Tim Green - False Convictions

The man, thin with toffee-colored skin and a dark wiry mustache, shook Jake’s hand with an iron grip, never allowing his eyes to waver from Jake’s.

“Down there,” the man said, pointing to the hallway Jake had come out of. “I’ll let Mr. Graham know you’re waiting for him.”

“I know the receptionist said he’d be on some call until twelve-thirty,” Jake said, retreating. “We’re fine waiting, so you don’t have to bother him.”

“That’s okay,” the man said, still holding Jake in his eyes, “he’ll want to know you’re waiting.”

Jake retreated, pausing only to listen as the man gave two sharp raps on the door, paused, then entered. Jake found the bathroom and applied his makeup, breathing slowly to ease the knot in his stomach. When he returned to Graham’s office, he sat in one of the two chairs Dora had arranged amid the cameras in front of the big desk and pretended to busy himself with his notes to keep Dora from chatting and to give himself a chance to think. By the time the billionaire appeared in the doorway wearing his trademark flannel shirt and jeans with his chest hair showing, Jake had made up his mind to play the TV dope.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Graham said, shaking Jake’s hand and matching the firmness of his grip. “This is an honor.”

“Please,” Jake said, meeting Graham’s steady gaze, “and I admire all the good work you do.”

“I learned that lesson from my ex-wife,” Graham said, cracking a knowing smile at Jake. “She never gave back. That’s why she’s the ex.”

Jake chuckled, then motioned to the chair opposite him in the clutter of lights, cameras, and cables and asked, “Ready?”

“You?” Graham asked, holding Jake’s gaze.

“Always,” Jake said, grinning.

“You found the bathroom okay?” Graham asked, his eyes boring into Jake behind the happy mask of his face.

“Place is a maze,” Jake said, grinning. “I bumble around most days.”

“A Pulitzer Prize winner?” Graham said. “I imagine you know where you’re headed.”

“Me?” Jake said, smiling happily. “I just do as I’m told. Right, Dora?”

Dora looked up from her monitor and rolled her eyes. “When he does good, I give him a cookie.”

Jake smiled back at Graham. “I sure like cookies.”

Someone else might as well have written everything Jake asked. The questions about Graham’s monumental accomplishments and his level of giving pandered to the rich man’s ego, and by the time Jake had finished, Graham was red-faced and teary-eyed from telling humorous stories about eating ketchup sandwiches as a child and building toys out of used Popsicle sticks to sell to the other kids for a profit, part of which he’d always save in an orange UNICEF box he worked at filling year-round.

Graham sniffed once and pursed his lips, offering Jake a look of profound wisdom. “I really meant it when I said that the measure of a man isn’t what he has, but what he gives.”

Jake paused dramatically, looking into the rich man’s eyes. “Yeah, that was perfect. Just perfect.”

Jake looked back at Dora. “Wrap?”

“Nice work,” she said.

Jake nodded. “They’re gonna love this in New York. Thanks.”

“It’s just who I am,” Graham said with a somber expression.

Jake removed the tiny microphone from his lapel and stood to shake Graham’s hand.

“Hey, could I get your card?” Graham asked. “I’m in New York from time to time and I’d love to buy you dinner sometime, or just a drink.”

“Sure,” Jake said, removing the wallet from his back pocket and handing over a card. “That’s got my cell on it.”

Despite his receptionist’s continual presence and a reminder that he had a one-thirty call, it took nearly ten minutes for Graham to say his good-byes. Amid the tumult, Jake sat back down in his interview chair to tie his shoe. Secretly, he stuffed the battery pack for his microphone down in behind the chair’s leather cushion and fed the thin black cable around the edge, leaving only the tiny head of the microphone protruding from the front of the chair. When he stood up, Jake cast a quick glance at the chair and saw nothing anyone might notice.

When the audio tech asked Jake for his mic, Jake winked at him and motioned with his head toward the door. Jake picked up a light tripod and carried it out, the audio technician trailing him with his shoulder bag full of equipment.

When they reached the elevator, the tech asked, “So what the hell’s up?”

Jake put a finger to his lips and flicked his eyes at the camera. When they got to the parking lot, Jake waited for one of the cameramen to head back inside for more gear before he spoke.

“I need my mic,” Jake said, “and I’d like the audio deck, too. Can I keep it with me? I’ll bring it back to New York myself.”

“What for, Jake? Peter Brennan’s gonna want to know why I don’t have my stuff.”

“Tell him I wanted to listen to the tracks,” Jake said.

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Tell him I’m trying something with my intonation when I ask serious questions. Tell him anything. Can I have it?” Jake asked, holding out his hand.

The tech looked at his shoulder pack, shrugged, and handed it over. Jake glanced around and quickly popped the trunk of his Cadillac, dumping the equipment in before clapping the tech on the back and returning to the office to help with the rest of the stuff.

“Between us, okay?” he said.

The tech nodded.

They went back inside and said one final good-bye to Robert Graham as he sat down behind his big desk, looked at his watch, and scooped up the phone.

The crew carted the last of the equipment out the door, and Jake walked beside Dora.

“Another happy customer,” she said as they left Graham’s office. “Hey, what was the dummy routine all about?”

Jake raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself.

“I thought you didn’t like this guy,” Dora said, lowering her voice to a whisper as they passed the receptionist’s desk.

“Dazzled by his personality,” Jake said, getting into the elevator, “and all the money.”

“You wouldn’t know it looking at him,” Dora said, “the money, I mean.”

“Part of the charm. Oh, he’s special,” Jake said, stepping out of the elevator and into the small entryway. “A humble soul.”

“You feeling okay?” Dora asked, tilting her head.

“Sure,” Jake said, holding open the door.

“Can I ride with you to the airport?” Dora asked.

Jake said, “Sorry, I’m not going, Dora. Can you ride with the crew?”

Dora’s face fell. “We’ve got everything we need and more.”

“Actually,” Jake said, loosening his tie and giving her a wink as he strode toward his rental car, “there’s a lot more.”

JAKE RACED OUT of the parking lot and took a left, away from the airport. He checked his rearview mirror before taking a sharp right into the shopping center across the street and circling through the parking lot until he sat up on a rise facing Graham’s office building from across the street. He jumped out and retrieved the audio pack from the trunk. Back in the front seat, he positioned the headphones on his ears and flicked on the power button that would let him hear the broadcast of the little microphone he’d left in Graham’s office.

“-because people don’t talk to me like that, that’s why!”

Jake’s eyes lost their focus as he concentrated hard on Robert Graham’s voice. Its tone was indignant but also tainted by a dash of fear.

“I understand the position we’re all in,” Graham said, quieting to almost a whine. “I’m in it, too, and I’m working on it as we speak.”