Bruce DeSilva - Providence Rag

“She’s not here to take pictures, Andy. She’s damned smart, and she knows the story inside and out.”

“Humph,” Jennings said. He handed each of his guests a brew, told them to make themselves at home, and trudged into the kitchen for another beer.

“Where’s Mary?” Mulligan called to him.

“I’m right here,” she said, walking in from the kitchen with a plate of oatmeal cookies. She placed it on the coffee table beside her husband’s murder books.

“Is it really true?” she asked. “Are they going to have to let Diggs out?”

She was still bending over the table, not letting go of the plate of cookies. She was holding her breath.

“It’s possible,” Mulligan said.

She stood slowly and said, almost to herself, “He killed my twin sister.”

“I know.”

“What if he comes after me?”

“Then I’ll shoot him dead,” Jennings said as he walked back into the living room. “I’ll fill him full of lead and dance on his fucking corpse.”

“Andy, you know I don’t like that kind of talk,” she said. “But I know I can count on my big handsome lug to keep me safe.” She turned and hugged him hard and quick. “I’ll leave the three of you alone now. What you’ll be talking about is something I don’t want to hear.”

After she left, Jennings sat on the sofa between the two journalists. Together they paged slowly through the detective’s murder books on the Medeiros and Stuart cases, looking for something, anything, they might have overlooked. It was an hour before any of them spoke.

“You know what’s bothering me?” Gloria finally said.

“What?” the men said in unison.

“The gap.”

“What gap?” Jennings asked.

“The two years between the Medeiros and Stuart murders.”

“That bothers you why?” Mulligan asked.

“We think he attacked Ashcroft first, right?”

“We’re sure of it,” Jennings said. “Just can’t prove it.”

“And that happened just a year before he killed Becky Medeiros, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t serial killers usually escalate?” Gloria asked.

“They do,” Jennings said.

“So why did Diggs wait so long before his second attack?”

“I’ve always wondered the same thing,” Jennings said.

“What I’m thinking,” Gloria said, “is that maybe he didn’t.”

“Are the attorneys present?” Judge Needham asked.

“Felicia Freyer representing Kwame Diggs, Your Honor.”

“Attorney General Malcolm Roberts for the State, Your Honor.”

“Then let’s proceed. Miss Freyer, I believe you have a motion.”

“I do, Your Honor. I respectfully ask that this hearing be closed to the press on the grounds that-”

“Did I miss some big news this morning, Miss Freyer?”

“Your Honor?”

“Has the First Amendment been repealed?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Then your motion is denied.”

“I would appreciate a chance to argue it, Your Honor.”

“That would be a waste of the court’s time, Miss Freyer.”

“Then I would ask at least that the television pool camera be removed.”

“On what grounds?”

“As Your Honor is aware, this matter is highly controversial. The presence of cameras can only serve to further inflame the public, to the detriment of my client.”

“Miss Freyer,” the judge said, making the name sound like something he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe, “are you concerned that pretrial publicity could prejudice the jury pool?”

Freyer stood there, speechless.

“Perhaps I should remind you that this is not a trial and that there will be no jury.”

“I understand that, Your Honor, but-”

Needham cut her off in midsentence.

“This issue will be decided by the presiding judge, Miss Freyer. Are you suggesting that the presence of cameras will somehow prejudice my ruling?”

“Certainly not, Your Honor,” Freyer fibbed. The diminutive judge was notorious for playing to the cameras.

“Well then, this motion is also denied. Do you have anything further?”

“Not at this time, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Mr. Roberts, you may proceed.”

The attorney general rose to address the court: “Your Honor, the People of Rhode Island come before you to request that Kwame Diggs, currently an inmate in the High Security Center of the State Department of Corrections, be ordered to submit to a psychiatric evaluation to determine whether-”

“I have read your petition and supporting briefs, Mr. Roberts,” the judge said. He turned from the attorney general and faced the camera. “Do you have anything new to add, or are you also determined to waste the court’s time?”

“Nothing further, Your Honor,” Robert said, and sat back down.

“Miss Freyer?”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“I have read your submission as well. Do you have anything to add?”

“I do, Your Honor. I would ask that my client be allowed to address the court on this matter.”

“For what purpose, Miss Freyer?”

“Surely Your Honor will want the opportunity to hear from Mr. Diggs himself before deciding whether the State’s order should be granted.”

“Miss Freyer, are you under the misapprehension that I have a degree in psychiatry?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Psychology, perhaps?”

“Not that I am aware of, Your Honor.”

“So I ask you again. What purpose would your request serve?”

“I withdraw it, Your Honor.”

Needham turned again to the cameras.

“You will have my ruling by early next week. Court is adjourned.”

The publisher’s fourth-floor corner office was paneled in solid Ecuadorian mahogany. A bank of high windows looked out over a parking lot, a McDonald’s, and a neon-splashed strip club called the Sportsman’s Inn. The office was furnished with calfskin chairs and an antique cherry desk big enough to hold a map of Rhode Island its actual size. In the center of the desk, a video was playing on a twenty-seven-inch Apple monitor.

“Okay, Ed,” the publisher said. “Turn that contraption off. I’ve seen enough.”

“So what do you think?” Lomax asked.

“I think my son is turning into a damn fine newsman.”

“Yes, sir. He surely is.”

The old man opened his humidor, drew out two fifty-five-dollar Opus X cigars, clipped the ends, and handed one to Lomax. He set fire to his with a gold S. T. Dupont butane lighter and leaned over to give his managing editor a light. Then he rose from his desk chair, crossed an expanse of Persian rug, and stared out the window. For a long minute, he smoked in silence while red and blue lights from the strip club licked his face clean. With his back still to Lomax, he finally spoke.

“I need your best judgment on this, Ed.”

“Well,” Lomax said, “it’s a tough call.”

“That’s what I pay you for, Ed. To make the tough ones.”

Lomax drew hard on his cigar and blew a slipstream across the desk.

“It’s an important story, sir, but publishing it will have serious consequences.”

The old man spun on his heels and thrust a bony finger at Lomax.

“Don’t tell me what I already know. Tell me why you believe we should run this.”

“Sir?”

“I know you think we should, Ed. Otherwise you would have killed it already, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Lomax dragged himself up from the plush leather visitor’s chair and joined his boss at the windows.

“Here’s how I see it,” he said. “If we suppress a story about perjury and obstruction of justice, the First Amendment purists on the staff will be outraged. One of them will leak it, and we’ll be crucified in the Columbia Journalism Review and every journalism blog on the Internet. But if we run the story and it leads to Diggs’s release, the criticism will be far worse. More readers will cancel their subscriptions, and we’ll probably lose some advertisers to boot.”