Nathan’s Run

by John Gilstrap

  With seven minutes left before she was to talk with Joan, or maybe Charlie—there was still some problem with the scripting in New York—Denise was seated in a well-worn though surprisingly comfortable chair, in front of some cheesy faux-glass blocks through which the audience was supposed to believe you could see the Capitol building. Up close, the scenery wouldn’t fool anyone, but in the monitors, sure enough, it looked convincing. Presently a technician was fitting Denise with an earpiece, the coiled cord for which ran under her hair and was clipped to her collar in the back, and from there joined the tangle of cables and cords that covered the floor. A tiny microphone was clipped to her lapel, and the technicians stepped away, allowing her to see herself for the first time as she would appear on network television. She was not at all displeased with what she saw.

  “Ms. Carpenter?”

  The voice, from very close by, startled her until she realized it came from her earpiece. “Yes?” she said, as though she were calling across a room.

  “Hi, Ms. Carpenter, I’m Allen, the director of this segment. Do you mind if I call you Denise?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Good,” Allen said, even as she gave her permission. For just an instant, Denise wondered what would have happened if she had answered: Yes, I mind. “You look great,” Allen continued. “Couple of things to think about before we go on-air. First of all, you don’t have to shout. Even if you mumble, that mike will pick up everything. Shouting just gives headaches to us folks in the control room.

  “Okay,” Denise said. “Sorry about that.” It was a common mistake to new radio jocks as well.

  “No problem,” Allen laughed. “Now we can put our headsets back on and not have to worry about nosebleeds. This should be really simple stuff. There was some kind of scheduling problem in New York, so they’ve expanded your segment by ninety seconds to four minutes. That might not sound like much time, but trust me, it’s plenty of time to get the whole story out, okay?”

  Denise nodded. “Okay,” she said.

  “Have you ever done a television interview before?”

  “No,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “But I do a lot of radio.”

  “I know,” Allen acknowledged. “I listen to you every day. You’re great. Just remember, though, that no one can see what you’re doing in radio. On TV, you need to be conscious of where your eyes are, okay? Always direct your answers straight into the camera.”

  “All right.” This seemed like pretty basic stuff.

  “Start now, Denise, okay? You look like you’re trying to figure out where I am. Don’t worry about that. Just give your answers to the camera. Talk to it like you would to a friend. And we’re going to turn the monitors away from you so you don’t get distracted.”

  “I can do that,” Denise said into the camera. It did feel a little awkward.

  “Good. Now here are the ground rules, okay? You’re going to be sharing this spot with some other guy on the set in New York. Be careful not to answer the questions directed at him, and try to keep your answers short but complete. Okay so far?”

  “No problem yet,” Denise said with mock confidence. Into the camera.

  “And now for the last bit of advice,” Allen went on, giving the impression that he was working off a checklist. “And this one’s for you, not me. Remember, it’s only four minutes, okay? You can do anything for four minutes. I took a CPR class one time, and they told me you can cut off the blood to the brain for four minutes and still be okay. That means that you can endure any itch, stray hair or urge to sneeze for four minutes. Once the light goes off that camera and you hear the bump into the commercial, you can pick your nose for all I care. But for your own sake, please don’t do anything distracting during the interview—even if you’re not on-camera at the time.”

  Instantly Denise sensed dozens of itches all over her body. “Not a big believer in the power of suggestion, are you, Allen?”

  The director laughed in her earpiece. “Of course I am. I just like to watch people squirm. One last, final thing. Don’t get bothered if I tell you something in your ear while you’re talking.”

  “What kind of thing are you going to say?” Clearly, Denise was bothered and he hadn’t even done it yet.

  “No speeches, I promise.” Allen said. “Just maybe a suggestion like ‘speak up’ or ‘slow down’ or ‘there’s a booger in your nose’. You know, that sort of thing.”

  Denise’s hand jerked to her nose, eliciting a hearty laugh from the director.

  “Just kidding, Denise. You look great and you’ll do great. We go live in three minutes and twenty seconds. Break a leg.”

  With that, her earpiece went dead, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the hoard of butterflies that had spawned in her stomach. When she glanced off into the wings toward Enrique, he flashed her a smile and a thumbs-up. She had to laugh. God, he looked miserable. And what a good sport he was for helping her through this.

  After a successful career founded on the qualities of her voice, Denise was unexpectedly aware of her hands. They seemed like unnatural appendages. Should they be folded on her lap, placed on the arms of the chair, or maybe just rested on her knees, where they would undoubtedly leave indelible sweat stains on the fabric of her skirt?

  “We go live in thirty seconds, Denise.” Allen’s familiar voice had a sweet smile in it now; carefully practiced, she was sure, to keep nervous guests from bolting at the last minute. “And I vote for keeping the hands crossed on your lap. Looks most natural that way, even though they’ll never be in the frame.”

  When Allen was done, the audio in her ear switched to the familiar theme music for Good Morning America. The sound quality wasn’t bad, though nothing compared to the stereo ‘phones’ she was accustomed to. Denise took a deep breath and let it out slowly. As she did, a feeling of calm poured over her. She was in control again.

  “Okay, Denise,” Allen coached in her ear. “Don’t say anything until you’re asked a question. Your mike is live… now.”

  Denise acknowledged him with a slight nod. And waited for the light on the camera.

  “Welcome back,” Joan’s voice said to America. “Much has been said and written recently about the increase in violence among children. Law enforcement officials have become concerned in many areas of our country about violent crime which not only victimizes children, but which is committed by them as well.

  “Over the Fourth of July holiday, in a quiet suburb of Washington, D. C., a guard in a juvenile detention facility was murdered, apparently by one of the residents—a twelve-year-old boy named Nathan Bailey, who subsequently escaped and is still at large. Joining us this morning in our studios here in New York is the Honorable J. Daniel Petrelli, the prosecutor with jurisdiction in this case, and from our affiliate in Washington we have Denise Carpenter, a syndicated radio personality, who talked with Nathan Bailey during her radio talk show yesterday morning. Welcome to both of you, and thank you for joining us.”

  With the mention of her name, the two lights on the bottom of Denise’s camera lit up, and she smiled pleasantly into her fish-eyed reflection. Nobody said anything about Petrelli being on the show! “Thank you, Joan,” she said. “It’s nice to be here.”

  “Mr. Petrelli,” Joan said, “let’s start with you. What happened the other night?”

  Petrelli had been flown to New York the previous night-first class, of course—where he’d spent the night in a deluxe hotel, and had been shuttled to the ABC studio by limousine. He sat across from Joan on a tan leather sofa, wearing a charcoal gray suit with the blue shirt and striped tie that had been selected by his media consultant. He was trim, if somewhat soft, with a bald pate that had to be matted with pancake to prevent reflection of the bright lights off of his normally shiny crown. When he spoke, his voice masterfully mixed professional disinterest with compassion, his Richmond accent adding a certain air of sophistication.

  “Sometime between seven and nine P. M. on July fourth, Nathan Bailey, a v
ery troubled young man with a history of car theft and violence, attacked and killed one of the child care supervisors at the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center, and subsequently escaped. He remains at large, and our search for him continues to this moment.”

  “How did he kill the guard—excuse me, child care supervisor?” Joan asked.

  Petrelli looked uncomfortable in a professional gee-I’d-like-to-tell-you-but-I-can’t sort of way. “I really can’t go into detail, because it’s part of a continuing investigation…”

  But we all know you will anyway, Denise thought.

  “… but I can tell you that he was brutally stabbed to death with a knife.”

  Joan seemed incredulous. “Where would a prisoner get a knife?”

  Petrelli resisted the urge to snicker. Like it wasn’t common knowledge that prison inmates fashioned shivs from anything they could get their hands on. “I really can’t go into specific detail. But we are very concerned at what may be a serious breach of security there at the Juvenile Detention Center.”

  “I’m sure you must be:’ Joan said, her voice full of compassion. “Now, Denise,” she went on, turning her attention to the television monitor in the studio, “I understand that Nathan called your program yesterday.”

  “That’s right, Joan,” Denise confirmed, smooth as could be. Into the camera. “But the story we got was considerably different from the version told by Mr. Petrelli. According to Nathan, he killed the supervisor in self-defense.” In just under sixty seconds, Denise gave the short version of the story Nathan had related. In concluding, Denise offered, “Killing is always a terrible thing, and we certainly can’t condone escapes from jail, but I have to tell you that after talking with Nathan on the telephone, I’m not sure what kind of choice he really had.”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what choice he had,” Petrelli drawled without being prompted by Joan. “He had the choice of reporting these alleged events to the proper authorities, and letting us take action accordingly.”

  “You’re thinking like an adult, Mr. Petrelli,” Denise reproached. “We’re dealing with a child, whose imagination can be many times bigger than reality. I got the impression talking with him that if you hadn’t promised to try him as an adult, with veiled threats of execution, he might have turned himself in already.”

  Petrelli’s face reddened through the makeup.

  “So you have determined that you will try Nathan as an adult?” Joan prodded.

  With the exaggerated patience of a schoolmaster repeating a lesson to a dense child, Petrelli repeated the position he’d already stated so many times. “We have determined that Nathan Bailey is the prime suspect in the murder of a law enforcement official, and we will pursue his arrest and ultimate prosecution with all of the commitment and dedication that should be expected under those circumstances. As I said yesterday, if he’s adult enough to commit such a crime, we should expect him to pay an adult price.”

  “So you’re assuming that the story told by Nathan on Denise’s show was a lie?” Joan goaded.

  Petrelli sensed where this was going, and he circled his wagons. “I’ll say again that we really cannot go into the details of this case at this point, but I have reason to believe that Nathan Bailey’s story is a fabrication.”

  “Did you hear him on my show yesterday, Mr. Petrelli?” Denise asked, her volume rising.

  “I’m afraid not,” Petrelli lied. His voice dripped with condescension. “My work schedule rarely allows me a chance to listen to the radio.”

  “So how is it that your office was so quick in issuing a subpoena to see our private telephone records?” Though it was never her intent to be on the attack, it was part of her nature, and there was something about Petrelli’s sanctimonious attitude that really pissed her off.

  Clearly, Joan’s researchers had missed this development. She turned to Petrelli for comment. “What sort of subpoena did you issue?” she asked.

  Petrelli’s jaw flexed, making his sideburns move up and down. This was outrageous. The Bitch had turned this into a personal battle, and she was free to say whatever she liked, while he was bound by professional ethics. “Again, I hate to sound like a broken record, but this is another area where I really cannot comment,” he said.

  “Well, I can comment all I want,” Denise attacked. “The police and the prosecutors in Braddock County can’t figure out where Nathan has gone, so they’re resorting to Gestapo tactics to seize the private records of our production company. Can you imagine, Joan, what would happen if the police or the FBI could gain access to ABC’s telephone records? What do you think the effect would be on the news-gathering capabilities of your network?”

  “Oh, come now, Ms. Carpenter,” Petrelli moaned as the theme music potted up from the background. “I really don’t appreciate your characterization of this situation—”

  Joan interrupted, “I’m sorry, Mr. Petrelli, Ms. Carpenter. I don’t think any of us anticipated the level of controversy here, but we really must break; we’re out of time. Thank you both for joining us.” To the camera, she added, “Good Morning America will be right back.”

  The lights on Denise’s camera went dark, but she continued to sit well-poised until Allen told her, “We’re clear. Way to go, champ. You really had him on the ropes.”

  Enrique joined the technicians who swarmed in to dismantle her electrical connections. “Well?” she asked.

  “You looked great,” he said, genuinely pleased.

  “How’d I sound?”

  “Like a bitch.”

  “Thank you.”

  Enrique laughed. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter 19

  As Hackner pulled into the JDC parking lot, Michaels was waiting for him. After their conversation yesterday afternoon, Jed had been shocked by Warren’s sunrise call to meet him here at nine. When pressed for a reason, he would say only that he wanted to talk to some of the residents. Jed didn’t ask why the change in heart. With Warren, it was always best just to accept the little victories silently.

  “Mornin, Boss,” Hackner called as the two men converged in the parking lot. Two minutes outside of the air conditioning and Jed could already feel his undershirt sticking to his back. “Did you get the sleep you wanted last night?”

  The circles under Warren’s eyes answered that question without words. “Johnstone came up and chatted with me while I was waiting. He’s getting the interview set up for us.”

  “Does he know I’m coming with you?”

  “I mentioned it, but he didn’t say anything about your conversation yesterday.”

  “Imagine that.”

  Warren extended a reproachful forefinger. “You behave yourself, okay? No fighting.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Jed promised with exaggerated innocence.

  As they approached the main entrance, they removed their weapons from their holsters and placed them in the lockers designed for that purpose, just outside the door.

  “Mine’s bigger than yours,” Jed commented as he put his newly issued seventeen-shot 9mm Glock into the locker.

  “You’re just like the kids,” Michaels scolded, adding his Smith amp; Wesson snub-nose and closing the door. “If I can’t hit what I’m shooting at in five tries, I’ll be damned if I’m sticking around for twelve more.”

  At Michaels’s request, Johnstone had set up a private meeting with Tyrone Jefferson—street-named Aces—a fifteen-year-old three-time felon whose rap sheet included a drive-by shooting. Fortunately for all concerned, his marksmanship matched his aptitude for evading the police, and no one was hurt. If he served out his whole sentence, he wouldn’t see freedom until his twenty-first birthday. Aces occupied the cell next to Nathan’s, and it was Michaels’s hope that they might get a clue as to where Nathan might have escaped to, and who might have helped him. Several investigating officers had attempted to obtain similar information the day before, with no success, but Warren wanted to give it a shot personally. For a lot of reasons.

  Johns
tone was waiting for them in his office. After the obligatory pleasantries, they walked together through security.

  Aces was already seated at a table when the officers entered the otherwise empty classroom for their chat. To protect the boy from the prying eyes of his fellow residents, the venetian blinds had been pulled shut.

  Johnstone spoke first. “Aces, this is Lieutenant Michaels, and this is Sergeant Hackner, both with the Braddock County PD. They want to ask you a few questions.” Warren and Jed both extended their hands, but Aces didn’t move. Johnstone sat in a chair in the corner.

  “Could you excuse us, please, Mr. Johnstone?” Michaels asked. His tone was friendly, but they all knew it really was not a request.

  Johnstone sat frozen for a moment, trying to think of a dignified exit line. When none came to him, he stood and exited the room. The look he shot at Jed showed that he held him responsible for this humiliation. Aces seemed to take pleasure in the superintendent’s discomfort. So did Jed.

  Michaels took the seat immediately opposite Aces, swinging it around so his chest was leaning against the seat back. The young black man across the table was sullen, impassive, dressed in the orange coveralls worn by all the residents. His face was a mask of practiced indifference, his expression telling them that they were wasting their time. At age fifteen, he was tougher than either one of them would ever be.

  “I’m gonna cut to the chase… Aces, is it?” The single, subtle movement of his head could have been mistaken as a nod. “You don’t like me because I’m a cop, and I don’t want you dating my daughters, okay? But we both have a problem. Nathan Bailey ran away from here the other night after killing one of the guards. Your life in here isn’t gonna be the same until we find him and bring him back. The evidence points to an accomplice, and until we find that accomplice, or rule it out as a possibility, you’re gonna spent a lot more of your day locked up. So I want you to answer some questions for me, okay?”