The Means Page 9

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Or I’ll step in and end it. Right?”

  “Okay.”

  Connor’s energy is manic. He makes his point then races on leaving no room for questions or conversation. He turns to Charlie. “How much time do you need to set up?”

  “Ten more minutes.”

  “Okay. We start in ten.” He leaves the room without looking at Samantha again.

  There are two other men in the room, about thirty years old and dressed business casual. Neither speaks and both stand next to the door Connor just went through. Samantha assumes they’re security who work for Connor or Meadow. When Charlie finishes he gives them a thumbs-up and one of them goes through the door.

  Five minutes later Connor walks out and is holding hands with Meadow Jones. His energy now is tender and slow and he delivers her to the chair the way a man will deliver a birthday cake so the candles don’t blow out.

  Meadow has makeup that is already streaked with tears. Her black hair is pulled back in a ponytail so she looks neither messy nor glamorous. She has dainty features and the petite body of Audrey Hepburn that belongs in a gown but now she’s in a T-shirt and jeans.

  Samantha stands and takes Meadow’s hand. “I’m Samantha Davis. I’m sorry you’re going through all this.” She regrets the apology right away. For all she knows, Meadow is a murderer, but the situation is sympathetic.

  Meadow nods her thanks like an ill person who doesn’t have the strength for voice.

  Connor steps back to the wall out of the camera shot. “You have ten minutes, Sam. Let’s get started while we still can.”

  She looks to Connor then Charlie then back to Meadow. She wants to do a tougher interview but the situation has obliterated any chance of that. “Meadow, I’m going to ask you a couple questions. Do the best you can.”

  Meadow nods again. Samantha signals Charlie to roll tape.

  “We’re here for an exclusive interview with Meadow Jones. The investigation into the death of Hugh Brooks is still unfolding and now we have the opportunity to hear directly from Meadow Jones. Meadow, what happened during that night and the early morning hours leading up to Hugh’s death?”

  Meadow puts her hands to her face and takes a deep breath that makes her shoulders rise and fall. “It was a great day. We were having so much fun, surrounded by friends. We were out by the pool, back in the cabana, out to the beach for a swim in the ocean a few times.” She stops because she can’t both talk and keep from sobbing at the same time. The way her eyes are shaped, the tears drop from the outside corners of her eyes rather than the inside. She starts again. “Later in the evening we were pretty drunk. You know, we’d been drinking in the sun all day. Not a crazy amount but a few and the sun takes its toll. We went back to the cabana, ordered some food. The crowd with us started to change a little. Some of our friends brought their friends, which was cool. We expected that, but now we didn’t know everyone personally. Everyone there was supposed to know someone but there was nobody who could know every­one, so there was no way to make sure a perfect stranger didn’t make his way in. Anyone at the hotel could walk right by our cabana.” She holds up her hands to show how outrageous she finds this in retrospect.

  She moves her hands back to her eyes to wipe tears. “Anyway, we kept partying between the cabana and the pool bar ’til pretty late. I don’t know the exact time but somewhere around one a.m. I crashed back at the cabana. I woke up around four thirty a.m. and there was a text from some friends at a club. Hugh was the only one in the cabana that I saw and he was asleep. I shook his shoulder a few times but he was pretty drunk and he didn’t wake up but he was fine. He was fine!” The second fine is interrupted by a sob and she drops her head. She shakes it off. “I left for the club. I haven’t been back to the cabana since. I haven’t seen Hugh since.”

  Samantha nods. She lets the pause happen. “How are you holding up?”

  Meadow starts to answer a few times but instead each time sucks a breath like a diver coming up for air. “Oh, I can’t believe he’s gone from me. He’s really gone. It doesn’t seem real to me and I hope it will be just some dream and I’ll see him tomorrow.” More tears. “Emotionally, I’m a mess. Intellectually, I know he’s gone. Hugh’s all that matters to me and I can’t get him back. I’d like to go home where I can feel supported and in familiar surroundings but if there’s anything I can do to help, I want to stay here. Maybe there’s something I saw or heard that might mean something to the police. If I can help them solve this I want to do it. I want to do that for Hugh.”

  Samantha nods. “Has Hugh ever . . .”

  “That’s all,” says Connor and he moves to Charlie to cut off the camera first. The interview is over.

  15

  The segment gets played in full during the eight, nine, and ten p.m. broadcasts. It gets posted to the Internet and by midnight has more than six millions views. For days journalists have recognized this as Samantha’s story. Now the nation does too.

  Three days later Samantha boards a flight back to New York. She had flown to Miami in coach and now takes her seat in Delta first class. She had nothing to do with booking the ticket, it’s what UBS booked for her. Ken Harper wants to have a meeting.

  There’s been nothing new in the Hugh Brooks murder investigation. No arrests, no suspects, nobody’s talking.

  Samantha and Ken have developed a relationship that’s different from boss and employee. It’s more like coach and player. He’s a believer in her talent and has picked her as the one he wants to succeed. He gives her advice and help when he can. In turn, she treats him as a friend but also with the respect an employee should have.

  She spends an hour at her desk in New York for the first time in a week and she returns as many personal emails and calls as she can get through. At four p.m. she gets a text message from Ken. She wonders how many of the other on-air talent have a texting relationship with him. It’s a good thing for her.

  Meet me at Red in one hour. South Street Seaport.

  She’s never been to Red and only one time in her life has she been to South Street Seaport. She finishes her emails, packs up, and takes the elevator down. On the sidewalk she types back a text.

  South Street Seaport?

  Her phone beeps with a return text.

  No media types and only a few wall street douche bags.

  She knows she’ll need to be on the east side so she starts walking to Grand Central.

  Address? How do I get there?

  He returns.

  19 fulton. 4/5 train to fulton then walk east. Or pay $20 for a cab you cheapskate.

  She laughs but thinks two fifty is less than twenty and she has a mortgage to keep up. She keeps walking in the direction of Grand Central.

  This is a hike. You better not bore me.

  Amused by herself she takes the steps down to the train as the phone beeps again.

  Trust me.

  She climbs the stairs of the Fulton Street stop and walks east toward the river. In front of Red, Fulton Street is cobblestone and is pedestrian only. In the summer it’s more like a city park and the restaurants and bars have outdoor seating, but it’s too cold for that now.

  It’s 4:30 p.m. and a few finance-looking types in suits have come down from their high-rise buildings that loom on the western and southern perimeter and they look ready for drinking.

  Samantha walks in. There are fewer than a dozen people in Red and it’s early enough that all the furniture is in place like a table setting no one has touched. There’s a bar running the length of the wall with a row of high bar stools set at a forty-five-degree angle to the bar. Then there’s a single row of two-top tables then a row of booths. She sees Ken sitting in the farthest booth and facing the entrance. He acknowledges her with a closed-lip smile.

  “This is very cloak-and-dagger. Why not meet in your office?”

>   “This is more fun. Besides, I don’t want people to think I’m pushing for you or promoting you.”

  “We can explain your office. If anyone sees us here, that ship has sailed.”

  “Nobody’s going to see us here. People may recognize you but not me. I just don’t want Mueller to know we met. I’ll explain why.”

  Samantha nods. She would like to know why.

  “The presidential election is a ways off, but we’re revamping our politics team and I want to put you in the running for White House correspondent.”

  “That’s great, thank you.” This would be the first big step forward.

  Ken continues. “Our viewers know you and like you. We just did some polling. A couple times a year we get an outside polling firm to test the likability of our on-air talent. You’re near the top.”

  “Does this mean a raise?”

  “Just be glad they like you. You haven’t done much politics but you have credibility. People know you’re smart. Best of all you’re a beautiful woman who doesn’t alienate female viewers. We specifically tested that. It’s a rare thing.”

  “Ken, I’m in. I’d love the opportunity. Wherever you can use me.”

  “The Brooks story is great for you and you should stay on it. I’m going to start working you into more politics. Some sit-down interviews with the GOP candidates as they emerge, work you into the panel on the politics shows. You’ll do some substitute anchoring on politics shows. I’ll put you on the right track for that position and you need to put yourself on that track as well. Start working that beat.”

  Samantha doesn’t want to say anything because she knows whatever she says will reveal too much, but her silence says enough.

  “Your star is already rising.” He lifts his beer. “America wants to see more.”

  “Ken, thank you for believing in me.”

  “Look, it’s not all going to be my decision. It’s David’s but he likes you and there’s no way he isn’t already considering this. If I push him, it’ll happen but I don’t want him to think you and I are in cahoots.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll stay in New York for now. Within a couple months I’ll have you move to the DC bureau full-time. You’ll need to relocate. You okay with that?”

  “Say the word.”

  16

  The following Monday Samantha’s back in Delta first class to Miami. The police have nothing new, but two of Meadow’s friends who met Meadow at the nightclub the night of the murder have agreed to talk with the media. It’s being handled through Connor Marks, who has given Samantha the first interview.

  They’re set to meet at nine a.m. Tuesday so Samantha spends Monday night at the Delano. Maybe with her increased celebrity on the case, someone new will come forward willing to talk.

  From Collins Avenue she walks up the hotel drive to the valet at the entrance. The hotel employees all recognize her and the word of her arrival moves into the hotel faster than she can. She walks past the sushi bar and the white drapes. She decides to find a place to sit that is out of the way so if anyone wants to speak with her, they can do so without being in full view.

  She gets as far as the pool table at the end of the lobby and she sees the cop who introduced her to Connor as he’s coming in from the pool side of the hotel. When he sees Samantha he scoffs and turns back to go outside. She smiles and waves but only in time to be to his back. As soon as he’s out of sight he’s there again. He’s changed whatever was on his mind and he’s walking to her fast and determined.

  He’s big and unhappy and she can’t help herself from taking a step back.

  “You got played, little lady.” He wags a finger at her. It looks like a crooked banana.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You got played. I knew he was good, I just didn’t know how stupid you are. Any journalistic standards? At all?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Let’s see. In your first report Connor got you to say that she’s cooperating with authorities. I’d say that’s a generous description of her behavior. He even got you to put out the bullshit narrative that she passed a polygraph. Then for your finale, you set up a biased, sympathetic forum for a scripted statement by a Hollywood actress. There aren’t any real questions. There’s no arrest so there’s no prosecutor. There’s only one side that can talk about her and that’s her. You gave Connor everything he wanted and he didn’t even have to pay you.”

  Samantha’s instinct is defensive under this attack but part of her knows he’s making sense. She also sees the cop has extra energy behind his anger because he feels his introduction of Samantha and Connor makes him complicit in what eventually embarrassed the police. “If she wanted to talk to the media, she was going to talk to the media whether it was with me or someone else.”

  “Not like that. UBS isn’t a Meadow Jones PR show. It’s called journalism, Samantha. With a big J.” He walks off and straightens his shirt like he just won a street fight.

  The crowd around the pool table is staring but Samantha doesn’t notice. She’s replaying her interview with Meadow Jones. Everything from three p.m. on that day happened in such a rush that it was impossible to get the interview done any other way. Maybe it had nothing to do with Meadow Jones being medicated and fragile. Maybe it was just the media strategy that Connor created. Maybe Katie Couric would never have agreed to the terms Connor demanded. Maybe the polygraph story was bullshit.

  17

  At eight a.m. Tuesday morning, Samantha and Charlie make the same drive to the house on Fisher Island, this time in Charlie’s personal van. It’s the real kind of van that house painters and serial killers use. It’s more than twenty years old with rust through the floorboards and a dying engine. Charlie doesn’t even attempt man-driving. They pull into the garage just as before and Connor appears just as before and he takes Samantha’s arm just as before but this time she yanks him back off his balance.

  “Charlie, I’ll meet you inside. I need to talk to Connor first.”

  Connor and Charlie exchange looks then Charlie exits. The door to the house closes and Connor says, “Yes?”

  “You fucking used me!” It feels good for Samantha to let loose some rage. She’s spent so much time trying to be nonconfrontational as a new journalist after a career of confrontation as a lawyer.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For starters, the polygraph. Was that bullshit?”

  “No.”

  “Then give it to me. I want to see the results.”

  “It was a human polygraph. Former CIA interrogators who are skilled at facial pattern recognition. These guys line up with the poly machine almost a hundred percent of the time. They have a consulting company that’s real. The test is real.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “I’ll have to clear if you can report it, but I’ll let you look at the report if it makes you feel better.”

  “I will not be railroaded. I’m not going to be ushered through here like your employee and turn out a PR piece for Meadow. I’ll interview your little twits in there but I’ll ask whatever questions I want or you can go fuck yourself.”

  Connor smiles. He’s back to the humorous calm he had when they first met. “Hold on a second. Who became America’s favorite journalist this past week? Right now your network bosses are figuring out how many millions they need to pay on your next contract to keep you. Have you talked with your agent?”

  “You used me. Admit it.”

  “Of course I did. And you used me.”

  “Asshole.”

  Connor likes Samantha. He doesn’t like that she’s upset but he feels he’s in the right and that she’s naïve on this point. “Samantha, everything that happened is aboveboard. Not only is everything that we’ve done legal, but there’s nothing we’ve done that would even interfere with the legal process! If the
y find evidence to charge her, they’ll charge. What I’m offering my client is reputational services. That’s all. If she’s not guilty, why should she be dragged through the mud in public?”

  She notes that he said not guilty rather than innocent but doesn’t care about that issue now. “I’m not talking about the legal process, you shit. I’m talking about journalism. You helped me break the story but you set me up to look like a novice in order to do it. That’s not how I want to succeed in this business.”

  Connor sighs. Maybe not naïve. Just overly principled. “Okay. Guilty.”

  Samantha’s shoulders drop a few inches and she feels relief. Nothing’s changed other than the fact that he now understands her point.

  Connor takes a step back and he squints at her. Then he starts to pace in front of her, looking at his shoes as he walks back and forth. He stops and puts his hands to his hips. “Let me make it up to you.”

  “Christ, Connor, what now?”

  “No, I’m serious. This has nothing to do with Meadow.” He’s still calm but there’s no humor. She thinks he looks angry.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going to give you a name. It’s the name of a woman who lives in Palm Beach Gardens. She’s a retired waitress and I’ll give you her address.”

  “Why would I want to talk with a retired waitress in Palm Beach Gardens?”

  “Because she has a story to tell.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s something I fixed a long time ago.” She expects a wink after a remark like that but his demeanor is still angry and flat.

  “I need something more if I’m going to go all the way up there.”

  “No, you don’t. Not if you trust me at all.” He doesn’t give her time to address this. “Tell her you know she’s got a story for you. Tell her that her boy is eighteen now and it’s time. If you need to do it, tell her you want to hear about Mitch.”