Bad Intent

Chapter 16

“Huevos rancheros everywhere,” I said. Guido was nearly the same color as the hospital sheets. Maybe paler. “Lab analysis of your stomach contents may take a week.”

“S’okay. I’m not going anywhere.” The plastic drainage tube down his throat made him difficult to understand. “I’m going to sleep for a week.”

“Not in the hospital you’re not,” I said. “At these rates, my credit card will only keep you here through tomorrow. If you still want to sleep after that, I’ll get you a suite at the Four Seasons. Be cheaper, and they have cable.”

He managed to smile. “I woke up, saw where I was, thought you’d driven us through a brick wall. Thought I was dying.”

“Not yet, my friend. We still have things to do.” I had an obstruction in my own throat, a logjam of emotions. I felt relief that he was all right and guilt that I may have put him in harm’s way. And I felt bereft. Whenever any thought of losing Guido managed to rise through all the fuss involved in getting him to the hospital, signed in, pumped out, I felt nearly overwhelmed with sadness. I gripped his icy fingers.

“I called your mom,” I said. “She’s on her way.”

“I want to sleep some more.” He yawned. “My throat hurts. Let me sleep.”

“Go ahead.” I smoothed his blanket up under his chin and stayed beside him until he was softly snoring again. The doctor’s best guess was that he had taken a heavy barbiturate. Not good in combination with alcohol. The police were pursuing the source. I was clear what had happened, the question was, why?

I waited until Guido’s mother arrived, explained the situation to her as well as I could, and then I left her in charge of further fussing and pillow fluffing.

My benefactor network had left a message that the Reverend Burgess was scheduled for an interview taping. I intended to crash the session in hopes I would find something useful. And if I did, I had no fear about embarrassing the hand behind the signature on my checks. As long as I could use the information to bring the network viewers, I could flog them raw.

Burgess drove up just as I was getting out of my car. I didn’t want to scare him away from his interview by confronting him in the parking lot, so I went on up, stationed myself near the elevator to watch for him.

Burgess showed up right behind me, a demanding, balding little rooster from the instant he stepped into the studio. He came carrying a garment bag and a Styrofoam head with a toupee pinned to it. He wanted the staff to provide him with, in this order, a cold Dr. Pepper, a dressing room with a shower, a consultation with the sound and lights technicians, hypoallergenic makeup. Everyone began to scurry-not to accommodate him, but to get out of his way.

I sidled up to him and said, “Gloria Swanson don’t live here no mo’.”

“Who are you?” he said, checking me over for labels.

“I don’t know what you’ve been watching or who you’ve been listening to, but the post-Reagan, tight-budget reality around here is the same as it was over at SNN: You get your own drink out of the cooler in the corner, you change in the men’s dressing room down the hall. Anything you don’t want to lose, keep an eye on.” Then I pointed to the stiff little hairpiece he held out in front like a trophy. “And all pets must be on a leash.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth on you.” He was smiling when he said it. I decided maybe he had untapped potential.

“If you’re carrying a clean shirt,” I said, “don’t put it on until your face has been painted. And don’t try to tell the technical staff their business or you’re likely to go out on the airwaves looking and sounding like Frankenstein’s spare parts. I’m giving you the best, and probably the only, advice you’re going to get around here. By the way, nice car.”

I turned my back and left him standing alone with only his extra hair for company. I knew he would be ignored until the staff had decided he had been sufficiently punished for his pushiness.

I asked the assistant director to call me when everything was ready to roll, and went downstairs to waste some time with Lana Howard, my independent-projects producer. We talked about Guido and what had happened, about the background music I wanted to use in my project, about graphics and promotion, and planting spring bulbs as soon as the weather cooled. A very productive forty minutes.

When I arrived back upstairs, Leroy Burgess was seated on the news set with the generic male city-affairs reporter on the staff. Burgess wore a pale blue suit and a clerical collar. His hairpiece was glued in place a precise three inches above his combed eyebrows.

The director, Jack Riley, was an old friend from my Latin American correspondent days. He had been a field cameraman then. A big guy; in the days before little hand-held video-cameras, the shooter was always the tallest and strongest man on the crew. I went into the director’s booth and sat down next to him in front of his massive instrument console.

I planted a friendly pat on Jack’s back. He responded with more inviting body language than I wanted to deal with, so I backed up a bit.

He said, “Like old times, Maggie.”

“Yes,” I said, “back in the jungle together.”

“You have some interest in this character Burgess?”

“Indeed, I do. Pretend I’m not here. I only want to listen.”

A red light began flashing on the console and Jack turned to attend to it. Jack communicated with his cameramen and his on-camera “talent” via tiny ear sets connected to a microphone that extended up out of his board. When the microphone was turned off, conversations in the booth could not be heard on the set. Almost as good as being a speck on the wall for eavesdropping purposes. I was behind the lights that shone in Burgess’s eyes.

When the interview began, most of what Burgess had to say was a rehash of the stuff he had given to Ralph Faust. In his defense, most of the questions asked were the same, too. The tone was sympathy for poor Conklin, outrage at police abuse, and the failures of our justice system.

I was worried about Guido in the hospital-the doctor had assured me he would be fine once he had slept off the drugs-and I was feeling frankly bored by the proceedings on the set. I rested my chin on my hand and listened to the reporter go through his schtick.

Jack nudged me. “Whuzzamattah?”

“Same old same old,” I shrugged. “He’s given the same interview to every station in town.”

“Have anything to offer?”

I suggested a question that was immediately, electronically transplanted into the reporter’s shell-like ear. Like magic, it came out of the reporter’s mouth.

“Mr. Burgess,” the reporter intoned, “your investigation has taken many months, involved a good deal of travel and other expenses. How is your program financed?”

Burgess sat up straighter, beamed brighter than he had while discussing the legal details. I knew we had hit the A topic. “We are privately funded, mostly by donations from good citizens interested in seeing an injustice exposed to the bright, purifying light of day. ‘The truth will set you free,’ sayeth the Lord.”

Jack directed his on-camera mouthpiece, “Rephrase it. Push him.”

I was proud of him. I gave his arm an approving nudge. The talent asked, “How much funding would an investigation of this nature require?”

Burgess blustered over a few syllables before he composed himself again. “It’s too early to say. We still have a long way to go. A long way. Anyone who wants to help can call…”

I took the microphone and planted a new query that interrupted the pitch for money. The reporter was startled by the new voice, but recovered in a hurry.

The question: “Mr. Burgess, if the court decides that Charles Conklin’s conviction was flawed, and he is released from prison, will he file a civil suit against the city and the police?”

Burgess frowned. “Charles lost fourteen years of freedom and earnings. His children grew up without him. No dollar amount can repay him. He should be compensated, but what price tag can you put on fourteen years?”

“I imagine that price tag will be substantial. Well into the millions. The attorney will take, one expects, the standard thirty to fifty percent. What will be your interest in the award?”

Burgess grew hot under the lights. He equivocated. “The people who put Charles Conklin behind bars must be served notice that this community will not tolerate misuse of power. I would like to see the punishment come out of the pockets of the men responsible and not from public funds.”

“Will you have a share in the award?”

Burgess was trying to peer beyond the lights, looking for us. “Only what is appropriate.”

I turned to Jack and said, “The truth will set you free.” Jack put his finger against his microphone switch and asked me, “Anything else?”

“Ask about Conklin’s plans should he get sprung.”

The question was, “Charles Conklin has been in prison for fourteen years. In the event he is released, has he spoken of his plans for the future? Will he return to his former profession? What of his family?”

Burgess’s eyes grew misty on cue. “As I said, more than anything else, Charles has missed watching his children grow up. They are all adults now, or nearly so. To capture some of what he lost, Charles has told me how very much he wants to work with children when he gets out. Do something in the arts. Teach peace.”

The reporter furrowed his brow. “What line of work was he in?”

Burgess was quick. “For Charles, the answers all lie in the future.”

Jack said, “Maggie?”

I grinned at him. “It’s your show. Ask your own damn questions.”

Into the mike he said, “Close him.”

I stood up. “One thing you can do for me, though. Get a shooter to follow Burgess out of the studio, get a shot of him with his car.”

“Why?”

“Background. Some variety to talking heads.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I saw him drive in. His conveyance surprised me.”

“Yeah?”

“Besides, I want that celestial blue suit recorded for posterity. I’ll be beholden to you if you get me a copy of this interview and the grand exit. Like, today sometime.”

“How beholden?” he asked, gripping my thigh through my jeans.

“Be careful, Jack,” I said. “Anita Hill is a personal friend of mine.”

“Damn,” he said.