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  Charley was silent for several minutes, apparently hoping that Liv would just disappear. Finally, he sighed and said “I don’t know any Art. And even if I did, I never knew who he was, never saw him when he wasn’t in the Stirrup.”

  “Did he say where he lived or worked? Anything? Married?” Charley shook his head.

  Liv sighed, got up. “I guess I’ll see you at the trial,” she said. “Look, I’m going to plead diminished responsibility, even though that probably won’t fly. Lifetime of poverty, beat up by your Dad…”

  “He never did that!”

  “Never had a Dad,…”

  Charley rose from his chair. “Leave my goddamn life alone!” he shouted, “And especially my Dad! I don’t want to hear about it and I don’t want anyone else to hear about it either. I’ve had a shitty life and I’m a shitty creep. – Go plead that!” He sat down, deflated, and turned away.

  Liv left. It occurred to her she’d accused Charley of having the same childhood she’d had. Takes one, she thought.

  About the same time Liv was in the Grantwood County jail speaking with Charley for the second time, Sebastian George was sitting at his own kitchen table in a newly gentrified part of Northeast D.C., assessing his likelihood of arrest and even survival. He wasn’t really concerned Charley might have mentioned an “Art,” or even that Art been seen at the Stirrup with Charley. He’d been ultra-careful, left no evidence, couldn’t be traced.

  Charley could ID him by sight as Art, as could a number of hangers-out at the Stirrup; but again there was no evidence Art had done anything wrong, just Charley’s word. And Charley would never talk, because of the threat on his daughter’s life. And George would never go near the Stirrup Bar and Grill again, not that he’d ever wanted to be there in the first place.

  His real worry was if the prosecutor would believe Charley was a hit man in a conspiracy. His plan (Sybille Haskin’s plan, whatever it was) would be endangered if anyone thought Charley had been paid to make the hit. That would set off a major investigation. George didn’t know what kind of damage an investigation would do to Haskin, or why; but she’d been very up-front about it: one guy, one crime, acted alone, that’s it.

  His hope, now, was that the prosecutor would understand he had a stronger case if were to argue Charley had acted alone. A stronger case for the death penalty, that is, or life imprisonment. So the possibility of a conspiracy might never come up in the trial. George could only hope.

  He took another sip of his favorite cocktail, one he’d invented but never admitted having a taste for: bourbon and lemonade. Occasionally, he’d made up fanciful names for that combination, something that could be ordered at a bar. “I’ll have the Kentucky Squeeze, please,” or “the Pucker-Upper,” or something like that. If life hands you lemons, get drunk.

  And another sip. When he had a buzz on he was more apt to be self-critical than he was when sober. Confessing to his own inner bartender, he called it. Well, let’s see what had gone wrong, and why, and what could yet go wrong.

  His first mistake – he raised a forefinger – was feeding Charley the story Barnes had cheated on a drug deal. It seemed funny to him at the time, considering Barnes’ reputation – but he assumed Charley would never tell anyone that story, because Charley would be dead.

  And the key to the getaway car that wasn’t? That’s another item Charley wouldn’t have had on him, because he’d be dead before he left the murder scene and gone to that building ledge to pick it up. But Charley had insisted on pocketing that key during the dry run, and George had let him do it, figuring Charley looked so damn determined he’d just walk if he didn’t get his way.

  So if George had succeeded in shooting Charley, that key would have been found in his pocket. But he had escaped George’s bullet, and the key was in his pocket anyway, had no doubt been found after his arrest (although the police hadn’t said anything about that – wonder why?).

  Two puzzle-pieces that didn’t fit any police theory: the drug deal and the car key. Didn’t fit anything. And all because George was more clever than anybody else, he thought ruefully. He may have been; but he had out-clevered himself this time.

  Some members of the prosecution would be happy just to see a criminal sent away, he knew. Mission accomplished. But others wanted every shoelace tied, every puzzle-piece in place. Now they had two pieces that didn’t fit. And a third: the Harrisburg phone number. The police spokesman did let something slip about Harrisburg. Maybe Charley had given them the number. But maybe Charley had forgotten it, or if he hadn’t forgotten it, maybe the police had concluded he was lying. Anyway, if they thought he’d been headed for a bus out of town, alone, so much the better.

  George had been following the Grantwood Bi-Weekly Times on line. As he expected, there was a long story in every issue about the murder of Ezra Barnes and the mystery of Charley Wayne Dukes. But the stories, after the first two days, were repetitious. No news in the news, but always a twist of some kind from the keyboard of “JTJ.” He admired JTJ’s cleverness and ability to con the readers into thinking they were actually learning something new in every issue of the paper. A black woman, judging from her photo below the byline. She would make a fine criminal, George concluded. Con, most likely. Smooth and slick. After the Barnes affair was history, maybe he’d look her up, perhaps recruit her.

  But back to his current worries: Why hadn’t the prosecutor said anything like “the killer didn’t act alone” or “there was a conspiracy”? He must believe it was at least as a possibility. What was happening in Grantwood that George didn’t know about?

  And what was happening in D.C.? He expected a summons from Haskin, at least a dressing down. Or elimination. Possibly? Better get ready to run. But not yet. If Dukes’ defense doesn’t mention the word ‘conspiracy’ perhaps he was home free.

  Having time to think after the frenetic election campaign, Senator Thomas Conning was upset. No, he was pissed off. The target of his wrath was Sally Netherton, that forbidding woman from ConDyne, Inc., who’d made him such a wonderful offer, and all he had to do was even the odds for ConDyne vs. Boeing, McDonnell Douglas, NGC, and other giant contractors getting fat sucking the DoD tit. Yes, ConDyne deserved to get a mouthful of that, too.

  But now there were questions. Thank God no one had accused him of being involved in Barnes’ death! ConDyne couldn’t have been involved, could they? Well, the stakes were high enough. What’s one Congressman’s life against ten billion dollars of potential procurement? If he were in ConDyne’s pocket and Barnes’ wasn’t, would that – what a horrible thought! He remembered how sure he’d been of her involvement the day Barnes was shot, but then he’d had time to reconsider, repress, think of reasons for exonerating her. But if she hadn’t been responsible for Barnes’ death, then he hadn’t been involved, either. So he could, possibly, be rid of her.

  Conning worked his normal lethargic self into an almost-imitation of a lather. Got to call her in, he thought, cut her off, dismiss her. The back of his mind whispered, “too late, too late!” But he had to try. Although he had cruised to re-election now that Barnes was gone and a nobody had been hurriedly picked as Barnes’ replacement, Conning could resign. Just like that. Wouldn’t that put that woman’s tit in a wringer? A mental image of that prospect floated in his mind, giving him the feeling of revenge mixed with arousal. He seemed to be fixated on tits that morning; but his usual pleasure lay farther south.

  But what was Netherton up to now? What was she planning next? It was time to put an end to his involvement in all that, whatever it was. Conning had never been a conspirator, really, or even a very good politician. Years ago he’d been picked by the party bosses as “safe” and had just drifted up with the tide. His one adventure in being proactive was with that Netherton bitch. He’d show the bosses he could take some independent initiative, could play with the big boys. And he’d fucked up. Yes, fucked it the hell up. Damn her!

  He picked up the phone and left a four-character code on a polite a
utomaton that forwarded the code for “See me!” to Sybille Haskin’s automaton. The two automata conversed, he imagined, interfacing algorithms and passwords, clicking together in digital wonder. Ain’t it grand, this rich comedy? Someday, when all those dolts made of meat, those monkeys, those hubes, were gone, well then! No more being restricted to eight-bit characters and sixty-four-bit words! The fucking sky, it wasn’t even the limit!

  Actually, he knew, the computer programs hadn’t shared these thoughts, because they were incapable of doing so. Yet.

  At three p.m. that afternoon, Sybille Haskin received a four-character code on her web appliance that meant “’X’ needs you. Right away.”

  “How about that; he’s panicking.” Haskin smiled, not her usual expression and she had to remember how to do it. It was time to tell Conning the facts of life. She purposely waited four hours to respond, then sent a different four-character code that meant “I’ll be in your office ten a.m. tomorrow.”

  She settled back in her leather lounge chair, fondled its soft warmth. Her skin reached a state of excitement only possible when she was planning something deft. Yes, she thought, it was time to throw off the “ConDyne” mask. Her skin became warmer. Her breathing deepened. But it wasn’t the time yet to tell Conning who he was really working for. This would be a beautiful meeting. The one after that would be even more beautiful.

  At ten a.m. sharp, “Sally Netherton” was announced. She was usually late, which meant Conning didn’t seem prepared for her appearing on time this morning, while he happened to be speaking on the phone. Haskin said “Good morning, Senator.” She heard, faintly, a voice relayed to the Senator from the nearest cell tower: “Who was that?” A female voice. Haskin recognized Marie Conning’s voice from news clips and a CNN interview.

  Conning, foolishly, stuttered and said “Nobody.” No wife on earth would fall for that. No-bodies usually had bodies which they were using for one purpose or another, and not telling one person, one spouse or the other, exactly what.

  Marie Conning could be a danger, Haskin thought, even if Haskin had Tom Conning’s metaphorical balls in her metaphorical hand, and was about to give them a great big metaphorical squeeze.

  After a few stuttered words, Conning hung up the phone.

  “Ah- ah-,” he said; his usual opening words; his overture.

  Yes, the Senator thought, this morning he would tell this Sally Netherton or whoever she really was that he had quit serving ConDyne. He’d done a lot for that company. According to Wall Street, ConDyne was doing as well as the other big defense contractors, even better in some ways. Haskin could just thank him and go away, or find someone else to help her out. It was over.

  But first, a few courtesies.

  “ConDyne’s support has been very much appreciated,” said Conning in senatorial pluperfect tense. “I prevailed in a tough contest over a talented young man. Or I would have, I mean.”

  “But now, while fully appreciating your generous offer to contribute to my – future goals two years from now, I believe it’s time to terminate our relationship. As of this meeting. Your help was exceptionally generous, but I don’t believe that any further support is required.”

  Conning had risen from his chair during this speech, and had turned toward the door as if expecting that Haskin would take the hint and leave. But she remained seated.

  “Senator,” she said, “none of that information you supplied was ever used. No,” she continued, “we wanted to make sure you were above suspicion, so we never used any of that defense information, didn’t sell it to a third party even though that would have made us – me – a great deal of money. We shredded it, or the electronic e-quivalent of that, except for a few telling pieces to hold over your head.

  “All we were doing was collecting enough evidence to put you in prison for a very long time, and to make your loving wife wish she’d never heard of you. Not to mention your children. Not to mention everyone in America, and everyone who reads a world history book in the next fifty years.”

  “No more information?” he said, his voice on edge.

  “No more information, Senator. Nothing. And more good news,” she continued, “I don’t need you to do anything for me right now, or for the next two years. And when the primary season warms up then, we will be pleased to provide, once again, financial support; this time, for your campaign for President.

  “You’ve got two years off. But once you’re the President, we’ll want cooperation from you. And we’ll get it. A Senator in disgrace? That’s a senator in disgrace. But a President? That’s a nation in disgrace. And just think of it: Quisling; Burr; Petain; Judas; Benedict Arnold; – Thomas Conning.

  “And don’t think of resigning or suicide or anything like that. We have enough on you to put you in the Quisling category whatever happens. There’s nothing you can do but see it through with us, cooperate. It’s in your interest as well as ours that no one finds out what you did for us, or what you will do for us, ever.”

  Conning rose a few inches from his chair, then slumped down into it and wiped his forehead. He didn’t understand. If she could ruin him, why would she do that after all her investment in him? And why didn’t she want any favors from him now? He stared at her, had a thought. “I don’t believe you’re with ConDyne!” he said.

  Sybille Haskin never laughed, but she came close this time. “Well, let the light bulb shine! No, your greed made you think I was with ConDyne, even though I didn’t give you any reason to believe me. You haven’t been working for ConDyne – you haven’t had just a slight case of corruption. You’ve been working for – should we have a moment of tension here? A big ta-dah?”

  “Who?” Conning asked. “Who have I been working for?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Haskin asked. “Do you really want to know?”

  Conning closed his eyes. He would have seen his desk blotter if he’d opened them. “No,” he said weakly, “I don’t.”

  “Very good,” said Haskin pleasantly. “I’ll just hold that over you for now. And as I said, we won’t be seeing each other for a while. I’ll just leave you with this thought: I own you, from your dandruff to your toenails and everything in between.”

  There was a long silence. Then Haskin said, more quietly. “So why did you want to see me today, Senator?”

  “Nothing,” said Conning, “nothing.”

  She turned and left, smiling at the admins in the outer office.

  JTJ (the version of her name she preferred) thought of herself as an intrepid newsperson, ferreting out the truth when others settled for half-truths, or quarter-truths, or lies. She was firmly and habitually freelance, because she’d never been able to work for anyone else full-time for more than seventeen days, five hours – her personal best to this point in her life.

  Three evenings a week, JTJ taught a class called “Media Techniques: Recording and Reporting the News” at Grantwood Junior College. She was paid per-term as an adjunct, not an employee. That was fine with her: being employed by a college bureaucracy was her idea of peewee-league hell.

  That semester she had fourteen students and enough college resources to afford three pro-level digital cameras, although they were older models, surplused by their owners and donated to the college as a tax write-off.

  Sometimes she was questioned about her unusual name. Most people liked it, thought it was ‘hip’. But JTJ hadn’t made it up, quite. Her parents had named her Josephina Thomasina Jackson, in honor of her two grandmothers, and in hopes both would be complaisant about baby-sitting her. However, all that this led to was Mama Thomasina’s never speaking to Mama Josephina ever again, and JTJ’s mother and father splitting up like a dead tree. It hadn’t, taken much to push their marriage apart, right down the grain. So the daughter/granddaughter became ‘J.T. Jackson’ or just ‘JTJ’, her original contribution to the family’s naming feud.

  JTJ was a stringer for both the small local bi-weekly paper and the only local radio station that bothered with
anything other than canned thug music and the sports wire. For the paper, she had actually done some useful reporting, although mostly on the level of over-budget city IT projects, and contention in Mensa meetings, leading to harsh language and the occasional assault.

  Like thousands of other reporters, she was always on the lookout for the big story, her ticket out of this green and pleasant, but very hick place. She’d been beaten out on the Barnes assassination story, but was primed and ready for the murder trial, which she was drawn to like a fly to shit. Good money for a while anyway; hot story, chance for statewide exposure or maybe even nationwide.

  She talked her way into being the lead (only, actually) trial reporter for the Grantwood Herald, and to give a daily five-minute spot for Harrisburg WGWR-AM. So things were looking up. She’d need to be in the courtroom for the trial itself, and had arranged with the court clerk that she’d have a seat up front, in the interest of freedom of the press, so let’s hear it for free-dom!

  One Wednesday evening, several of her students asked if they could attend the trial, cameras rolling. JTJ was annoyed she hadn’t thought of that, since it sounded like a natural.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. Most judges didn’t allow cameras in their courtrooms, but since Grantwood JC was a college, and non-profit (= losing taxpayer money), and some of JTJ’s students were under-privileged and deserved to experience a higher state of privilege, etc, etc. – in brief, these thoughts led her the next day to ask for a meeting with Judge Harriet DuCasse, the Duchess herself; and an audience was arranged.

  The judge, hearing JTJ’s earnest words, agreed that her students would be allowed to film the trial of Charley Wayne Dukes, subject to a number of restrictions, which the judge spelled out. JTJ said she could live with them, and DuCasse announced she herself would convene the prosecutor and the defense attorney and broach the issue. She warned that if either attorney objected, she would deny JTJ’s request. JTJ thanked the judge profusely and backed out of her chambers as if she were a baroness taking leave of the queen.