Try Try Again Read online

  Ms. Saunders,

  I wanted to tell you a lot more since in the trial some things came up that were news to me and now make a lot of sense.

  But first I want to thank you for all you did for me and I knew you wasn’t going to get me off or anything so I’m not unhappy with you.

  I have a daughter. Her name is Darlene Timmons, and she lives in Roanoke. I don’t know exactly where she lives but sometimes I send money after a job and she picks it up at the 7-11 on ninth street where a friend works that’s how it goes. I wasn’t ever married and so Darlene never made it on my record, and I haven’t seen her mother in twenty years.

  But anyway, Art knew about Darlene and said he’d kill her unless I did this job for him. He said he’d made all those plans so I could get away and get hidden for a while so piece of cake and all that shit. And Darlene has a son now too. I didn’t know that before but Art did.

  But now since the trial I want you to promise me that you’ll make sure Darlene is safe in witness protection or something so Art can’t get to her. And now I want to turn Art in to you so here it is: I heard him called “George” once, although that might not be any realer a name than “Art.” But then when we was in a motel the night before the job, he was outside and I poked around and found an envelope – not important what it was I even forget now, but there was a full name and a Maryland address on it, and George was the last name, not the first.

  So that name could be another phony but it might help you, or help the cops I mean, and especially the address.

  If you can get Darlene away someplace safe and show me that’s been done, then I’ll give you George’s first name and the complete Maryland address on the envelope, and I’ll work with one of those police artists - I saw Arts face too many times to forget it.

  Hope you are having a nice day I am OK here too,

  Charley

  The next day, Liv dropped in to Brent’s office.

  “Good morning,” said Brent. “Too bad Charley Dukes was killed, but that’s prison life for you. Now maybe you won’t be coming to me with any new information, I trust.”

  Liv gave him a scowl but said nothing.

  “OK, Liv,” he continued after a second, “What can I do for you this bright and sunny day?”

  Liv put on an even more serious face, trying to will Brent into not being so damn cocky. “Charley Dukes had a daughter. Darlene Timmons,” she said. “He wrote me a letter just before he died and told me he had this daughter in Roanoke.”

  “What about her?”

  “’Art’ had found out about her, and threatened to kill her and her child unless Charley agreed to kill Ezra Barnes.”

  “So?”

  “Charley wanted her safe, even killed a man to protect her. So I’d like you to speak with your colleagues in Virginia and get Darlene some protection.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Well look, Liv: there’s no particular reason they’d agree to do that, and if they did it would be a squad car driving by a few times and that’s it. But most of all, based on what you told me, Darlene is out of danger because not only did Charley do what someone told him to, but now that he’s dead, threats on his daughter or harming her wouldn’t make any sense.”

  Liv had to agree with Brent’s reasoning. “All right,” she said. “I guess you’re right. But there’s one other thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Charley found some papers indicating Art was really George, and that ‘George’ was his last name, apparently; and an address in Maryland. Could you pass that information through all those databases you have and see what you can find?”

  “Probably an alias, whichever way. But what was the Maryland address?”

  “Charley wouldn’t say. He wanted a promise that Darlene would be protected before he’d tell me. That was his leverage. But then he was dead.”

  Brent sighed. “All right,” he said, “I’ll do it. But surname George and address Maryland is a pretty wide net, even if we limit it to known criminals. But if I find anything I’ll let you know.”

  She got up to leave, then turned back.

  “There’s just one other thing you might be able to tell me, since you were the one who sent Charley up: there were three men killed yesterday in Frackville. One was Charley, we know. Who were the others and was there any possible connection between either of them and Charley?”

  Brent looked puzzled, and then said “Those other two were just wounded, Liv. Charley was the only one killed. And as to any connection, I spoke with Warden Rollins about that late yesterday. The other two were snitches – really. Some of the convicts must have found out. But they weren’t seriously hurt, just some flesh wounds that looked like a warning. As far as we know, Charley had never even met those two.”

  Liv sat with her mouth open and her world spinning around. Brent had to help her out the door. On the way to her car she muttered several times “What the fuck? What the fuck?”

  Charley’s death of course made the national wires, Killer of Congressman Dead. News reports told an inattentive America there had been a disturbance at Frackville State Penitentiary in Pennsylvania. The famous prisoner had been killed. Suspicion focused on another prisoner, but nothing was proven.

  Sebastian George was relieved. He called Sybille Haskin in D.C., but she said she’d already heard the news, and hung up.

  Haskin was pleased at Charley’s death, but annoyed George had needed to take the risk of arranging it, and concerned George might be linked to Dukes’ death, and then … George was a professional. He wouldn’t do anything irrational, like take all the blame when he could wangle something better. Haskin was a professional, too. She wouldn’t let sentiment interfere with the need to resolve a problem. Not that she had ever felt much in the way of sentiment, or that George had ever seemed to need it.

  At this point, she considered, George was not an immediate threat. Later, who knows? She decided to keep tabs on him, in case she needed to act.

  Database hits were collected and analyzed. Files of FBI, DHS, NSA, and state and local law enforcement unit were searched. Results were forwarded to Brent Nielsen’s office and analyzed by one of his staff. Then Brent phoned Liv Saunders.

  “Yes,” he said, “of the thousands of males with the last name ‘George’ in Maryland, real names or aliases, there were twenty three who might be our man, assuming George came to the attention of crime investigators, and not for drugs or stolen cars and so on. One I like, especially – might be your man.”

  “Great,” said Liv.

  “Not so great,” said Brent, “the trail’s gone cold on him.”

  “Can you tell me something about him?”

  “OK, he’s a professional, white male, thirties, suspected of dealings with organized crime and various illegal organizations, and even a terrorist group or two but there’s never been enough evidence to arrest him. The reason I like him for this is he’s been known to use the name ‘Art’ – ‘Art Armstrong,’ actually, among several others. This George seems to have worked for numerous illicit organizations, so his work with Charley could have been sponsored by any of them. Except.”

  “Except what?” she asked.

  “George worked only with large outfits, not local crime bosses or anything like that.”

  “So Barnes’ killing wouldn’t have been something personal, like a drug deal or a mistress?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Well, thank you, Brent. Now where do we go from here?”

  “Dead end, Liv. The agencies looked for him, hauled in some friends and surveyed possible locations, but couldn’t come up with him. We even staked out where he might be living but he never showed up. Looks like he left that address three-four months ago, and disappeared. So unless he sticks his head over the wall again, we’re done here.”

  A few days later, Liv was sitting in her apartment, again thinking she should find something to do, now that it seemed there was nothing
more that could be done in the Barnes murder case. Another law firm, she supposed; what else did she know but law? She began calling firms and sending out resumes.

  By two weeks later, she had received a few nibbles but nothing solid. But then, a job opportunity presented itself. Someone called from Fogle Harsh Weaver, a local CPA firm. Hold for Mr. Fogle, please. Then a voice.

  “The grapevine says you’re out of work.”

  “Never believe the grapevine.”

  “OK, I never did understand why people thought grapevines could carry a signal. Shannon never said that, you know? Of course, maybe that was a secret he was keeping.”

  “What?” Liv was confused. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Hal Fogle of Fogle Harsh Weaver, CPAs. We’ve been relying on outside counsel but every time we call the law firm we get a new face and we have to tell him – or her – everything for the first time about how we do business and who our clients are and what they need.”

  “So?”

  “So we’re looking to hire.”

  “In-house counsel?”

  “Right.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not? Come by tomorrow morning and let’s talk.”

  Within a week, Liv had an office at FHW although it was just a cube, and had met everyone in the firm, all seventeen of them. She liked most of them immediately, and to her surprise they seemed to like her, too.

  FHW was small but prosperous and stable, and it looked like she’d be there for some time. She thought of calling that bitch Belinda Chase Epperly and telling her she’d found a job, but didn’t.

  Gradually over the next few months, her memories of Charley Dukes and the trial became less fraught, more rational. Most days, she didn’t even think of him.

  Chapter 18: One Year After the Assassination

  Three screenwriters, Al, Bennie, and Chas, uncompensated since each of their latest scripts had bombed, were commiserating in a downscale bar in Hollywood, a place where those with no current income (meaning most actors and others in the trade) gathered to lose their sorrows in the cheapest booze the management would bother serving.

  “Jaws” was the name of the place, not referring to the hit film or the shark, but to the skills and talents of those who gathered there.

  Al wasn’t paying attention to his friends. He was watching a webV-cast of a murder-themed movie, where the guilty party was putting up a strong defense in court. She would, he knew, be convicted anyway; he’d seen this film before.

  But then genius struck, as it might even to the unlikely. “Hey guys,” Al said, turning around and slamming his fist on the table, “I got it!”

  Bennie, a cynical SOB as was generally agreed in the trade, said “Aside from three previously unknown STDs, mon ami, what?”

  Chas, at this point, was silent. That was his own major skill, and the eccentricity of this habit had made him famous among his peers, although still ignored by producers, directors, and any actor who’d been credited in a film, rather than just having a walk-on.

  “Thank you for asking, asshole,” said Al to Bennie, with a smile. “Look: think of a movie or a mini-series about a murder trial.”

  “Yawn,” said Bennie, yawning.

  “But with a twist,” Al continued, “viewers compete to see who does the best imitation of the defendant – or the defense attorney – or the prosecutor – or judge, in real-show-time. With prizes. We can call the contestants “agonists,” you know? Like protagonists and antagonists?”

  “Can we do a show like that?” asked Chas, suddenly interested. “Technologically, I mean, how many of these ‘agonists’ could…”

  “With today’s tech,” Al said, “millions. Do you know how much bandwidth is just sitting there after office hours, not used by businesses anymore that day, not much used for porn after business hours either, and just waiting to be exploited?”

  “No,” said Bennie, “and I don’t think you know, either.”

  “Well,” said Al, “I don’t. But it’s gazillions.”

  “That must be one of those technical terms,” said Bennie. “I never before comprehended the depth of your knowledge.”

  “Fuck you,” said Al affectionately, “but let’s give it a try. Frankie Dickstein is a wonderful pal and very dear friend of mine, and a great producer, and all we need is to come up with a murder-trial script with a few prominent actors who can emote and have really sick and violent private lives as well, and I’ll pitch it to him. – Can we do that? The concept anyway?”

  Unusually, there was silence around the table. Finally, a few seconds later, Chas said, “OK, it’s worth a shot. Do either of you have a hip-pocket screenplay of a murder trial?”

  The remaining two heads shook.

  “OK,” said Chas, “it just so happens that I do, an outline anyway, although it’s not quite ready for prime time yet, just needs a little polishing. I’ll email it to you and we can get together and work it up until it’s ready to show Frankie. From the three of us, that is. And if he smiles, then we’ll actually write it!”

  After a few heated arguments, Al, Bennie, and Chas had documented the concept, refined the outline, and jotted down ideas of which momentarily hot actors / actresses would be just exactly right for each wonderful, meaty, award-winning role.

  Al called Frankie Dickstein, the famous producer (“never a hit but never a flop”) and wrangled an appointment by sweet-talking his admin, who was fifty-five and could be gotten to. Frankie, of course, had never heard of Al, Bennie, or Chas.

  Frankie listened to Al, Bennie, and Chas while taking a few calls on his cell, and his three desk phones and tweeting estimates of his current level of boredom.

  After twenty minutes, Al, Bennie, and Chas sat back and waited for the renowned producer’s take.

  “Wonderful,” said Frankie, “Just wonderful of you wonderful people to think of me and Bigstone Productions for this idea.”

  He paused. Al, Bennie, and Chas knew they were screwed.

  “However,” Frankie said, “that gives me an idea. What we need here isn’t some warmed-over proposal,” (nodding to Chas) “that’s been shopped around this town for five years, you know people snicker about that because they’re tired of laughing, but what we need instead is a real trial.”

  Frankie sat back.

  “What?” asked Al, Bennie, and Chas together, in three-part disharmony.

  “I like the idea of a real-show-time competition, and I think my tech guys could make it happen, but what kind of fan interest would a fictional trial get? We’ve got some famous real ones, you know, right here in America. Think of the headline trials we could re-create! Aaron Burr; Lenny Bruce, maybe without saying ‘motherfucker’ this time; Bill Clinton; Lee Harvey Oswald; O.J. Simpson; the mind here boggles!”

  Al started to say “But Oswald was …”

  “You’re right,” Frankie said, “I was thinking of Oscar Wilde. But we need a trial we don’t have to re-enact, a trial that was filmed from the get-go, or ‘in situ’ as my son, the successful doctor who’s got both a M.D. and a Ph.D., likes to say. Not, unfortunately, Aaron Burr who was gone before TV came into common use but – something. My people can find a trial we can use, one that was filmed in real time and put in the can and hasn’t had too much exposure.”

  He paused. “You’ve given me some great ideas here,” he said, “and I really appreciate it. I’ll let all my friends know how really great you guys are, and if you want anything, just anything, just call my admin and let her know what you need. – But this stuff,” he said, tossing their careful handouts on the floor, “I can’t use. Now if you’ll excuse me,…” Frankie walked out. The enamored admin handed Al, Bennie, and Chas their coats because the weather, that October, had suddenly turned chilly, even for Hollywood.

  A few days later, Frankie Dickstein called Hubert “Hub” Landon and asked him to come by for drinks maybe ten o’clock, or would that be too much of an imposition? Hub said no, he was just heading out and it was no
inconvenience at all. Hurriedly, he threw on some clothes.

  Hub Landon was a film director. He was more successful making films than Dickstein was in backing them; but producers could smell money, snuffle it like truffles, harvest it, make it smell like roses instead of shit, and hire people like Hub to make movies. Hub was worth – oh – about eight million dollars. But what kind of film could you make for twice that these days? And so: Frankie called; Hub jumped.

  After three sips of world-class rye, Frankie laid it out for Hub: for webV, to show an old trial of some interest that had been captured on film. Boring if we just leave it like that yeah, but the challenge for the viewer was to BE the defendant, or the prosecutor, or the defense attorney, or the judge, or that old fart on the jury who kept falling asleep, or whatever. Contestants who were best at this would win money and fame.

  “Agonists,” he said. “I made up that name we should call them, y’know, like ‘protagonist’”?

  “It’s a kind of role-playing game,” Frankie continued. “With the advanced state of consumer electronics and bio-monitoring, it should be possible for people to hook themselves into the network’s computers so their vitals and brainwaves would be measured and scored during a show, and compared with pre-specified vitals and brainwaves of the TV characters, not to mention speech and body-movements and arm-wiggles and whatever. If that viewer’s bio-signs best match the character he’s chosen, for even a fraction of a second, that viewer wins a prize.” Frankie had said all this hurriedly, trying to remember what his hired geek had told him.

  “Adopting a filmed trial,” Frankie said, “if we can find one famous enough, would have lots of advantages: prominent characters maybe (defense, prosecution, judge, defendant, etc.), no need to pay actors and put up with their shit.

  “Now Hub, you think there’s not much directorial work going on with this one, if it’s a case in a can. I know you’re thinking that because your face doesn’t look happy. But there’s a lot of detail I can’t handle, and my tech guys although they’re great people and geeked to the hilt, they wouldn’t know what a miniseries was if their life was made into one, and so I need your expert eye here, making sure this all works.”