“Loved the beat, hated the lyrics,” Mulligan said. “I give it a six out of ten.”
“Why would he do that?” Mason said. “Didn’t he know how it would look?”
“He probably never thought it would go public,” Mulligan said. “Or more likely, he didn’t think at all.”
“It’s not going public,” Mason said. “I mean, we’d never post something like this on our Web site, would we?”
“Probably not,” Mulligan said. “But if the wrong person gets a hold of this, it’ll get ten million hits on YouTube.”
“Let’s check the rest of the files,” Mason said, opening the first one. It was a standard surveillance video. Black-and-white, no audio.
An empty corridor lined with cells appeared on the computer screen. The light was dim. Nothing stirred. The time-and-date stamp in the lower right corner said, “October 20, 2011, 12:01 am.”
“Isn’t that the day Diggs allegedly assaulted Galloway?” Mulligan asked.
“It is,” Mason said. “According to court testimony, the assault occurred just after two P.M.” The reporters sat in silence as Mason fast-forwarded fourteen hours.
Three guards strutted down the corridor and approached one of the cells.
“Recognize them?” Mulligan asked.
“The one with the Schwarzenegger muscles is Galloway. The tall, lean one is Quinn. And of course you know Pugliese.”
A pair of big hands reached through a slot in the cell door, and Galloway slapped handcuffs on them. Then the door slid open, and Diggs lumbered out. Galloway scowled and appeared to say something. Diggs responded with a grin.
“Wish we could hear what they’re saying,” Mason said.
The guards led Diggs down the corridor beyond the range of the camera.
Mason clicked the video off, opened the next file, and fast-forwarded to two P.M. again. A few seconds later, Diggs and the guards appeared, walking calmly down the corridor and out of sight. Mason repeated the process with the remaining four files until Diggs and his escort reached the exit to the exercise yard. There, Galloway uncuffed him. Then he and Quinn roughly shoved him out of sight through the door.
“Holy shit,” Mulligan said.
“This proves the assault never happened,” Mason said.
“That’s what I meant by ‘Holy shit.’ I wonder why nobody ever deleted this.”
“They probably just forgot about it.” Mason said. “They had no reason to think it would get out.”
“Is there any video from the 2005 assault?” Mulligan asked.
“Apparently not. My source told me they usually delete the video files after five years.”
“Doesn’t really matter,” Mulligan said. “You’ve made your case.”
“I’m going to look at all the rest of the video,” Mason said. “Just to make sure there isn’t anything else interesting on it. After that, I’ll write my story.”
“It might be better if you didn’t.”
“I disagree.”
“Think Lomax will publish it?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
56
“Aw, shit,” Lomax said.
“Yeah,” Mulligan said.
“Any chance the kid got it wrong?”
“No. He’s done a brilliant job on this.”
Lomax removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Guess I’ve got a big decision to make.”
“You do.”
“If I kill the story, the publisher might back me up,” Lomax said. “He’s never second-guessed me before, so I doubt he’ll start now. Not even for his son.”
“So kill it,” Mulligan said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Jesus. You want to be responsible for Diggs getting out?”
“Or course not. But I’m not keen on being responsible for covering up perjury and obstruction of justice, either.”
Mulligan took a deep breath and slowly let it out through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get what you’re going through. As a journalist, your gut tells you to publish. But as a husband and father… I’m just glad I’m not the one who has to make the call. So what are you going to do?”
“First I’m going to read the story. Then I’m going to look at the video myself and make Mason show me all of his notes. After that, we’ll see. If I don’t kill it, I’ll have to walk it upstairs and talk things over with the old man. This one is above my pay grade. There’s a lot at stake here, Mulligan. If we publish, Iggy Rock will have a field day, we’ll lose a few thousand more subscribers, and we’ll probably have a horde of angry protesters at our door.”
They looked at each other for a moment.
“Any chance you’re going to bail me out?” Lomax asked. “What’s the word on those DNA tests you’ve been waiting for?”
“Nothing yet,” Mulligan said, “but it shouldn’t be long now.”
57
Two days later, Mulligan checked his phone messages and found one from Jennings asking him to call right away.
“Hi, Andy. What’s up?”
“I just heard from Chief Hernandez, and the news ain’t good. The crime lab couldn’t find any viable DNA.”
“Aw, crap.”
“All the samples were either contaminated or degraded because of improper storage.”
“So that’s it, then,” Mulligan said. “We’ve got no way to connect Diggs to the attack on Susan Ashcroft.”
“’Fraid so.”
“I’ve got some bad news, too.”
“What’s that?”
“At least one of the assault charges against Diggs was definitely faked, and there’s a chance the news is gonna go public soon.”
“Jesus!”
“Yeah.”
“Goddamn ACLU! I hate those bastards.”
“Yeah… about that… I haven’t been entirely straight with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s not the ACLU that’s been digging into it,” Mulligan said. “It’s another Dispatch reporter.”
“Iggy Rock was telling the truth?”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Mulligan said, and then gave Jennings the rest of it.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was hoping the kid would flame out, so I’ve been trying to keep a lid on it.”
“The Dispatch is gonna publish this shit?”
“I don’t know. The brass hasn’t made up its mind yet.”
“We’ve gotta do something,” Jennings said.
“Yeah, but what?”
“No fuckin’ idea. Why don’t you come on over tonight and we’ll brainstorm over a few brews.”
Jennings answered the door with a Narragansett in each hand.
“Evenin’, Mulligan. Didn’t know you were bringing a date.”
“Andy, this is Gloria Costa, a photographer at the Dispatch. She’s been helping me out on the Diggs story.”
“What do we need a photographer for?”
“She’s not here to take pictures, Andy. She’s damned smart, and she knows the story inside and out.”
“Humph,” Jennings said. He handed each of his guests a brew, told them to make themselves at home, and trudged into the kitchen for another beer.
“Where’s Mary?” Mulligan called to him.
“I’m right here,” she said, walking in from the kitchen with a plate of oatmeal cookies. She placed it on the coffee table beside her husband’s murder books.
“Is it really true?” she asked. “Are they going to have to let Diggs out?”
She was still bending over the table, not letting go of the plate of cookies. She was holding her breath.
“It’s possible,” Mulligan said.
She stood slowly and said, almost to herself, “He killed my twin sister.”
“I know.”
“What if he comes after me?”
“Then I’ll shoot him dead,” Jennings said as he walked back into the living room. “I’ll fill him full of lead and dance on his fucking corpse.”