The Justice Game

3

Jamison kept the gun pointed at Rachel, his eyes darting from her to Lisa to the large boom television camera capturing everything. “I’m Larry Jamison,” he said, stealing a glance at the camera. “The report you’ve seen about me is a total crock. And that’s because this station, WDXR, cares more about ratings than truth.”

He took a half step toward Rachel. Not close enough for her to reach him but close enough so she could smell the body odor from the half-moons of sweat under his armpits and the lines of moisture just under his chest that plastered his shirt to his body.

“Who are your anonymous sources?” he asked Rachel.

She hesitated-a journalist’s instinct to protect her sources.

“Tell me!” Jamison yelled, raising the gun over his head as if he might step forward and pistol-whip her again.

“Nysa Polides and Tereza Yankov.”

“Nysa. Tereza.” Jamison spit the words toward Rachel. “Did you know they asked me if they could be part of my Web site? Did you know they planned to blackmail me all along?”

Rachel quickly processed the allegations. The women had seemed so reliable. Innocent. Naive.

Jamison’s face darkened, the veins on his neck rising to the surface. “They wanted a thousand bucks a week or they would go to the media with their lies. A thousand a week! Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”

He spun toward Lisa. “Your network let them conceal their identities? You’re responsible for this too! Nobody checked them out!”

Lisa shook her head quickly, her eyes wide with fright. Jamison took a few steps in her direction until he was close enough to touch her. He was breathing hard, nearly hyperventilating, his eyes wild with hate. Lisa trembled, looked up at him, then at the studio door, then back to Jamison.

Rachel glanced at the back door too. Where’s the SWAT team? How much time can they possibly need?

Jamison pressed the barrel of his gun against Lisa’s temple. She closed her eyes, sobbing. He looked over his shoulder at Rachel. “You’d better apologize to your viewers. This time, make it good.”

Oh, God, don’t let him shoot. “I’m so sorry,” Rachel said quickly. “Don’t shoot her. Please. This report is mine, not hers. She had nothing to do with it.”

Jamison smiled thinly and leaned over so he was in Lisa’s face. “Is she guilty?” he asked. “Do you agree that it’s her fault?”

Lisa shuddered. Her words were hard to decipher, punctuated by sobs: “She… made… a… mistake.”

“I say she’s guilty,” Jamison replied, standing to his full height, the gun still pressed against Lisa’s temple. “What do you say?”

“Ask her. Not… me.”

He pivoted just as the studio door blew open and everything happened at once. Smoke bombs exploding, Jamison squeezing off as many shots as possible in Rachel’s direction, his own body convulsing from SWAT team bullets, Rachel diving for the floor, trying to roll as she fell, turning her back to protect the innocent life in her womb.

She felt something slice her shoulder, a blow to her back, and another bullet rip into the base of her skull.

A millisecond of images followed-her husband, the new life growing inside her. For the tiniest fraction of a second she reached out for them, but then they exploded into a blinding flash of light.

She was gone before she could even say good-bye.