A smile curled the right corner of the DA’s lips as he stood. “That’s not going to happen. Now I’m beginning to see why Marty
isn’t here. I know you’re a famous lawyer from Texas—everything’s bigger in Texas, you mix it up with senators and serial
killers, I know—but this
is
a small town and we
are
a little old-fashioned. You don’t come in here and start dictating. You save that for your next movie of the week. If there’s
no evidence, then there’s really nothing anyone can do. There isn’t a judge living or dead who’d overturn a conviction on
a missing witness or a phantom BMW. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming up here. We had the district attorneys’ national
convention in Dallas two years ago, so I know it’s a long haul.”
Casey stared hard at the DA for a moment before she calmly said, “You know, I just found out I have an interview with
American Sunday
at seven o’clock tonight, and they want to talk about this case. You want to play it like this with me? Fine. Get ready for
a shit storm.”
Casey stood up.
“Thanks for the courtesy call,” the DA said, striding to the door and flinging it open and waving her through with sarcastic
drama. “And tell your husband good luck.”
“My husband?” Casey said, passing through and turning to face him.
“He’s suing you for slander, right?” the DA said with a smirk. “Yeah, my wife gets
People
magazine. I guess he says you’re a real bitch, but after meeting you I find that really hard to believe.”
Casey’s ex-husband had filed a lawsuit against her and Lifetime for their portrayal of him in the movie of the week that seemed
to haunt Casey, a movie about her successful defense of an old law school professor, a serial killer who she later helped
capture.
“A bitch?” Casey said. “I just might cry. You better get your shit together, Merideth. Come tomorrow, you’ve entered the big
leagues and that diploma up on the wall from Touro College won’t help a bit.”
I
F JAKE CARLSON COULD have gotten off the plane, he would have. If he didn’t have a contract coming up in four months and if
his son, Sam, wasn’t at sleepaway camp until the end of the week, he would never have agreed to fly up to Syracuse in the
first place. But Jake had recently had a run of stories that, while interesting to him, had fallen flat with the network executives,
and the president herself was hot for an
American Sunday
profile on Robert Graham. As they finally took off on a bumpy ride through the thunderclouds, Jake wondered whether it was
the turbulence or the thought of Graham that was making him queasy.
After they landed, Jake helped the woman next to him with the bag that had managed to crush his jacket during the flight,
then bolted for the rental car counter. He took the GPS, even though he knew the surrounding area pretty well, having spent
some of his earlier years in television in the local market and more recently having broken a national story on a corrupt
politician and his ties with the Albanian mob operating out of central New York. By the time he arrived at the Holiday Inn
in Auburn, it was just past nine. His field producer, Dora Pine, waited for him in the front with her cell phone in one hand
and a cigarette in the other. Jake pulled the big Cadillac into one of the ten-minute unloading spots and got out, smoothing
the wrinkles in his jacket before buttoning up his shirt.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“You look like you need a shower,” Dora said, running a hand over her short curly hair, “and you’ve got time. We lost our
girl and I don’t know when she’ll be back.”
“Come again?” Jake said.
“Don’t give me that look,” Dora said, stomping out her cigarette under the combat boots she wore beneath her army fatigues.
“I kept her for over an hour, sitting there with her BlackBerry and looking at her watch before she blew out of here bitching
about wasting her time.”
“Newark,” Jake said, undoing the top button again. “What else do I need to say? Where is she?”
“She said something about a plate of spaghetti, and I don’t think she’ll understand the Newark thing,” Dora said. “Our buddy
Graham is flying her around in his jet, so go easy on the airline woes.”
Jake studied her. “I know the type.”
Dora shrugged and said, “She’s pretty, she’s smart, and I think she knows it.”
“Well,” Jake said, hefting his bag from the backseat, “I’ll put an iron to this jacket and wash my face. That should charm
the hell out of her. Maybe some deodorant, too.”
“I got sandwiches in there if you’re hungry,” Dora said as he entered the lobby.
“Remember those little finger sandwiches in Los Angeles?”
“You can settle for Subway,” she said. “And we’re set up just down this hall.”
Jake checked in and cleaned up, then had a sandwich while a young woman worked on his face and Dora rechecked her shots. Jake
leafed back through his file on Casey Jordan while he waited.
“Why don’t you close your mouth while you look,” Dora said, leaning over his shoulder and nodding at a color photo of Casey
standing next to a courthouse column that filled an entire page of
TIME
magazine.
“How smart can she really be?” Jake asked, his eyes on the photo and the lean lines beneath the skirt. “She looks like a model.”
“Smart enough to whisper if the door’s open.”
Casey Jordan stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. The camera crew busied themselves with their cables
and wires and Jake’s face warmed and then broke into a grin.
“A very intelligent model,” Jake said with an embarrassed smile. “You know Elle Macpherson has a PhD in nuclear physics?”
“That’s not true.”
“She doesn’t like to brag about it.”
Casey walked into the midst of the lights and cameras and cables, plunked herself down in the chair opposite Jake, and crossed
her shapely legs. “So should I assume that if I have a hot story that goes way beyond your puff piece on Robert Graham that
you’re not the one I should talk to? You do realize you’re wearing makeup.”
“It hides my insecurity.”
She stared at him and Jake waited for a grin that never appeared.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jake said, “there were thunderstorms in New York.”
“No problem,” Casey said, looking at him expectantly as she fished the microphone up through her blouse like a pro. “But let’s
get this done. I just got handed a brief that needs to be completely rewritten.”
“What story are you talking about?” Jake asked.
“Hey, are those teeth capped?”
“I got these from my mom,” Jake said, widening his lips and tapping the front teeth, “and despite the stylish haircut, I’ve
got all the credentials you’ll need if you’re looking to kick up another scandal.”
“Another?” Casey said.
Jake touched the folder. “I read your background. Growing up dirt-poor in a hick town. The Lifetime movie. Taking on a US
senator. I get it. A true Texas hellcat, if you don’t mind the expression.”
“How about an entire town that put a black man away for a murder he didn’t commit?”
“Sounds like a rerun,” Jake said. “Let’s talk about Robert Graham’s empathy for small animals and kids. We have a video of
him feeding a goat with a bottle. It’s cute stuff. I mean, a baby goat. How can you go wrong?”
“What about nearly twenty years later?” Casey said, recrossing her legs. “There’s a new DA, a new chief of police, new judge,
new everything. So why would they destroy the evidence that would right a wrong from the past?”
“Whew,” Jake said and pursed his lips. “Lady, you don’t mince words. Tell you what. You help me make Graham look like Mother
Teresa and I’ll talk to Charlie Gibson.
Nightly News
might go for something like this, and that’s what you want, right? Lots of attention?”
“I like how you toss out some locker room talk about my qualifications and now you’re running for your daddy’s leg when I
offer a real story.”
“Come on,” Jake said, turning to Dora. “We set?”
Casey looked at him for a long moment and held the stare. Jake was annoyed but could not help smiling back at her.
Dora gave a thumbs-up and Jake said, “Tell us how you first met Robert Graham.”
Casey didn’t answer for a moment, still staring, and then as Jake was about to turn to Dora, her face softened into a pleasant
smile and she readjusted in her seat.
“He called me—out of the blue, really,” Casey said. “He’d heard about some of my work—I run a legal clinic for underprivileged
women—and he asked if I’d help the Freedom Project by taking on a couple cases each year.”
“Why you?” Jake asked.
Casey shrugged and blushed lightly, then said, “I think he felt like I’d bring some visibility to the cases and the cause.”
“And didn’t he also offer to help your own charitable foundation?” Jake asked.
Casey shifted in her seat. “He did. And I was grateful to accept.”
“Do you think he likes the attention?” Jake asked.
“What? What do you mean?”
“You said visibility,” Jake said, “like this, the media, doing stories. Do you think that has something to do with it?”
“I think it helps raise more money for good causes,” Casey said.
“Would you like to hear some other reasons?” Jake asked.
Casey wrinkled her brow. “Is that a question you want me to answer?”
“Not for the camera,” Jake said, putting his hand up in front of the camera directed at her. “I’m just asking between us.
Would you? I’ll buy you a drink.”
Casey looked at Dora Pine, who wore a pair of headphones and looked up from her monitor.
“Is this how he operates?” Casey asked her.
“Pretty much,” Dora said. “Ain’t he clever?”
Jake retreated and lobbed some softballs at her, more questions about Robert Graham, his connection with the Freedom Project,
and how swell it was that a man with his kind of money gave a shit about the little people. Casey answered everything by the
book, saying neither too much nor too little, and always wearing a fixed smile. They both knew the game and the dance and
he needed only a couple quotes in the can.
“That’ll work,” Jake said, extending a hand to Casey as he removed his microphone.
She shook it, removed the mic, and said, “So you want to hear more?”
“Hotel bar?” Jake asked.
“Too depressing,” Casey said.
“There’s a place just down the road,” Jake said. “The
New York Times
calls it one of the top three spas in the world.”
Casey gave him a look. “What if it doesn’t match up to the other two?”
“I’m serious.” he said. “You’ll like it.”
“In Texas all you need for a bar is some whiskey and Shiner on tap,” Casey said. “I don’t know about a spa.”
“Come on,” he said.
Just outside the hotel lobby, a man with a crew cut emerged from a Lexus and limped toward them, his eyes on Casey.
“Are we ready?” he asked her, ignoring Jake.
“Thanks, Ralph,” she said. “How’s your homework assignment coming?”
“Working on the car,” Ralph said, shooting Jake a dark look as Casey began to follow him toward the rented Cadillac.
“And the girlfriend?” Casey asked.
“Caught a blip in 1994. Tried to kill herself in Tallahassee,” Ralph said, limping over to the Cadillac. “Sleeping pills.
They put her in a nuthouse and when she got out she disappeared. Nothing after that, so I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“I’ll try another route,” Casey said, closing the car door.
“You didn’t tell me your dad was here,” Jake said, starting the engine.
“Yeah, he can be a real asshole sometimes when I skip school,” Casey said. “Nope. He’s from Graham’s Rochester office.”
“Who, I think, is now tailing us,” Jake said, checking the rearview mirror as he turned the corner onto Route 20. “Do you
want me to shake the tail? Man, I always wanted to say that. That and ‘follow that car!’ ”
Casey spun around. “You’re paranoid. He’s not going to actually follow me.”
They rode in silence for a couple more miles on 20 until they got out of town.
“He is,” Jake said.
N
O. THIS IS TOO MUCH. I’ll put an end to this,” Casey said, pulling a cell phone out of her purse.
“Wait,” Jake said, checking his mirror as they continued on into the town of Skaneateles. “Let’s see something.”
When they turned into the spa entrance, the headlights from the car that he was certain had been Ralph’s kept going. Jake
watched the pewter-colored Lexus proceed down the hill before he eased through the gates.
“You were wrong,” Jake said. “Your dad isn’t such an asshole.”
“Funny,” Casey said. “My real old man was a stitch.”
Jake noted a heft of truth in the way she said it and didn’t say anything for a few moments.
Mirbeau Spa was a French château with small white lights strung along the rooflines. They found two low leather chairs in
the bar by the fireplace and ordered drinks. Other people, mostly couples, talked softly, leaning across small tables into
the wavering candlelight of small glass globes. The bartender stood behind an old-world bar, thick and dark and polished,
in a black tie and vest. A waitress took their orders, speaking to them in the quiet voice usually reserved for libraries.
“I would have been so surprised if Ralph really was following us,” Casey said, her own voice low as she sipped her glass of
cabernet. “He’s supposed to be at my disposal, not my chaperone.”
“Is his name really Ralph or did you make that up?” Jake snorted and shook his head. “He looks more like a Thor. And Graham
looks more like a Biff. Like a guy who eats Grape-Nuts and shits in the woods.”
“You don’t like Graham,” Casey said.
“Someone high up got sold on the idea of us doing a profile and that’s what I’m doing,” Jake said. “I’m just kidding around.
I don’t know the man well enough to like him or dislike him. Trust is something else. No, I don’t trust him; that doesn’t
mean we can’t talk about a story. I know I’m gorgeous but I got brains, too, lady.”