Try Try Again (17 page)

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.

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.”

Hub tried to modify his worried look. Money, yeah, but being
associated with a flop was bad karma, and to him this sure sounded like a flop
in the making.

“Just think,” Frankie continued, “of what we could do here.
Everybody thinks they could be an actor, so we’ll give them a chance! These
people will be paying complete attention, as they act along with the trial and
their speech and vitals are monitored to see who’s best at a given moment.
Concentrating hard. Paying wonderful attention to the product placements we can
insert during court recesses and so on, or just CGI onto the defense table, what’s
that brand of water they always turn so the label’s showing and too bad we
couldn’t use beer because that wouldn’t be real? And the ‘after these messages’
messages? If the contestants have to track these, too, that’s more concentrated
attention than any ad ever gets now. And spin-offs? Just imagine!

Hub imagined. It still sounded like a bomb.

“And now the best part: trial footage would be free to us. A
trial is a government show, y’know, no royalties to pay, no permissions. Take
some public footage, hook a contest to it – how’s that for real reality TV?” He
looked questioningly but confidently at Hub.

“Contests, you know,” answered Hub carefully, “don’t last
long unless everybody has a real chance of winning, actually wins sometimes
even if not a lot. Psycho-bucks. Even a dollar or two brings them back. But if
your contest is honest, how can we stop the best players, professional actors
probably, from winning again and again, and everybody else dropping out?”

“I have a director to figure that out,” said Frankie,
pointing grandly at Hub. “Show rules can be tweaked so every dedicated agonist
will win something every show or two – even if only a dollar or so – the
scratch-off principle, y’know, in the lotteries? But you can figure all that
out. Tell my tech people what to do and they’ll do it. No imagination, y’know,
but if you tell them where you want the hole, they’ll dig their way to China.”

There was a long pause. “So,” Frankie finally asked, “do you
want to do this?”

Hub nodded without enthusiasm. Another adventure with
Frankie. Frankie will change his mind every third day, give direct orders to
Hub’s employees without mentioning this to Hub. He will give the same
assignment to two people who won’t know someone else has been given the same
assignment until they almost come to blows.

Frankie was a visionary and a money-finder and a
money-spender. Just enough above the bottom of his profession to survive. But
Hub had no outstanding offers from anywhere else, and no wish to the spend more
time idling in his indoor swimming pool, even though he had enough money to do
just that, he figured, for fifty-three-point-seven years.

The deal was agreed, then. Frankie called WizWhiz Inc., an
independent tech firm he often used, and told them Hub Landon would come by and
get them started on an exciting, wonderful new project that would lift them
into a high rank in Sector 71 of the North American Industry Classification
System. Stan Collins, the president of WizWhiz, had no idea what that meant,
but it sure sounded impressive. Frankie had no idea what it meant, either, but
he’d picked up the phrase a few years before from a script he’d trashed.

In the meantime, Hub told Frankie he’d identify a suitable
real-life trial, something dramatic that had been captured on tape.

This proved more difficult than Hub had expected. It wasn’t
a lack of high-visibility high-drama trials that (with suitable changes) could
be made into an exciting mini-series; it wasn’t even a lack of trials that had
been captured digitally or on tape; no, it was the difficulty of putting these
two requirements together. Hub had his assistants calling almost every state
judiciary and Federal court, trying to find someone who remembered if a high-tension
trial had been taped or not and if so, where was the tape?

At last, days later than the date he’d been aiming for, a
staffer discovered the trial of Charley Wayne Dukes, for the murder of
Congressman Ezra Barnes had been taped by media students at Grantwood Junior College
in Grantwood, Pennsylvania. Better yet, although it had been used for classroom
study and snippets aired by local and state webV stations, the tape as a whole
had never been seen outside the classroom and was still in existence.

The assistant identified a contact point, an Adjunct
Professor of Media named J.T. Jackson. Hub chose to make the crucial call
himself, not trusting it to anyone else. The college, after all, could just
tell him to fuck off, although this advice would be framed in more scholarly
terms.

At two thirty p.m. that day, JTJ received a call that held
both threat and promise: the threat her work might be appropriated without
adequate professional credit, that is, her name would roll at the end of the
show somewhere between the Assistant Gaffer and Jerry’s Subs, who’d catered
something.

But then the promise: JTJ had made commentaries during trial
recesses, and those were on the trial tapes too. If Hollywood wanted to use
them, well, … Visions of sugarplums were nothing compared to what JTJ was tasting
in her mind.

Hub received a download of the trial film from JTJ and viewed
it carefully. He and several writers edited it down into five eighty-eight-minute
episodes, one two-hour episode for each day of the actual trial including
commercial breaks. This of course involved editing out the less-compelling
parts of the trial. Also of course, the tape didn’t catch sidebars with the
judge, whispered words at counsels’ tables, etc.