Gideon could not deny that his emotions had caused him to straddle the fine line between the television ratings game and good journalism. But for the love of Danny, he had stayed in the shallow waters of compliments, sympathy, and scripture-laced sound bites.
“How do you think viewers are going to react when they see you insinuate that Samantha Cleaveland caused her husband's death?” Megan continued. “You're going to look like an asshole.”
“I don't care what I look like. I've got more important things on my mind.”
Â
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Cynthia Pryce abruptly turned off the big-screen television in her bedroom. Gideon's interview with Samantha had just aired for the third time since the taping.
“The coward, the fucking coward,” she said out loud, throwing the remote control across the bed. “He didn't even mention any of Hezekiah's affairs.”
Cynthia reached for her cell phone and dialed Gideon's number.
“Hello. This is Gideon Truman.”
“What the fuck was that all about?”
“I beg your pardon. Who is this?” he said, immediately evoking the image of another crazed fan.
“This is Cynthia Pryce. We had a deal. I gave you the information, and you were supposed to report it. Was that so difficult?”
Gideon was driving up Hollywood Boulevard when he received the call. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Tourists wearing the latest strip-mall fashions walked in droves along the star-embedded street. Gideon pulled his car into a bus zone and continued. “We did not have any such deal,” he said firmly. “I told you I would check out your story, but I never promised to report it.”
“She got to you, didn't she?” Cynthia said coldly. “What did she do? Threaten you? Fuck you? Oh, wait a minute. I forgot. That wouldn't work on you.”
Gideon took the phone away from his ear and looked at it in surprise. “I'm not sure who you think you're talking about, Mrs. Pryce. But I assure you no one âgot to me'. I simply chose not to pursue the story.”
“Then why? This is the biggest story of your career. Don't you journalists have to take some kind of oath that says you have to report on stories that affect the public?”
“There is no such oath. Journalists have complete discretion as to what they report. I exercised my discretion,” he said, attempting to manage his indignation.
“No, what you did was cover up a story. And the only reason I can think of is that somehow Samantha Cleaveland got to you. Did she pay you? God knows she's got plenty of my money and everyone else's to do it with.”
“I resent you accusing me of accepting bribes,” Gideon said, raising his voice. Cars continued to creep by as he spoke.
A tour bus filled with camera-toting tourists stopped next to his car. Someone on the bus yelled out, “Hey, look. It's Gideon Truman.” Everyone on the bus immediately rushed to the windows and began shouting, “Oh my God. It is him,” and “Hey, Gideon. Look over here,” as they snapped pictures and waved in his direction.
Gideon ignored the gawking fans and continued, “If you must know, I considered the story to be in poor taste in light of the circumstances. The man was murdered, for Christ's sake. Why do you need to crucify him even further? You're a smart woman. I'm sure you can figure out a way to sleep your way to the top.”
“I'm sure I can, too, Mr. Truman,” Cynthia said sharply. “But as I've already told you, this is not about me. It's about doing what's right.”
A Metro RTD bus wormed its way through the traffic and stopped inches from Gideon's bumper. The bus driver blasted his horn at Gideon, causing a chorus of more car horns from behind the bus.
“I don't have time for this bullshit,” he finally said. “If you want to be the first lady of New Testament, you're going to have to find some other asshole to do your dirty work.”
With that Gideon hung up the phone and dashed back into traffic, giving a wave of apology to the bus driver.
“Fucking bitch,” Gideon said, slamming the steering wheel. “How dare she?”
Gideon honked his horn impatiently at cars he felt were moving too slowly as he wound up Hollywood Boulevard. Cynthia had touched a nerve. Was he now, in fact, participating in a cover-up? Had his attraction to Danny caused him to cross the line between reporter and story? Was he a part of the story? The prospect frightened him. Had he compromised everything he believed in for the remote possibility that Danny could ever feel the same way he did?
“Faggot,” Cynthia cursed, tossing the phone on the bed. “Never send a gay boy to do a woman's job.”
Cynthia grudgingly conceded one truth Gideon had spoken. She in fact was unashamedly willing to sleep her way to the top. She thought of the pounding she had endured from the balding
Chronicle
reporter, Lance Savage, in the front seat of her Mercedes. The sex had been in exchange for him running the story on Hezekiah's affair.
It would have worked if the little bastard hadn't gotten himself killed,
she thought.
His dick was so small, it wasn't really like fucking at all,
she recalled.
It was more like masturbation.
Chapter 13
The sun slowly dipped behind the hills in the distance as streaks of clouds filtered the remains of the day in the orange Arizona sky. Cactus dotted the horizon like pitchforks retired for the day by exhausted ranch hands. The desert was still except for lizards darting between rocks as the sun ended its scorching assault on the barren landscape. It was eight o'clock and time for the evening group at the Desert Springs Drug Rehabilitation Center in Phoenix.
Paintings of dusty landscapes, cactus, and indigenous women toiling in the sun hung from adobe-plastered walls that arched to form a peak over the center of the meeting room. The bleached skull of an animal that had succumbed to the ravages of the sun hung over an adobe kiva fireplace protruding from a far corner in the room. A motley crew of eight adolescents made their way to a circle of chairs in the middle of the room. The glossy terra-cotta-tiled floor was cool against their feet, and the air conditioner emitted a nearly inaudible hum.
Desert Springs was the rehab facility the rich, the famous, and the notorious chose when they needed to send their alcohol-guzzling, pill-popping, and needle-poking children for treatment away from the prying eyes of paparazzi, police, and custody attorneys.
The group facilitator, Dr. Ron, appeared to be an adolescent himself, but he was not. His doctorate in addiction psychology, his seven published books on the treatment of every addiction know to modern man, and his numerous appearances on
Oprah, Dr. Phil,
and
The Dr. Oz Show
gave the parents of his wealthy young patients solace when they handed him their forty-thousand-dollar check for twenty-eight days of treatment.
“Its eight o'clock, everyone,” Dr. Ron said in a voice that echoed his pubescent face. “Let's get started.”
The last of the youths slumped into their seats. Tattoos, pierced noses and lips, spiked hair, and lit cigarettes were the accessories of choice for most in the group. Several, however, wore diamond tennis bracelets, Manolo sandals, and Rolex watches. The one thing they all had in common was they each looked at least ten years older than their fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years.
“We're now two weeks into your four-week stay at Desert Springs,” Dr. Ron said. “I think tonight is a good time to talk about our families. I want each of you to share what it's like in your home. Your parents, siblings, staff, pets, or anything else you'd like to share with the group. Who wants to start?”
“Why the fuck do you want to know that?” came the first response from the boy wearing the Rolex watch and sporting a two-hundred-dollar haircut. “You plan on selling our stories to
People
magazine? Forty thousand dollars for a month times twenty isn't enough for you?”
The comment elicited a smattering of uneasy snickers from the group and also from Dr. Ron.
“Forty thousand dollars a month is plenty for me,” he said dismissively. “You all know that anything you say in this room will never leave this room. We've all signed confidentiality agreements. This is a safe place. Probably one of the safest places some of you have ever been in your lives. Now, again, who wants to go first?”
“I'll go,” was the earnest response from a girl with a loop ring in her nose and a burning cigarette on her fingertips. “I'll do anything to get this over with. Okay,” she said, folding her legs beneath her. “I have a little brother and sister. A dog named Sammy Davis Jr., three nanniesâtwo of um are fucking dear old dadâand God knows who all those other people are who are in our house twenty-four hours a day. My mother has her first vodka and tonic at ten in the morning, and I'm usually too fucked up at night to know when she's had her last one. The only time I see my father is when I pay ten bucks like every other asshole to see one of his crappy movies. Is that enough? Can I go home now? I think you cured me. Dr. Ron, you're a genius.”
Some in the group laughed, while others stared blankly out the window, writhed in their seats, or struggled to keep their hands from shaking.
Dr. Ron smiled and said, “No, I'm not a genius. No, I don't think you're cured, and no, you can't go home yet.”
“Oh, please, Dr. Ron. I'll give you another forty K,” the girl said with smoke billowing from her mouth.
“That won't be necessary,” he said patiently.
“How about a blow job? Everyone says I'm pretty good at it.”
“I'll let you go home if you give me a blow job,” said one of the twitching boys.
“I'm sure you're great at it, Rory,” Dr. Ron interrupted, “but what I'd rather have from you is a little less sarcasm and a lot more honesty. Why don't you take a minute to think about what you'd like to get out of this session, and we'll come back to you? Ian, let's hear from you. Tell us about your family.”
Ian was slightly overweight. His face was covered with freckles, and his flip-flop sandals clapped the terra-cotta tiles nervously when he spoke. “Me, uh,” he stammered. “There's not much to tell. Uh, we live in D.C. My mom and dad are pretty cool. I'm home a lot by myself when my parents travel or when Congress is in session.”
“Is that when you drink?” Dr. Ron asked.
“Yeah,” the chubby adolescent said. “I, um, get bored alone in the house and, well, the place is full of liquor and, um . . .”
“How long have you been drinking?” asked Dr. Ron.
“Since I was about ten, I guess. I don't drink that much, though.”
“Looked like you had a lot to drink when the paramedics rolled you out of your penthouse last month,” said one of the other youths. “You looked like shit in that oxygen mask on the news, by the way.”
“I saw that too,” blurted another member. “Your father must have shit bricks when he saw the news. Guess he won't be running for president anytime soon.”
There was more laughter from the group.
“How did your father react, Ian?” Dr. Ron asked.
“He, well, he was cool about it.... I mean, he was upset and everything. My mom freaked out, though. She said if I didn't come here, she was going to send me to military school.”
Seven of the eight in the group told similar stories. Privilege, unlimited access to credit cards, minimal adult supervision, heroin overdoses, multiple sex partners, and numerous encounters with the law, all of which were neatly brushed under the rug by brooms made of money and power.
Dr. Ron looked in the direction of the one person in the room who had not spoken, and said, “I guess you're the last one, Jasmine. Why don't you tell us about your family?”
All the members looked sympathetically in her direction. Jasmine did not speak.
“I know it's difficult for you, Jasmine, but the only way you're going to make any progress is if you talk about it,” Dr. Ron said gently. “Remember, you're among friends here. Everyone has a similar story to yours.”
Jasmine looked in his direction. Her eyes were still puffy from weeks of crying. “Is that right?” she said coldly. “Who else in this group had their father killed in front of millions of people? Who else tried to commit suicide, only to have some son-of-a-bitch doctor pump their stomach and bring them back to this place?”
The room was silent. The hands stopped shaking, sandals stopped clapping the tile, and bodies stopped squirming in the seats.
“We all realize that part of your story is unique, Jasmine,” Dr. Ron said softly. “But the process of healing is the same for all of us, regardless of what we've been through.”
“He's right, Jasmine,” said the ringed-nosed Rory. “I know I sound like a bitch sometimes, but I have to admit it does help to talk about it. It's nice to get the shit out in the open so other people can smell it, too, and sometimes they can tell you it doesn't smell as bad as you thought it did.”
All eyes were still on Jasmine. She looked to the floor at the checkerboard tile, then to the skull hanging over the fireplace. After silent moments she said in a whisper, “My mother hasn't called me since I've been here. She's too busy saving the fucking world. She didn't love my father. As a matter of fact, I think she hated him. The only time they weren't arguing was when the cameras were on.”
“How was your relationship with her?” Dr. Ron asked.
Jasmine released a pained chuckle and replied, “I don't have a relationship with my mother. The only time she paid any attention to me was when she trotted me out in front of the church or the cameras. I'm a stage prop. Most of the time she doesn't even know or care if I'm in the house. I was raised by nannies, housekeepers, and security guards.”
“How about your dad? What was that relationship like?” Dr. Ron asked, pressing on.
“I loved my father, and I know he loved me. But he was always so busy too. I remember when I was a kid, he used to take me with him everywhere. But . . .” Jasmine paused to clear her throat and stifle a tear and then continued. “But the church kept getting bigger and bigger. Then the television thing took off. After a while I just got left behind. There would be weeks when I would only see him on Sunday morning in church.”
“Jasmine,” said the boy with the Rolex watch. “Your mom must care about you. She sent you here, didn't she?”
Again Jasmine chuckled. “She sent me here because she didn't want anyone to find out I tried to commit suicide. She didn't want it getting out that the daughter of the perfect Samantha Cleaveland swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills and had to have her stomach pumped. When she shoved me in the car with her driver, she told me to tell anyone who asked that I was staying with family friends in Malibu. She didn't even bother to ride to the airport with me.”
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It was 8:20 on Thursday evening. The board of trustees sat nervously around the table in the recently christened Pastor Hezekiah T. Cleaveland Memorial Conference Room. The special closed meeting had been convened at the request of Reverend Kenneth Davis. The only item on the agenda was the selection of the permanent pastor of New Testament Cathedral.
Two armed security guards in full uniform were posted outside the door, with strict orders not to allow anyone to enter the room. A silver pitcher of water, five glasses, and a stack of neatly folded cloth napkins sat untouched on a side console. The shades on the two glass walls that looked onto the grounds of the cathedral were drawn. The room, which could easily accommodate fifty people, felt claustrophobic, even though there were only four people sitting in the thirty leather chairs around the table.
Kenneth sat at the head of the table as the convener of the meeting. Hattie Williams's wooden cane rested on the conference table. Her purse, filled with Kleenex, peppermints, and a pocket Bible, rested on her lap. Reverend Percy Pryce sat to her left, three chairs down. Despite his best attempts at appearing calm and detached, the moisture on his upper lip betrayed the churning in his stomach.
Kenneth nervously checked his watch. Scarlett Shackelford sat stiffly three chairs to his right. The pills she had taken before leaving her home that evening had effectively erased the remains of her shattered emotions.
“I don't think she's coming,” Kenneth said, checking his watch again. “It's already twenty past eight. We were supposed to start at eight o'clock.”
“Maybe we should start without her,” Percy said softly.
“She'll be here.”
All heads turned to Hattie Williams.
“How do you know that?” Scarlett asked coldly.
“Because she's already in the building,” Hattie said. “I can feel her.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes and said impatiently, “I say we call the meeting to order right now and get this over with.”
As she spoke, the security guard swung one half of the double doors open and Samantha appeared in the threshold. Kenneth and Percy leapt to their feet, while Hattie and Scarlett remained seated. Before entering, Samantha made eye contact with everyone at the table.
“Good evening, brothers and sisters,” she said confidently. “I apologize for my lateness, but I was attending to church business. Please sit down, brothers.”
Kenneth walked to the console and poured a glass of water. “Would anyone else like a glass before we get started?”
A chorus of “No” and “No thank you, Reverend,” followed, and he made his way back to the head of the table.
Samantha sat four chairs to the right of Scarlett, which placed her farthest from the head of the table. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the high-backed leather chair.
Kenneth placed the glass of water beside a single sheet of paper, five pens, a stack of index cards, and a small tape recorder. After pressing the
RECORD
button, he said, “I now call this special meeting of the Board of Trustees of New Testament Cathedral to order at 8:25
P.M.
on this day of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Thank you all for coming at such short notice. As you know, we are convened to decide an issue of the utmost importance. The sole agenda item is who will serve as the permanent pastor of New Testament Cathedral.”