Jackson bustled Parnell into the barely furnished anteroom in which they had begun the day together, pressing the door closed behind him by leaning against it as he said: ‘Jesus, what a day! But we won. Boy, how we won!’
‘Thanks,’ said Parnell, simply.
‘A lot of it fell into my lap: our laps. The tape, particularly.’
‘How’d you get the FBI involved like that?’
‘Started out in their counsel’s department at the J. Edgar Hoover building, before going private. Kept a few friends there. Once I confirmed AF209, it was a walk in the park.’
‘I want the bastards who did it!’ exclaimed Parnell.
‘It’ll get done,’ promised Jackson. ‘You pick up on the judge’s hint for a civil suit against the police?’
‘Of course,’ shrugged Parnell. ‘But what’s the point?’
‘Don’t make any decisions yet. It’s all too soon.’ He shouted: ‘Enter,’ to the hesitant knock at the door, striding forward to meet the FBI lawyer, whom he at once introduced to Parnell.
Ed Pullinger said: ‘Barry tells me you’ve no idea at all how that flight number came to be in Ms Lang’s purse.’
‘None,’ declared Parnell. ‘What I do know – am totally sure of – is that Rebecca had no knowledge of or connection with terrorism. It’s ludicrous.’
‘Barry told me that, too. You’re not planning to go anywhere, are you, Mr Parnell?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll give you my personal guarantee that my client will remain in the city and be available at all times,’ said Jackson, formally.
Pullinger nodded, smiling for the first time. To the other lawyer he said: ‘You sure kicked ass in there!’
‘They were bending over, making it easy,’ said Jackson.
‘I guess we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other,’ said Pullinger.
‘I guess,’ said Jackson. To Parnell he said: ‘You ready to meet the baying media?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Don’t gloat,’ advised Jackson. ‘You won but Rebecca’s dead.’
‘You think I need reminding?’
‘And be careful as you go,’ continued the lawyer, ignoring the retort. ‘We just humiliated a whole police department who’ve now been put under investigation themselves and stand a good chance of being humiliated a lot more. The officer who catches you drunk at the wheel or even parking illegally goes straight on to the roll of honour, with extra laurel leaves.’
‘I don’t drive drunk but I hear what you’re saying.’
They were overwhelmed by the waiting media on the courtroom steps and this time Jackson shuffled back into second place. Responding to the questions he could select from the babble, Parnell said he was glad the matter was now in the hands of the FBI and looked forward to an early arrest of the people who’d murdered Rebecca and tried to incriminate him. He had no idea how the AF209 flight number came to be in Rebecca Lang’s purse, but part of her job at Dubette had been to liaise with their overseas subsidiaries, and he believed that was the connection. He would, of course, cooperate in every way demanded by the FBI. He had not yet decided whether to sue Metro DC police. It had been a frightening experience, made the more horrifying by Rebecca’s death. He hesitated at a repeated, once-ignored question before saying that he had hoped to marry Rebecca and that he was devastated by her killing. He was anxious to return to his job and his department as soon as possible. It was too early for them to expect that he or those working with him would have made any genetic breakthroughs. Of course they were hopeful, expectant even. He couldn’t give any details of what the results might be. Parnell was grateful for Jackson’s pressure at his elbow, moving forward to the lawyer’s waiting car, shaking his head against any more questions.
Inside the vehicle, Jackson said: ‘Where do you want to go?’
He didn’t know, Parnell thought. It was a brief but unsettling moment of mental blankness. Hurriedly, recovering, he said: ‘The nearest Hertz rental outlet. I’ve got some catching up to do.’
As he drove, Jackson said: ‘You’ve got all my numbers. We’ll obviously need to keep in touch. Don’t forget what I said about watching your back.’
‘I won’t.’ How absurd, unreal, to be seriously getting – and intending to take – a warning like that in the supposed land of freedom and law!
‘Any time, day or night.’
‘I’ve got it.’
Parnell hesitated at hiring another Toyota but irritably dismissed the hesitation. It was the car with which he was most familiar and which it therefore made sense for him to drive. On his way back to the apartment, he remembered the gaping-mouthed answering machine and stopped for a replacement recording loop. He approached Washington Circle cautiously, unwilling to face another media gauntlet, relieved that there wasn’t one. Inside the apartment he reloaded the machine and remained reflectively by the telephone. It was already four thirty and it would probably take him an hour to get to McLean as the rush hour built up. There was no ongoing work he could usefully do until the following day – maybe not even then – so it was pointless contemplating the 17 mile journey. And he hadn’t been talking about Dubette when he’d told the lawyer he had a lot of catching up to do.
It was Dubette he called, though, smiling at Kathy Richardson’s immediate concern when she recognized his voice, before he’d said who he was. He assured her he was fine, that everything was fine, and got himself transferred to Beverley Jackson.
She said at once: ‘We’ve been hearing a lot on the radio.’
‘I’m OK. I only wish Rebecca was.’
‘They’re talking murder on the radio…’
‘That’s what it’s being investigated as. Thanks for what you did, getting Barry. He’s a hell of a lawyer. I didn’t know, not when I called.’
‘Anything more I can do?’ asked the woman.
‘Get me put over to Dwight Newton. I’ll be in tomorrow morning.’
‘Sure you’re OK?’ persisted Beverley.
No, thought Parnell, I’m not sure at all. He said: ‘I told you, I’m fine. Spread the word I’ll be in first thing tomorrow.’
Newton’s secretary said the vice president wasn’t there and wouldn’t be in until the following afternoon. She’d mark his diary for Parnell to be his first appointment, and was glad things had worked out as well as she understood they had, but it was awful about Rebecca.
The urgent introductory music to Live at 5 was playing when Parnell switched on the television to be confronted by his own oddly averted face, a blown-up still photograph. When the voice-over commentary referred to murder, his picture was replaced by one of Rebecca Lang, which he guessed to be a Dubette’s personnel file print. She looked startled almost, nervous of the camera. What about his appearance! Parnell hadn’t been conscious of television cameras inside the court, which he thought he would have been. Judge Wilson’s concluding speech was given in full, with Parnell half in shot, and he was curious at his own subdued appearance, which persisted outside with the impromptu press conference. Into his mind came the brief blankness in Jackson’s car, and Parnell acknowledged that how he looked on film was how he’d felt, frightened, needing someone else’s support. Which was as much a surprise as his earlier self-acknowledgement of being frightened, because Parnell had always been sure he could climb the highest mountain and swim the widest oceans all by himself: he wasn’t used to – and most certainly didn’t like – the obvious loss of the confidence he’d always known and taken for granted. Barbara Spacey, Dubette’s chain-smoking psychologist, would doubtless argue it was nothing about which to be ashamed or discomfited. But he was. The segment ended still on the courthouse steps, with a reporter restating the FBI’s official confirmation that they were conducting their enquiry as a murder investigation. The reporter also recounted the official refusal of Metro DC police to respond to the judge’s criticism of its competence, over shots of Peter Bellamy and Helen Montgomery hurriedly leaving the rear of their headquarters building, Bellamy holding his hat to shield his face.