Black River

THIRTY-THREE

Laura Jordan poured a cup of coffee, sipped, glanced out her kitchen window and almost dropped the coffee cup. It was Saturday morning, 7:37, three days since she uploaded the video of her husband finding the diamond and talking on camera about the Civil War contract between England and the Confederacy.

And now a half dozen local and network TV news trucks were parking on the quiet residential road in front of her home, technicians fine-tuning the huge satellite dishes atop the trucks, reporters sipping coffee from paper cups, adjusting earpieces, looking at notepads. “Oh my God,” Laura whispered, clutching her worn terry cloth robe and peeking between the kitchen curtains.

There was a loud knock at her front door. She felt her heart jump, the taste of the coffee acrid and bitter in her mouth. She paced the floor for a second, trying to compose herself. Be calm…just face it. She had told Sean O’Brien that she could do it. And now the day had arrived. The news media were knocking at her door. She glanced at a family picture on the dining room wall of Jack, Paula and herself at the beach, kneeling — a sand castle in front of them.

The knock returned. Louder. Little Paula walked slowly into the kitchen, face creased from sleep. She held a stuffed giraffe to her chest, her pink pajamas with yellow ducks wrinkled and uneven from another night of tossing and turning in her bed. “Mommy, somebody’s at the door.”

“I know sweetheart. I’ll answer it. You go wash your face, and I’ll make you some pancakes.”

Paula smiled, turned and went toward the bathroom. Laura set the coffee cup on her kitchen counter, tied the robe tighter around her waist and walked down her foyer to the front door. She opened it, the morning sun cresting the tree line, shining in her face. She counted seven reporters and at least that many camera operators. They looked like a mob, some professionally dressed, the others in T-shirts and faded jeans. A tall reporter introduced himself, saying he was with CNN and added, “Mrs. Jordan, we don’t mean to intrude, however your number is unlisted. The video of your deceased husband is raising enormous speculation and questions. A few minutes ago, the video has been viewed 127-million times. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Laura attempted a smile as camera flashes popped. She said, “I don’t mind speaking with you, but give me a little time. I need to fix my daughter breakfast. And it wouldn’t hurt if I showered.”

The tall reporter smiled. “Absolutely. We understand and we appreciate your cooperation. We’ll be here, as unobtrusive as possible, when you’re ready.”

Laura nodded, looked over his shoulder and saw two more news trucks arrive. She watched as neighbors drifted onto the street, many dressed in pajamas and robes. “Just give me some time. I will answer your questions best I can.” She closed and locked the door, her heart hammering in her chest.

In the kitchen, she searched for her phone, finding it under one of Paula’s coloring books. Laura scrolled through the menu, searching for Sean O’Brien’s number, her hand trembling. She bit her lower lip and made the call. “Sean, it’s Laura. There are news media — reporters literally standing in my front yard. I counted seven of those big satellite trucks. They’re from all over, the cable networks, too. They want to interview me. They just showed up out of the blue.”

“They’re there because the video is well over a hundred-million views. It’s creating controversy. More importantly, Laura, it’ll generate demand for a thorough investigation into Jack’s death. The state’s attorney will make it a priority.”

“I know…I just didn’t expect to open my door and see all those TV cameras pointed at my face. I’ve never done a news conference.”

“Just answer their questions succinctly. Don’t feel you have to elaborate on anything. Nothing beats absolute, heartfelt sincerity — the truth. The public can sense it or the lack of it. I know this is stressful, but accept that and find courage in results.”

“You make it sound a little easier. What if I make a mistake?”

“You can’t make a mistake because you and Paula are victims, too. Just look the reporters in the eye and answer their questions. But, remember, this is your platform as well. It’s your chance to reach the public. Someone out there may know something that might help police find Jack’s killer. Consider this as an opportunity to do your own public service announcement, okay?”

“I understand. Your voice is calming…I just wish you were here.”

“It’s better that I’m not. You’ll be fine if you remember to look at this as a chance to bring some kind of results. When Jack pulled up that diamond, when you both found the old contract, it opened up a Pandora’s box that’s been sealed for 160 or more years. Now that it’s out, there is someone who wants to contain it, to probably fence the diamond to a private collector. Jack was simply doing what he loved, documenting history. That led him down a new and dangerous path to find a way to honor the letter written by Henry and the terms of the contract, and Jack was in somebody’s way.”

Laura released a pent-up breath. She glanced at her fingernails on one hand, broken and chewed. She felt like a mess, suddenly disheveled, and on display. “Thank you, Sean for caring. Maybe Paula and I can meet you for lunch. Then I can tell you how my first, and hopefully my last, news conference went.”

“You’ll do fine. And lunch sounds good”

“Would noon at the Mainstreet Grill in DeLand work for you?”

“What car will you be driving?”

“A white Honda Accord. Why? I won’t get lost or be late.”

“See you and Paula then.”

Laura disconnected. She walked into the bathroom when her phone rang. She looked at the digital display: UNKNOWN. She answered. “Hello.”

“Laura Jordan…”

“Who is this?”

“Be very careful what you do and say. You say too much to those reporters and it might come back to haunt you and your daughter.” The voice was slightly muffled, just above a whisper.

“Who is this? How’d you get this number? Don’t threaten me!”

“Some things are buried in the past for very good reasons. Best to let a sleeping junkyard dog lie. If not, there are always consequences…always. It’s bad enough your dead husband mentioned the Civil War contract…but until others see it, it’s just him talking. Nothing more. We advise you to keep it that way.”

The call disconnected.

Laura gripped the phone, her hand shaking. She looked up in the bathroom mirror, the reflection of her frightened face like a stranger staring back at her.