names of the company’s officers was familiar to me.’
‘It could be a dummy corporation. You know, a cover for somebody who doesn’t want to be known.’
‘Burkhart?’
‘Maybe. I’ll call my home office. We’ve got an intern there from Northwestern who’s really good at penetrating all these corporate names. Second year in law school and she’s already a wizard.’
‘Both CBS and NBC will be at the news conference. Their reporters have been spotted outside headquarters here.’
‘Figures.’
‘And our favorite not-news network is already asking, “What did Congressman Ward know and when did he know it?”’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. But it doesn’t have to. All that matters is the implication. He’s somehow involved in the murder according to them.’
She consulted her delicate wristwatch on her delicate wrist. ‘I need to go help Lucy set everything up for the press conference. You’ve got my cell number if you need me.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
‘If David should happen to call in-’
‘I’ll see that you get to talk to him.’
I called my Chicago office. Howard Steinberg who runs the office when I’m gone got me up to date on all the good and bad news. The two main parties were about evenly balanced. No big surprises, either. We were still ahead where we planned to be ahead and still behind where we’d been from the start. But it was a tricky cycle this time and not even the best of polls could track the vagaries of public opinion very well.
I was forcing my way through some new internals, still deliberately not thinking about Erin, when my office phone buzzed. The receptionist downstairs said, ‘There’s a young woman calling for you, Mr Conrad. All she said was that her name is Jenny.’
‘Oh, right. Put her through, please.’
When Jenny came on she said, ‘Have you had lunch yet?’
‘Actually, I have had lunch. Why?’
‘I just wanted to talk to you. Could you stand just watching me eat?’
‘As long as you use the right fork for the salad.’
‘I know you think that’s funny but my father is big on that stuff.’
‘Not your mom?’
‘She just does what my dad tells her. Makes life easier for her, I guess. The only time they disagree is about me. My dad would already have me on death row if my mom hadn’t stopped him.’
‘Is that what you want to talk about?’
‘Now you’re making fun of me again. I want to talk to you about what we were talking about last night except then I didn’t want to talk about it.’
I smiled. ‘I think I know what you mean.’
‘The secret? Jimmy’s secret?’
‘Right. Jimmy’s secret.’
‘I guess I should break my word to him. I need to help you.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘So you’ll buy me lunch?’
‘I’ll buy you lunch if you can wait till one thirty. We’ve got an important press conference coming up.’
‘Yeah. Man, they’re really on Ward’s ass. I’ve been watching the telly all morning.’
Telly. British. Cute.
‘I cry every time they put Jimmy’s picture on. I can’t believe how much I miss him. I feel like I did when Roger died.’
‘Who’s Roger?’
‘My border collie. And don’t make fun of me. You live in my house, a dog’s your only chance of staying sane.’
‘I cried when my old tomcat Doc died.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Thirty-eight.’
‘Are you shitting me? You cried about a cat when you were thirty-eight? Is that really true?’
‘Really true.’
‘Wow. Maybe you’re not so bad after all.’
‘One thirty then. Royale Hotel. The restaurant. How’s that sound?’
‘You and Jimmy would’ve gotten along. Especially after you told him you cried about a cat when you were thirty-eight.’
I actually did have a cat named Doc once. That part of the story was true. I sort of fudged the age, though. Doc died when I was eight.
EIGHT
While there are no punches thrown — at least not that often — press conferences are a form of boxing matches. There is a very real quest for a knockout. Under most circumstances Jeff Ward wasn’t a household name outside his district. But with my least favorite not-news network already hinting that Ward was somehow implicated in the murder, the rest of the press, their tabloid credential intact, would be all too eager to follow suit. Maybe they would’ve been reluctant if he hadn’t had the playboy image. But sex and now the death of one of his own staffers was too much to pass up.
Both sides here were performing a script. As far back as silent films you saw a mad-dog press attacking a pompous top-hatted politician on the steps of a government building. Reporters raging in silence for the head of the man they were stoning to death with their words. The pompous politician more pompous than ever. Until the fatal question. And then, in the way of silent films, a great melodramatic seizure of some kind when the question is asked. The pol clutching his heart; staggering, then falling. His aides grabbing him. A close-up of the pol’s face as he dies. Jubilation on the faces of the reporters. All was right in America again.
TV has turned news conferences into gladiatorial contests. They’re fun but sometimes I feel sorry for even the people I hate. I wouldn’t do any better than they did.
All of us inside headquarters were tense. We stood at the front windows staring out at the press. I recognized the network reporters as well as the not-news reporter who was going to fry us for sure. Right now the camera people were shimmying and nudging into position for the best shots. The men and women vying for news stardom were checking their clothes and their makeup and their hair. The security people we hired were now in place around the narrow rostrum from which Ward would speak and take questions. The police were helping with the surging reporters. They doubtless enjoyed shoving the press around.
Everybody around me started applauding. Ward was downstairs now, talking with the staffers. He wore a very conservative blue suit, a white shirt that could blind you, and a tie more appropriate for a funeral than a press joust. On one side of him was Mrs Ruth Watkins. On the other was Sister Louise.
Mrs Watkins was smoking a cigarette and hacking. She was maybe five feet tall and around seventy-five years old. The baggy black dress made her appear shriveled. The voice said cigarettes and whiskey. In a crisis you go with what you can get. ‘I don’t know why the hell I can’t smoke out there. I smoke everywhere else.’
Lucy was her handler. ‘We won’t be out there that long, Mrs Watkins. I promise you, you can smoke the second the press conference ends.’
‘Well if it goes very long I’m just gonna light up.’
‘The big thing,’ Lucy said, her patience admirable, ‘is to be sure about what we discussed. You told us you saw him many times growing up and you always liked him.’
Hacking, Mrs Watkins said, ‘I did like him but I always felt sorry for him, too. He was such a weird kid. Everybody always made fun of him. Even my two kids. They did it real bad one day and I beat their asses, you can
