“Not a problem.” She picked up her cell phone, dialed. “Kathy, Julia. Great news. I’ve got Trinity.”
“Put that in your wallet,” said Pat, handing Daniel a card key. “If the shit hits the fan and we gotta split up, we rendezvous at the Pelican Motel on the Westbank Expressway across the river in Gretna. Room 104. It’s booked for the next three nights.”
“Got it,” said Daniel.
“You know I think this whole thing is a terrible idea.”
“I know.”
“I tried to talk him out of it,” said Pat. “Got nowhere.”
“He’s committed to this. He knows we can’t do much to protect him at a public rally. He just doesn’t care.” Daniel tucked the card key away. “All we can do is our best.”
“We gonna have to get very lucky, brother.”
“I know.” Daniel checked his watch. “Julia’s gonna be there with her cameraman in an hour. We should get going.”
The door from one of the back rooms opened and Tim Trinity stepped into the gym. He wore a new silk suit, royal blue to match his Bible, crisp white shirt, matching pink silk tie and pocket square. His boots gleamed white. His hair was back to silver.
“How do I look?” Trinity grinned. “Ready for prime time?” He straightened his tie, shot his cuffs. “Couldn’t believe it, Ozzy still works at Rubensteins. Still had my measurements on file, even remembered: long-point collar, French cuffs. Now
Julia and Shooter drove out to Parran’s Po-Boys in Metairie and parked in front, as per Daniel’s instructions. They arrived early, split a seafood muffuletta for dinner. Shooter went back out to the news van to make sure the satellite uplink was working, and Julia stayed in the restaurant, reviewing the questions she’d written for the most important interview of her life.
She’d written her questions on index cards. Now she put the cards in three separate stacks, according to importance. She had forty-seven cards—enough for a ten-hour conversation—but only one hour of airtime with Trinity.
She pushed the two “less important” stacks aside and shuffled through the questions in the “essential” stack. She’d still only have time for half of them, even if Trinity was succinct in his answers. And once the conversation got rolling, she’d need time for follow-ups and redirects.
Damn, it was hard to choose. If the interview went well, she’d ask him to stick around and continue the conversation on tape, for airing later, so it was important to get him relaxed, but she wasn’t going to resort to lobbing him softballs. It was a popular “bonding technique” used by many television reporters, but she’d always considered it disrespectful of the viewers’ time and trust.
And besides, her professional ego would not allow it. She’d worked too hard to be taken seriously in this job, and she was damned if she’d allow herself to be made “soft” by the pressures of television.
Her phone rang, and she answered it. It was Daniel.
“We’re in a motel a few blocks from you,” he said. “There’s a green Forester parked beside your van. The man inside is a friend, Pat Wahlquist. He’ll lead you here.”
Shooter angled a couple of chairs toward each other and wired a microphone to Tim Trinity’s lapel, then switched on two powerful lights and stood behind the camera. He donned a headset as Julia gestured to one of the chairs and Trinity sat.
She took her chair, straightened her jacket, and spoke into the mic for a sound check. Shooter gave her a thumbs-up. Daniel and his friend Pat Wahlquist stood over to one side, in the darkness behind the lights. She could just make out Daniel’s smile, and she nodded back at him.
Trinity leaned forward, touched her knee. “I think Danny’s sweet on you,” he said. “You should give him another chance. You make a good couple.”
“Tim, please,” said Daniel from out of the darkness.
Julia suppressed a smile, cleared her throat. She inserted her earpiece and listened to the director in Atlanta.
She nodded to Trinity and said, “We’re on after this break,” and shuffled through her index cards again, rearranging them, trying to clear her mind.
Shooter said, “Quiet, everybody. We’re on in ten…” He held one hand up high.
Through her earpiece, Julia listened to Anderson Cooper intro the segment. Cooper was saying, “Forget about Waldo, the question the entire world has been asking since Sunday is
Shooter brought his hand down and pointed at her.
“Thanks, Anderson,” she said, looking into the camera’s shiny black eye, thinking:
“My pleasure, Julia,” said Trinity. “Thanks for having me.”
She’d already memorized her first five questions, didn’t even need to glance at the index card. She said, “Please tell us—”
“Excuse me.” Trinity held up a hand. “Pardon me for interrupting. I’d like to make a statement.” He turned to face the camera. “On Thursday afternoon at one o’clock, I will be in front of Saint Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square. At that time, I will share with the world what I’ve just recently come to understand. I hope you’ll all join me. Thank you.” Trinity smiled at Julia and said, “Thanks again for having me.” He stood up, took the microphone off, and walked out the door. A second later, Pat followed after him.
Julia glanced at Daniel as he shrugged a bewildered apology.
She turned back to the camera, her cheeks burning.
Within an hour of the broadcast, Trinity’s Pilgrims were gathering in Jackson Square. Within two hours they were crowding out the tourists and pissing off the merchants.
According to news reports, the pilgrims had left a wake of destruction in Atlanta, and nobody wanted a repeat performance in New Orleans. At midnight the mayor gave the order, and the NOPD sent cops in on foot and on horseback to disperse the crowd with as much force as necessary. Which they did. A few hippies bloodied, a couple of bikers pepper-sprayed, but no serious injuries.
The crowd pulled back to the tent city that was now filling Louis Armstrong Park, and to Lafayette Square and Lee Circle, which were soon teeming.
