Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

“I don’t know if I want you going back there, either. Look, let’s take it one thing at a time. When can I get the thong you got for your friend?”

“I can bring it tomorrow to Trial TV.” I gave him the address.

“Got it. Call me if you don’t feel good.”

“I will.” Again, I thought of Sam and how I hadn’t called him earlier. It bothered me deeply. I told myself I shouldn’t place too much significance on it. After all, I was working on a case for Mayburn, and I’d promised him that I wouldn’t tell anyone. So it was natural that I’d think to call Mayburn.

But how natural was it that when Sam had called an hour later, I told him I wanted to be alone tonight?

Despite the connection we’d had last night, and the one we’d probably always have, that connection was no longer permeating our daily lives.

Something had come between Sam and me. And that something-that feeling of a gap, a vacancy where we used to be sealed tight-couldn’t be denied.

I went to bed by myself.

O n Wednesday morning, two days after Jane’s death, I sat in the studio’s interview area.

“This morning for our Coffee Break,” I read from the prompter, “we’re discussing a recent ruling on behalf of the plaintiffs in a lawsuit against King Pharmaceuticals. King is the target of a class action suit filed by famed Chicago lawyer Jackson Prince on behalf of patients he claims were injured or killed by the arthritis drug Ladera. Yesterday, a U.S. District Court denied a request by King to dismiss the suit.”

I glanced down at the written script and squeezed my knees together tight, just like C.J. told me. I heard her other instructions in my head-shift a little toward your guest then turn your torso slightly back to the camera. I did so, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her giving me a thumbs-up.

I looked up at the prompter. “Joining us today is Jackson Prince himself. Good morning, Mr. Prince.”

I turned my body farther to face Prince, whose slate-gray suit complemented the blue leather of the chair behind him. He looked both casual and elegant, both scholarly and handsome. “Good morning. Thanks for having me, Isabel.” He beamed a megawatt smile full of perfect, white teeth.

“Can you tell us the impact of the judge’s ruling?”

Prince gave a nod of his head. “Judge Wainright’s ruling will finally put an end to the stalling tactics employed by King Pharmaceuticals, so that the many patients who died or were harmed by their drug can be compensated.” Prince went on, describing the lawsuit and the conduct of King Pharmaceuticals in more detail.

I nodded and smiled and occasionally furrowed my brows at the alleged wrongdoing of King Pharmaceuticals, but really I was thinking about Jane.

If Prince had been anxious and on guard when she had interviewed him two days ago, he certainly wasn’t now.

“He’s ready,” I heard in my ISB. “Go to satellite.”

“Joining us via satellite,” I read from the script, “is Howard Lemmon, attorney for King Pharmaceuticals. Mr. Lemmon, how does King respond to these allegations?” I looked at the monitor, trying not to squint at the sharp lines of light that beamed across the set, and watched as the attorney gave the standard corporation-being-sued statements, similar to those I used to give when defending Pickett Enterprises. “Thanks, Isabel. Although we believe the motion to dismiss should have been granted, we look forward to a trial on the merits…” Blah, blah, blah…“We want to show America and our stockholders that we have nothing to hide…” More blah. “We are proud of our research and the drugs that help to save millions of lives.”

I asked each lawyer a few more questions, then read, “Stay tuned to Trial TV, where we’ll be closely following the King Pharmaceuticals lawsuit. Thanks to our guests for joining us.” I turned to a different camera. “Coming up…” I read from the list of stories that would follow.

The monitors showing the King Pharmaceuticals attorney went blank. The lights over the leather chair grouping went dark. Jackson Prince stood and extended his hand to me, then grasped my hand with both of his, meeting my eyes and smiling in a way that appeared warm and friendly. Prince was used to connecting with people, I could tell, and under normal circumstances, I, too, would have been swayed by that gaze and that grasp. But there was something going on with Prince, according to Jane, something she had been about to reveal. And yet with her gone, he seemed very much at ease.

I hated, suddenly, that Jane was dead, that I was essentially standing in her shoes and yet neither Prince nor I was mentioning her.

“I saw you at Jane’s memorial,” I said.

Something crossed Prince’s eyes. I couldn’t tell what. “Ah, yes. A tragedy.” He dropped my hand. “I was very fond of Jane. We had worked together for years.”

“Worked together? How do you mean?” I’m not sure why, but I wondered for the first time if Prince had been one of Jane’s dalliances.

“I frequently gave interviews to Jane before anyone else.”

“You trusted her to cover your stories well.”

“I did indeed.” His eyes flicked around the newsroom. “Well, I must be going. It was a pleasure.”

“Izzy,” I heard C.J. call from behind me. “I need you on the desk in one minute.”

“Got it,” I called over my shoulder. I turned back to Prince and moved a little in front of him so he couldn’t walk away. “Were you and Jane working on any stories recently? I mean, other than the King Pharmaceuticals lawsuit?”

“No, not recently. And this case has been in a holding pattern for some time. I would have called Jane about this recent ruling, but we didn’t even know when the judge was going to issue it, and by then, of course, Jane was…”

“Killed.”

“Yes.”

Did you do it? Did you need to keep her from the story she said was going to nail you the wall?

“What was the last story you gave Jane to break?”

“Izzy,” C.J. called. “Let’s go.”

I held up one finger and began backing toward the desk, but my eyes were still on Prince, waiting for his answer.

“I can’t recall,” he said. “Possibly a fire case I had at the end of last year. Anyway, good luck with your broadcast.” He turned and left, but after a step or two he looked back, as if to see that I was still there. And he gave me that charming and warm smile again. One that left me cold.

A s soon as the morning shift of Trial TV was over and the afternoon anchors and producers started taking over the set, C. J. Lyons held a meeting to recap the show and quickly summarize the stories for the next day.

When everyone left, I stopped C.J. “Can I ask a question? Do you know about a story Jane was working on that involved Jackson Prince?”

“Just this King case.”

“What about the case exactly?”

“You know-the motion to dismiss, whether the lawsuit would go forward.”

I frowned. It didn’t seem like anything that would make Prince stalk off the set a few days ago. “What about the members of the class action and how they got to become members? On the first broadcast of Trial TV, Jane was asking Prince about that.”

C.J. nodded. “I saw it. She was just asking basic questions to get the audience up and running.”

I bit my lip. “It sounded like something bigger. Something involving Prince himself.”

C.J. squinted a little behind her black glasses. “Prince is squeaky clean. I mean, he’s at the top of his game. I can’t imagine a story about him personally.”

“You used to write most of Jane’s stories, right?”

She nodded. “Used to. That’s not how it usually works-most newscasters write their own stories-but somehow we fell into this pattern where Jane did the interviews, but I wrote the pieces and put them together.”