what may be a serious breach of security there at the Juvenile Detention Center.”
“I’m sure you must be:’ Joan said, her voice full of compassion. “Now, Denise,” she went on, turning her attention to the television monitor in the studio, “I understand that Nathan called your program yesterday.”
“That’s right, Joan,” Denise confirmed, smooth as could be. Into the camera. “But the story we got was considerably different from the version told by Mr. Petrelli. According to Nathan, he killed the supervisor in self- defense.” In just under sixty seconds, Denise gave the short version of the story Nathan had related. In concluding, Denise offered, “Killing is always a terrible thing, and we certainly can’t condone escapes from jail, but I have to tell you that after talking with Nathan on the telephone, I’m not sure what kind of choice he really had.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what choice he had,” Petrelli drawled without being prompted by Joan. “He had the choice of reporting these alleged events to the proper authorities, and letting us take action accordingly.”
“You’re thinking like an adult, Mr. Petrelli,” Denise reproached. “We’re dealing with a child, whose imagination can be many times bigger than reality. I got the impression talking with him that if you hadn’t promised to try him as an adult, with veiled threats of execution, he might have turned himself in already.”
Petrelli’s face reddened through the makeup.
“So you have determined that you will try Nathan as an adult?” Joan prodded.
With the exaggerated patience of a schoolmaster repeating a lesson to a dense child, Petrelli repeated the position he’d already stated so many times. “We have determined that Nathan Bailey is the prime suspect in the murder of a law enforcement official, and we will pursue his arrest and ultimate prosecution with all of the commitment and dedication that should be expected under those circumstances. As I said yesterday, if he’s adult enough to commit such a crime, we should expect him to pay an adult price.”
“So you’re assuming that the story told by Nathan on Denise’s show was a lie?” Joan goaded.
Petrelli sensed where this was going, and he circled his wagons. “I’ll say again that we really cannot go into the details of this case at this point, but I have reason to believe that Nathan Bailey’s story is a fabrication.”
“Did you hear him on my show yesterday, Mr. Petrelli?” Denise asked, her volume rising.
“I’m afraid not,” Petrelli lied. His voice dripped with condescension. “My work schedule rarely allows me a chance to listen to the radio.”
“So how is it that your office was so quick in issuing a subpoena to see our private telephone records?” Though it was never her intent to be on the attack, it was part of her nature, and there was something about Petrelli’s sanctimonious attitude that really pissed her off.
Clearly, Joan’s researchers had missed this development. She turned to Petrelli for comment. “What sort of subpoena did you issue?” she asked.
Petrelli’s jaw flexed, making his sideburns move up and down. This was outrageous. The Bitch had turned this into a personal battle, and she was free to say whatever she liked, while he was bound by professional ethics. “Again, I hate to sound like a broken record, but this is another area where I really cannot comment,” he said.
“Well, I can comment all I want,” Denise attacked. “The police and the prosecutors in Braddock County can’t figure out where Nathan has gone, so they’re resorting to Gestapo tactics to seize the private records of our production company. Can you imagine, Joan, what would happen if the police or the FBI could gain access to ABC’s telephone records? What do you think the effect would be on the news-gathering capabilities of your network?”
“Oh, come now, Ms. Carpenter,” Petrelli moaned as the theme music potted up from the background. “I really don’t appreciate your characterization of this situation—”
Joan interrupted, “I’m sorry, Mr. Petrelli, Ms. Carpenter. I don’t think any of us anticipated the level of controversy here, but we really must break; we’re out of time. Thank you both for joining us.” To the camera, she added, “Good Morning America will be right back.”
The lights on Denise’s camera went dark, but she continued to sit well-poised until Allen told her, “We’re clear. Way to go, champ. You really had him on the ropes.”
Enrique joined the technicians who swarmed in to dismantle her electrical connections. “Well?” she asked.
“You looked great,” he said, genuinely pleased.
“How’d I sound?”
“Like a bitch.”
“Thank you.”
Enrique laughed. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter 19
As Hackner pulled into the JDC parking lot, Michaels was waiting for him. After their conversation yesterday afternoon, Jed had been shocked by Warren’s sunrise call to meet him here at nine. When pressed for a reason, he would say only that he wanted to talk to some of the residents. Jed didn’t ask why the change in heart. With Warren, it was always best just to accept the little victories silently.
“Mornin, Boss,” Hackner called as the two men converged in the parking lot. Two minutes outside of the air conditioning and Jed could already feel his undershirt sticking to his back. “Did you get the sleep you wanted last night?”
The circles under Warren’s eyes answered that question without words. “Johnstone came up and chatted with me while I was waiting. He’s getting the interview set up for us.”
“Does he know I’m coming with you?”
“I mentioned it, but he didn’t say anything about your conversation yesterday.”
“Imagine that.”
Warren extended a reproachful forefinger. “You behave yourself, okay? No fighting.”
“Yes, Dad,” Jed promised with exaggerated innocence.
As they approached the main entrance, they removed their weapons from their holsters and placed them in the lockers designed for that purpose, just outside the door.
“Mine’s bigger than yours,” Jed commented as he put his newly issued seventeen-shot 9mm Glock into the locker.
“You’re just like the kids,” Michaels scolded, adding his Smith amp; Wesson snub-nose and closing the door. “If I can’t hit what I’m shooting at in five tries, I’ll be damned if I’m sticking around for twelve more.”
At Michaels’s request, Johnstone had set up a private meeting with Tyrone Jefferson—street-named Aces—a fifteen-year-old three-time felon whose rap sheet included a drive-by shooting. Fortunately for all concerned, his marksmanship matched his aptitude for evading the police, and no one was hurt. If he served out his whole sentence, he wouldn’t see freedom until his twenty-first birthday. Aces occupied the cell next to Nathan’s, and it was Michaels’s hope that they might get a clue as to where Nathan might have escaped to, and who might have helped him. Several investigating officers had attempted to obtain similar information the day before, with no success, but Warren wanted to give it a shot personally. For a lot of reasons.
Johnstone was waiting for them in his office. After the obligatory pleasantries, they walked together through security.
Aces was already seated at a table when the officers entered the otherwise empty classroom for their chat. To protect the boy from the prying eyes of his fellow residents, the venetian blinds had been pulled shut.
Johnstone spoke first. “Aces, this is Lieutenant Michaels, and this is Sergeant Hackner, both with the Braddock County PD. They want to ask you a few questions.” Warren and Jed both extended their hands, but Aces didn’t move. Johnstone sat in a chair in the corner.
“Could you excuse us, please, Mr. Johnstone?” Michaels asked. His tone was friendly, but they all knew it really was not a request.
Johnstone sat frozen for a moment, trying to think of a dignified exit line. When none came to him, he stood and exited the room. The look he shot at Jed showed that he held him responsible for this humiliation. Aces seemed to take pleasure in the superintendent’s discomfort. So did Jed.
Michaels took the seat immediately opposite Aces, swinging it around so his chest was leaning against the
