“Jesus Christ,” says Adam. “Godzilla meets Shaft. Are we sure he’s on our side?”
“Let’s put it this way,” I say. “If we find out he’s sleeping with the fishes, we’re in big trouble.”
With that, I leave to begin what may be an impossible project. I’m going to attempt to reverse the tide of public opinion that has been building against Kenny, the overwhelming feeling that he must be guilty.
While Kenny has always been relatively popular, this belief in his guilt amounts to mass wishful thinking, by both the public and the press. The media see this as a monster story, sure to sell newspapers and lift Nielsen ratings for months. The public views it as entertainment, much more fascinating and exciting than whether Britney and Justin will get back together. They are looking forward to following the soap opera that will lead up to and include the trial.
All of this anticipated fun for everyone would be wiped away if something came out to vindicate Kenny and lead to the charges being dropped. So while no one would ever admit it, the wishful thinking is that he is guilty, so the show can go on.
I’ve decided to let our developing defense point of view leak out into the public discourse, but I can’t do so openly. I have to do it in a sneaky, underhanded manner, which our system fortunately encourages. My only dilemma was in deciding which member of the press to make my partner, since the number of willing candidates would literally number in the thousands.
I briefly considered whether to go national, to slip my story to Time, Newsweek, or one of the cable outlets. The advantage would be immediate widespread coverage, but in this situation it’s just not necessary. Any story, no matter its origin, will be picked up in the hurricane that has become this case and spread everywhere. I could plant this in the afternoon with a stringer for the Okefenokee Swamp Gazette, and it would be the lead on CNN before nightfall.
Once I made the decision to do this locally, the choice of whom to go to was a difficult one. Vince Sanders, editor of one of the local papers, has helped me a number of times in the past. He’s also a good friend, which is the main reason I can’t go to him. I can’t have my fingerprints on this. Everybody will assume I’m behind it anyway, but if Vince breaks the story, they’ll know it for an actual fact. Vince is going to kill me for not going to him, but I’ll make it up to him later on.
I narrowed my choice down to two or three prospects and finally settled on Karen Spivey, a real pro who has covered the courthouse beat for as long as I can remember. She’s a no-frills, old-fashioned reporter who grabs a story in her teeth and pulls on it until all the facts come out. She’s also done me a bunch of favors in the past, and it’s nice to be able to repay one.
I called Karen yesterday and told her that I had a scoop for her but that it was off the record-“background,” as it’s known in reporter jargon. We agreed to meet at the duck pond in Ridgewood, an out-of-the-way place where we’d be unlikely to be seen. Her office is in Clifton, but she was quite willing to travel the half hour or so to get to Ridgewood. The truth is, she was so excited to hear from me that she would have agreed to meet me in Beirut.
I stop on the way and pick up Tara, since the duck pond ranks with her favorite places on earth. We don’t even bring along her favorite tennis ball, since throwing it causes a commotion that makes the ducks swim away from us. Tara likes them close-up, where she can observe them.
We arrive before Karen, and Tara immediately goes into staring mode, watching every move the ducks make. They watch her just as carefully; it’s as if they’re all here because they’re writing a dissertation on the habits of the other species. The ducks don’t seem at all threatened by Tara, though they shy away whenever other dogs show up.
Karen arrives, and as she gets out of her car and looks toward me, I point at a deserted picnic area. I call Tara to come along with me as I go to meet her, though Tara would much rather stay and watch the ducks. I don’t like to take her away from them, but I care for Tara as I would a child, and you don’t leave children alone at the duck pond or anywhere else.
Karen, in her business suit, looks completely out of place in these surroundings. Her reputation is that she works twenty-four hours a day, and it’s unlikely her job brings her to very many duck ponds.
“Thanks for coming, Karen,” I say, pretending that she’s done me a favor.
She taps her foot on the ground. “What is all this green stuff?”
“Grass. And the brown material under that is dirt.”
She shakes her head, as if in wonderment. “Damn. I heard about this stuff. But I didn’t realize there was any around here.”
“Next time I’ll show you flowers.”
“You do that. Are we going to make small talk all day?” Her trip to nature is over; she’s back to business.
“Unless you confirm that we’re off the record.”
She nods. “We’re off.”
“You can say you got this from sources close to the defense,” I allow, “but my name doesn’t get mentioned.”
“Agreed.”
I proceed to tell her what I know about the drug connection Troy Preston had with Cesar Quintana. I don’t mention Paul Moreno, and I don’t mention the rivalry with Dominic Petrone, preferring to hold all of that until a later date. There is always the possibility that Karen, being a good reporter, will uncover it on her own, and that would be fine with me.
“Was Preston involved in their drug business?” she asks.
I nod. “That is our information, though we’re not ready to prove it. He certainly had drugs in his system.”
“As did your client.”
“Preston took them voluntarily,” I say.
She seems surprised. “And Schilling didn’t?”
“Schilling didn’t.”
“So how did the body get in Schilling’s house and the blood in his car?” she asks.
“We’ll take that up next semester.”
Karen looks skeptical, as she should be. “You think Quintana framed him? Why would they do that?”
I smile knowingly, even though I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about. “Come on,” I say, “I’ll show you how cute Tara is with the ducks.”
Much to my amazement, Karen has no desire to see how cute Tara is with the ducks. She declines, then rushes off across the green stuff to her car so she can prepare her story.
* * * * *
THE PHONE WAKES me at six A.M., and Laurie answers it.
“Hello,” she says, then listens for a moment and hands the phone to me. “It’s Vince. He wants to talk to the ‘shithead source close to the defense.’”
I take the phone. I’ve dreaded this conversation and was hoping to put it off until later than six in the morning. “Hello, Vince, old buddy,” I say. “How are you?”
“You son of a bitch.”
Vince has obviously read Karen Spivey’s story already. “I’m sorry, Vince. If I gave the story to you, everyone would have known I planted it.”
“Who do you think they suspect now? The queen of fucking England?”
I actually feel bad about this, but I’ll get over it. “You’ll get the next one. I promise.”
“I’d better. And just to show there are no hard feelings, you can have my next one. It’s about your client, and you’re not going to like it.”
“What is it?”
Click.
Vince hanging up on me is not a news event, but what he said leaves me a little unsettled. He’s a terrific newsman with a first-rate staff of reporters and very capable of having come up with something on Kenny. If he said I’m not going to like it, it’s safe to assume that I won’t.
It’s also safe to assume that calling him back won’t help me drag the secret out of him, so I roll over and go back to sleep for another hour. When I wake up, I go out to the front yard and get the paper, an act that Tara has never accepted as dignified for golden retrievers to perform.