by Dale Wiley
I could certainly understand that.
I strode to the closet, triumphant, and threw the mirrored door open to reveal Greer. Tabitha and I pulled him out and took the ball out of his mouth. Helper was three shades of green, turning his head so if he threw up it wouldn’t be on himself.
I introduced the two and looked at Greer. “Will you help me write the story?”
Greer reluctantly nodded. “Do you have the key handy?”
We unlocked him while keeping Helper chained up. He was threatened with the ball—the one that Greer had just had in his mouth—and Greer sat down at the computer and started composing
He asked lots of questions to all of us, but only Tabitha and I responded. Helper probably felt like he had been ambushed, but I didn’t really care. Greer warned us that this might be a long process and told us we couldn’t have the TV on; that would break his concentration. He also told us Trivial Pursuit would be too noisy. I tried to make a list of some of the main points that I thought should be included in the article, and Tabitha read the paper. Every moment seemed slow.
I walked over to Greer and stood over his shoulder. He was just about to tell me to go sit down when he stopped. He put a finger to his lips. There was some commotion outside, and I moved slowly toward the door to see if I could see anything through the peephole.
But before I could get there, somebody pounded on our door.
Chapter
* * *
Twenty-seven
I looked through the peephole and, to my great chagrin, saw the powerful and large face of Lon Stanky, United States Senator from Rhode Island, waiting impatiently, flanked by the blond front desk girl, who looked terribly upset, and a donut of a security guard.
“Who’s in theyah?” Stanky asked testily.
I turned around and whispered to everyone else that it was Stanky. I ran to the closet, grabbed one of the security guards’ holsters, and buckled it around my waist like a post-modern Wyatt Earp. I gave the other one to Tabitha. She had already grabbed the handcuff keys and was uncuffing Helper. She waited until he stood then cuffed him again.
Stanky rapped on the door again, this time louder. “Who’s in theyah?”
The evidence folder was sitting near the computer, so I picked it up and handed it to Greer, who was also packing up the notebook computer, knowing he was going to have to finish up the story somewhere else.
Tabitha warily put the holster around her waist.
I thought for a second, then grabbed the bullwhip out of the bondage kit, and handed it to her. “Maybe this is more your speed,” I said.
She smiled. I put a pair of handcuffs in my holster and thought about how we should leave.
“I can heah you in theyah.” said Stanky. “I’ve got a security guahd with me. Do we have to call the police?”
What a surprise he was in for.
I opened the door and pointed the gun right at the security guard. “Pull your gun out slowly and drop it.”
It was clear that all three recognized me. Stanky looked like he was under water.
The guard eased the gun to the floor. I asked Tabitha to pick it up, but, as she was moving back to us, Stanky made a move toward her. She fixed him with a stare and popped the whip to within inches of his groin. He shrunk back like a puppy and made an apologetic sound, but he looked at her admiringly, probably wanting her phone number. Then she bent down and handed the security guard’s gun to me.
“Let’s go downstairs,” I said, letting the two of them lead the way.
We took the stairs so we could avoid an ambush, each flight taking an eternity, but we entered the lobby looking as conspicuous as nuns in a strip club. I was the most notorious man in America, and I was wearing a holster and pointing a gun at a very famous senator. We were followed by a man in handcuffs and a woman with a bullwhip. I thought for half a second about firing off a warning shot but didn’t want anything tragic to happen this late in the game.
“All right! We’re getting out of here, and no one is going to stop us,” I said. I pointed to Stanky with the gun. “Where’s your ride?” He said nothing. I said it louder and stuck the gun at his temple. He grew pale and glanced outside. I could see a stretch limo parked in front of the entrance. We walked past a man who looked like he was going to have a heart attack.
I winked at Tabitha, and she popped the whip. “Don’t try to follow us,” I said, waving the gun to make sure everyone got at least one look down the barrel.
The chauffeur was standing next to the limo, and I aimed at him. He quickly threw himself into the bush in the driveway’s median, much more dramatically than he needed to. I went around to the driver’s side and saw the keys were still in the ignition. I made everyone else back away from the car but had Stanky, Greer, Helper, and Tabitha get in.
“Get out your gun and keep them covered,” I said. We both climbed in the front seat, and I lowered the partition between the driver and the back.
I hit the curb as I gunned the car out of the driveway, and I simply said, “Explain” to Tabitha, and she understood. She told Stanky the Cliff’s Notes version of the story as I wheeled and screeched onto Constitution, heading toward the Capitol.
“Where are we headed?” asked Greer, who wasn’t impressed with my driving skills. I looked down and saw I was doing 70 through the middle of the city.
What was I going to do? They would run me down and kill me if I drove too far. I needed somewhere I could tell my story before they caught up with me. I was going to the Mecca of the American message. “We’re going to CNN.”
“They won’t let us on,” he said.
“They will,” I said, gunning it to 75 to make it through a red light. Plastered to the back of the seat and without my seatbelt on, I whirred around cars, honking, wailing, and flashing.
By this time, I started seeing the lights, blue, red, white, first in my rear view mirror and then to my side. They were coming. The traffic lights were perfect, and I kept hitting greens, speeding up so they couldn’t put anything in front of me. I was only a couple of blocks from my destination. I started slowing down so I could put the gargantuan thing around the turn. I turned on my blinker, which struck me as funny.
There it was. Just in front of me to the left. I honked to let everyone know to get out of the way. The police were right behind like a pack of Christmas tree hounds madly on my tail. They probably knew where I was going. But I had one surprise for them. Just when I should have started slowing down to turn into the lot, I accelerated. We flew over the curb, hurdling toward glass and steel and …
Kerrang!
We were through the huge glass windows with cracks and tinkles like the whole world was coming apart. The airbags detonated, and I screeched to a halt just short of the receptionist’s desk. My shoulder had been thrown into the steering wheel and now felt like someone had hit it with a ball-peen hammer, but I popped out of the door and pointed my gun at the cops who were now coming near. They froze and glared. Tabitha came out and pulled the others out of the back seat toward the stairs, where we needed to go. I ran behind her, positioning the Senator so they didn’t dare take a shot.
As I passed the receptionist’s desk, I saw a lighted sign saying the newsroom was on the third floor. For my newly-conditioned body, this was nothing. I took the stairs in twos and threes with Tabitha bringing up the rear, her gun prodding the Senator.
I burst into the wings and ran straight for the producer’s booth. Tabitha wasn’t far behind with her crew, and she bolted the door behind her and then ran to the other wing and did the same there, moving chairs in front of both to further obscure them. I pointed the gun at the producer and smiled, saying, “I want to be on TV.”
“We’re in commercial,” he said, apologetically.
“Commercial’s over,” I said in a tone so eerie I almost scared myself. He hit a button, and we were back on the air. Tabitha had walked near the booth, and I told her to watch to make sure this was going out live. I looked at Greer, wh
o had already started heading for the anchor’s chair. He realized this was, in some sense, his big chance too. The makeup-covered anchors had already vacated their seats and cowered at the edge of the set, mesmerized and terrified at what they were watching, wondering exactly what I would to do.
“Don’t say she’s a hooker,” I whispered to Greer.
“What?” he asked, turning the corner behind the desk.
“Don’t mention that Tabitha’s a hooker. You don’t have to say that.”
Greer probably knew the minute I had told him we were going to CNN what I wanted to happen. He may well have known before, because he knew better than anyone that since it was the media who had already convicted me, they would also have to be the ones who set me free. He had probably been putting a script together all the way over, stopping only to pray for his mortal soul when I sent that limo through that window.
Greer sat down and put on his headset. I did the same, careful to rest the gun under my leg so no one in TV Land could see it. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Gerald Greer. I am a reporter for the Washington Post. In the past few hours, under circumstances which I am about to relay to you, I have come to believe Trent Norris is innocent of the crimes with which members of the press—including myself—and law enforcement officials have charged him.”
The lights were enough to bleach your skin, and I could only make out shadows in the distance, but I thought I could see Tabitha moving away from the producer. This was okay. He knew good TV when he saw it. She also seemed to be watching Helper, the only person still handcuffed. Then I turned back to Greer, who was starting to tell my story.
He had taken the evidence from the folder I had given him, and he produced it. He was a star. The words were gliding out of his mouth, and he was brilliant and convincing in his defense. I glanced down at the monitor. I looked pale but so did Greer. He was talking about our ruse to talk to Helper. Though I noticed he left out just exactly how we tricked him into joining us, making it sound instead like it was his idea. I was hoping he would have the good sense to leave the Senator’s name out of all of it, and he did. He turned to me when he was finished and said, “Do you have anything to add, Trent?”
I looked at the camera, breathed deeply, and took my shot. “I want to tell my parents, and my family, and my friends that I’m all right and all of the awful things they’ve been hearing over the past several days are absolutely untrue.” I looked and saw several lawmen were standing in the background waiting. I had no idea how they had gotten in. I was ready to end all of this.
“I see some members of various law enforcement agencies are waiting for me. And I know they will have many questions I haven’t had time to answer, even for Mr. Greer. I expect this. And I’m going to ask that they come handcuff me now while I’m on camera.” I did this so they wouldn’t beat the holy hell out of me in the process, and also so they couldn’t say later on that I resisted arrest. A lanky cop not much older than me came forward with handcuffs. He put them on and led me off-camera.
It was over.
Chapter
* * *
Twenty-eight
Before they took me away, I asked them if I could quickly speak to the Senator. They patted me down and found the other gun, but they agreed, since I was, after all, in handcuffs. Stanky and I went in a corner, and I explained again what had happened and what I had done. With all I knew about him and his proclivities, I guess he didn’t mind confiding he was, indeed, on his way to yet another Watergate tryst when he discovered someone was using his Watergate account. “I’m willing to help you out if you can try to help me out,” I said, walking the fine line between negotiation and extortion.
“Let me think about it,” he said, “but I imagine we can do something. Especially if you’ll hold up your end of the deal.”
And I did. But trouble was, an ace reporter for the National Snoop contacted the blond receptionist from the Watergate, gave her five thousand dollars, and she sang like Carly Simon. So, in some ways, I got the best of both worlds—I didn’t have to pay back Stanky the thousand or so bucks I owed him, but I also got to include all this in my book.
The police took me downtown along with Tabitha and Helper, and they talked to us separately. I gave Helper a look which told him I was going to help him as much as I could, and he nodded, and, knowing the jig was up, I guess he went in and spilled his guts, telling them he’d turn state’s witness if they wanted. I told them that he really didn’t know about Timmons’s murder until after the fact and basically did what I said I would do.
I was talking with an ex-Marine named Larry Love, who probably hadn’t liked me since the moment he saw long-haired, goateed picture. He reminded me of the crimes I could still be charged with, including kidnapping, breaking and entering, destruction of property, reckless driving, and a dozen more I didn’t even hear after my head started spinning. I told him I knew this, but I think he understood that if the media was calling for my vindication, there was only so much he could do. He probably just wanted to scare me, anyway.
They talked to me for six hours. When I got out, Tabitha was waiting. She said they had taken Helper to a cell, and she had only been questioned for a short time. Love let me know there was still a good chance I would be charged with many offenses, but he would let me go right now. I asked Tabitha if she wanted to split a cab, and she said yes. It wasn’t terribly far to my house, but Tabitha had time to scribble down her number on a scrap of paper and told me to call her when I needed to talk. I nodded and thanked her and then gave her a ten to cover my part of the cab ride as I got out amongst a sea of reporters, trampling flower beds, standing in the alley, waiting for me.
I looked up at my window and saw a smiling Angie looking down at me. Some of the onlookers started clapping, and I waved meekly and pushed my way through. I shut the door behind me without uttering a word and trudged up the stairs back to my place.
Angie looked at me, shook her head, hugged me, and then showed me the messages. Seven from my parents. Nine from various friends. Twelve from well-known reporters. Three from police. And thirty-two from literary agents, who all said they were calling to compliment me on my exoneration but mainly to leave their numbers and hope I’d return their call.
Epilogue
* * *
Does your life return to normal? No. Not right away, anyway. My parents bailed me out of jail, and I later made a plea to avoid jail time. That may have been the final Norris miracle.
I obviously resigned my internship, and I still had daily dealings with cops, agents, and publishers, and I even had to testify before the Senate. I got a book deal, but practically all of the money went to pay CNN for the damage I had done to their lobby. I did get to keep my movie deal money, though.
I’m also having my agent look at potential deals for Tabitha, something so she could get away from all of this. Of course, that would mean having to live the rest of her life as a famous ex-prostitute, which is something I doubt she wants. But she and I are having lunch tomorrow, and I’m going to have my agent drop by and tell her what he’s come up with.
And if she doesn’t want to write a book or make a movie, I’ve decided I’m going to split what loot I made off of all this with her. I would not be writing anything if it weren’t for her, and she did as much to get me vindicated as I did. The only difference was, her face and name weren’t plastered all over creation like mine were. And I’ve decided I’m going to make her take it, one way or another. It would be more than enough to get her out of her mess and go straight. I’m sure that’s harder than it sounds, but Tabitha’s strong.
As for my future, I’m deciding whether to look at bigger apartments or move out of this hellhole city as we speak. Angie’s moving too, probably in with her boyfriend. Our landlord doesn’t exactly like us.
And the decision of staying or going will probably depend on Stephanie. It’s been weeks, and I haven’t talked to her, but I haven’t tried. I’ve just tried to give her some space, but I
’m planning on calling her tonight. Tabitha thinks Stephanie would like to talk with me, but I’m not so sure. It’s a lot to deal with, regardless of whether I did it or not.
So I guess my life is gradually returning to normal. There’ll be a book tour when this comes out, and I’ve been asked to speak at some colleges in the spring about the media, fame, and other stuff. Already it seems that each day fewer people recognize me, because I’ve been supplanted by new crazies in other locales. My agent says I shouldn’t expect any speaking engagements after the spring—maybe some when the movie comes out, but even that’s doubtful—because I’ll be history, not news.
That’s okay by me. It’s not easy being news, especially the kind of news I was. And history has a nice ring to it.
I’ll survive.
Acknowledgements
* * *
Almost exactly a year ago, The Intern came out as an e-book. It had been gathering electronic dust in my computer, and the one thing I thought it had against it initially—how long ago it had been written—now seemed almost quaint: an era when we weren’t attached to our phones, because they were actually attached to the wall. It seemed almost painful to see some of the things transpire—modems and dialing and all—and the whole thing seemed like a different world.
With some prodding from my long-time friend Liz Giordano and a half-dozen hours of watching Smashwords tutorials online, I decided to take the plunge. If I wasn’t a Smashwords convert then, I sure am now and want to thank Smashwords founder, Mark Coker, for being a great and honorable man who is changing the publishing industry for the better. Mark introduced me to Rick and Amy Miles, great publicists, who introduced me to Italia Gandolfo, part mother hen, part fantastic agent. She led me to Vesuvian, and they now lead me to you.
This book has opened doors like you wouldn’t believe. It’s been downloaded almost 200,000 times and introduced me to a wonderful woman from my past who has recaptured my heart.
