Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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wade through the files. After I lug Marston’s boxes into the conference room, she gathers her reporters, photographers, and interns for a brief orientation. The Examiner is used as a training ground for the Masters media group; thus the staff hails from all points of the compass. Not one among them is over thirty, and all are rabid liberals. I view this as a positive, for when the Marston camp discovers I’m using these kids against them, they’ll almost certainly try to bribe a few for inside information. Youth and left-wing politics may give my team an immunity to filthy lucre that I couldn’t hope to find elsewhere.
Caitlin’s speech is modeled on those given by army officers requesting volunteers for particularly dirty missions. She succinctly summarizes my reasons for provoking the slander suit, then in broad strokes describes what we’ll be looking for in the mountain of paper that will arrive later in the day.
“This is an unusual situation,” she concludes. “Some of you may think I’m stepping over an ethical line by involving the paper in a legal proceeding that we’ll be reporting on. That’s true enough. But I stepped over a harder line when I printed Mr. Cage’s charges. We’ll be reporting this story the way papers reported stories in the good old bad old days. We’re throwing the full weight of our media group behind a cause.”
A buzz of approval runs through her audience.
“We are seeking the truth about a terrible crime, and I’ll publish the truth as I find it, whether it conforms to my preconceptions or not. I think that lives up to the truest spirit of objectivity.”
A burst of applause follows this. Two of the male reporters, whose goatees make them look like anarchists in a Sergei Eisenstein film, pump their fists in the air.
Caitlin brushes an errant strand of hair from her eyes and goes on. “Anyone who feels uncomfortable about this, see me in my office. You’ll be excused with no questions asked and no negative consequences.”
A blond guy in the back says, “And go back to covering board of supervisors meetings?”
“At least there’s comedy at the supervisor meetings,” squawks a dark-haired girl with a Brooklyn accent. “Try covering the flower shows.”
Caitlin holds up her hands. “Before we disperse, I want Mr. Cage to say a few words.”
Facing the ring of expectant young faces, I feel as I did addressing new assistant district attorneys in Houston, smart kids who concealed their idealism behind shells of aggressive cynicism. “First of all, everyone here calls me Penn. No exceptions. Second, when I made those charges against Leo Marston, I had no intention of setting foot in a courtroom. But Marston is a powerful man, and there is going to be a trial. That trial is five days from now. I have five days to prove Leo Marston guilty of murder.”
Skeptical sighs blow through the conference room.
“The good news is, he’s guilty. The bad news is, the people who know that won’t testify. Your job is to wade through documentary evidence. You’re looking for several things. First, illegal activity. You’re not lawyers, but if it looks or smells dirty to you, it probably is. Second, any correspondence mentioning Ray Presley or the Triton Battery Company. Third, any reference to or correspondence with the federal government, particularly with FBI Director John Portman or former director J. Edgar Hoover.”
“Whoa,” says one of the anarchists. “This is like X-Files, man.”
A ripple of laughter sweeps through the group.
“This case may be more like the X-Files than any of us wants to believe,” I tell him. “Just remember that none of you are Fox Mulder or Agent Scully, okay? People are dying in this town, and they’re dying because of this case. I don’t want anybody in this room trying to win a Pulitzer by going after Ray Presley. He’s killed before, and he probably set the fire that killed Ruby Flowers. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of you if he felt you were a threat to him. Is that clear?”
Grim nods around the room.
“Are there any questions?”
One of the goateed reporters raises his hand. “This murder happened thirty years ago. It’s gone unsolved all that time. Do we have a hope in hell of solving it in a week?”
“You’re assuming that someone has been trying to solve it. This is a small town. In small towns there are sometimes truths that everyone knows but no one mentions. Open secrets, if you will. No one really wants to probe the details, because it forces us to face too many uncomfortable realities. We’d rather turn away than acknowledge the primitive forces working beneath the surface of society.”
“Amen,” someone murmurs.
“In the case of Del Payton, no one knew exactly who planted the bomb that killed him, but everyone believed they understood what had happened. An uppity nigger got out of line, so somebody stepped in and reminded the rest of them where the line was. Unpleasant but inevitable.” My easy use of the “N-word” obviously shocks some members of the audience. “I believe this crime was misunderstood from the beginning. Del Payton’s death may have had nothing to do with civil rights. Or only peripherally to do with it. His death may be old-fashioned murder masquerading as a race crime. And understanding that could be the key to solving this case.”
Caitlin steps up beside me. “Any other questions? We’ve got work to do.”
No more hands go up.
She sends everyone back to work with a two-handed “scoot” gesture. After they’ve gone, she sits at the head of the conference table, a skeptical look on her face.
“Penn, do we have any hope of tying Marston to Ray Presley or the crime scene in time for the trial?”
“That depends on what we find in the discovery material.”
“Do you really believe Marston would send you anything incriminating?”
“I’ve found some pretty big surprises during discovery in my career. People make blunders.” I motion toward the boxes the police saved from the fireplace at Tuscany last night. “And then there’s that stuff. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Caitlin nods, but she doesn’t look hopeful. “Do you realize that almost every witness who knows anything you need to tell the jury would have to embarrass themselves terribly by testifying? Frank Jones—Betty Lou Jackson. Not only that, they’ll be putting themselves in the killers’ sights. Your ATF pal will testify, and maybe Lester Hinson, if you pay him enough. But the rest? No way.”
“That’s what subpoenas are for.”
“You’re not that naive. Portman, Marston, and Presley know about all these people, or soon will. And they’ll try everything from bribes to murder to keep them quiet.”
“That’s why we have to crack Marston’s nerve between now and next Wednesday.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Then we pray our long shots come through.”
“And those are?”
“Peter Lutjens, for one. He’s going for the Payton file in two days.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. What exactly is he going to try to do? The file is forty-four volumes long. He can’t walk out with it under his coat. He can’t even photocopy it unless he has all night.”
“He won’t have to. Remember what Stone told us in Colorado? The file is forty-three volumes of nothing and his final report. That’s all we need. Stone’s final report.”
“Lutjens knows that?”
“I talked to him this morning.”
“What’s the other long shot?”
“Stone himself.”
She shakes her head. “Never happen. He’s too scared. They’ve got something on that guy. Stone’s not going to talk.”
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