Dead End

Twenty-Seven

Barry Jackson arranged the conference in a midtown hotel, and chose the restaurant to which Beverley had taken him on their first outing, which tightened Parnell’s discomfort. It increased further when Jackson remarked that it was one of Beverley’s favourites, and Parnell decided to confront his difficulty.

He said: ‘I know.’

Jackson smiled, nodding. ‘So do I. She told me you’d been out together, although not that she brought you here.’

‘The first time,’ quickly admitted Parnell. ‘It’s only been twice. And I want…’

The lawyer’s hands came up like forbidding shutters. ‘I don’t want any explanations for why you and Beverley saw each other. I told you, we’re good friends with separate lives, to pursue as we want… as we choose. You and I will never have a personal problem about you and Beverley…’ Jackson let a heavy moment settle. ‘But there’s a reality to talk through. Your fiancee was murdered. You almost got railroaded. You’ve got the sympathy vote, Joe Ordinary – except that you’re not that ordinary – who got caught up in a situation beyond his control. But today we might, just might…’ Jackson narrowed his forefinger against his thumb. ‘… manage to shake a few trees eventually to bring down a few forbidden apples. We got the FBI waiting, with their baskets outstretched. You and Beverley are grown-up, consenting adults, responsible for everything you choose to do. And whatever you guys choose to do is entirely your business. I’m the last one to sit in judgement. But others would and are being invited to be judges and juries. And there’s the media, before whom a feast is being laid out, with you with the apple in your mouth. If there is the faintest whisper that so very soon after the death of your young fiancee you’re involved with another woman, you lose your sympathy vote so fast there’ll be scorch marks on the ground. And quite irrespective of however much convincing law I can argue – and I can argue a hell of a lot – I need totally innocent, railroaded Joe Ordinary next to me in every court and in every witness box… you in step with me and with what I’m saying?’

‘It’s a pretty effective and convincing speech,’ said Parnell, sipping the insisted-upon mineral water but wishing it were wine.

‘It’s meant to be. I spent almost as much time rehearsing it as I did preparing for this afternoon’s conference.’

‘There’s nothing between Beverley and me!’ insisted Parnell.

‘You missed the point,’ accused Jackson. ‘It’s nothing to do with whether or not you and Beverley are into a relationship, which I know you’re not, because Beverley told me you weren’t, and she and I only ever lied to each other once and haven’t done since. It’s public perception.’

‘I do know – do hear – what you’re saying,’ assured Parnell. ‘It isn’t a problem, because it isn’t a problem – a situation that exists.’ What had Jackson meant about he and Beverley only ever having lied to each other once?

‘I’m glad that’s cleared,’ said Jackson.

‘So am I,’ said Parnell, meaning it.

‘How’s your steak? I only ordered a salad when it was your treat, remember?’

‘The steak’s great and there’s still your bill to come.’

‘With other things,’ said Jackson seriously, the brief respite over. ‘I told Beverley to talk to you about refusing a psychological assessment.’

‘She did. I told her I’d back her.’ A flicker of doubt bubbled up in his mind.

‘Why did you take the assessment?’ asked the lawyer, directly.

‘It didn’t seem important enough to refuse,’ said Parnell. ‘Being asked to undergo it was written into my contract.’

‘You still feel that it’s unimportant now?’

Parnell shrugged. ‘I’m English, not American, so I’m not protected by your constitution. It’s difficult now to know what’s important and what isn’t. But I think I’ve discovered something that is.’

‘What?’ demanded the lawyer, at once.

Parnell recounted the arrival of the remaining French samples and Harry Johnson’s easy production of the flick knife and said: ‘Which he lied about, to Dingley and Benton.’

‘Doesn’t make him guilty of anything but that,’ qualified Jackson, once more.

‘I think it’s interesting. And that Dingley will find it interesting, too.’

‘Let’s keep it until we get this over with,’ cautioned Jackson. ‘You ready for this afternoon?’

‘How the hell do I know?’

‘I’ll take all the questions,’ insisted Jackson. ‘Decide those you can answer and those you can’t. We don’t want to risk a contempt of court.’

‘Why hold a press conference at all, then?’

‘To impose pressure. That’s the object of this exercise, remember? Did you tell Newton?’

‘Of course. By email.’

‘And?’

‘When I did see him, he was only just holding on. There were times when he was practically hysterical, particularly about France becoming public.’

‘It’s enough to become hysterical about.’

‘It shouldn’t come out publicly through what we’re doing, should it?’ asked Parnell.

‘I don’t see how it impacts,’ said Jackson, shrugging again. ‘But who the hell knows?’

‘You’re talking of destroying Dubette.’

‘And you’re talking like a terrified, piss-pants employee frightened of losing his job. You forgotten being promised the joys of communal buggery and oral sex, English boy?’

‘You’re confusing the two,’ protested Parnell. ‘And that’s what I don’t want to do, confuse the two.’

‘Why not!’ demanded Jackson, aggressively. ‘You got any good reason to be concerned about Dubette and its stock-market valuation, a company prepared to put a product on to a market where, but for the fluke of your involving yourself, it would have killed God knows how many people, probably without it ever becoming known? If what they tried to market through France becomes public – which I’m not intending it to, unless it simply happens that way – then tough shit for Dubette. You got some convoluted conscience about it, with the money I’m going to get you awarded, build a hospital in Africa where the kids who would have died can be properly treated with proper drugs.’

‘I thought the money you were going to get me was to pay your bill?’ said Parnell, with attempted cynicism that didn’t work.

‘Depending on how successful I am, there might be a little left over,’ said the lawyer. ‘Get hardass, Dick. Everyone else is, and there are more of them than there are of you.’

They entered the hotel through a side entrance, avoiding the initial camera ambush, but it was duplicated inside, lights and lenses directly in front of the dais and all around the edges of the cavernous room. A hedge of microphones had already been built on the waiting table. Every seat in the room was occupied. Parnell immediately isolated Peter Baldwin. Gerry Fletcher, the initially engaged trial lawyer, was beside him. Two other men Parnell didn’t know were clearly part of the Dubette group, all in the front row. Also in the front row, although quite separate from the lawyers, was Edwin Pullinger, the Bureau attorney, with Howard Dingley and David Benton. The room was extremely noisy and questions began to be shouted the moment they entered, adding to the din. The sudden flood of television lights and camera flashes made it difficult at first to see beyond the first four or five rows.

Jackson flapped his hands up and down in a quietening gesture and eventually the row subsided, although not completely. He had convened the conference to announce a civil suit against Metro DC police department and two of its officers, Jackson announced. A claim was being made for ten million dollars for the inconvenience, humiliation and damage to the professional reputation of his client, Richard Parnell, a renowned international scientist employed by Dubette Inc. Mr Parnell had been wrongfully and very publicly arrested on insufficient and inadequate evidence following what subsequently proved to be the murder of his fiancee, Rebecca Lang. Because of some unusual circumstances, that murder was currently being investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. His client would take questions but respond under advisement.

It was initially impossible to distinguish one question from another, and again Jackson had to wave for quiet, changing the gesture when the noise lessened, to indicate a woman near the front.

‘What’s your explanation for Ms Lang having a terrorist-associated flight number in her possession?’ asked the woman.

Jackson nodded his agreement to an answer and Parnell said: ‘I don’t have one. Rebecca was not a political person, nor associated or connected in any way with terrorism or terrorist organizations. I understand that to be the findings of the FBI after exhaustive enquiries.’

‘What about you?’ called someone deeper into the hall.

Jackson shook his head but Parnell said: ‘I am completely apolitical. I have never had any links with any radical organization, let alone one that could be described as terrorist. That’s also been established by the FBI.’

‘Did Metro DC police know of the terrorist flight number when they arrested you?’ called someone else.

The room was quiet now and this time Jackson took the question, before Parnell could speak. The lawyer said: ‘What the Metro DC officers did or did not know at the time of my client’s arrest will obviously form a substantial part of the claim my client is making against the department. Just as obviously, I am not able to disclose any part of that at this stage, although I can say that it will be a most rigorously pursued aspect of the eventual hearing.’

As his lawyer talked, Parnell saw that three men and a woman separating the Dubette group from the FBI officers were making notes on yellow legal pads, and wondered if they were police-department attorneys. Jackson intervened on several more occasions, refusing to let Parnell answer whether he had been subjected to any physical or verbal abuse, whether he had resisted arrest or if his position at Dubette had been affected by his detention. Parnell listened intently, aware that, with every response, Jackson was conveying the impression that there were a lot of accusations to be levelled against Peter Bellamy and Helen Montgomery.

Hammering the threat home in a reply to a further question, Jackson said: ‘It has not been confirmed to me that the two officers who are named in this action have been suspended, as you suggest. But I would have been surprised had they not been. The evidence I already possess and intend producing during the case will bring Metro DC police into considerable disrepute. There are others not directly named on the writs whose conduct will also be shown to be highly questionable, if not verging on criminal collusion.’

That reply produced a flurry of demands for explanation, all of which Jackson refused, choosing an intervening question from a woman journalist about Parnell and Rebecca’s relationship in order to hand over to Parnell. Parnell did so haltingly, badly unprepared. It was inexplicable that he’d allowed Rebecca to drive home alone to Bethesda. It was a mistake he’d regret for the rest of his life. No definite date had been decided upon for the wedding. There was evidence – Parnell’s reply brought a twitch from Jackson, the lawyer tensed to intervene, although he didn’t – against Rebecca being a chosen-by-chance victim of a random attack. He was appalled at Rebecca’s killer or killers escaping, because of Metro DC’s incompetence – Jackson leaned forward again, ready – but that was something to be explored at the impending civil court hearing. He had every confidence in the FBI bringing a successful criminal prosecution.

Jackson rejected every request for one-to-one television interviews – including those from the three major American networks, as well as six from England, France, and Germany – and from eight American and foreign radio stations. Jackson had taken a suite, as well as reserving the conference room. There was wine and alcohol as well as coffee waiting for them when they got there.

‘Now you can have a glass of wine,’ Jackson announced.

‘Who’s this for?’ asked Parnell.

‘You did well. Damned well,’ praised the lawyer, familiarly avoiding the question.

‘I’m not sure what we achieved.’

‘I think we achieved everything, and more, we set out to,’ contradicted Jackson. ‘We had to make some cracks into the wall facing the FBI. Which we did and then some. There’s guys out there thinking hard about personal survival or escape. Or both.’

Which Edwin Pullinger virtually repeated minutes later when he arrived – with Dingley and Benton – answering Parnell’s earlier unanswered question about the reason for the suite.

‘Thank you,’ added the FBI attorney. ‘We made some worried people a lot more worried.’

‘And there’s no reason to stop,’ Jackson said to Parnell. ‘ Now tell them the other intriguing things you’ve come across.’

Parnell channel-hopped, watching prime-time coverage of the conference, surprised at the memory blank he had over quite a number of the questions. His general recollection was of uncertainty – nervousness even – but it wasn’t evident on the screen and he was grateful. He decided against eating again that day, but considered walking along to Giorgio’s – or maybe another Georgetown bar – for a drink, but decided against that, too. He was depressed that nothing had been produced by his division. He paraded all the balancing arguments in his mind – that it had only been months, not years, and that research took years, not months – but it didn’t lift the disappointment. He’d become accustomed to success, too expectant perhaps, after his involvement in the genome project. But that had taken years, he reminded himself – engaged dozens, hundreds even, of scientists on an international level, his involvement coming luckily at the end, when so much mapping had already been achieved, and not at the beginning, with every twist of the double helix to unravel. But everything was overshadowed, totally overwhelmed in fact, by Rebecca’s murder, the unexplained terrorist-flight alert and now this civil claim that he abruptly realized had been virtually thrust upon him, and which he wouldn’t have considered but for the hope of it moving on the FBI investigation. What if it didn’t? What if the murder enquiry remained stalled, months running into years like research ran from months into years? Would it anchor him to Dubette? There was an insidious Big Brother ambience about everything at McLean, with its spider’s-web imagery and inches-thick personal files, and intrusive psychology and silent, empty faces at watchful windows.

The entry bell jarred into the apartment, startling him, and sounded again before he reached the receiver.

‘It’s me,’ announced Beverley Jackson, from the entrance lobby.

‘You didn’t phone?’

‘No. Spur of the moment detour, on my way home.’

‘Something come up?’

‘I’d like to,’ she said, twisting his question. ‘Or are we going to have a conversation like this?’

Parnell pressed the downstairs release and opened his own front door for the arrival of the elevator. When Beverley emerged, she was carrying her briefcase, from which Parnell knew that she really had been on her way home.

He said: ‘I didn’t expect you.’

‘No,’ she said, tossing her coat and case on to a chair, slumping into another.

‘There’s wine.’

‘Maybe a small one.’

‘Something come up?’ he repeated, as he poured for both of them.

Beverley said: ‘Your health,’ and raised her glass.

Parnell raised his in return. There wasn’t the difficulty he’d expected from their next being alone together. He didn’t believe he should feel as glad as he was that they were together alone again.

‘I told personnel I wouldn’t undergo the psychological assessment,’ declared Beverley. ‘Wayne Denny wants to talk to me about it. Deke Pulbrow doesn’t want to take an assessment, either.’

Parnell shrugged. ‘You know how I feel about it.’

‘You’ll support Deke, too?’

‘It’s hardly likely I’d back you and not Deke, is it?’

‘I think Deke’s worried a refusal might go against him, at Dubette.’

‘I thought Barry told you there was a legal right to refuse?’

‘It was a knee-jerk. He needs to check to be sure,’ said the lawyer’s former wife. ‘I’m going to ask him to make sure.’

Would the extent and intrusiveness he’d discovered in the personnel files help their objections? wondered Parnell. He wouldn’t say anything now, but he’d remind Jackson if it became a problem for either of them. ‘You sure it’s just Deke who’s worried?’

‘I told you my only concern.’

‘And I told you I wasn’t worried about it.’

A separation of silence came down between them. Hurrying to fill it, Beverley said: ‘You’re becoming quite the star television performer.’

‘Not from choice,’ said Parnell.

‘What are you going to do with ten million dollars?’

‘Pay your ex-husband’s bill,’ said Parnell, glad of the well-rehearsed joke. ‘We had lunch at your favourite midtown restaurant today. I told him we’d eaten there.’

‘Who paid?’

‘He did.’

‘It’ll go on your bill. I told you he knew – not about the restaurant but that we’d been out a couple of times.’

It was best they confront it, Parnell supposed. ‘He said you’d only ever lied to each other once.’

‘That’s off-limits,’ she refused, instantly.

‘OK,’ accepted Parnell, just as quickly. ‘We talked about it, you and I being seen together. He said it wouldn’t play well if it became public – talked about losing the sympathy vote.’

Beverley let more silence build up, but with a purpose. Looking very directly at him, she said: ‘Are we going to risk being seen together?’

‘I feel a total shit,’ Parnell confessed, needing to purge himself, raising his hand to just beneath his chin. ‘I’ve got guilt up to here.’

‘You and me both,’ she said. ‘What are we going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Parnell, another admission he didn’t like making.

‘I don’t want to jeopardize anything. Cause any embarrassment. Or disrespect to Rebecca.’

‘You and me both,’ echoed Parnell. ‘Although I don’t actually give a damn about any ten-million-dollar court case.’

‘You tell me you don’t care about ten million bucks, I’ll try to believe you, but it won’t be easy.’

She was trying hard, Parnell acknowledged. He said: ‘We’re avoiding the question.’

‘Let’s take everything very slowly,’ suggested Beverley. ‘We’re talking like people with a secret, and there’s nothing to be secretive about! At the moment it’s no more than we like being with each other and seem to understand each other’s jokes, although we could possibly do with more of those.’

‘If there was more to laugh about,’ said Parnell.

‘You like big band, Glen Miller music?’

‘I could find out.’

‘There’s a concert at the Kennedy Centre at the weekend.’

‘I’ll get tickets.’

‘I already got them.’

‘You always this forthright?’ So much for excuses about spur-of-the-moment detours. And his undertaking – and understanding – with Barry Jackson.

‘Not always. I figured you already had a lot to do.’

‘You want more wine?’

Beverley shook her head, rising from the chair. ‘I’m driving. And I’m going now. Like I said, everything nice and slow.’

The duty private investigator from the agency – hired cash in advance, under a false name and using an equally anonymous cut-out procedure – let two cars come comfortably between him and Beverley Jackson for the short ride to Dupont Circle. The light had been bad but the man was sure he’d managed at least two identifiable photographs of her leaving Parnell’s apartment building.

When Parnell got to McLean the following day, there was a waiting memorandum that the half-yearly seminar had, without any given reason, been postponed until after the forthcoming annual stockholders’ meeting. It was to be the first of several memos he received that day.