And then it all happens in what feels like a flash.
Because again, the category most likely to yield results, it seems to her, is colleges. So she generates an initial list, confining it to ten East Coast states and eliminating anywhere that doesn’t begin with the letter A.
Nineteen colleges.
She starts logging on to the Web sites for each of these, one after the other… and at number seventeen, she hits pay dirt.
Atherton College.
There it is, clear as day. Blackwood Old Style.
She stares at the screen for a few moments-at the typeface, at the initial letter-and it slowly dawns on her.
Fuck.
This is significant. It isn’t random. It’s a real lead. And why the hell didn’t she do this last night?
After a moment, she hears the ping of an incoming e-mail. The subject line is “Ratt/Twitter.” She ignores it.
The thing is, the guy was wearing a specific T-shirt. He was wearing a T-shirt with the name of a college on it.
Was it his college?
Before she starts shooting holes in this, which she could do pretty easily, something else occurs to her-or, to be more accurate, she remembers something.
ath900.
Holy shit.
The phone rings. She ignores it.
That was the name attached to the comment in that blog post she found, the one that talked about “popping the top guys.”
In shock, Ellen leans back in her chair.
Those two things combined… that’s more than a lead, that’s a…
Staring at the screen, she swallows.
That’s a…
She’s afraid to say it, or even think it, but that’s a grade-A, gilt-edged scoop right there.
Seriously.
She slides forward again and starts examining the college website, and as she’s doing this, over the next half hour or so, two things become clear to her. One, she’s going to keep getting phone calls and e-mails about this Ratt Atkinson situation, overtures that will only get harder and harder to fend off (especially if she remains here, in her apartment). And two, phone calls or e-mails to Atherton College simply aren’t going to be enough, not given the gravity-not given the delicacy-of the situation.
There is a logical conclusion to this, and she reaches it pretty fast. Atherton is in upstate New York, probably less than three hours away. She could get a train to Albany and rent a car from there.
She looks down.
She’ll probably need to get dressed first.
The phone rings again. As before, she ignores it.
Instead, she logs on to the Amtrak website.
9
LIZZIE BISHOP IS RELUCTANT TO ADMIT IT, but this shit is addictive.
Beforehand, she’d have assumed that watching live coverage of a murder trial on TV would be like watching paint dry. Okay, more than likely there’d be occasional ripples of drama, but the sheer tedium of it, day after day-the proceedings, the lingo, all that ipso facto shit, not to mention the endless analysis-just, No, I’m sorry… no way…
Who could possibly be into that?
Well, as it turns out, she could.
Because as it turns out, there’s something sort of creepy and hypnotic about it, and from her curled-up perspective here on the couch-remote in one hand, can of Red Bull in the other-she’s finding it hard to look away, to take her eyes off this prosecution guy, for instance, Ray Whitestone… who’s not cute, or anything, Jesus, he must have type 2 diabetes, at least, but he also has a commanding presence. And weirdly enough, too-it seems to Lizzie-the more banal the questions (and answers, of course), the more hypnotic the whole thing tends to become.
And it’s not just Ray Whitestone, either. The witness on the stand at the moment, this doorman guy, Joey Gifford-he’s something else. Curiously compelling is what one of the talking-head commentators has called him a few times, and that about sums him up. He’s like a person you’d see on some ultra-tacky, cringe-inducing reality show, only more so.
Because this actually is reality.
“The awning, the one outside that covers the sidewalk,” Ray Whitestone is saying, “the canopy, that’s… that’s supported by four brass poles, am I correct?”
“Yes, brass… brass poles. I’m assuming it’s brass, that’s what it looks like… brass. It’s the right color.” Joey Gifford clears his throat. “I mean, I’m no, what’s the word, metallurgist, but-”
“Indeed, Mr. Gifford, thank you.”
Not that Lizzie ever really watches reality shows, or daytime TV for that matter.
But-
A commercial break comes on and the spell is broken. She looks around, studying the apartment, these unfamiliar surroundings, for the hundredth time this week.
The place is small. In this room there’s the couch she’s sitting on, the TV, a shelving unit, a desk in the corner, and a longish rectangular table on which she has her study things laid out, textbooks, laptop, notebooks, pens. There’s a window that looks down over a concrete yard with some scrubby trees in it and a dilapidated wooden fence that backs onto the yard of another, similar building. There’s one bedroom, the door of which is always locked-during the day, at any rate. The kitchen and bathroom are tiny, really tiny, their poky windows giving onto the building’s cramped air shaft, where all you can see is other mostly shuttered windows and red brickwork, darkened now and flecked by a century’s deposit of bird shit and soot. There doesn’t seem to be much soundproofing between the apartments, either, because she can hear muffled voices, noises, random thuds, as well as the incessant clanking and hissing of the steam radiators.
Lizzie doesn’t like it here. She doesn’t feel comfortable on her own all day.
Not that it’s much better in the evenings.
But to be honest, what she’s really feeling right now is out of her depth.
And also a little stupid.
She takes a sip from her Red Bull.
The commercial break comes to an end, but instead of going back to the live feed from the courtroom, they start into a quick recap of the proceedings so far.
Most of which she has just watched.
She raises the remote control and flicks forward a few channels, stopping for a moment at a rerun of House.
“Sarcoidosis,” she shouts at the screen, then flicks forward again.
Nature documentary, insects.
She stares at it, not paying attention.
Out of her depth?
She takes another sip of Red Bull.
Stupid?
Why?
Because she doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, that’s why. And there’s only so much of this crap that she can put up with. It’s insane. No Internet access? No going out or talking to people? No using her cell phone? No TV?
It’s only supposed to be for a week-until tomorrow, in fact, and she did warn her friends about the impending radio silence.
But still.
Even the fact that she has slipped a bit-that wobbly call to her dad on the first night, putting the TV on this morning, and keeping it on-is surely telling her something.
That maybe she just doesn’t care as much anymore.
What she can’t believe is that she actually felt disloyal this morning turning on the fucking TV.
For almost a week now-in what has admittedly been the most productive period she’s ever spent as a student-Lizzie has been cooped up here in this apartment, reading, studying, but also assiduously abiding by these house rules, by this fucked-up paranoid off-the-grid communications blackout. And the thing is, she gets it, at least in regard to cell phones and social media. There’s a real danger there of personal data being monitored, sure. So don’t have them on.