Харлан Кобен - The Boy from the Woods

“—and by not revealing what that damaging information is, even with all the NDAs in place, Dash Maynard knew that he was selling advertising for a program that could blow up at any moment and harm my client’s brand.”

“But it didn’t blow up.”

“Not yet it hasn’t.”

“In fact, The Rusty Show is off the air. Rusty Eggers is now a leading candidate to be the next president of the United States.”

“Exactly, that’s the point. Now that he’s running for office, there will be much more scrutiny. When Dash Maynard’s damaging tapes are released—”

“Wait, do you have any evidence that these tapes even exist?”

“—my client’s business will be seriously and maybe irrevocably harmed.”

“Because they advertised on the show?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So in short, you’re suing for a fraud that hasn’t happened and that you have no proof was committed based on something you don’t know exists or even if it does, how or if it would damage you. That about sum it up?”

Strauss didn’t like that. “No, that’s not—”

“Saul?”

“Yes?”

Hester leaned forward. “This lawsuit is complete nonsense.”

Strauss cleared his throat. The big hands tensed. “The judge said we had standing.”

“You won’t for long. We both know that. Can we be honest here? Just between us? This is a frivolous suit designed to raise awareness and pressure Dash Maynard into releasing tapes that might be embarrassing to Rusty Eggers and derail his campaign.”

“No, that’s not the case at all.”

“Are you a backer of Rusty Eggers?”

“What? No.”

“In fact” — Hester had the pull quote on a graphic that they put on the screen now — “you said, ‘Rusty Eggers needs to be stopped at all costs. He is a deranged nihilist who could lead us into unimaginable horrors. He wants to tear down the world order, even if it kills millions.’” Hester turned to him. “You said that, right?”

“I did.”

“And you believe it?”

“Don’t you?”

Hester wasn’t about to be drawn into that one. “And so if Dash Maynard has something in his possession damaging to Rusty Eggers, you believe that this information should be released to the public.”

“Of course it should,” Strauss said. “We are voting for the most powerful position in the world. There should be total transparency when it comes to a candidate.”

“And that’s really the point of this lawsuit.”

“Transparency is important, Hester. Don’t you agree?”

“I do. But you know what I think is much more important? The Constitution. The rule of law.”

“So you’re defending Rusty Eggers and Dash Maynard?”

“I’m defending the law.”

“I don’t want to sound hyperbolic—”

“Too late.”

“—but if you saw Hitler coming to power—”

“Oh, Saul, don’t start with that. Please.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t. Not on my show.”

Saul Strauss leaned toward the camera and addressed it directly. “Dash Maynard may have tapes that could change the course of human history.”

“Well, as long as you don’t want to sound hyperbolic,” Hester said with an eye roll. “By the way, how do you even know these tapes exist?”

Strauss cleared his throat. “We, uh, have our sources.”

“For example?”

“Arnie Poplin, for one.”

“Arnie Poplin?” Hester couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice. “Arnie Poplin is your source?”

“One of them, yes.” Strauss cleared his throat. “He has direct knowledge—”

“Just to clarify for our viewers, Arnie Poplin is the celebrity has-been-turned-conspiracy-nut who appeared as a contestant on The Rusty Show .”

“That characterization is misleading.”

“Arnie Poplin claimed, did he not, that 9/11 was an inside job?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“This same Arnie Poplin calls my producer weekly demanding to be a guest so he can air some new whacked-out theory involving UFOs or chemtrails or some similar malarkey. Seriously? Arnie Poplin?”

“With all due respect—”

“That’s never a good way to begin a sentence, Saul.”

“—I don’t think you see the danger in this Rusty Eggers campaign. We have an obligation to air these tapes and save our democracy.”

“Then find a legal way to air them — or there isn’t much of a democracy to save.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“With this dinky fraud case?”

“I can start by going after someone for a parking violation,” Strauss said, “and if I stumble across a murder, well, so be it.”

“Wow, that’s a stretch, but it seems to be a philosophy you and Rusty Eggers have in common then.”

“Pardon me?”

“Ends justifying the means — a tale as old as time. Maybe you two should find your own country?” Strauss’s face turned scarlet, but before he could counter, Hester spun to the camera. “We’ll be right back.”

A producer shouted, “Clear.”

Saul Strauss was not a happy man. “Jesus, Hester, what the hell was that?”

“Arnie Poplin? Are you for real?” She shook her head and checked her texts. There was one from Oren sent two minutes ago:

On the way up.

“I have to go, Saul.”

“My God, did you hear yourself? You just compared me to Rusty Eggers.”

“Your lawsuit is nonsense.”

Saul Strauss put his hand on her arm. “Eggers is not going to stop, Hester. The destruction, the mayhem, the nihilism — you get that, right? He basically wants anarchy. He wants to tear down everything you and I cherish.”

“I have to go, Saul.”

Hester unclipped the microphone from her lapel. Her producer Allison Grant waited in the wings. Hester tried to be nonchalant.

“Do I have a visitor?” she asked.

“You mean that Giant Yum in the police-chief uniform?”

Hester couldn’t help herself. “He’s cute, right?”

“Welcome to Beefcake City. Population: Him.”

“Where is he?”

“I put him in the greenroom.”

Every studio has a greenroom, a place for guests to sit before they come on air. They are, for some odd reason, never actually green.

“How do I look?” Hester asked.

Allison inspected her to the point where Hester feared that she’d do a horse-purchase check on her teeth. “Smart.”

“What?”

“Having him come by right after you go on air. Makeup and hair already done.”

“Right?” Hester smoothed her business skirt and headed down the corridor. The greenroom was loaded up with posters of the network anchors and talking heads, including one taken three years ago of Hester, turned to the side, arms crossed, looking tough. When she entered the room now, Oren was standing with his back toward the door, looking at her poster.

“What do you think?” Hester asked.

Without turning toward her, Oren said, “You’re hotter now.”

“Hotter?”

He shrugged. “‘Prettier’ or ‘more beautiful’ don’t seem to fit you, Hester.”

“I’ll take hotter,” she said. “I’ll take hotter and run.”

Oren turned and smiled. It was an awfully good smile. She felt it in her toes.

“Nice to see you,” he said.

“Nice to see you too,” Hester said. “And I’m sorry about that whole Naomi thing.”

“Water under the bridge,” Oren said. “I imagine it ended up being more embarrassing for you than me.”

It had been. When it was discovered that Naomi was just playing a prank, there had been plenty of online ridicule. Hester’s enemies — everyone on social media had enemies — reveled in her error. When two days later she commented on a controversial election court decision in California, a dozen Twitter Nuts (that’s what Hester called them) pounced with a fury: “Wait, isn’t she the one who thought a kid’s prank was a national emergency?” This was the way now for both sides — and yes, she even hated the phrase “both sides” — now: Discredit any legitimate argument with something, no matter how long ago or obscure, the person got wrong in the past. As if only perfection deserved your consideration.