Trust Me When I Lie

by Benjamin Stevenson

  “I don’t know why you even bother with these phone calls,” his father said, “but I’ll tell him.” He hung up.

  It was nice to go against the traffic for once; everyone else was returning to the hive. Upstream. Back in the city, people would be filling those buildings. Thousands of them. Answering phones. Taking meetings. Packed into rising elevators, filling the hole in the sky.

  There was one more phone call he had to make. He dialed. The phone rang twice and clicked.

  “Mate, it’s Quick,” Jack said.

  “It better be. He’s sleeping.” The voice on the other end was young, male, midtwenties. A tough age for that job. The phone line had an echo to it, as if the speaker were in a bathroom. “Everyone’s fucking sleeping. I was sleeping.”

  “Wake him up.”

  “Doesn’t work like that.”

  “He’s going to want to speak to me. Trust me. Wake him up.”

  “Hmm.” There was a loud clang on the other end, a distant but muffled yell.

  “Okay. How about this?” Jack realized he’d subconsciously raised one hand off the steering wheel and was waving it back and forth, as if trying to placate someone in real life. He felt like an outsider in the TV station, coming from his podcast to the big league in such a short amount of time. He didn’t fit in with those cocaine-buzzed producers. Yet it didn’t take long to catch the tics of confidence and aggression that came with presence on a television screen. His voice dropped a semitone. Platitudes peppered his words. The camera might not add ten pounds, but it made you feel taller. “You know there’ll be a book after this. Lots of press. And listen, buddy, you know there’ll probably be a chapter or two about your establishment…”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “Nothing of the sort!” Jack had his producer voice in full swing now; if they’d been together in person, there would have been arm-around-the-shoulder backslapping. Such false comradery. “I’m saying that if I write good things about you—how well you do your job, the way you treated him—you might be in line for a promotion, a pay raise. Right, pal? That’s what I’m saying.”

  “You said the same thing about getting me on TV.”

  “I know, and I tried. But the edit’s the edit. We could only fit so much.”

  “Well, I can only fit so much time on the phone, so—”

  “A hundred bucks?”

  There was silence, and Jack thought he’d blown it. Then he heard footsteps echoing—not a bathroom, a concrete hall. The man was moving.

  Jack was stopped at traffic lights now and ground the gear stick as he waited. He put it into first and rolled forward, preempting the light, but then he heard the distinctive muffle of a phone being handed over and missed the green light anyway.

  “Quick.” The voice on the other end was deep, rumbling. “You ain’t got me out of here yet.”

  “I never said I’d get you out, Curtis.”

  “Yeah.” Curtis was a slow speaker; every word seemed to haul itself over his lips and slump on his chin. Undereducated but overread. A consequence of spending four years sifting through trial notes, listening to lawyers. Curtis spoke with a vocabulary that belied his lack of high school but a diction that occasionally showed he thought eloquence was a replacement for intelligence. Any prisoner in their first court is the same: a too-thick neck, in an open-collared, too-tight shirt. I didn’t stab the bitch, Your Honor. Fast forward a couple of years and it becomes: I did not implicate those lacerations as identified by the prosecution on this bitch, Your Honor.

  Curtis sighed. “Wouldn’t mind if you did, but.”

  “Keeping well, though?”

  “It’s gotten better. I’m quite the hero in here now.”

  “They made you a murderer. I made you a movie star.”

  “Nah, mate. You made me a martyr. Everyone in here, even the guilty ones, feel they were wronged by someone—a dodgy lawyer, a racist judge, the media. The fucking media.”

  “Hey now.”

  “You’re okay. For one of them.” Curtis laughed. “Thanks to you, I’ve got the hopes and dreams of everyone in here on my shoulders. If I get out, anyone could.”

  “If,” Jack reminded him. “I never said I’d get you—”

  “Be a downer, I don’t care,” Curtis cut in. “It’s a big day today. I am the victim of a gross mismarriage of justice fueled by the incompetence of the justice system.”

  This was one of his rehearsed lines, inevitably learned from the court papers and chanted in his cell every night, poised for a sound bite. Jack didn’t have the heart to tell him it was miscarriage. “We’ll all watch the finale. They’re throwing me a party, setting up the projector.”

  Jack didn’t even know prisons had projectors. Sounded less like a punishment and more like his university dorm. Depends how you define punishment, he supposed, changing lanes. “Curtis,” he said, “do you remember when I first spoke to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember what I said? Exactly?”

  “You said words were powerful. You said I was a victim. You said words, your words, would make me famous.”

  “And after that. We agreed on something.”

  “I woke in a good mood, Mr. Quick. It’s a big day for me. I hope you’re not about to change that.”

  Was that a threat? Jack blinked and concentrated on the road; he was overthinking it. Curtis was charismatic, likeable even (if casting a film, Jack had often thought he’d be perfect for a comedian “taking a serious turn”), but there was a hard edge to his words. They crawled down the phone line like a fist emerging from a grave. Slow. Steady.

  “We agreed that—”

  “I know what we agreed on. You’d tell my story. You’d tell it fair—my side. And I’d tell it to you. But there was one question you promised never to ask me.”

  “Yes. That question.”

  “Said it might cloud your judgment.”

  “I remember what I said. The show’s finished. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Are you asking that question?”

  Jack didn’t know if he was. He didn’t know if he wanted the answer. “Let’s say,” Jack said, “for the sake of argument.”

  “Okay. We’re arguing.”

  “I found something.”

  “You mean that literally or fig— You know, whatever?”

  “Literally.”

  Curtis laughed. It was long and satisfied, not mocking—gleeful. “Mr. Quick. You know they planted that. You know it!” He was talking faster now, energy pulsing through him.

  “What?”

  “First of all, whatever you found, let me guess that it doesn’t prove shit. But I’ll bet, sure as hell, it looks bad?”

  Jack thought about that. The object was dirty, clumped with mold, and discolored. But was it four-years-in-the-wilderness dirty? Perhaps not.

  “You’re not saying anything because you know I’m right. You don’t care what I did or didn’t do. You just care that your goddamn story is screwed.”

  “Well, that’s not—”

  “I’m not finished. You said your words would make me famous. But, man, it’s the other way around. My words made you famous. One little hiccup and you throw me to the dogs.”

  “Okay. Let’s say I’m with you up to here. You say someone planted it?”

  “Fuck. Anyone could have. The real killer? Andrew fucking Freeman. Any one of the locals worried about your show. You know that. After what I did to that town. After how you made some of them look. Backwards. Hicksville. Besides, your show’s made it pretty fucking obvious what pieces of evidence to plant. Blood. An ax. Shoe prints. A piece of rope.”

  Jack looked at the object on the passenger seat. A good guess by Curtis. Close. “You’re already in prison. What’s the point in framing you twice?”

  “Since
you reignited this, the police have swept through my property a dozen times, Mr. Quick.”

  “Jack.”

  “Whatever. They didn’t look properly the first time, but now everyone’s been through the vineyard. Cops. Your investigators. Journalists. Dad told me they brought sniffer dogs. The lot. And you found something with your bare hands four fucking years later?”

  Jack realized he’d pulled onto an off ramp; he was going so slowly now he’d forgotten he was even driving. While it had been light for a while, warmth had just started to bleed through the windows. Curtis was right: professional investigators had searched that small garden more times than he could count. And he’d found it at two in the morning, on an empty stomach, with a broken flashlight, and an iPhone. They’d gone back after the bulk of the season had aired to film the pickup. It must’ve been planted. Which meant it was probably fake.

  That sounded plausible. He could live with that. There might even be a new episode in it.

  “Now, Mr. Quick…Jack,” Curtis said. “Did you still want to ask me that question?”

  Ignorance isn’t bliss, but innocence sure is. Even by default.

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “I get it, man. You need to feel like you’re doing the right thing, or right enough. But it’s perspective. I think you’re doing the right thing, by me anyway. You know that? Lots of people asked questions. You’re the only one that wrote down the answers.”

  “Even Alexis?”

  “Especially Alexis. Do you know how much it fucking sucks when your own lawyer doesn’t seem to believe you? I know you’re just making a TV show; I’m not stupid. But it did feel like you were on my side. On my team, for a while, you know… He’s winding me up now.” Jack heard Curtis, muffled, say something to the guard. Then he was back. “But the reason you called me now, the reason you woke me up, is because, somewhere deep inside, you don’t believe me either.”

  “Hey, Curtis, don’t make this—”

  “It’s okay.” His voice was quiet now, beaten. “Can I go?”

  “Yeah.” Jack smacked a hand on the wheel. Idiot. “Sorry for waking you. Enjoy your party.”

  There was a clunk as the phone was passed through the bars. Jack tried to think. Curtis had been convincing. Something didn’t add up. It didn’t make sense for Jack to find this now. And hiding it solved more problems than it created; it was the simple option. TV was all bullshit anyway. But what twisted in his gut, along with his now-painful hunger, was how heartbroken Curtis had sounded. How used. Jack had never heard him like that.

  But he was right. Jack didn’t know what he believed anymore. And he couldn’t decide what was worse: that he’d disappointed an innocent man or that he might have fired up a murderous one.

  “I’ve changed my mind about the book. You can keep your hundred bucks, but you gotta make me badass.” The guard’s voice snapped Jack back to the car; he’d forgotten Curtis had borrowed the phone. “Jack? Jack? Books get pussy, right?”

  Jack hung up.

  Now the sun had risen, the traffic into the city was picking up. It was eerie to have so much traffic heading against him, with his side of the highway so quiet. Jack felt like this sometimes, like he was the only one desperate to leave a party that everyone else wanted to get to.

  Eliza’s face jumped out at him. A massive billboard, hanging from the side of an upcoming overpass. Bone white, sideways. Just enough of cheekbone, nose, lip, and neck to pass the censors. The magic of Photoshop had removed her severed fingers from her mouth. She looked peaceful. Unblemished. Computer trickery had almost brought her back to life.

  Six feet under, yet Eliza floated over this city. Over Birravale. Over the nation. She flittered through arguments in bars, whispered conversations in lecture theaters, catch-ups around watercoolers, quiet pillow talk. Everyone watched her, their laptops open, the battery warming their folded legs through the blankets, committing to just one more episode. She was in every home. On every overpass. And the last part of her, on the seat beside Jack.

  Who really killed Eliza Dacey? Sundays 8 p.m.

  And everywhere she went, she took Jack with her. A man she’d never met, their lives inexorably entwined. She followed him into every room. Every locked door. Every bathroom. Saw his every shame.

  Who really killed Eliza Dacey? Jack wished he knew. He drove home in silence.

  His only passenger, a single pink woman’s running shoe.

  Chapter 3

  June

  “I’m sure I owe you dinner,” Alexis said, sliding into the red plastic booth opposite Jack. She stopped at a long gash in the seat. “But I can spring for something a little less…” She air-pedaled two fingers, hunting for an insult that captured the room.

  They were in a grimy pub in the inner west. Jack’s pick. He had forgotten the name, though it was put together from the standard formula for naming pubs that sold $10 steaks: randomly match one royal term with one animal. Voila. The Royal Stag. The Queen’s Duck. The Imperial Meerkat. Close enough.

  Alexis pulled her scarf from her neck as her eyes darted from the unwashed windows to the empty barstools. She folded it, placed it on the table, changed her mind, and moved it to the seat beside her. Glancing at the seat’s disemboweled foam, she gave up and put the scarf in her handbag. She’d left the insult hanging, so she settled on silence as the best summation. Her eyes flickered to the manila envelope Jack had on the table.

  “No debts here.” Jack hovered his hands over the table, palms up.

  “It’s not a debt.” She laughed. “Take the hint when a girl suggests you take her out to dinner next time. What do you want to eat? My treat.”

  “The best treat, Alexis, would be to not subject me to the food here.”

  “Fine.” She stood. “I’ll subject you to the beer.”

  Jack watched her go to the bar, clear her throat to summon a previously nonexistent bartender, and rap a manicured fingernail on a tap. It reminded him of her approaching the bench. Confident, her long black hair bouncing as she enunciated her points. Except here she wore a leather jacket instead of her courtroom getup—typically a white blouse and blazer. She didn’t wear flashy suits like the prosecution, Ted and his team. Alexis chose browns and whites, warm and open and honest to a jury. It was an odd feeling, knowing her so well and not at all, as if he’d gone through her drawers. In fact, Jack had watched so much courtroom footage of her that his knowledge was far more intimate: her tics, her expressions, the way she scratched the back of her calf when she was bored. This was actually only the fourth or fifth time they’d met and spoken. Yet he knew her.

  It was curious. Once the show had started to be filmed, at each appeal hearing, everyone had dressed better. One judge had even been late, getting a haircut. Justice wasn’t so blind after all.

  Alexis finished her cross-examination of the bartender and brought a pitcher of beer back to the table. She poured out two glasses, slid one to him.

  “I know you don’t think I owe you, but TV and courtrooms aren’t so different. You’re always paying for something,” Alexis said.

  “Thanks.”

  They clinked glasses. Jack struggled with a sip of his beer. He’d had the words in his head for a week, but now that it came time to assemble them, he couldn’t fit them together. He’d start with the easy stuff, he decided.

  “I believe congratulations are due,” he said. “I hear there might be a full retrial.”

  “A long way to go yet. But everything’s gaining steam. The appeals did well. The response to the show, it’s been—”

  “I know. Crazy.”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “So, the retrial…?”

  “I don’t know the ins and outs of it, if that’s what you’re asking. If you’re looking for dirt.” She looked around, her face changing from flirtatious to contemplative, slowly figuring out
the meaning of the empty bar. The yellow envelope. She still graced him with a smile. “And here I thought you called me for the company.”

  “Just the company. I’m not making anything right now.”

  That was a half-truth: a second unit was filming press conferences and prepping for retrial footage; a team of researchers was scrawling away in a writers’ room. A bigger team this time, the network promised, not a one-man show. To ease your workload, they said. To keep you accountable, they implied. While rumors of the retrial circulated, Jack didn’t have to get involved.

  “I wouldn’t know anyway. I’m kind of out of the picture for a little while. Even if there is a retrial.” Alexis shrugged, an exaggerated theatrical gesture. “I might not get it.”

  “Fuck. I didn’t get you fired, did I?”

  “You’re kidding?” She smiled. “You definitely got someone fired somewhere, but not me. The opposite, actually. My phone never stops. I didn’t know electronics could develop anxiety, but it literally can’t handle the attention. This”—she hunted in her bag, threw a case of mints on the table, then plucked out a cheap, prepaid phone—“is a new phone. Every criminal from here to fuck knows thinks I can get them out of jail. Get me fired, pfft.” She dropped the phone back in the bag and offered him a mint, which he waved away. “You made me look so great out there. Choice angles. I’ve even been offered modeling jobs.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, just pens and reading glasses and stuff. Lawyer things. But I’ll take the compliment. Point is, the partners thought it best I take the heat off the business. For a few weeks.”

  Jack knew what she meant. Since the finale, he’d been inundated with letters. Most had been the same: penned by a nervous hand, childish—alternating caps and lowercase, squeezing the letters and lines together as the page ran out. Mostly pencil. Often green, a favorite of inmates. When murmurs of a retrial had surfaced in the press, the letters had tripled. The majority to the station, some to his home. Most the same: Mr. Quick. I’m innocent. I need your help. Some different. He tried not to think about those. He scratched his patchy stubble, unsurprised that he hadn’t been offered any photo shoots.