by J W Becton
I shook my head at my own thoughts and peered at Vincent’s serious face.
“Who else would have a reason to leak the story? Other than Slidell’s attorney, who had access to the information and would benefit from making me look guilty?”
I picked up the newspaper from where Vincent had laid it on the table.
“I need to call Henry Martling,” I said into the tense silence. “Now that the gag order has been breached, I’ve got all kinds of problems. These news stories are so one-sided, even I could believe I’m a dirty cop. I need to do damage control. Martling should have some advice on that.”
God, did I just use the phrase “damage control” about my own life?
“Something else has to be at play here,” Vincent said with his usual mix of efficiency and certitude. “A lawyer’s direct violation of a judge’s gag order, while not unheard of, is definitely outside the norm. The attorneys know better than to risk their careers by violating the court’s mandate. Someone else must have leaked it.”
“But who? And why?”
Vincent shrugged. “No clue yet, but I’d be willing to wager that something is happening behind the scenes that we need to know about.”
“Because I’m a magnet for wackos?” I asked.
Vincent smiled and then sobered. “No, because I’ve been trained to foresee potential problems and risks. I’m supposed to notice odd or inappropriate behavior, and in my view, this qualifies as both. Whoever leaked the story is certainly putting you at risk.”
“And I was worrying about Randy Blissett…. Silly me,” I joked lamely.
Vincent stood, rounded the table, and pulled me up and into his arms in a tight hug. I let him hold me, taking in the comfort he offered as reality settled in. My life was totally out of my control, and I hated the feeling.
My cell phone interrupted our moment, but I knew I had to answer it. It was either Ted calling to fire me or my lawyer calling to tell me what was going on.
I checked the caller ID.
“Martling,” I informed Vincent. He nodded and then began to drain his coffee mug.
Henry Martling III sounded reassuring and unruffled when he greeted me.
“Forgive me for not calling sooner. I’ve been on the phone all morning trying to sort out what happened.”
“Any idea how the story got out?”
“Not yet. I’ve been in contact with Kay Lanyon and Nora Hild. Both claim to be just as shocked as we are about the story.”
Yeah, right, I thought.
“Do you believe them?” I asked. “Hild has a pretty good reason for wanting to smear me in the press, and so does Kay Lanyon.”
I could practically see Martling hold up a restraining hand.
“I understand that you’re anxious to find out how this happened, so I want to assure you that I’m doing everything I can to discover the source of the leak and stem it. Unfortunately, now that the story’s out, there’s little we can do.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded, annoyed at his non-answer. Then again, he was a lawyer. What else could I expect? “We have to do something. I’ll be convicted before I’m even charged with a crime!”
“The court’s suppression order has no bearing on the press once they get ahold of a story. They can report it until they’re all blue in the face.”
And they would, too.
“What’s more, pretty soon, some members of the media are going to show up at your house, at the DOI, who knows…and try to get you to comment.”
Oh, God. My eyes flew to Vincent where he leaned against the kitchen counter holding his empty mug and watching me. He almost looked serene now, as if he had resigned himself to what might come next. Not me. I was busy envisioning a horde of reporters on my lawn. And I was anything but serene.
“What do I do when that happens?”
“Say nothing. You’re still under the judge’s gag order, and so am I.”
“I can’t even defend myself?” I asked, sitting blindly in the nearest chair.
“Unfortunately, you cannot say a word about the case.”
“So I’m supposed to sit back and let the press skewer me?”
“When confronted,” Martling continued, “do your best to smile, be pleasant, and look confident. By all means, do not run or hide from them. Be polite and tell them that the court prevents you from being able to speak freely at this time. Inform them that you and your attorney will call a press conference when the suppression order is lifted. Let them know that you look forward to sharing your side of the story.”
“That’s it? That’s all I can do?”
Frustrated, I ran a hand through my hair. I hated the idea of grinning and bearing it, but it seemed to be my only legal option.
“It’s all you can do without the risk of angering Judge Preece and violating her order,” Martling said.
“Fine,” I said with reluctance. “I can do that.”
After hanging up, I relayed Martling’s advice to Vincent.
“How can he expect me to just sit at home, rehearse my prepared speech, and do nothing while the city turns against me? Someone leaked that news to the press. I’d like to know who it was.”
“So would I.” Vincent offered me a supplicating look. “I could look into it for you. Quietly.”
I considered him. There was absolutely no way I could investigate the matter myself, so his offer was tempting. But if he poked around the Mercer newsrooms and courthouses, looking for the leak, he would further implicate himself in my troubles.
On the other hand, what if he were right that something strange was happening in the background? If I didn’t know what forces were at play, then I wouldn’t know how to defend myself against them.
“Do you really think there’s more to this leak than meets the eye?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in this sort of coincidence. Besides, the news story was awfully complete. Only so many people would have had access to information about what happened in the judge’s chambers. It shouldn’t take too long to figure out who tipped off the press. Newspapers and TV stations are seven-day-a-week businesses. If I’m very lucky, not to mention persuasive, I’ll bet I could have this wrapped up today. If you’re okay with it.”
I didn’t like the idea of letting Vincent investigate without me, but what choice did I have? I had to sit around and look calm and cool while my life fell apart.
Finally, I nodded my consent, adding, “Thanks.”
“Will you be okay alone?”
“Of course,” I said. “But the press is going to ask questions about me…maybe about your ethics too….”
In response, Vincent rolled his eyes.
“I’m glad that you’re worried about my well-being, but how many times do I have to tell you that I’m in this all the way, to the bitter end? Can I add a few more comforting clichés to that mix?”
I gave in and grinned at him.
“Besides, I can handle the press,” he said, now in full military cop mode.
Vincent left a few minutes later, and I watched out the front window as his truck disappeared down the street. I glanced longingly at Helena’s house, wishing I could talk to her, but I let my blinds snap back into place and decided to call Mrs. Twilley instead.
She and Sydney were still holed up at her place, and she assured me that everything was fine and I had no reason to come out and “ruin their weekend.”
I’d just disconnected with Mrs. Twilley when my cell vibrated in my hand. Ted’s picture shined on the screen.
“Oh, crap,” I said as I stared at his immaculate image. “Can this day get any worse?”
Briefly, and oh so gloriously, I considered sending his call to voicemail, but that would just be prolonging the inevitable. At this point, I was past being able to prolong anything.
“Hello, Ted,” I said.
“Special Agent Jackson,” Ted said, his tone uncertain and careful. “I don’t know exactly how to broach this issue—”
I rolled m
y eyes, which relieved some tension, but Ted’s decision to tiptoe around the issue was better than the alternative. He could have been calling to fire me, no questions asked.
“It’s okay, Ted, I know why you called,” I said, sitting at the kitchen table and staring down at the newspaper that Vincent had left open. “This is about the story in the news, right?”
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m afraid I was caught a bit flatfooted by it.”
That makes two of us, I thought.
“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t expect the story to be leaked publicly, and the judge issued a gag order, so I couldn’t tell you anything anyway.”
“Regardless, as your boss, I should have been alerted prior to any such potential developments. The public relations aspects really should have been addressed in advance of your meeting with the judge.”
I couldn’t help it. Irritation prickled up my back.
Ted hadn’t called to check on me or to find out the truth of the matter, the real story behind what he’d seen on the news. Nope. This was damage control.
God, I hated that phrase.
“Yeah, well,” I said, closing the newspaper and turning it upside down so I didn’t have to look at the story any longer, “I wouldn’t have minded a little heads-up myself. I was just as surprised as you seem to be.”
Again, I wondered if Ted might be the source of the leak, so I tossed out some bait.
“I’m a little surprised you hadn’t heard about my situation through the grapevine. You have your finger in a lot of pies.”
“Well, no one said a word to me,” Ted huffed. “You’ve put me in quite a predicament, Special Agent Jackson. I hope you realize that I may not be able to protect your job at this point.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Ted, but—”
“My bosses in Atlanta want to meet tomorrow, discuss how to handle this.”
The prickle of irritation developed into a full-blown pang of annoyance. He’d already called them? Without bothering to ask for my account of the news story? What an ass.
Ted didn’t give a rat’s rectum about me or my future. He didn’t want explanations or information. He was thinking about optics and how best to keep my shame from spilling over onto the DOI. Or, more likely, onto himself personally.
Part of me couldn’t blame him. After all, Ted had a legitimate concern. Wasn’t I concerned about Vincent suffering for my poor reputation? My actions didn’t exactly reflect well on the DOI and law enforcement ethics as a whole. At least, not the way I was being portrayed on TV. One bad apple and all that….
But the remaining part of me wanted to reach into the phone and slap Ted a few times for being so political and for not even bothering to ask about my side of the story.
He’d made his decisions before placing this call. No matter what I said, Ted would think only what his superiors in Atlanta told him to think and do only what they told him to do.
“Look, Ted, I understand your position,” I said, modulating my tone.
“Do you? This is going to be a PR nightmare. We’re already behind the narrative, so we can ill afford any more trouble. I’m going to have to ask you not to come in to work until some decisions are made. You and the Chief….”
Ted paused.
“Your partner?” His voice held the first true note of concern I’d heard throughout the entire conversation.
“What about him?”
“He’s not involved in evidence tampering too, is he?”
While I had been concerned about this very transference of guilt by association, I couldn’t stop my feelings of disbelief. Ted assumed I was guilty and complained about the PR disaster I caused, but what about Vincent? Was he involved? Because that would be bad.
“If you’ve paid attention to the news,” I said, choosing my words carefully so I wouldn’t violate the gag order, “you’d know that the alleged incident took place seven years before we became partners.”
“So you’re saying he’s not involved.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He’s not involved,” I said tonelessly. “If you’d like any actual details about the facts of my situation, then you should consult my attorney, Henry Martling III, at the end of the week when the gag order is lifted.”
I hung up before Ted could speak again. I couldn’t help myself.
“That went well,” I said as I plunked the phone facedown on the kitchen table.
I could only blame myself for feeling disappointed. It was foolish to continue to hope that Ted would show some human compassion.
If he was, in fact, human. That hadn’t been proven definitively yet.
At least he’d be out of my way for twenty-four hours. That would give us time to figure out who had leaked my story to the press and find a way to make sure Slidell’s trial went forward. It also meant I had only twenty-four hours to contribute to the Blissett investigation. After all, I’d been mostly responsible for alerting him to our surveillance. I needed to fix what I’d broken.
Yup, only twenty-four hours to solve all the great problems of the universe.
That shouldn’t be difficult at all.
Twenty-four
A knock sounded on my front door, and I jumped, jerking my head in that general direction. I froze as a sudden sense of foreboding sluiced through me.
The press. They had arrived, hungry for photos and quotes about the corrupt DOI special agent. If I looked out my window, I knew I’d find them camped outside with cameras and microphones pointed at the house.
I looked down at myself. I was still in my bathrobe. Why hadn’t I gotten dressed? What was I thinking? I couldn’t be photographed in my jammies!
I stood and lumbered to the front window to find out what was going on. As I reached for the curtain, I paused when another thought struck me.
What if the GBI was here to arrest me? Now that the story had broken, I didn’t see why Lanyon would hold back her dogs.
With shaking fingers, I pulled back the curtain and peeked outside.
No press corps or unmarked government-issue vehicles, but a familiar car sat in my driveway.
“Crap.”
I smoothed my hair, tightened the belt on my robe, and sucked in a bracing breath before opening the front door.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, taking in his mussed gray hair and concerned expression. He wore a dark blue plaid flannel shirt and olive green work pants. He’d cinched his black belt off to one side and wore tennis shoes. His clothing, normally matching and clean, looked like he’d picked it up off the floor in the dark and dressed in a rush.
“What the hell is going on?” my father demanded, thrusting another copy of the Messenger toward me. “Are you okay?”
His voice sounded tight with suppressed emotion. I took the paper, managed to gesture him inside, and closed the door.
I stared down at the picture of myself and then looked at my father, who stood facing me where the foyer emptied into the kitchen.
The muscles at his shoulders were drawn taut, and his mouth was pinched as if he were trying hard to hold back his feelings. His anger. My father was a stick of dynamite whose fuse had been lit and snuffed hundreds of times over the years. As a result, his fuse had precious little burn time left before he exploded.
I did not want to be the person who lit the wick, but it seemed the charge was set to blow.
Using his index finger like a sword, he jabbed toward the newspaper in my hand. “That article says you tampered with evidence, and now the bastard who raped your sister could walk. What’s going on?”
“I just saw the news report,” I said, my voice stronger than I expected, given how off-balance I felt. “I barely know what to think myself.”
My father closed his eyes, and his forehead furrowed as if he were doing a calculus problem in his head. Braced for the detonation, I studied him, wondering what he was thinking.
But when he spoke again, his voice sounded calmer.
“Please tell me what’s going on,” he said again. “I’m worried.”
I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone—even my family—about my evidence theft, but I decided that violating a judge’s order was better than provoking my father.
He went still as I explained everything, but it was an odd kind of stillness. His eyes were wide, his posture rigid. Fear prickled up the base of my spine, and then the feeling balled up somewhere in my stomach.
My father excelled at handling practical matters, but he did not do well with emotions, his or anyone else’s. He might show up after a disaster had taken place to help clean up, but his contribution was more mechanical than supportive. He was like a street-sweeping machine, functional and helpful but not something you wanted to get stuck behind in traffic.
When faced with a pending crisis or the emotional aftermath, my father became volatile.
I reluctantly told him what had happened, and then I stood there waiting. I had no idea what he might do or say next.
“So it’s all over. The bastard is going to walk because….”
My father’s voice trailed off, but I supplied the missing words in my head.
He’s going to walk because of what I did.
“That’s not necessarily true,” I assured him. “The judge may still admit the evidence.”
“May?” he repeated. “That’s not good enough.”
He ran a shaky hand through his already mussed hair.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said to reassure us both.
“No, it will never be okay,” my father said, his eyes downcast. “You don’t…you have no idea what it was like for me when Tricia came home and told us what happened. I became irrelevant that day.”
On those last words, he turned away from me.
“Of course you didn’t,” I protested automatically, stepping forward even though he couldn’t see me.
“There was nothing I could do to fix things,” he continued, his tone raspy with restrained emotion. “My little girl had been violated in the most horrible way a father could imagine, and I could do nothing.”
“But…,” I began, planning to list all the actions he had taken on her behalf.
