Although her previous boss Oscar Ortega was ousted, Monica remains at her post. And apparently she blames me for Ortega’s demise. Hey, I didn’t corrupt the justice system. I just reported on the guy who did. That hardly makes it my bad.
“Take a seat,” she commands. “I’ll notify the press secretary you’re here.”
“But I don’t want the press secretary. I’m not working on a news story. Listen, Monica, I’m only wondering if-”
“Or you can call her later, for an update,” she says. She flips her microphone thing back into place. Lights on the phone console begin blinking green. “I’m on duty till five.”
I’ve lost this round. But I’m not defeated.
“I’m staying here. Until Josh is finished. Do you know how long it’ll be? He’ll have to come out this way, right?” I’m edging toward the tired-looking couch, proving I’m being obedient, but still digging for information.
“Sorry.” She aims a finger at one of the green lights, and punches down the button. I’m dismissed.
At least Franklin had good news. After unsuccessfully trying Josh again, Franklin was the second call I’d made from the makeshift office I’ve set up on the D.A.’s sprung-cushioned couch. Coat thrown across one corner. Tote bag open. Laptop humming on the scarred coffee table. Notebook and pencil out. Cell phone to my ear. From time to time, harried-looking people wearing clacking necklaces of laminated badges scurry by. With practiced I-don’t-want-to-get-involved attitudes, they entirely ignore the worried woman in black pants, black sweater and plaid muffler who’s spread out in their waiting room. Fine. Today I’d rather not be recognized.
Josh is still not answering his cell. I just hope he’s not in one.
According to Franklin, Kevin’s staying with the program. Franklin, J.T. and I are set to hit the Longmore Hotel valet parkers again tonight. Franklin is playing phone tag with Saskia about the blue Mustang and he’s tracking down the owner of the valet-parking company. He says BeaconValet is apparently set up as some sort of elaborate trust designed to obscure the actual owner’s name. Or names. The trust designers might say it’s to “protect” the actual owners’names. I would disagree. But Franklin will figure it out.
I try Josh again. No answer. Next, Toni DuShane, the station’s lawyer. I land in voice mail, story of my life. I punch out a text message. CHARLIE MC. CALL ASAP. Seconds later, my phone rings. It’s not the Charlie’s Angels ring. It’s Toni.
“Hey, sister. What’s happening?”
Sistah, she says. Toni’s Harvard Law, out of Roxbury High, by way of a stint as a fashion model, her career capped by an award-winning cover on Essence. Now, her street-corner accent is long gone, except when she resurrects it to charm her pals or win over jurors. She’s what they call a “green-light” lawyer because she works to get our stories on TV, not keep them off. We bonded many years ago over the First Amendment and scotch on the rocks. The hard stuff is a little more risky as we both now push fifty. We’re both still as devoted to the First Amendment. She and Maysie are shopping for wedding outfits.
In the briefest possible way, trying to avoid commentary about Bexter’s patrician hierarchy and leaving out the Dulles and Kindell phone calls completely, I tell Toni what I know. I keep my voice low to keep Monica from eavesdropping as I give Toni the bullet points.
“And doesn’t that seem odd?” I finish my recitation with an all-encompassing question. To me, the whole idea that Josh is being questioned is odd.
I hear a dismissive snort from Toni’s end of the line. “Well, not only odd. It’s absurd. To send your own employees into the unholy maw of the shiny new district attorney’s office? Without a lawyer?” She pauses, and I hear someone’s phone ringing in the background. “No one should ever, ever talk to the police without a lawyer. I mean, it’s not only in the movies that you see innocent people being framed. Or getting so nervous they say something they shouldn’t. Or saying something that makes them a prime suspect. Rule one, sister. If there’s a murder investigation? Shut the heck up.”
“I know, I know,” I say, looking at my watch. “He’s been in there for hours. That’s why I’m calling you, of course. Can you get over here? Call them, or something?”
“Oh, kiddo, I’m so sorry. I’m in court. The clerk’s calling our case. Listen. I have two minutes. Let me ask you something. Go with me, here, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Do they think Josh is guilty? Why?”
Exactly what I’ve been wondering. Obviously Josh is not a murderer. So why is he now being kept behind closed doors in the highest law enforcement office in the county? I glance at Monica. She’s stolidly ignoring me.
“Why do they think he’s-well, they don’t. As far as I know.” I’m fully whispering now, hiding my mouth behind my hand. Maybe Monica is only pretending to ignore me. “They’re just, what was it Pratt said? Checking everyone’s whereabouts the night of the, um, deaths.”
“Precisely,” Toni says. “It’s all about alibis. So? Does Josh have one?”
I turn my back to receptionist Monica, my shoulders hunched and head down, facing the lint-filled inside corner of the mustardy couch. My two minutes with Toni are almost up.
“Well, yeah. Listen. No. I guess he, really, doesn’t have an alibi. Because see, on the night that-”
“Charlie, hon, I’m so sorry,” Toni breaks in. “They’re calling me. Listen, quickly, I’m walking down the hall. But if Josh comes out, you have him call me. Okay?”
“If he comes out?”
“When he comes out,” Toni says.
And she’s gone.
I lower the cell phone from my ear, slowly, and stare at the photograph displayed on its tiny screen. It’s Josh, in a baggy bathing suit and Red Sox cap, a citrus-striped beach towel over one shoulder, standing on an expanse of white sand, the turquoise Caribbean twinkling behind him. The sun glares from his dark-lensed sunglasses. If you look closely in the reflection, you can make out a wavy Charlie, towel wrapped around my waist and camera raised, snapping the photo. Every time I see it, I can almost smell the coconut sunscreen.
We’d been engaged for exactly one day when I took that snapshot.
I lean back into the couch, propping my boots up on the coffee table before I remember that’s probably pushing it with old Monica. I hold my cell phone in one hand, my lifeline, so I can answer instantly if it rings. When it rings. With a sigh, I put my elbows on my knees and stare at the unfortunate rug.
I can hear the buzz of the ancient fluorescent lights above me. My computer screen, keys untouched, clicks to black. Somewhere, behind closed doors and unreachable, is the man I’m going to marry. What if he gets arrested for murder?
Forget about it. I put my boots on the table, and clonk my head on the back of the couch. This is script fodder for some made-for-TV movie. Penny and I, hand in hand, going to court every day while Josh sits at the defendant’s table. While he takes the stand. Manipulative police officers, one after the other, spout a parade of lies. Jeremiah Soroff gloating. Cameras rolling. Josh’s career in shambles. I’d have to quit my job at Channel 3, take a leave of absence or something, in order to stand by him. Maybe I could even work on his case. We could hire the best of lawyers, someone like our pal Will Easterly, or the media-savvy Oliver Rankin. The jury would-
My phone rings. Charlie’s Angels jars me out of my melodrama. I shake off my absurd scenario. Josh has done nothing wrong. Nothing any district attorney or cop tries to say can possibly change that.
“Hey, Franko. What up?”