Макс Коллинз - You Can’t Stop Me

Harrow rose and walked deeper into the room, his camera- and soundman following. “I want to start by introducing you to the crew who’ll be keeping us company. There will be others, but these five on camera and sound are among the best in the business, as some of you already know... and they’re the ones who’ll be trailing us the most.”

As he made introductions, those seated at the table craned when necessary to take in their electronic shadows.

“First, sneaking up behind me, is a thirty-year veteran in the business, including ten years at UBC — Maury Hathaway.”

Maury peeked out from behind the shoulder-held camera, and smiled and nodded, and people said, “Hi,” “Hey, Maury,” and the like. The husky Hathaway wore khaki cargo pants and an open-front button-down shirt over a Grateful Dead T-shirt, his blond hair graying around the longish edges.

“Working sound for Maury is Nancy Hughes.”

A slender young woman, blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail, dipped her boom to them and gave them a toothy smile. She wore jeans and a loose white T-shirt.

“Across the way is Tim Ingram.”

A wiry black guy who looked barely out of his teens gave the group a boom bob and a wave. He wore a brown T-shirt with a white silkscreen of some hip-hop star not on Harrow’s radar.

“Down and across from me, that’s Leon Arroyo.”

Cameraman Arroyo’s smile was huge, his teeth very white. A light-skinned Hispanic with wavy black hair and a full beard, Arroyo wore baggy shorts and a multicolored rayon shirt that looked slept in.

“Down at the far end of the table — close to the food, you’ll note — is Phil Dingle.”

Dingle, a spade-bearded, affable, not quite heavyset six-footer in a black shirt and chinos, came out from behind his eyepiece to grin and say hey. “You won’t know I’m here,” he said.

Harrow moved down the table. “Our lead investigative reporter and segment host is Carmen Garcia. She found the clue that jump-started the investigation.”

The group turned to her, and she gave them a megawatt smile and a crisp nod. The Ozomatli T-shirt and jeans were gone, replaced by a designer suit that cost probably ten times her old weekly salary.

The tousle-haired, well-scrubbed Midwestern girl had been replaced by a stylishly coiffed California female with flawless makeup and freshly lacquered nails.

The willowy brunette rose and said, “I’m not going to lie to you — this is the biggest job I’ve had in broadcasting, and I owe J.C. a debt of thanks for believing in me. I’ll have some production assistants, who aren’t here today, who you’ll meet later. But to echo Nicole — we can’t stand on ceremony. Come to me with anything. Anything.”

She introduced the newcomers to two Avid editors, three post-production sound editors/mixers, and three writers, who would be accompanying them all the way.

“We are doing more than investigating,” Carmen said. “We are creating a segment for a weekly reality show. Some of what we do will go out live, but many of our interviews will be edited along the way, and ready for air.”

Laurene said, “Ms. Garcia—”

“Carmen.”

“Carmen — our job has to be finding, and stopping, this killer, or killers. That’s our primary concern.”

“It’s a concern we all share. But you’re also the stars of our show. And the show pays the freight. You saw how positive the network president was about what we’re doing. J.C., would you care to tell us all why Mr. Byrnes is our biggest fan now?”

Harrow, who had made his way back to the head of the conference room table (his camera and audio shadows too), was just taking his seat.

“Glad to, Carmen. And if your dignity was bruised by Killer TV , I’m here to tell you we’re largely underwritten by toilet paper, among other enthusiastic sponsors.”

A mix of laughter and groans greeted that.

Harrow was saying, “We are making a lot of money for UBC, or at least right now we are. If we don’t deliver, the financial plug could get pulled.”

Carmen picked up (and all eyes followed): “You’ll take time out for interviews, sometimes in advance of air, sometimes live, and you’ll be giving a certain amount of your time over to working with our writers, who’ll make your expert findings and opinions user-friendly to laymen.”

Billy Choi said, “We’ll be scripted?”

“You will at times read off teleprompters, yes. And when you speak ‘off the cuff,’ it will be on approved subjects, and within parameters approved by UBC Legal.”

“Don’t tell me we’re gonna travel with lawyers?”

Harrow said, “Not yet, Billy. I talked Byrnes out of that. But if we overstep, intentionally or not, that could come.”

An uncomfortable silence draped the room.

“All right,” Harrow said. “Some of you know each other, by reputation anyway. But I don’t believe anyone here but me is familiar with all of you. So I’m going to ask you each to introduce yourself and give us a little backstory... as they call it in the TV game.”

Without prompting, Harrow’s second-in-command — sleek in a lavender silk blouse and black slacks — rose and cast a cool, professional smile on her colleagues, her cornrows of ebony hair shimmering. “Laurene Chase, chief crime scene investigator, Waco PD. Currently on leave of absence.”

Next to Laurene, the short, short-haired, bespectacled, broad-shouldered Michael Pall rose. He appeared vaguely nerdy in a nice but clearly off-the-rack blue suit with blue and red striped tie. He gave his name, tagging on only, “DNA scientist, Oklahoma State Crime Lab.”

Billy Choi pointed a finger and fired it, gunlike, at Pall saying, “Federal Building — ’95. Helped put McVeigh away. Nice job, man.”

Pall tried not to react, but a smile flickered.

Next to him sat Chris Anderson, the improbably handsome Beach Boy of a chemist and lab tech from Meridian, Mississippi. He half rose, and introduced himself in his soft southern accent, but when he mentioned the Shaw and Associates lab, the other forensics experts sat up a little.

Across from Anderson sat Jenny Blake, her blue eyes studying the tabletop as her fingers fiddled with a ballpoint pen.

“Jenny Blake, computer stuff,” she said, not rising, without really looking at anyone at the table.

Harrow barely nodded at the next-in-line criminalist when Choi popped up and said, “Billy Choi, crime scene analyst, tool mark and firearms examiner formerly of the Big Apple, now of sunny Los Angeles and...” He turned straight to the nearest camera. “...breakout star of Crime Seen! on You Bee Cee. Book ’em, Danno! ”

This goofy performance cracked up the whole team, even Jenny and Harrow. It was just the tension break they needed, and once again the team leader sent Choi a little appreciative smile and nod.

As the Book ’em, Danno laughter subsided, Harrow patted the air and said, “All right, all right... let’s get down to it.”

Anderson sat forward, his intensity undercut by his Southern drawl. “Where do we start, Mr. Harrow?”

“It’s J.C, Chris.”

“Yes, sir.”

Everyone laughed.

“And you all know the basics already — so let’s start with our new evidence. Carmen, you found it — care to walk us through?”

Carmen was ready with a remote. The massive screen behind Harrow came alive and showed the evidence bag that held the single leaf.

She said, “This corn leaf was found in the driveway of a home in Placida, Florida. Stella Ferguson and her two children were shot in their home in a manner very similar to J.C.’s family.”

He felt eyes flick toward him, but remained neutral.

“Stella’s husband, Ray, was town marshal of Placida.”