyes when she applied powder to my cheeks and nose. When I opened them, Tobias Judson was sitting opposite me. I tried not to flinch. I failed. Up close, he looked even stockier than the times I had recently seen him on television—his bald pate currently being dusted with powder, his rimless glasses catching the light. Our eyes met for a moment. He gave me a small curt nod. I nodded back and we both looked away. On the table in front of Judson were two books—his autobiography and a copy of the Bible.
Jose Julia came out, trailed by his own makeup lady and a producer who was whispering rapid-fire final instructions in his ear.
“Got it, got it,” Julia said as he settled into his chair, studied his notes, did a sound check with the technicians, asked for the teleprompter to be brought forward two feet, checked his watch, and completely ignored his two guests.
Then, when the producer shouted thirty seconds, Julia looked at each of us, flashed a big smile, and said, “Showtime!”
“Twenty seconds, ten seconds, five, four, three, two . . .”
The set lights blazed on, the producer signaled Julia, who looked straight at the camera and started reading the teleprompter.
“Good evening, America! Tonight, the curse of an overweight woman whose affair with her personal trainer turned homicidal. And what happens when stepdaughters marry their stepfathers? But before that . . . say you had an illicit affair with a man thirty years ago—a man who you also helped to flee the country while he was wanted by the FBI. And say that man who has now reformed his ways writes a book about his past life, and talks all about that ‘little’ skeleton in your closet. How would you react? That’s the dilemma that’s facing Hannah Buchan, a married schoolteacher from Maine whose past life has been exposed in a new book by Chicago radio talk-show host Tobias Judson. And Hannah seriously disputes Toby’s telling of the tale, saying he forced her into it . . . whereas he’s saying she was so in love with him at the time she was only too happy to help him evade the strong arm of the law.
It’s a classic he said/she said situation, folks—and right after this message, we’ll be back to find out: who’s telling the truth here? Stay tuned!”
The lights went down again.
“Thirty seconds!” shouted the producer. Julia again avoided glancing at either of us as he took a sip of water. I looked up in the direction of Judson. I could see him watching me, noting my nervousness. He shot me a little sardonic smile, as if to say: I am going to get you.
“Ten seconds. Five, four, three, two . . .”
The lights came back up.
“Welcome back, America! In the right corner, Toby Judson, well-known Chicago radio host and author of a new book, I Ain’t A-Marching Anymore. In the left corner, Hannah Buchan, schoolteacher from Maine, a married mother of two grown children, whose affair with Judson became national news in the light of her daughter’s own affair with celebrity doctor Mark McQueen—and her subsequent disappearance. We’ve talked about the Elizabeth Buchan case on the show before. Before we get started, Hannah, can I just have your thoughts on whether you think Dr. Mark McQueen may have done your daughter harm?”
This was a question that Rita told me would certainly be thrown at me, so I knew exactly how to field it.
“Well, Jose,” I said, making the all-important eye contact. “As every parent watching knows, there is no worse nightmare than your child disappearing. And until she is found alive and well, my life will be haunted by her absence. Having said that, I must believe that she is still alive and hasn’t come to any harm.”
“But do you think Dr. McQueen could have been involved in her disappearance?”
“That’s a police matter, Jose.”
“And the police still consider McQueen their prime suspect in this case. Toby Judson, considering the pain that Hannah Buchan is suffering right now due to her daughter’s disappearance, do you think it was the appropriate moment to publish this book?”
A big smile from Judson toward Julia.
“Jose, let me say from the outset that my heart goes out to Hannah Buchan for her loss—and that I have prayed daily for Elizabeth’s safe return home. But I also must point out that it was never my intention to expose Mrs. Buchan as the woman who helped me flee to Canada. I used a pseudonym in the book . . .”
“But surely you knew that someone would figure out that the woman in question was Hannah Buchan.”
“The pseudonym was meant to protect her identity. If you want to point fingers, Jose, you should start with Chuck Cann, who revealed all on his website.”
“Now, you were a real die-hard sixties radical, right?”
Another relaxed smile from Judson.
“The hardest of the hard left,” he said, then began to quickly explain the circumstances that landed him in Maine, the way my dad had sent him to me, the coup de foudre, the baby in the bedroom as we made love (Jose loved that detail), and the way I insisted on driving him to Canada.
“Quite a steamy story there, Toby,” Julia said. “Extramarital sex. Radical sixties politics. An accomplice to a serious crime. Love at first sight. And a midnight flit across the border. No wonder your book’s already a best seller! Hannah Buchan, what does your husband think about all this?”
“He was understandably upset,” I said, looking directly at him.
“So upset that he walked out on you after thirty years of marriage.”
I was about to start chewing on my lip.
“I’m afraid that’s the case, Jose.”
“And no chance of reconciliation, since he’s now living with your best friend. Or should I say onetime best friend. Never knew Portland, Maine, was just like Peyton Place! But seriously, Hannah, what do you think of Judson’s account of your affair?”
“It is full of lies and misrepresentations. But the biggest misrepresentation . . .”
Julia cut me off.
“Hang on, your dad did send him to you, right?”
“Yes.”
“You did fall for him, right?”
“It was a temporary infatuation—”
“Which led to you two sharing a bed together, right?”
“Uh . . . yes.”
“With your baby son in the same room?”
God, this was not going according to plan.
“That’s right, but—”
“And you did drive him to Canada, right?”
“All that is correct, Jose—I have never denied any of those facts . . .”
“You’ve just refused to apologize for them. Unlike Toby, who has written an entire book apologizing for his past deeds and proclaiming his patriotism and newfound Christian faith.”
“I have apologized to the people who count in my life: my husband . . .”
“Well, your husband evidently didn’t accept your apology.”
“May I ask Hannah a question?” Judson asked.
“Be my guest,” Julia said.
“Did you apologize to God?”
“Unlike you, I don’t speak to God,” I said.
“Maybe you should start,” Judson said.
“And maybe you should stop writing lies,” I heard myself say.
“You’ve just called Tobias Judson a liar,” Julia said, delighted with this angry turn in the conversation.
“That’s right—the stuff he wrote about me taking him to Canada is a total lie.”
“But you’ve just admitted you drove him to Canada,” Julia said.
“Under duress. He threatened to expose the affair, threatened to tell the FBI I was his accomplice if he was caught, threatened to—”
Judson cut me off.
“I will not sit here and be called a liar by a woman who has refused to accept her guilt, her . . .”
“Accept my guilt? Accept my guilt?” I yelled. “My entire life has been destroyed by you and your shabby little book, your defamation of my character, your . . .”
“See how out of control she gets when challenged,” Judson said to Julia. “And yet, from a Christian point of view, asking forgiveness is the path to redemption.”
“You are no goddamn Christian,” I said. “You are . . .”
“I won’t even deal with your use of blasphemous language. As to my relationship with Jesus Christ—and the way I was able to change my life through His redemptive powers . . .”
“Change your life?” I said, now really letting it rip. “You’re just a huckster, a con artist, using your story of ‘redemption’ to further your career . . .”
“I really think this sort of talk is way over the line,” Judson said to Julia.
“You certainly are one angry lady, Hannah,” Jose said.
I clenched my fists and started chewing my lip. I tried to lower my voice, but I still trembled as I spoke.
“I was having a perfectly normal, quiet little life until this man came back into it with his cheap accusations, his . . .”
“It was hardly a normal life, Hannah,” Julia said, “if your daughter’s disappearance was front-page news everywhere. And don’t you think we have to be responsible for our own actions . . . even if they did happen years ago?”
“Of course, but—”
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase. You, Hannah, admit that you slept with this guy all those years ago. You admit that you drove him to Canada, but you’re pretty damn firm on the fact that he forced you into it. Whereas you, Toby Judson, insist that she did it out of love for you . . . that she volunteered to do it. So who’s right here, folks? Stay tuned after the break—and you’ll find out. Because the Jose Julia Investigating Team have found a surprise witness who was there and who knows who was telling the truth! Don’t go away!”
The lights dimmed. There was a flurry of activity as two stagehands brought out another armchair and positioned it near Julia’s throne.
“What surprise witness?” Judson said angrily.
“You’ll find out,” Julia said coldly.
“I was never told about this,” Judson said.
“Well, a surprise is a surprise.�
��
“You can’t just—”
“Thirty seconds,” the producer shouted—and suddenly Jackie emerged from the wings holding the arm of Billy Preston. Though his hair was gray and the glasses were thicker, he hadn’t changed enormously in the past thirty years. Same jumpy eyes, same goofy grin. He was dressed in the sort of tight, narrow blue serge suit that was a relic from the sixties and made him look like an old-time preacher at a backwoods Baptist church. His eyes lit up when he saw me.
“Hey there, Hannah!” he said.
“Hey, Billy,” I said back. “Great you could make it.”
“Hey, it’s real cool being on television . . .”
Across the stage, Judson hissed, “Him? Him? He’s not a witness. He’s . . .”
“Fifteen seconds,” the producer shouted.
“I won’t sit here and . . .”
Judson started to get up, reaching for his lapel mic to pull it off.
“You walk out now,” Julia said coolly, “I’ll announce that you stormed off rather than face the surprise witness. You want that?”
Judson sat down again, shifting nervously in his chair.
“Five seconds. Four, three, two . . .”
Lights. Camera. Action.
“Welcome back, America! So who’s telling the truth here? Toby Judson, who maintains that Hannah drove him to Canada voluntarily to escape prosecution? Or Hannah Buchan, who maintains Toby coerced her by threatening to expose their affair? Well, here’s our star surprise witness: Billy Preston, who was there when all this happened over thirty years ago. Welcome to the show, Billy.”
“Sure pleased to be here, Jose,” he said, nodding his head rapidly.
“Now, Billy, you’re a lifelong resident of Pelham, Maine, right?”
“Yup.”
“And you suffer from a form of developmental challenge called autism, is that right?”
“I never think myself different from nobody.”
“And, bless you, Billy, you’re not. I only mention that so your credibility as a witness cannot be challenged. Because, though you do suffer from autism, you hold down a job, don’t you?”
“I’m the Mr. Fix-It of Pelham, Maine. You got a problem with your drains, you need your house repainted, you call me.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 162
