nose, vivid blue eyes. ‘‘Lookie what the boys found,’’ he said, holding up a callused hand.
He held a small tape in his hand-a tape from a digital video camera. ‘‘Thing was sewed into the collar of one of the polarfleece vests. You believe that shit? We might have never found it!’’
Coughlie coughed, his first uncontrolled, unchecked moment.
Boldt accepted the object from Prins and spun it around in the bad light. ‘‘It’s a digital tape.’’ He held it up for both to see and said, ‘‘This could make our entire case.’’
Prins said with astonishment, ‘‘We could have looked for this thing for weeks and never found it. Think of that!’’
Coughlie held out his hand. ‘‘I’ll take it, thank you.’’
Tension hung in the air as Boldt retained the tape.
Coughlie’s hand remained outstretched. ‘‘Lieutenant,’’ he said.
Boldt asked Prins about the chain of custody and the Customs man confirmed that since his boys had found it, it would have to go through their system.
‘‘Ridiculous!’’ Coughlie hollered, stepping forward. Addressing Prins he said, ‘‘The lieutenant and I have just established between us that this is in fact an INS operation. Any evidence-all evidence- will go in under our umbrella.’’
Boldt corrected him. ‘‘We established that it was for you and Agent Prins and the U.S. Attorney’s office to work out. SPD’s only concern is the shootings and the homicides.’’
‘‘Then shut up!’’ Coughlie said inappropriately, ‘‘and let me work this out with Agent Prins.’’ He tried to forge a smile onto his face, but it wouldn’t take, resulting instead in a snarl.
‘‘The person who deserves this,’’ Boldt told Prins, ‘‘is McNeal. She’s been after this tape for two weeks. And in all honesty, the way it worked out for us in terms of the courts was that although the camera was ours, the intellectual property-the images-belong to the station. The sooner we get this to McNeal, the sooner we all find out what’s on there.’’
‘‘So I sign it off to McNeal to make a copy for us,’’ Prins said. ‘‘Anybody have any problem with that?’’ he directed to Coughlie, who held his tongue. ‘‘We schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning when we’ll all view it together-all of us in one room at the same time. That way nobody gets bent out of shape. Right? Okay with everyone?’’
Coughlie’s brow knitted angrily. His face looked the color of ash. He couldn’t argue this.
Boldt said, ‘‘Fine. Makes sense to me.’’
‘‘It’s INS evidence,’’ Coughlie objected one more time. ‘‘Anything and everything in this ship-’’
‘‘You want to do the dance, we’ll do the dance,’’ Prins said. ‘‘But tonight, right now, this is mine. I’m with Boldt. I say it goes to McNeal so at least we get a copy that we can view on a VCR. You want to battle me on this, you want to freeze this thing in some property room until the courts sort it out, you can do so in the morning. But tonight
it’s mine, and that’s how it’s playing out.’’
‘‘We’ll see about that,’’ Coughlie challenged.
‘‘The search warrant has my signature on it, Agent Coughlie. This tape was found inside a ship that is listed on the warrant as a target of that search. All of this went through the U.S. Attorney’s office, which is-I might remind you-is the same office to which you will make your appeal. We’re on the same side! We both want the bad guys! Don’t fight me on this!’’
Coughlie’s paste complexion went scarlet. ‘‘We’ll see.’’ He stormed out past Boldt, his frustration following behind him like a vapor trail.
CHAPTER 77
Stevie McNeal stared at the image on the video monitor in KSTV’s control room. Through the soundproofed glass she looked out on the news set where she had spent the last few years of her life. It was relatively dark out there on the set, a few overhead room lights throwing out just enough light to keep one from tripping on cords and wires. It looked foreign to her, this place. She wasn’t sure she would ever sit in that chair again.
On the monitor was an image of the equally dark sweatshop-‘‘the Sweatship,’’ as the local news radio station had immediately dubbed it, a name that seemed likely to stick. Darkness pervaded her consciousness as well. She felt heavy with grief and burdened with guilt, and thought that the station was a lonely, even somewhat frightening place at three in the morning. A night watchman patrolled the building, checking up on Stevie about every half hour, but it did little to assuage her fears. She wouldn’t have done any better at the hotel; not knowing what she and Boldt had worked out. Sleep wasn’t an option.
Melissa was still missing. She had not been found among the recaptured population.
When the clock read exactly 3:00 A.M., she reluctantly placed the call to Coughlie’s pager and dialed in the control room’s direct line. When the phone rang a few minutes later its ringing jarred her, and she actually lifted out of her chair, despite the fact she was expecting the return call.
‘‘McNeal,’’ she answered.
‘‘I’ve been calling your cellphone for the last two hours,’’ Brian Coughlie said.
‘‘It’s broken.’’
‘‘You’re at the station. I tried the main line. A machine picks up.’’
‘‘We need to talk, Brian.’’ Despite her efforts, her voice sounded filled with defeat and sadness.
Steady breathing on the other end of the line. Coughlie said nothing.
She said, ‘‘We need to talk about this. Tonight. Before tomorrow morning. Before the meeting.’’
‘‘I agree,’’ he said.
‘‘West side of the building. There are fire doors that lead into the studio. Knock, but not too loudly. There’s a night watchman on duty. If you use the main entrance, your visit will be logged into the computer. I think we’d both rather avoid that. Am I right?’’
‘‘West side. Fire doors,’’ he said.
‘‘The guard makes his rounds every half hour. If you get here at thirty-five after, we’ve got twenty minutes or so in the clear. Can you make it?’’
‘‘Twenty-five of,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll be there.’’
The twenty-some minutes passed interminably. She was not only emotionally drained but physically exhausted. She checked all the equipment for the third or fourth time-she’d lost count. Every monitor in the studio carried the freeze-frame image of the sweatshop floor with the sixty or seventy bareheaded women leaned over their sewing machines-overhead monitors, the huge SONY on the wall, the counter-top monitors used by the anchors. The effect was overwhelming, magnifying the power of that image manyfold.
The guard passed through right on time, offered her a little wave, walked the studio and left by the door through which he had come. Her head ached, dull and heavy, a result of fatigue and her battered eye, but her heart beat quickly with a combination of anticipation and adrenaline. Everything she had worked for since Melissa’s disappearance came down to these next ten or twenty minutes, and it was this compression of time that rattled her. That and the fact that every time she thought it was almost over, it came to life again, like something beaten but not killed. She found it difficult to concentrate, to hold a single thought in her head.
When the knock came, it split her head open like an axe. She hurried out of the control room, down the three steps to the studio floor level and across to the fire doors. He knocked again, though she didn’t immediately open the doors, for it took her longer than she thought to find her composure and collect herself. She exhaled slowly and pushed the door’s panic bar. Aptly named, she thought privately.
Brian Coughlie stepped inside. Even given the dim light, she saw that his eyes were bloodshot and frantic. As he caught sight of the overhead monitors and the image of the sweatshop, he fell into a kind of trance.
‘‘I have to hear your side of this,’’ she whispered.
He snapped his attention away from the monitors to look at her, though it drew him back as she reached to pull the fire doors closed. She walked past him and toward the control room, saying nothing, knowing he would follow, relieved just the same when she heard his footsteps. A moment later he closed the control room door and took a seat in one of the producer’s chairs. He gripped the arms of the chair like a person expecting an earthquake.
