Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “That was you. I thought I recognized your car. Listen, Ali—”

  “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Sarah’s an old girlfriend,” Mike protested. “She came by to pick up her bike.”

  “Sure she did.”

  “It’s true.”

  “The truth seems to be something you have trouble with,” I said coldly, incredulous that after breaking his promise of silence regarding the French case, he actually expected me to believe him. “I judge people by what they do, not by what they say.”

  “You’re not going to let me explain, are you?”

  “No.”

  “All right,” said Mike, his tone frosting as well. “In that case, I’ll tell you something you have trouble with. Trust. You walk around in that protective shell of yours, so afraid of being hurt that you won’t give anyone a chance—let alone the benefit of the doubt. Well, eventually you’ll realize you have to trust someone.”

  “I do trust some people,” I fired back. “But I choose them carefully, and you’re no longer on the list. As for your amateur psychology, save it for someone who cares.” With that, I slammed down the receiver and banged out the front door, ignoring curious glances from several girls coming up the steps.

  31

  Spurred by the growing media furor generated by Brent’s autopsy story, the Frenches’ publicist called CBS early the following week, requesting that the date for the interview with Jordan’s parents be moved up. The network readily agreed, rescheduling the interview for the coming Thursday. It was widely rumored in the media that Mr. and Mrs. French, under threat of a grand jury subpoena, were likely to submit to a formal police interrogation as well. In light of that, I concluded that in addition to defusing the negative spin that Brent’s autopsy piece had put on the case, the Frenches were attempting to garner national sympathy by preemptively going on-air with the viewing public first—another masterful example of playing the press.

  The rest of the week dragged by, my early-morning hours spent toiling on my novel, my time at work devoted to last-minute preparation for the upcoming French interview, my evenings visiting my mother at the hospital.

  Following the bone-marrow transplant, Mom had developed what Dr. Miller described as a neutropenic fever of unknown origin, a condition requiring IV treatment with broad-spectrum antibiotics and an antifungal medication. Along with intravenous feeding and daily doses of morphine, Mom was also receiving steroids and a drug called cyclosporin to combat graft-versus-host disease. Able to do nothing but watch as my mother grew weaker by the day, I kept as busy as possible, filling my waking hours with activity and dreading my dismal, sleepless nights. By Thursday morning, the day of the French interview, I was exhausted.

  As scheduled, the Frenches arrived at the newsroom at precisely 10 AM. An hour later, after a review of procedural ground rules, the meeting with Jordan’s parents got underway.

  Despite showing the strain of past months, Mr. and Mrs. French held up well under initial questioning—painting themselves as wronged not only by police, but by an overly aggressive media as well. They described how, nerve-wracked by the journalistic attention they’d received, they had been forced to flee their home and live in hiding, shuttling from hotel to hotel, staying with friends, and shunning places they were known to frequent. But somehow, no matter where they’d hidden, they had always been found. In the end, according to Mr. French, they had simply accepted the impossibility of dodging the press and returned to their estate, becoming virtual prisoners in their own home.

  Although I realized that I didn’t deserve to be participating in the interview, I was determined to do my best. The trouble was, although I had written more than my share of hard-hitting questions, almost all had been given to Brent in what was clearly a news version of the “good-cop, bad-cop” interrogation strategy—my subservient role in the proceedings adding to the humiliation of knowing I wouldn’t have even been there had it not been for my father’s involvement in the case. That, and the Frenches’ self-serving demands.

  As the interview progressed, to my profound embarrassment, it became obvious to everyone that I had been cast as a sympathetic kid-sister, with Brent playing the more skeptical, seasoned correspondent, exerting a balancing influence. It was Brent, for instance, who broached the subject of why the Frenches had refused to cooperate with authorities by giving blood and hair samples, or by submitting to a formal police interrogation. Jordan’s parents maintained that their refusal to cooperate with police investigators stemmed from the LAPD’s clear intention of treating them as murder suspects, rather than seeking the real killer or killers of their daughter. In Mr. French’s words, “The police came to our house convinced that we’d done it. They had a murdered child on their hands, and their knee-jerk reaction was to go after the parents. They didn’t want to find out what actually happened. They just wanted to hang us.”

  Following up with a more friendly topic approved for me by network, I brought up similar examples of alleged misuse of power by authorities—instances including the McMartin childcare case and others in which lives had been ruined by what many considered a witch-hunt mentality on the part of investigators. Implied in my examples were the cautionary lessons to be learned. Naturally, Jordan’s parents had wholeheartedly agreed.

  Brent rebutted by asking Mr. French about his previous knowledge of the reservoir location, also bringing up the sexual-abuse aspects of Jordan’s autopsy. On both issues Mr. French delivered a well-articulated response, pointing out that many people knew of the reservoir location, and that other explanations existed for the supposed child-abuse evidence discovered by the coroner. Mrs. French added that Jordan’s doctor had unequivocally stated that during the numerous times he had seen Jordan over the years, never had he found any evidence whatsoever of sexual molestation.

  Next I brought up the private polygraph exams that the parents had passed. Brent queried them regarding the LAPD contention that it was unlikely Jordan could have been abducted from her home without someone having heard a scuffle. I introduced a psychological profile of the killer that the Frenches had procured from an ex-member of the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit in Virginia, stressing that the behavioral analysis had failed to match Jordan’s parents in any respect. Brent questioned why no follow-up to the ransom note was ever received. And so on, back and forth. Although my father’s being the lead investigator on the case was never mentioned, it hung in the air, shadowing the entire proceeding.

  Toward the end, in a telling moment that summed up the overall tenor of the interview, I posed the only tough question I had been allowed. Point-blank, I asked Jordan’s parents whether they had killed their daughter. It was a question that brought Mrs. French to tears.

  “No, no, no,” she replied, taking her husband’s hand. “How could we do that? Think about it. The police would have everyone believe that we bludgeoned our daughter to death and then dumped her body in a reservoir. Next we wrote a phony ransom note, phoned the police to report her missing, and sat around waiting for the authorities to arrive. How could we do that? I mean, how could any parent do that? What sort of people do you think we are? We loved our daughter,” she added quietly. “We would never have done anything to harm her. Never.”

  The interview aired the following evening as a CBS Special. To no one’s surprise, it proved one of the most-viewed presentations of the year. Brent, Lauren, and I, as well as others from the newsroom, watched it in Lauren’s office. In the edited version I came off as being even more sympathetic toward Jordan’s parents, as if I considered them the injured parties. It was an effect that I knew had been carefully choreographed by network from the beginning. Conversely, Brent appeared even more the senior journalist, the one dealing with the nuts and bolts of the case. It was a part he executed with consummate skill. Afterward, disappointed and depressed, I returned to my room at UCLA.

  When I arrived at the dorm, I found a stack of bills and letters that Mrs. Ra
ndom had left for me on a narrow table inside the front entry. There was also a small package addressed to me, partially hidden beneath my pile of mail. Inside the package was a DVD labeled Forgotten River. No note.

  After ascending the stairs to my room, I stripped off my clothes and took a long, hot shower, standing beneath the steaming spray as the water gradually eased the tension from my body. Twenty minutes later I stepped out, dried myself, and donned my robe. I briefly contemplated going to bed. I glanced at the DVD I had received in the mail. Though exhausted, I wasn’t sleepy.

  Deciding to watch the reedited version of Forgotten River, I flipped on my TV, shoved Mike’s disc into my DVD player, and lay on my bed. Before long, despite my anger over Mike’s betrayal, I was snared anew in the artistry of his work. He had taken my suggestions and improved upon them, laying down a classical music soundtrack over his ending montage and splicing in a number of more optimistic images throughout—including a shot of the waterfall we had visited in Santa Ynez Canyon. Though subtle, the changes he had made imbued the documentary with a note of hope that had formerly been missing, seeming to say that despite tragedy and hardship, life could be meaningful; and although bulldozed and trodden and cemented over in places, the beauty of nature still existed for those who looked for it.

  But as the film ended, I felt anything but optimistic. More despondent than ever, I stared at the blank TV screen, wondering how things in my life could have gone so wrong. Raising the remote control, I turned off the set, at a loss about what to do next. I still wasn’t sleepy. Crossing to my desk, I decided to put in a few more hours on my novel. I had nearly completed what I hoped would be my final revision, and work was going well. Thinking that my writing was the only thing in my life that was going well, I booted up my computer. As I was about to open my Word application, my cell phone rang.

  “Allison?” Brent’s voice came over the line. “Have you heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  “The preliminary numbers are in on tonight’s broadcast. They’re off the chart! Nobody’s ever seen anything like it!”

  “Great,” I said, struggling to match Brent’s enthusiasm.

  “Great? It’s better than great!” Brent raved. “It’s like hitting a home run and winning the lottery all rolled into one. We really did it this time, Allison. C’mon, we’re going out to celebrate.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now. Victories like this don’t come around every day.”

  “It’s late, Brent.”

  “Late? It isn’t even ten yet. Listen, I’m meeting Liz and a few friends at The Gardens for drinks. That’s just down the street from you, right? I’m in my car heading to Westwood. I’ll stop by for you on my way.”

  I wasn’t dressed and my hair was still damp from the shower, but going out suddenly sounded better than staring at my computer screen. “All right,” I agreed, starting to get caught up in Brent’s infectious mood. “It’ll take me a while to get ready. I’ll meet you there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after hurriedly drying my hair, dressing, and throwing on a touch of makeup, I left the dorm and headed down Hilgard on foot. As I turned the corner at the intersection of Glendon and Lindbrook, I spotted the tiled roof and rough brick exterior of The Gardens, the restaurant where Mike and I had eaten dinner earlier that summer. As I approached the entrance, a voice sounded from behind me. “Allison! Wait up.”

  I turned, spotting Brent exiting a nearby parking garage. “Got caught in traffic,” he explained after crossing the street to join me. “My friends are probably already here,” he added, seeming even more elated than he had on the phone. “Let’s go join the party.”

  Brent escorted me through the front door. As we stopped at the hostess station, I glanced into the dining area. To my shock, I saw Mike sitting with Don Sturgess and several other people I didn’t recognize. A thicket of champagne bottles and cocktail glasses littered their tabletop. As I was about to turn away, Mike looked up. Our eyes met. Then Mike saw Brent. Without a word, he pushed away from the table and started toward us.

  I knew from talking with Brent that Mike had returned from the film festival earlier that week, but I still hadn’t spoken with him. Irritated, I turned to Brent, finding him waving to a boisterous group in the bar. “There they are,” he said, casually placing an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s head in.”

  “Unfortunately, someone wants to talk with us first.”

  Brent turned. I felt him tense as he saw Mike coming toward us.

  “Hello, Allison,” said Mike when he arrived, his eyes flat and expressionless.

  Despite my hurt at Mike’s betrayal, the sight of him tugged at me. “Hello, Mike,” I replied coolly.

  Noting Brent’s arm around me, Mike addressed his friend. “I take it you two are an item now. Congratulations.”

  Although Brent quickly removed his arm, I spoke before he could reply. “What I do is none of your business, Mike,” I said.

  Ignoring me, Mike shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped closer to Brent. “I guess congratulations are also in order for your big news special, Brent. Not to mention your piece on the Jordan French autopsy last week.”

  “Thanks,” Brent said nervously.

  Though Mike’s mouth formed a smile, his dark eyes remained as hard as slate. “Speaking of which, I’ve done a little thinking about our last phone conversation,” he continued. “You remember, when you called me before I left for Colorado.” Mike stared at Brent as though he were examining something he had found in the gutter. “It took me a while to figure it out, but I finally did the addition. I’ve always said you would do anything for a story. I just didn’t realize how far you would go.”

  Brent shifted uneasily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do.” Mike moved closer.

  “I …”

  “We’re going outside, hotshot,” Mike said, his lips barely moving. “You and me. And as we’re such good friends, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to let you take the first swing. Maybe even the first couple.”

  Brent’s eyes traveled the room, searching for a way out. Though he was as large as Mike and taller by inches, he was no match for his thick-muscled friend. “I don’t want to fight.”

  By now several people were staring. “Too bad,” Mike said, still not taking his hands from his pockets. “You should have thought of that earlier.”

  I stepped between them. “Stop it!” I ordered. I glowered at Mike, then addressed Brent. “Go join your friends. I’ll be in shortly. I want a word with Mr. Cortese first.”

  Warily backing away, Brent retreated to the bar. Once he was gone, I turned to Mike. Though confused regarding what had just transpired, I intended to vent a rancor that had been simmering inside me all week. But as I started to speak, something in Mike’s eyes reminded me of a look I had seen in one of his photographs … the one of his mother. And with that remembrance, my mind filled with thoughts of my own mother. And all at once, compared with my larger problems, Mike’s betrayal didn’t mean much anymore. Despite my anger, my bitter words died unspoken, my fury melting away. Abruptly, I just felt empty and alone.

  As Mike saw the anger fade from my eyes, his own rancor deflated as well. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

  Not knowing what to say, I glanced toward Mike’s table in the dining room, again noting the champagne bottles. “I heard the festival went well,” I said.

  Mike nodded. “Forgotten River took first in the documentary category. PBS is airing it this fall.”

  “I’m not surprised. Congratulations seem to be in order for you, too.”

  “Thanks,” Mike replied cautiously. “By the way, I’m leaving KCBS. Next month Don is starting that feature film he mentioned. He showed my documentary to the director, and the guy liked it. I was offered a job as the second-unit cameraman. I’m going to take it.”

  “Again, my compliments.”

  “Things appear to
be looking up for you, too.”

  Mike’s words rang hollow in my ears. “Couldn’t be better,” I said dully.

  “I guess we both got what we wanted.”

  “I guess we did.”

  Suddenly needing to be alone, I stopped a passing waitress. “Excuse me, miss. Could you tell my friend Brent Preston that I’m going home? He’s in the bar with—”

  “I see him, Ms. Kane. I’ll be glad to tell him.”

  Surprised at being recognized, I watched as the hostess made her way into the bar. Over the course of the summer I had somehow become a celebrity. It was a status I wasn’t certain I liked, but at times it did have its advantages.

  “Leaving?”

  I looked at Mike for a long moment. Despite all that had happened, I still had things I wanted to say to him. Some were angry; some were not. I could find words for none of them. “Good-bye, Mike,” I said instead. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Ali …” Mike hesitated. Then, with a sad smile, he looked away. “You take care of yourself, too.”

  Outside, the night air had grown chilly. I had worn only a light skirt and a sweater to the restaurant. Belatedly, I wished I had brought a jacket. Walking briskly to warm up, I headed back to the dorm. As I passed a line of Friday-night moviegoers on Glendon, I realized that I was retracing the same route Mike and I had taken earlier that summer. Though it had been only a few months ago, it seemed like an eternity.

  Staying on well-lit streets, I turned on Le Conte at the edge of campus, starting toward the dorm. I paused when I reached the Medical Center complex. Without thinking I crossed the street, ducked into an ivy-covered parking structure, and ascended a flight of metal stairs to a broad plaza fronting the hospital. Seconds later I entered through a pair of sliding glass doors. After stopping in the lobby to sign the visitor’s register, I hurried down a corridor to the West Wing elevators.