by Jim Stark
Sarah got out of the limousine the same way she'd passed the last forty-five minutes in the backseat—without a word. Jeeves had seen her moods before, the normal ups and downs of a fourteen-year-old, but he had never seen her depressed ... adult depressed. He had asked about her day at school, and he had tried to find out what was bothering her, but he got no response whatsoever. Sarah had indulged in minor bouts of self-pity in the past, but she'd never been rude.
"Hi Sarah,” called Lucinda from the front door. “How was your day at school?” Sarah didn't even look up. She walked right by her and straight up the stairs. “Has she told you anything?” asked the maid.
"I'm a chauffeur, not a damned psychologist,” said Jeeves. “And if she keeps taking her troubles out on me, I'm not going to pick her up at school any more. I don't have to do that, you know. And from now on she can God damn well call me by my proper name, and..."
Lucinda realized she wasn't going to get anywhere with Jeeves, so she went upstairs to Sarah's bedroom and knocked. “Sarah,” she called, “do you want to talk?"
"Go away,” said Sarah through the door.
"Now Sarah, I know something's bothering you. Please, we've had some good talks before. Why don't we try to figure it out together?"
There was a long silence from inside the bedroom, one of those charged silences that teenagers master instinctively. Sarah was awash in despair. Thinking seemed impossible. “I want to be alone,” she managed.
"Well I want to talk,” said Lucinda gently. “Your mother will be home in an hour, and it would be best if this got sorted out before she gets home. Sometimes I'm pretty good at coming up with ideas, you know. Remember when you broke your sister's music box and—"
"Okay, you can come in,” she said as she flipped over onto her stomach and stuffed her face into the pillow.
Lucinda came in and closed the door. She sat on the side of the bed and ran her brown fingers through Sarah's brown hair. A year ago, she would have started off by singing a Venezuelan lullaby. But Sarah was fourteen now, fourteen going on twenty. She had a little woman look to her, and even though she was still very much a child inside, a more grown-up approach would be needed now.
"You know I won't tell if you ask me not to,” Lucinda reminded her young friend.
"Yes you will. You'll tell,” she said into the pillow.
"I didn't deserve that, Sarah. You know when we had talks in the past, I never told. We always found a way out, a way that you were able to do yourself."
"They'll get it out of you,” said Sarah, “with that LieDeck thing. You won't mean to tell, but they'll find out."
At least one thing was clear. Something important had happened. Sarah was scared, very scared.
"You don't know that for a fact,” said Lucinda carefully. “I think you know you're going to have to deal with this sooner or later. I just want to help you find the best way to do that, okay?"
Bit by bit, Sarah's fears were overcome, at least to the extent that she could try to express herself. She turned over, sat up, and began to cry, loudly. “It's ... it's ... it's Mr. Peters,” she blurted out between sobs, “the music ... teacher ... he got ... fired today, and it ... it was my fault."
Lucinda wondered for a moment if this was one of those rare occasions when her duty would be to withdraw and let the parents cope. If the problem was that serious, she would have to tell if she was asked, perhaps even if she wasn't asked. But for now, Sarah needed help. “Let's start from the very beginning,” she said as she took her hand. “Why was Mr. Peters fired?"
Sarah knew she had to go on, now that she had started. She stopped sniffling and just charged forward. “You remember last fall, I told you Cathy Sanders went to the principal and said Mr. Peters ... you know ... touched her?"
"Yes, I remember,” said Lucinda. “She said that he had touched her breasts, and they didn't believe her, and then later she changed her story and said he didn't do it."
"That's right,” said Sarah, “but he did do it!"
"How do you know that?"
"Cathy told me, and I believed her."
"Could she have been lying?"
"No. I know when she's lying. She was real scared."
"Well, we know one thing for sure,” said Lucinda. “She had to be lying at least one time before. I mean, she said he did it and then she said that he didn't do it. Why did she change her story back then, Sarah? Did she talk to you about that?"
"Yaaaaa,” said Sarah nervously, and nothing more.
"Well?” Clearly, Lucinda had asked the right question, and just as clearly, Sarah did not want to answer. “Please, Sarah ... tell me why Cathy changed her mind and said Mr. Peters didn't do it."
"Well,” said Sarah hesitantly, “Mr. Peters told Cathy that if she didn't change her story and say he didn't do it, he would tell her mom that she had some ... you know ... condoms ... in her school bag."
Lucinda was fairly sure they were getting to the point, but with Sarah, it seemed, that sometimes took a while. “And ... did she?” she asked.
"Yeah, but they weren't hers,” insisted Sarah. “She was keeping them for her sister, in grade twelve. Her sister made her change her story so she wouldn't get in trouble about the condoms. She even gave her her bike."
Lucinda sorted through the pronouns to make sure she had the story organized in her head. “I take it the principal knows the truth now, about Mr. Peters?"
"Yeah,” said Sarah, “and it's my fault."
"But ... how is it your fault?” asked the maid.
"Well, I borrowed Dad's LieDeck and took it to school, to show to my friends and—"
"You took your father's LieDeck!” exclaimed Lucinda. “Sarah, how could you? You know he said to leave it alone."
"I just borrowed it,” said Sarah tearfully.
"Okay, I didn't mean you stole it ... I'm sorry, Sarah,” said the maid. “Now tell me, what happened with the LieDeck at school?"
"Well, we were playing with it at lunch. All the kids heard about it already on TV, but they never saw one. They all thought it was really neat. And when we got in class they were still talking about it, and Mrs. Draper heard them and took it away from me and said I could pick it up in the principal's office after school, so then when I went to get it, that's when I heard him, Mr. Bennet, the principal, using my LieDeck, or rather Dad's LieDeck, to ask questions to Mr. Peters, with the beeper on, and then he fired him."
Chapter 34
'CUZ IT'S RIGHT ... AND ‘CUZ OF THE BEEPER
Barbara Farley was tugging at her dark-blue jacket, the same one she had worn to Joe's funeral, until she got herself good and comfortable on the chair behind the rail. “You can start now if you want,” she said to Justice Caughy. “I'm all settled in."
The chairman of the Caughy Commission thanked his witness as sincerely as he could without cracking up the audience. Then he asked Joe Farley's widow to just get on with it. “And please stick to the facts this time, if you don't mind,” he said emphatically. “Last week, you told us that the only thing that took place between your husband and Bishop Malini was ... how exactly did that read?"
After a brief search, the clerk found the right spot. “A good old-fashioned tongue-lashing, with nothing held back,” she read from her records. “He pretty well covered all the cuss words we generally use down on the farm, plus a few more he must have picked up somewhere else."
"Mrs. Farley,” resumed the chairman, “I understand from your counsel that you've had a change of heart, that you are now ready to give us the full story. So ... did your husband assault Bishop Malini, yes or no?"
"Well, Your Honor, when you say assault, if you mean did he paste the son-of-a-bitch in the kisser, then I'd hafta say yes, he did."
Everyone hooted, and Justice Caughy gave a few good bangs of his hammer to quiet things down.
"Came home with a hell of a sore hand,” she added gleefully, “and a grin that stayed glued on his mug for a couple of weeks."
"Order,”
yelled Justice Caughy, with a bang of his gavel, “or I'll clear the room.” No one wanted that, with the exception of the chairman, and order quickly returned.
"So ... when you told us that the Bishop slipped and hit his face on the corner of his desk, that wasn't true?” he asked.
"Oh, he hit his face on the desk all right,” insisted an unrepentant Barbara Farley, “just like I told you last week, just like it was ordained from above, is how I always say it. But the part about him slipping, well, that wasn't true. Like I said, Joe smacked him a good one right in the eye, just like I said he oughta. I was proud of my Joe for doing that! It shoulda got done a long time ago. Can't say he ever regretted it neither. Used to brag about it day and night, right up to when he died from his heart. He used to say—"
"Thank you, Mrs. Farley,” interrupted the chairman stiffly. “That will be all for now, although I would like to ask you something. Why did you decide to change your mind and tell us about this now?"
Joe's widow fidgeted around in her seat. She glanced over at her lawyer for guidance, but there was none forthcoming. “Well,” she said, “I told ... ummm ... ‘cuz it's right ... and ‘cuz of the beeper."
"Because of the ... beeper, did you say?” asked the judge.
"Yeah, that newfangled gadget that Bishop Sutherland and Buck Ash told me about when they come over to my place to talk about Bobby Thompson and my grandson Geoff. They said that if I didn't tell, you'd find out using the beeper thing and I'd go to jail and—"
"Reconvene at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow,” said Justice Caughy as he stood to leave and gave his gavel one final, disgusted slap.
Chapter 35
NOBODY HERE BUT US LIARS
Steve Sutherland had had a dyspeptic discussion with Annette's physicians the evening before, and had persuaded them to yield to the patient's wish to cut back dramatically on her medication. To everyone's surprise, Annette was able to deal with the pain ... rather well, actually. She had considerable discomfort, but she was adamant that physical pain was preferable to the mental disorientation that had been her lot for the past five days.
She had called Randall Whiteside at noon, just as her brain began to defuzzify, and they'd had a long, personal and humorous conversation. Randall was delighted to find her so lucid and cheerful.
"They're going to let me eat pretty soon,” she gloated. “The only problems I have now, apart from monocular vision and an ego-alert about my appearance, is that I'm so bored. I feel so ... useless."
Randall had a solution for that one, or at least a partial solution. Apparently, one of the journalists who got a free LieDeck at the Whiteside press conference had submitted a program proposal to Alpha TV that very day, Monday. In the hyper-competitive media market of 2014, it was often a case of “first up, best dressed,” so Alpha Television had thrown together a show based on the LieDeck, literally overnight. It was called LieDeck Live, and it was due to air for the first time at five o'clock. This show was troubling to Randall, so he asked Annette to monitor the program, to watch it and tape it, to see what Alpha was up to and report by phone to the focus group, which was meeting regularly at head office. Even though Annette almost never watched television, she accepted this invitation with some exuberance.
Steve had arranged to watch the show with her. He had arrived a good half hour early, and had found her sitting up in bed, yapping away to Helen on the phone. The dressings had been reduced to a triangular patch on the left side of her face, from just above her nostrils to the center of her hairline and back to the ear, and another, smaller patch on the back left of her neck, where the bullet had exited her body.
She'd had her hair washed, cut, and styled so that it partially concealed the evidence of the entrance wound ... a nice boost for her self-esteem. That, and the reduction of her pain medication, made for a rather spectacular metamorphosis. If Steve were blind, he would have sworn Annette was in perfect health, physically and otherwise.
Randall had sent over a TV and a VCR, with a remote. LieDeck Live had been promoted every half hour, and she'd made a point of taping one of the teasers. The new show was being billed as the hottest property in the history of Canadian TV, and Alpha had already sold the American rights. It certainly wasn't what Randall had in mind when he distributed LieDecks to the Canadian media, but if someone decided to use the device to laugh at liars for an hour a day, there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Since the distribution of those initial LieDecks, legitimate newspapers had begun to resemble scandal sheets, not so much by choice as from necessity. Unearthing a scandal was now about as easy as toasting a bagel. Small wonder that “trash TV” had jumped on the bandwagon.
The idea behind the show was to confront a situation and see who would dare to lie, or lie unwittingly. If a guest lied, there would be merriment all around. If it turned out they were telling the truth, the show might land a news scoop. As long as the story was truly implausible, juicy and potentially good for a few laughs, you could get on LieDeck Live, or so the promo said. Guests were to be paid $5,000 to appear, and if they didn't get beeped by the LieDeck, they stood to earn another five grand.
Annette sat in her bed, talking excitedly with Steve, waiting for the show to start and cringing at the way the media intended to cheapen the profound transformation that might soon sweep the planet. “Horrid hucksters of hype” she'd called them during her telephone chat with Randall. But whatever their faults, these horrid hucksters certainly had the eyes and ears of the masses.
"Ladieeees and gentlemen,” beamed a slick, handsome man at exactly five o'clock, “welcome to LieDeck Live, the best place on Earth to get in touch with reality, whether you want to or not."
The studio audience erupted with applause, as instructed by flashing red signs on either side of the set.
"I am your host, Wally Trout, and in our studio today there are a few ordinary people with wild stories about how the LieDeck Revolution, as the newspapers are calling it, has changed their lives in the past two days. I think I can safely say that there's...” He put a cupped hand behind his ear and leaned forward. The audience didn't need any coaching on this item, at least no more than had been dished out during the warm-up session.
"Nobody here but us liars!” they screamed in unison.
"You're beautiful,” exclaimed Trout. “We've got a great new show for you. You'll meet Elsa Worthington, a Hamilton woman who claims that she absolutely despises one of her own children."
"Applause applause ... God these people are sick,” said Helena Wong, the producer, up in the booth. “I love it."
"And you'll meet Lou Moffat,” continued Trout, “a man who's been employed by the International Nickel Company for his entire adult life. He claims—now get this—that he hasn't done an honest day's work for twenty years, since 1994."
"And ... applause. I'll bet this guy's sex life is a story in itself,” snorted Helena as she watched the zoom on Moffat's pockmarked face. “Where did we scrape him up? It's a good thing ugly is in this year."
"And we have a very special guest today, a young man by the name of Jean Proulx. This eighteen-year-old lives three miles from the Whiteside estate. He claims to know the name of the man who invented the LieDeck, and he claims that this man was living at the Whitesides’ lodge at the time of the attack. He also claims it was the inventor who was the target of the attack. Most important of all, Mr. Proulx claims to know for certain that the RCMP was in fact involved in this terrible crime. Do we believe him?"
"Hell no,” chanted the audience.
"Liiiaaar, liiiaaar,” they sang.
"I believe him,” shouted a dissenting voice from the back.
"Annette,” said Steve, “that's the punk who put snot on my shirt a couple of days ago, when Buck Ash came along and rescued me. I told you about that, remember?"
"Who?” said Annette. “Later,” she snapped—she was at work, after all.
"Today's guests have only told us their stories in whispered tones,” stage-whispere
d Wally Trout, “because we instructed everybody who called the show to whisper to us. As you probably already know, the magical LieDeck doesn't work when you whisper, so we don't even know if our guests told us the truth or not. Buuuut,” he bellowed in full voice, “we're gonna find out, aren't we?"
"Go get ‘em, Wally,” shouted the audience.
"Applause, applause ... set for commercials?” asked Helena.
"We'll all go get ‘em,” bellowed Wally manically. “And I'll be back with our first guest in a moment, right after these important messages."
"Theme music. Pan audience. Applause applause. Back to Trout doing his dumb-assed dance. Commercial in two, aaaaaand cut to commercial,” instructed Helena in the control room.
Annette was on the phone immediately. There had been nothing in the teasers about Jean Proulx, likely because of the RCMP connection in his story, in case he was actually telling the truth and the RCMP tried to stop his appearance on the show. Also, Victor's identity, as the inventor of the LieDeck, had apparently been discovered. “Has to stop driving cab,” she scribbled in her notebook as she waited on hold. “How the hell did that kid find out?” she added in her notes.
"Turn on channel nine right away,” she yelled into Cam's ear when he came on the line. “Get Whiteside to stop whatever he's doing and watch. They've got this kid on who says he knows the details about the alleged RCMP connection regarding the attack. He's from Quyon, just a teenager. His name is Jean Proulx. I don't know how he could know anything, but he'll be on after two other people. And...” she checked her notes “...oh yeah, tell Victor they probably know about him, and if they do, he'll have to quit driving cab ... immediately."
She then put Steve on the line to relate what little he knew about this teenager from Quyon. “He's a punk, Cam. I just can't believe he knows anything. It's got to be a scam or a set-up."
After six commercials, Wally Trout was back, with his mouthful of expensive teeth and a strange array of meaningless bodily movements. The mother of Terry Worthington stood behind a railing, looking like a prisoner at the dock. In front of her, but just out of reach, was the Alpha LieDeck, taped to a mike stand.
