Hard News (7 page)

Megler sat back in a thoughtful pose. He studied the grimy ceiling. The window was open a crack and exhaust-scented April air wafted through the space and riffled stacks of paper. “The district attorney’s case was that Boggs was in Manhattan, just driving through from, I don’t know, up-state someplace. Some witness said Boggs was standing on the sidewalk talking with Hopper and then they got into a fight over something. Hopper’d just gotten home from work and had just pulled into the courtyard of his building on the Upper West Side. The prosecutor speculated it was a traffic dispute.”

Rune’s eyes made a sardonic circuit of the room. “Traffic? But he was on the sidewalk, you said.” “Maybe he parked after Hopper cut him off and got out of the car. I don’t know.” “But-“ “Hey, you asked what the assistant district attorney said. I’m telling you. I’m trying

to be helpful. Am I being helpful?” “Helpful,” Rune said. “What was Randy’s story?” “Part of the problem was that he
had
a story.” “Huh?” “I tell all my clients, if you’re arrested don’t take the stand. Under any

circumstances. The jury can’t the judge tells them this - the jury can’t draw any conclusions from the defendant’s not taking the stand. But Randy - against my advice, I wanta point out - did. If you do that the prosecutor can introduce evidence of prior convictions for the purpose of attacking your honesty. Only that - not to prove you have a criminal tendency. Just to show that you might lie. But what does the jury hear? Fuck credibility - all they hear is his string of arrests for petty crimes. Next thing you know, Boggs, who’s really a pretty decent guy who’s had some bad luck, is sounding like Hitler. He’s got a petty larceny bust in Ohio, some juvie bullshit down in Florida, GTA in-“ “What’s that?” “Grand theft auto. So suddenly, the ADA’S making him sound like he’s head of the

Gambino family. He-“ “Where was the gun?” “Let me finish, willya? He said he was with this guy picked him up hitchhiking, a guy who was into some kind of credit card scam. This guy goes to buy some hot plastic and Boggs is waiting in the car. He hears a shot up the street. He gets out of the car. He sees Hopper lying there, dead. He turns and runs smack into a police car.” “He had the gun?” “The gun was off a ways, in some bushes. No prints but they traced it to a theft in

Miami about a year before the killing. Boggs had spent time in Miami.” “Who was this other guy?” “Boggs didn’t know. He was hitchhiking along the Taconic and the man picked him

up. They drove into the city together.” “Good,” Rune said. “A witness. Excellent. Did you find him?” Megler looked at her as if enthusiasm and the flu were pretty much the same thing. “Yeah, right. Even if he’s real, which he isn’t, a guy who’s involved in a credit card boost’s gonna come forward and testify? I don’t think so, honey?” “Did Randy describe him?” “Not very well. All he said was his name was Jimmy. Was a big guy. But it was late,

it was dark, et cetera, et cetera.” “You don’t believe him?” “Believe, not believe - what difference does it make?” “Any other witnesses?” “Good question. You want to go to law school?” If you’re the end product I don’t think you want to hear my answer, Megler. She

motioned for him to continue. The lawyer said, “That was the big problem. What fucked him - excuse me, what did him in was this witness. The cops found someone in the building who described Boggs and then later she IDed him in a lineup. She saw him pull out a gun and ice Hopper.” “Ouch.” “Yeah, ouch.” “What was the name?” “How would I know?” Megler opened a file cabinet and retrieved a thick stack of paper. He tossed it on the desk. Pepsi cans shook and dust rose. “It’s in there someplace. You can have it, you want.” “What is it?” “The trial transcript. I ordered it as a matter of course but Boggs didn’t want to

appeal so I just filed it.” “He didn’t want to appeal?” “He kept claiming he was innocent but he said he wanted to get the clock running.

Get his sentence over with and get on with his life.” Rune said, “I saw in the story that the conviction was for manslaughter.” “The jury convicted on manslaughter one. He showed reckless disregard for human life. Got sentenced to fifteen years. He’s served almost three. He’ll be eligible for parole in two. And he’ll probably get it. I hear he’s a good boy.” “What do you think?” “About what?” “Is he one of your guilty clients?” “Of course. The old I-was-just-hitchhiking story. You hear it all the time. There’s always a mysterious driver or girl or hit man or somebody who pulled the trigger and then disappears. Bullshit is what it is. Yeah, Boggs is guilty. I can read them all.” “But if I found new evidence-“ “I’ve heard this before.” “No, really. He wrote me a letter. He said the police dropped the ball on the

investigation. They found the witnesses they wanted and didn’t look any further.” Megler snorted cynically. “Look, in New York it’s almost impossible to get a

conviction overturned because of new evidence.” He squinted, recalling the law. “It’s got to be the kind of evidence that would’ve changed the outcome of the case in the first place and, even then, you have to be able to show you made diligent efforts to find the evidence at the time of the trial.” “But if I do find something would you handle the case?” “Me?” He laughed. “I’m available. But you’re talking a lot of hours. I bill at two

twenty per. And the state ain’t picking up
this
tab.” “But I really think he’s innocent.” “So you say. Come up with fifteen, twenty thousand for a retainer, I’ll talk to you.” “I was hoping you’d do it for free.” Megler laughed again. Since he had no belly, it seemed to be his bones that were jiggling under the slick polyester skin of his shirt. “Free? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that word.” For the first time in her life Rune had an assistant. Bradford Simpson volunteered to help her. She suspected he was motivated partly by his desire to go out with her - though she couldn’t for the life of her guess why he’d want her and not some beautiful debutante who was tall and blonde (two of her least-favorite adjectives when applied to other women). On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly asked her out again after the first rejection and she supposed that his reappearance had more to do with journalistic crusading than romance. “What can I do to help?” he’d asked. And she’d gotten a little flustered, since she didn’t have a clue - never having had

anyone work for her. “Hmm, let me think.” He’d offered, “How about if I dig through the archives for information about

Hopper?” “That sounds good,” she’d said. He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk

as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished. “Did you know Lance Hopper?” she asked him. “Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here.

But I worked for him once or twice.”
“You
worked for the head of Network News?” “Well, I wasn’t exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He’s the one who started the intern program. I think he would’ve made a good professor.” Bradford fell quiet for a moment. “He did a lot for me, for all of us interns.” Rune broke the somber spell by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll pay him back.” Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly. She said, “We’re going to find who really killed him.” 8 What’s that? Rune opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling of her houseboat’s bedroom, watching the ripples of the morning sun reflecting onto the off-white paint. She turned her head, squinting. What’s wrong? She felt the boat gently rocking in the Hudson, water lapping against the hull. Heard the baritone grind of a boat engine that seemed near but was probably two hundred yards away- she’d learned how noise carries on the water. The sound of rush-hour traffic too. So what was it? What was missing? What wasn’t here that ought to be? The tie-dye sheet had tangled around her feet, a percale Gordian knot. Her white Joy of Movement T-shirt had ridden up to her neck and her hair was in her face. Rune was a restless sleeper. She untangled her feet and pulled the shirt down. She brushed a crescent of pizza crust out of the bed and sat upright.

Well, part of it was the silence - a special kind of silence, the sort that comes from the
absence
of a human being. Rune realized that Claire was gone. The young woman always had her Walkman plugged in by nine A.M. Even upstairs, in the houseboat’s bedroom, Rune usually could hear the raspy chunk of decibels murdering Claire’s ears. But today, nothing. Rune went into the white-enameled head, thinking: Maybe she got up early to go shopping. But no, none of her stores - clothing and cosmetics - opened before ten or eleven. Which meant that maybe she’d already moved up to Boston! Which is exactly what happened. Rune, downstairs, stood in the middle of the living room and read the note Claire had left. As she scanned the words she grinned like a kid on Christmas Eve. Excellent! she thought. Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . The note was all about how Claire appreciated (spelled wrong) everything Rune had done for her in the past couple of weeks (six and a half) even though she was a moody bitch a lot but that was good

because if she could live with her she could live with anybody (Rune, trying to figure v-ho the
shes
were and not liking the conclusion).

Claire explained that she was going home to her mother’s in Boston, like she’d said, and how she was going to think about going back to school. She spent a long paragraph, the last one, talking about how happy she was that Rune and Courtney were such good friends and how they’d gotten along so well becauseThe smile vanished. she knew Rune would take good care of the girl. Oh, shit . . . Rune ran into the small storeroom in the bow of the boat, the room that Claire and

Courtney had shared. Goddamm it! The little girl was lying, asleep, on top of Claire’s futon, clutching a mutant stuffed animal that might, at one time, have been a rabbit.

Son of a bitch. Claire, how could you? Rune did a fast survey. The room was pretty much cleared out. Claire had taken her clothes and jewelry and whatever other objects had filled the dust-free squares and circles and trapezoids on the top of the dresser.

Everything, gone - except for Courtney’s toys and clothes and a poster of the Jackson 5 that Claire had kept, waiting for it to become chic enough to put up again. Son of aRune ran outside to find the letter again. bitch!

The closing paragraph of the letter said only that she hoped to be back to pick up

Courtney sometime and to give her the home she needed and deserved.
Sometime?
Rune was sweating. She actually felt her scalp prickle. Her fingers left stains on the

paper. No address. No phone number. She didn’t even remember Claire’s real last name -the girl kept trying on stage names

for the day when she became a professional model. Rune went back to the room and searched carefully. The only clue she found was a bra under the bed with initials penned on the side - C.S. But Rune thought it looked a little small for Claire and remembered that one of her boyfriends had been a transvestite.

Hopeless, Rune sat down in the middle of the room and picked up a toy, a wooden penguin on a stick. His broad plastic feet were on wheels. She ran him back and forth, the webbed feet slapping on the wooden deck. I don’t want to be a mother. Claire . . . Slap, slap, slap.

The jogging penguin woke up Courtney. Rune sat down on the futon, kissed the girl’s cheek. “Honey, did you talk to your

mommy this morning?” “Uh-huh.” The little girl rubbed her eyes. Oh, they’re so damn cute when they do that. Come on,

kid, get ugly. “Did she say where she was going?” “Uh-huh. Can I have some juice?” “Honey, did your mother say where she was going?” “Bawden.” “Boston, I know. But where?” “Uh-huh. Juice?” “Sure. We’ll get some Ocean Spray in a minute. Where in Boston?” “Grandma’s house.” “Where is your grandmother’s house?” “Bowden. I want some juice.” “Honey, what’s your mother’s name?” “Mommy.” The little girl started to squirm. “No, I mean her last name?” “Mommy. I want some juice!” Rune said, “Did she say anything before she left?” Courtney stood up in bed, pulled away from Rune. “Zoo.” “The zoo?” “She said you’d take me to the zoo.” “That’s what your mommy said?” “Uh-huh. I want juice!” “Did she say how long she’d be gone?” Courtney frowned for a moment then extended her arms as wide as they’d go. She

said, “Long, long time.” Rune picked up the stuffed rabbit. Oh, shit. Courtney stuck her lower lip out threateningly and said, “Juice.” Sam Healy was in his late thirties, over six feet tall and lean. His thinning hair was combed straight back and his moustache drooped over the corners of his mouth. He resembled a cowboy, at least when he was wearing what he now wore - a plaid shirt, jeans and black boots. His profession: a detective with the NYPD Bomb Squad.

They sat in Rune’s houseboat, where he spent an occasional night, and she leaned forward, listening to him as intensely as if he were telling a rookie how to dismantle a C4 demolition charge. She asked, “How often should I feed her?” Healy said, “You’re too nervous about this, Rune. Three times a day’ll work fine.” “How about medicine?” Rune’s palms were glistening with sweat. “Should she be

taking medicine?” “Well, is she sick?” “No.” “Then why would she need medicine?” Rune said, “She’s a baby. I thought you always gave medicine to babies.” “Not if she’s not sick.” Rune gazed out over the river. “Oh, Sam, it was fun playing with her and reading to

her, but this - this is, like, really, really serious.” “They’re very resilient.” “Oh, God. What if she falls?” she asked, panicked. Healy sighed. “Pick her up. Comfort her. Dust her off.” “I’m not ready for this, Sam. I can’t be a mother. I’m trying to do my story. I’m . . .

Oh, God, does she wear diapers?” “Ask her.” “I can’t ask her. I’d be embarrassed.” “She’s, what? About three? She’s probably toilet-trained. If not, you should start

pretty soon.” “Me? No way. Forget about it.” “Rune, kids are wonderful. When you and Adam and I go out we have a great time.” “But he’s
your
son. That’s different. I don’t want one of my own. I’m too young to