False Convictions (10 page)

Kollar looked at her with hatred, but nodded his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said, snapping her briefcase shut, rising from her chair, and turning to the butterflies. “Really,
just stunning.”

J
AKE TASTED BILE seeping up from the back of his throat.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” he said, swallowing, stepping forward, and extending his hand to the man in the olive green
suit. “I’m here to interview Mr. Graham for
American Sunday
. We’re set up in his office.”

The man, thin with toffee-colored skin and a dark wiry mustache, shook Jake’s hand with an iron grip, never allowing his eyes
to waver from Jake’s.

“Down there,” the man said, pointing to the hallway Jake had come out of. “I’ll let Mr. Graham know you’re waiting for him.”

“I know the receptionist said he’d be on some call until twelve-thirty,” Jake said, retreating. “We’re fine waiting, so you
don’t have to bother him.”

“That’s okay,” the man said, still holding Jake in his eyes, “he’ll want to know you’re waiting.”

Jake retreated, pausing only to listen as the man gave two sharp raps on the door, paused, then entered. Jake found the bathroom
and applied his makeup, breathing slowly to ease the knot in his stomach. When he returned to Graham’s office, he sat in one
of the two chairs Dora had arranged amid the cameras in front of the big desk and pretended to busy himself with his notes
to keep Dora from chatting and to give himself a chance to think. By the time the billionaire appeared in the doorway wearing
his trademark flannel shirt and jeans with his chest hair showing, Jake had made up his mind to play the TV dope.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Graham said, shaking Jake’s hand and matching the firmness of his grip. “This is an honor.”

“Please,” Jake said, meeting Graham’s steady gaze, “and I admire all the good work you do.”

“I learned that lesson from my ex-wife,” Graham said, cracking a knowing smile at Jake. “She never gave back. That’s why she’s
the ex.”

Jake chuckled, then motioned to the chair opposite him in the clutter of lights, cameras, and cables and asked, “Ready?”

“You?” Graham asked, holding Jake’s gaze.

“Always,” Jake said, grinning.

“You found the bathroom okay?” Graham asked, his eyes boring into Jake behind the happy mask of his face.

“Place is a maze,” Jake said, grinning. “I bumble around most days.”

“A Pulitzer Prize winner?” Graham said. “I imagine you know where you’re headed.”

“Me?” Jake said, smiling happily. “I just do as I’m told. Right, Dora?”

Dora looked up from her monitor and rolled her eyes. “When he does good, I give him a cookie.”

Jake smiled back at Graham. “I sure like cookies.”

Someone else might as well have written everything Jake asked. The questions about Graham’s monumental accomplishments and
his level of giving pandered to the rich man’s ego, and by the time Jake had finished, Graham was red-faced and teary-eyed
from telling humorous stories about eating ketchup sandwiches as a child and building toys out of used Popsicle sticks to
sell to the other kids for a profit, part of which he’d always save in an orange UNICEF box he worked at filling year-round.

Graham sniffed once and pursed his lips, offering Jake a look of profound wisdom. “I really meant it when I said that the
measure of a man isn’t what he has, but what he gives.”

Jake paused dramatically, looking into the rich man’s eyes. “Yeah, that was perfect. Just perfect.”

Jake looked back at Dora. “Wrap?”

“Nice work,” she said.

Jake nodded. “They’re gonna love this in New York. Thanks.”

“It’s just who I am,” Graham said with a somber expression.

Jake removed the tiny microphone from his lapel and stood to shake Graham’s hand.

“Hey, could I get your card?” Graham asked. “I’m in New York from time to time and I’d love to buy you dinner sometime, or
just a drink.”

“Sure,” Jake said, removing the wallet from his back pocket and handing over a card. “That’s got my cell on it.”

Despite his receptionist’s continual presence and a reminder that he had a one-thirty call, it took nearly ten minutes for
Graham to say his good-byes. Amid the tumult, Jake sat back down in his interview chair to tie his shoe. Secretly, he stuffed
the battery pack for his microphone down in behind the chair’s leather cushion and fed the thin black cable around the edge,
leaving only the tiny head of the microphone protruding from the front of the chair. When he stood up, Jake cast a quick glance
at the chair and saw nothing anyone might notice.

When the audio tech asked Jake for his mic, Jake winked at him and motioned with his head toward the door. Jake picked up
a light tripod and carried it out, the audio technician trailing him with his shoulder bag full of equipment.

When they reached the elevator, the tech asked, “So what the hell’s up?”

Jake put a finger to his lips and flicked his eyes at the camera. When they got to the parking lot, Jake waited for one of
the cameramen to head back inside for more gear before he spoke.

“I need my mic,” Jake said, “and I’d like the audio deck, too. Can I keep it with me? I’ll bring it back to New York myself.”

“What for, Jake? Peter Brennan’s gonna want to know why I don’t have my stuff.”

“Tell him I wanted to listen to the tracks,” Jake said.

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Tell him I’m trying something with my intonation when I ask serious questions. Tell him anything. Can I have
it?” Jake asked, holding out his hand.

The tech looked at his shoulder pack, shrugged, and handed it over. Jake glanced around and quickly popped the trunk of his
Cadillac, dumping the equipment in before clapping the tech on the back and returning to the office to help with the rest
of the stuff.

“Between us, okay?” he said.

The tech nodded.

They went back inside and said one final good-bye to Robert Graham as he sat down behind his big desk, looked at his watch,
and scooped up the phone.

The crew carted the last of the equipment out the door, and Jake walked beside Dora.

“Another happy customer,” she said as they left Graham’s office. “Hey, what was the dummy routine all about?”

Jake raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself.

“I thought you didn’t like this guy,” Dora said, lowering her voice to a whisper as they passed the receptionist’s desk.

“Dazzled by his personality,” Jake said, getting into the elevator, “and all the money.”

“You wouldn’t know it looking at him,” Dora said, “the money, I mean.”

“Part of the charm. Oh, he’s special,” Jake said, stepping out of the elevator and into the small entryway. “A humble soul.”

“You feeling okay?” Dora asked, tilting her head.

“Sure,” Jake said, holding open the door.

“Can I ride with you to the airport?” Dora asked.

Jake said, “Sorry, I’m not going, Dora. Can you ride with the crew?”

Dora’s face fell. “We’ve got everything we need and more.”

“Actually,” Jake said, loosening his tie and giving her a wink as he strode toward his rental car, “there’s a lot more.”

J
AKE RACED OUT of the parking lot and took a left, away from the airport. He checked his rearview mirror before taking a sharp
right into the shopping center across the street and circling through the parking lot until he sat up on a rise facing Graham’s
office building from across the street. He jumped out and retrieved the audio pack from the trunk. Back in the front seat,
he positioned the headphones on his ears and flicked on the power button that would let him hear the broadcast of the little
microphone he’d left in Graham’s office.

“—because people don’t talk to me like that, that’s why!”

Jake’s eyes lost their focus as he concentrated hard on Robert Graham’s voice. Its tone was indignant but also tainted by
a dash of fear.

“I understand the position we’re all in,” Graham said, quieting to almost a whine. “I’m in it, too, and I’m working on it
as we speak.”

There was a pause.

“You think I don’t know that?” Graham said. “I’m more exposed than anyone, you know that.”

Jake heard what sounded like papers being stuffed into a briefcase.

“What?” Graham said. “It has nothing to do with that. Listen, Massimo, if they’d taken care of her when I asked, the way I
asked, we wouldn’t
be
‘fucking around with this charade,’ as you call it, but I was told to fix it and if anyone has a better idea how, you just
let me know.”

Another pause.

“No, Massimo. I’m not talking to
you
like that,” Graham said, “but do I really have to? I mean, can’t he just pick up the phone? We’re in the twenty-first century.

“I’m just saying,” Graham said, his voice lowering so that Jake could barely hear it. “Yes, I’ll be there. Let me finish this
first and I’ll leave right away. No, I don’t have an attitude, Massimo. I’m sorry. Yes. Good-bye.”

Jake waited and watched the building, expecting Graham any second. Nothing happened. Finally, to ease the tension by sharing
the excitement, he dialed Casey’s cell phone.

“Everything okay?” he asked her, wriggling out of his suit coat.

She told him how it went with the judge, sounding pleased.

“Good,” Jake said, his eyes still glued to the front door of Graham’s offices. “Sounds like you put the judge’s cojones in
a vise.”

“That’s not what you meant, is it? When you asked if everything was okay,” Casey said. “You meant something else.”

Jake told her about the conversation he overheard Graham having on the phone without telling her how he heard it, then said,
“When he talked about a charade I was thinking maybe this whole thing with your killer and the Freedom Project—I don’t know.
It was as much the tone of Graham’s voice as the things he said. The man sounded scared, and when he said ‘if they’d taken
care of her when I asked, the way I asked,’ I could only think of you.”

“It could be anyone, though,” Casey said thoughtfully.

“Right, me just being paranoid,” Jake said, nodding to himself. “I hope that’s true, but I like to play things safe, so in
the meantime, I want you to watch your back.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to see if I can follow him,” Jake said. “Obviously, he’s being summoned by someone who makes him pee down his leg,
and I’m going to find out who.”

“Be careful,” Casey said.

“Touching,” Jake said, allowing himself a smile. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I care,” Casey said. “Don’t act like an idiot.”

“It’s tough,” Jake said, “but I’ll try.”

Jake hung up and waited. It was almost three when the billionaire came out of the offices and got into a silver Range Rover.
Jake started his engine and followed. As they headed west on the Thruway, Jake figured Graham was heading for the airport.
He called a contact at the FAA in Washington and used a favor to track down the location and flight plan of Graham’s private
jet.

“Victor Tango seven-seven-nine,” his man said, “owned by Robert Graham. Landed in Rochester at oh-six oh-seven this morning.
Let’s see… scheduled to depart from Rochester to PLS at fifteen hundred.”

“That’s—”

“In three minutes,” his man said.

“He can’t make it,” Jake said.

“Maybe he’s not going.”

“Maybe they’ll take off late?”

“Could be.”

“What’s PLS, anyway?” Jake asked.

“Ah, I think one of those islands in the Caribbean, you want me to tell you which one?”

“Just call me if it takes off, will you?”

“Sure.”

Jake hung up and gripped the wheel, knowing the track would go cold if he couldn’t follow Graham and wondering how he could
get permission from his executive producer to do it, anyway. His next call went to Don Wall, an old friend in the FBI, who
answered his cell phone in a whisper.

“Bad time?” Jake asked.

“Stakeout,” Wall said. “Bored out of my mind, but there’s an old lady upstairs who’s got nothing better to do than listen
at the air vent, so I got to keep it down. What’s up?”

“How up are you on your organized crime trading cards?” Jake asked, wrinkling his brow as Graham’s Range Rover kept going
west on the Thruway, past the exit he should have taken north to the airport.

“Colombian, Russian, Vietnamese, Albanian, or Italian?” Wall asked, the sound of some kind of shell cracking in the background
before he began to crunch into the phone.

“Italian, for sure,” Jake said. “Guy named Massimo.”

“To the max,” Wall said. “That’s what it means.”

“Heard of anyone?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean so much,” Wall said. “I’ve been on this fucking Al Qaeda thing for the last nine months and all
I’ve seen is some douche bag from Iowa growing a beard. Let me make a call. My old partner is in Philly working some heroin
angle and I swear the only reason he’s on it is because the shit is coming in from Afghanistan. I got to tell you, it’s got
to be good to be an American criminal these days. You ought to do a story on that.”

“Maybe I am,” Jake said, weaving in and out of the traffic to avoid being boxed in by a tractor trailer as Graham picked up
his speed. “Meantime, would you see if you can get anything on an Italian gangster from Buffalo whose name is Massimo?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Jake thanked him and clicked over to another incoming call.

“It’s up,” his FAA man said.

“Thanks,” Jake said. “You don’t know when it’s coming back, do you?”

“No return flight plan filed yet.”

Jake thanked him again, hung up, and settled in, pleased that whoever Graham was going to meet, he wasn’t flying to get there.

“Buffalo,” Jake said to himself as they passed the only exit Graham would have taken if he was going south to Pennsylvania.
“Lots of Italians there. No sense in flying.”

He wondered briefly who was inside Graham’s jet, but it could be anyone for a million different reasons. When the Range Rover
slowed down and got off the Thruway at the exit for the express to downtown Buffalo, Jake nodded to himself. But before reaching
the center of the city, Graham got off the expressway and headed through a run-down industrial area toward the river. Empty
weed-ridden lots and crumbling brick buildings surrounded a towering yellow brick cereal factory still belching smoke. The
rich smell of yeast and baking wheat filled Jake’s nostrils as he followed Graham over a steel trestle that lay like a sleeping
giant across the river’s span. Grain bins ten stories high lined the river’s bank as the road turned to follow its course
down a finger of land that split the river.