Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

“I was right,” I added. I had run back inside the courtroom, found that Pitello had indeed been found guilty, and scuttled back outside to report that the verdict was official.

Tommy Daley shook his head. His features slackened. “I can’t believe I still work in this business. I can’t believe this is how it works now.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“One minute,” a voice called out.

A makeup person scampered onto the set and began to dab powder onto Jackson Prince’s cheeks.

“Look, let me give you some pointers,” Tommy said. “Your cadence is stilted, and you’re too tight. You don’t have to hold your shoulders like you’re facing a firing squad, okay? But yeah, I guess you’re right. You did give them what they wanted.”

Although it wasn’t the highest of praise, I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Give me a second, and I’ll show you how to write it up so we can use the story on a later broadcast.”

Tommy stopped and turned as Jane trotted onto the set and settled herself between Prince and the woman in the tweed suit.

The screens around the interview area came to life, showing two lawyers, one in L.A. and one in New York, both of whom had been placed in front of official-looking bookshelves.

“Three, two…” a voice called out. The lights blazed brighter.

“This is Jane Augustine,” Jane said, smiling into the semicircle of cameras surrounding the set. “Welcome back to Trial TV. During our morning Coffee Break today we’ll be talking about runaway class action lawsuits.”

She quickly introduced her guests, in a way that made it seem like Trial TV had been having a “coffee break” every day for years, and then turned to the woman in tweed. “Professor Carleton, you believe class action suits are abused by overeager lawyers looking to make money, is that right?”

The professor nodded. “Absolutely, Jane. Class actions are supposed to provide closure for victims and pool together resources. But the system is being abused, and packs of lawyers are making off with the cash.” She sat up straighter, her face growing animated. “The plaintiffs in these classes usually get very little money, but the lawyers…” She nodded in the direction of Prince. “The lawyers are the victors who make millions and millions in fees.”

Jane went next for an opinion from the lawyer in L.A.

When he was finished, she turned away from the professor. “Now to Jackson Prince,” Jane said, “one of Chicago’s most influential attorneys who currently has liaison-counsel status in a suit against King Pharmaceuticals, the company that makes the arthritis drug, Ladera.”

I knew that Jane had interviewed Prince numerous times over the years, and as if there were a secret language between them, she looked at him and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, What do you think?

Prince smiled benevolently. “Jane, let me say that billions-literally billions-of dollars are ultimately awarded to consumers for restitution. Our class action system is the ultimate watchdog today.”

“Mr. Prince,” Jane said, putting her notes down, “let’s discuss the suit against King Pharmaceuticals.”

Prince gave a pleased nod. “We’re trying to get reparations from King Pharmaceuticals for injuries caused to millions who took Ladera.”

“Let me ask a question about getting into the suit. How do you confirm that people opting into the lawsuit have taken the drug?”

“It’s quite simple, actually. Patients provide pharmacy records showing they purchased it.”

Jane paused, seemingly very intrigued by something. “How do the patients know to contact you? In this case, for example, do you obtain medical records showing what patients were prescribed Ladera?”

Prince’s eyes narrowed, but only for a second. “Of course not. Medical records are confidential. Marketing campaigns are launched to inform patients of their potential case.”

“And what about those people who have taken the drug but didn’t have any side effects?”

“Generally, they won’t become a member of the class.”

“Unless they’re convinced to testify that they did have such side effects, right?”

Now Prince’s eyes squinted and stayed that way. There was a pause during which he and Jane stared at each other. What was going on?

“No dead air, no dead air,” Tommy muttered under his breath.

The lawyer from New York, who seemed itching to speak, jumped in. “Jane, if I could say one thing…”

“Of course.” Jane introduced the lawyer. The monitors focused on his face. He began to rattle on about pharmaceutical companies pushing these drugs without proper testing. Meanwhile, Prince and Jane continued to stare at each other, as if involved in a silent showdown.

“What’s happening?” I whispered to Tommy.

“No fucking idea.”

Suddenly, Prince pulled out his BlackBerry and looked at it. Then he pulled off his mike and gestured to a producer. The producer, looking mortified, scampered onto the stage, while the cameras pulled in closer on the New York attorney. Prince and the producer whispered a few words back and forth. Jane asked another question of the remote guest, but continued to stare at Prince.

Tommy cupped his earpiece, listening. “Prince says he’s got an emergency in court.”

And then Jackson Prince stood and left the set.

I t’s usually only later, after something truly awful happens, that we look back at a certain moment and see that while that moment appeared mundane at the time, it was actually a turning point, the last such moment we would ever have in exactly the same way, with those same people. After we’ve caught a glimpse of that moment in our life’s rearview mirror, it takes on certain crystalline qualities. We view it more clearly than we actually saw it at the time. We give weight to each uttered syllable, to each brief touch.

For me, that moment was when Jane strode up to my desk. The newscasters and production crew who would handle the afternoon and evening broadcasts were coming in now. This was the lull before the next, soon-to-be-arriving storm.

“You were amazing,” Jane said. “I knew you would be. You blew it out of the park with that report on Pitello.”

I filled with satisfaction at her words. My professional life had been in such a downslide that it was great, even momentarily, to halt that fall.

“You were great,” I told her. “This is exactly what you’re supposed to be doing with your career.”

She smiled-a genuine grin, full of pride. “Thanks for saying that. I do feel like this is where I’m supposed to be. Did you see the segment with Jackson Prince?”

“Yeah, what happened there?”

Jane smiled. “Tommy wants to kill me, because I won’t tell him what’s going on, but I’m going to nail Prince to the wall.”

“With what?”

“I’m working on a story that will rock him. But I’m still putting the pieces together, and since I’m doing all the writing myself now, it’s taking a little longer. I want to make sure I don’t run with it before I’ve got everything nailed down. But Prince knows I’m circling.”

I looked at her face. She was clearly excited. “You love this business, don’t you?”

“Love it,” she said without hesitation.

But then her smile faltered. She looked over her shoulder. “Mick was here this morning.”

“That writer?”

She nodded, her face stern.

“I saw him. You looked kind of freaked. What was he doing?”

“Interviewing the network president and then some of the other guys. Some book he’s writing about the news business.”

“You didn’t know he’d be here?”

“Hell, no,” she said with vehemence. “I don’t ever want to see that guy again.”