Guilty Minds

20

While I waited for Dorothy to throw on some clothes, I went online to SlanderSheet.com. The piece was the first thing that came up. In huge red type against a stark white background were the words:

Above the headline was an unfortunate headshot of Jeremiah Claflin, in black judicial robe and tie, smiling like a cat in catnip.

I clicked on the headline. A short article came up, Mandy Seeger’s byline right at the top. All around it were ads with photos of women in bikinis with huge boobs. Atop the article was another headline:

Here was another picture of Claflin, this one in casual attire, getting out of a car. Next to that was a picture of Heidi taken from the Lily Schuyler website.

The piece began:

Below the article were headlines about one of the Kardashians, and one about Angelina Jolie, and one about Britney Spears, and a report on Beyoncé buying “$312,000 diamond shoes.”

Then Dorothy knocked on my door and we were off.

In the cab, Dorothy checked Drudge Report and Gawker and Perez Hilton, TMZ and RadarOnline.com, and Celebitchy. All the gossip websites she could think of. The Claflin story hadn’t appeared on any other website yet. But it was early. The piece had just gone up.

“Check this out,” she said, handing me her phone. It was the most viewed column on SlanderSheet.com. Number 1 was “SUPREME COURT JUSTICE IN CALL GIRL SCANDAL.”

It wasn’t even seven in the morning.

“It’s only a matter of minutes before Drudge links to this story,” she said. “Or Wonkette. Then it’s going to blow up big-time.”

“Not if I can help it,” I said.

Fifteen minutes later we arrived at Shays Abbott Burnham’s DC offices, on M Street near where it crossed New Hampshire Avenue. Gideon met us in the law firm’s reception area. He was dressed in khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, open at the neck. His shirt looked crisp and unwrinkled, as if he’d just put it on.

But in contrast to his fresh clothes, he looked depleted and exhausted. Although I barely knew him, I could see the strain he was under. It showed in the deep lines creasing his face, the prominent bags under his eyes, the cluster of wrinkles between his brows. His large eyes glistened, seemingly with tears, but probably from exhaustion.

The overhead fluorescents were off, but in the dim light I could see that the DC headquarters of Shays Abbott were decorated in the same hard white glossy surfaces as the Boston offices — the white stone floors polished like glass, the frosted glass walls, the sharp-edged white leather sofas.

Dorothy seemed a little flustered to meet Gideon Parnell. Even at a time of urgency, this was a fan girl moment for her. She tried not to show how thrilled she was to shake his hand, to be in the presence of such a historic figure. But she couldn’t hide it from me. I had never seen her smile so much and act so deferential. It was as if Jesus Christ himself had come to visit.

Gideon was gracious but terse, and obviously distracted. He led us through a maze of hallways to his office.

“What happened to the forty-eight hours?” I asked.

“Just minutes before the story was posted,” Gideon said, “I received an e-mail from the editor, Julian Gunn, saying that they believed they were in imminent danger of being scooped by a competitor, so they had to run it immediately.”

“That’s a lie,” Dorothy said. “They saw how hard we were pushing back and they wanted to get it out before we disproved it.”

“No,” I said. “That’s not the reason. If they thought we were really going to prove it false, they wouldn’t risk running it. Too damaging to their reputation.”

“We disagree,” Dorothy said to Gideon.

It was out of character for her to contradict me in a meeting with a client. It was a little unprofessional. Not that I cared, particularly. I cut her some slack; she wasn’t herself; she was in the presence of greatness.

“What about the interview with Mandy Seeger this morning?” I asked.

“I canceled it. They broke their side of the deal.”

“I can’t help but wonder whether they ran it earlier because I was rattling the cage,” I said, and Gideon said nothing.

His office looked exactly as I’d expected: spacious, classical, fastidiously neat. Decorated to impress, for public display. There was a long mahogany conference table. A bottle of Old Overholt rye on a shelf. Two of the walls were ego walls, walls of fame, crowded with photographs of Gideon with a litany of the great and the powerful and the famous. My eye was caught by a photo of him in a golf cart with Barack Obama and Bill Clinton.

His assistant, a plain middle-aged blond woman named Rose, who must have come into work early, offered us coffee. It was a little weak, but it did the job.

“We need to talk,” he said.