“Robey and Alyssa, did you see the news?” Emmylou said. “I guess the police are going to arrest him tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”
“Emmylou, that’s such a relief,” Robey said. “You know there hasn’t been a single day since I was seventeen when I haven’t thought about him, or been scared of him…”
“I can’t believe they just said his name on the television like that,” Alyssa said. “If I were him, I’d be headed for May-hee-ko.”
“Alyssa, I’m sure they have cops all over his house,” Robey said. “Actually, they probably arrested him as soon as his name went out on the news.”
Interrupting, only because it was better than being bored, Sam said, “Robey, who are we talking about?”
Alyssa laughed. “Sam, what have you been, in-game all day? The Wicker Man, silly. They know who he is. They’re going to arrest him anytime.”
“His name’s Sam, like you,” Emmylou said. “Sam Coyne.” She giggled. “I’d ask your last name, just to be safe, but I figure the Wicker Man wouldn’t be wasting his time playing computer games with the police knocking down his door.”
What the hell?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
This can’t be happening.
Through his apartment door: “Mr. Coyne? This is the police. Please open up.”
Sam left the computer and quickly dialed Bob Ginsburg at home.
“I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” Bob said.
“They’re outside in the hall, Bob! For Chrissakes!”
“Mr. Coyne? We have the building manager with us. He’s going to open the door. Please lie down on the floor and put your hands above your head where we can see them.”
“What’s this about, Sam?”
“I don’t know, Bob. Jesus Christ. Send somebody to meet me.”
“Where are they taking you?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
Dead-bolt click. Door slamming against drywall.
“Down! Down! Down! Down! Get on the floor now!”
In Shadow World, as Alyssa, Emmylou, and Robey continued to discuss the exciting developments in the Wicker Man case, Sam’s silent avatar ferried a pint glass between the table and his lips with a repetitive, mechanical motion.
– 89 -
She couldn’t admit it to anyone in the newsroom, but she was nervous. Extremely nervous. Allies asked if she was worried, and she shook her head and laughed. The Web site famous for the “Malik Watch” had started posting odds that by naming Sam Coyne, the previously unknown reporter, Sally Barwick, had torpedoed her own career and possibly brought down a handful of Trib executives with her. Already, just since the news had come down, a hundred of her colleagues had placed their bets, with the trend running two to one against her.
Sam Coyne had agreed to a blood test.
Shortly after the news broke on TV, police had asked Barwick in for questioning. Accompanied by a Tribune lawyer, she refused to reveal her source in the department but briefed them with all the information that would be in the piece, including Coyne’s attacks in Shadow World, the correlation between Coyne’s murders in the game and the Wicker Man murders, and Coyne’s attempted assault at her home. She was still at the station when they brought Coyne in: four cops, no handcuffs, and three attorneys (including Bob Ginsburg, the Trib lawyer pointed out). Sally hid behind a Coke machine until they disappeared into an interrogation room.
They questioned Coyne for three hours and released him after he agreed to a blood test. Sally’s stomach wrung itself like a wet towel when she heard that. She had been certain his lawyers would fight any request that might incriminate him. Now, at two o’clock the following afternoon, it appeared possible, even probable, she would be proved wrong about Coyne in a matter of hours – one of the fastest undoings of a promising career in journalism history.
Malik hadn’t been seen in the newsroom all day. This was surely it, the whispers said. The Sam Coyne stunt was the last straw. What was he thinking? What was Barwick thinking? We all knew she was a little off her rocker – she had no life outside the Tribune except in that crazy computer game – but no one had thought her capable of a suicidal stunt like this. Was somebody setting her up with bad information? Someone who had a beef with Coyne? Was she being played by someone who’d been slammed by Ginsburg and Addams in court? Research recent cases involving Sam Coyne – especially the ones where G amp;A acted as plaintiff’s attorney – and start with the biggest verdicts and work down. We’ll need all this when Coyne passes that blood test and we print the retraction next week. The new managing editor will be glad to have the diligence done in advance. Heck, the new editor might even be one of us… Such was the way rumors spread.
Rumors spread so fast, in fact, that an Iowa company specializing in the distribution of agricultural products, a company that had lost a hundred-million-dollar copyright infringement lawsuit last year with Sam Coyne leading the litigation for their competitor, issued a press release denying they had anything to do with the accusations against Coyne. No one had even asked them.
Rumors cut the other way too. Web sites were papered with unconfirmed and unsourced tales of Coyne’s promiscuity and kinky bedroom practices.
Sally called Justin on a real phone, her free hand on the cradle in case his mother answered. He was home.
“I just wanted to talk to somebody,” she whispered. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s starting to look like we were wrong.”
“We aren’t wrong.”
“But what if he didn’t kill Deirdre Thorson? What if that was a copycat and he’s giving up his blood because he knows he didn’t do it?”
“If his blood doesn’t match, that’s all it will prove.”
“Except that my career is over. And I’m going to be named in a trillion-dollar lawsuit. And probably go to jail for contempt or something because I don’t really have a source in the police department, but they won’t believe me when I tell them the truth.”
“You’re worrying about things that haven’t even happened yet.”
“But they will, Justin. Don’t you see what’s going on? He agreed to the blood test. Why would he do it if he knew he was guilty?”
“Lots of reasons. Maybe he’s a split personality and doesn’t remember.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Or maybe he’s going to challenge the DNA evidence,” Justin said. “It hasn’t been done much lately, but I’ve read about a bunch of cases going all the way back to O.J. where accused killers have gotten off by claiming the evidence was tainted. Or the testing not a hundred percent accurate. His lawyer will even say in court, Why would my client have freely given the police evidence he knew would incriminate him? Juries are too smart for that these days, but he might try if it was his only hope.”
“God, I feel sick.” Sally tapped her keyboard, searching the wire to see if any news was breaking on the case. On the far side of the room, Barwick heard a murmur and the swishy, squeaky sound of people standing up from their seats. Stephen Malik walked into the newsroom, stony and purposeful. Attempts by reporters to read his expression couldn’t have been more obvious if his face were Braille and they were assaulting it with their fingers. Malik passed Sally’s cubicle and didn’t pause but wiggled his fingers just under her sight line, and she hung up the phone and followed him into his office as the definitive rumor began its path around Trib Tower. Malik was fired and Barwick’s going with him. By the time it reached the tenth floor, the story described how Malik had already been
