“I do like it,” Win said.
This pleased the curator.
“If you’ll excuse us one moment,” Win said.
He and Kabir slipped into the next room. They stood before another one of the Frick’s gems, La Promenade, the masterpiece of a mother with her two wide-eyed young daughters, by Renoir. The wide-eyed girls looked well-fed and well-to-do in their fur-trimmed overcoats. The mother had her hands on the girls’ backs. Was the mother protectively escorting her children or pushing them ahead? Win didn’t know, but something felt amiss in that promenade.
“Articulate,” Win said to Kabir.
“First up, those pickup games where someone might have gotten Greg Downing’s blood or whatever,” Kabir said. He read off his phone. That was how he took notes. Many young people did this, of course, but it still always looked strange to Win. “We had one of our best investigators go up to Wallkill. There is only one outdoor court that hosts pickup games. It’s near Wallkill High.”
“And?”
“Nothing. It’s a game that features mostly regulars, though like most of these things, anyone can show up. There’s a lot of trash-talking and arguing over calls, but no one remembers any incident involving blood spilled in the past year. Also no one remembers Greg Downing showing up.”
“Downing claimed that he went in disguise.”
“Yeah, like what? Fake mustache? Wig?”
Win said nothing.
“I personally talked to a guy named Mike Grenley. He’s like the commissioner of the Wallkill pickup games — knows everybody in town, selects the teams, brings a ball, keeps the score, that kind of thing. Total basketball nutjob. He’s a huge fan of Myron’s, by the way.”
“I’ll let Myron know.”
“Anyway, he says he would have recognized Greg Downing, even if Downing played with both his hands tied behind his back.”
“Mr. Grenley might have missed that night.”
“He says he hasn’t missed one since 2008 when he tore his meniscus.”
“Try pickup games in neighboring towns.”
“Already on it, boss.”
“What else?”
“You wanted me to do a deep dive into Greg Downing’s son Jeremy.”
Kabir, like everyone outside the very inner circle, had no idea that Jeremy Downing was Myron’s son. Only biologically, of course. It was important for Win, even in his own mind, to make that distinction. It made what Win was doing now feel slightly less like a betrayal to think of it that way.
“What did you find?”
“Here’s a summary,” Kabir said, handing him a sheet of paper. “I sent the entire file to your email.”
Win began to scan the text when he spotted the discrepancy. He was about to read more when Kabir touched him on the shoulder and said, “Whoa.”
Kabir stared wide-eyed at his phone.
“Whoa what?”
“We need to watch this pronto.”
Terese met Myron in the coffee shop across the street from where Jackie Newton was being held. She had a laptop open, and after Myron came through the door, she handed him one AirPod and put the other in her own ear.
“Sadie’s about to go live,” she said.
“But you don’t know what she’s going to say?”
Terese shook her head. “But my network would never go live unless she guaranteed something big.” Terese pushed the cup at him. “Black. Darkest roast.”
“I love you, you know.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Kelly Gallagher has a crush on you.”
“Really?”
Myron made a face. “Like you didn’t know.”
“I’m way older than Kelly Gallagher. It can’t work.”
“Plus you’re married to a dreamboat of a guy.”
“Oh right,” Terese said. “That too.”
The white-bearded news anchor with the wire-framed spectacles announced that they had breaking news. Myron sat up and leaned forward. The woman at the podium was none other than the founder of Fisher, Friedman and Diaz, Sadie Fisher. On Sadie’s right, no more than a foot behind her, was the recently abducted Bo Storm. Myron couldn’t help but feel relief. The kid looked healthy enough.
Sadie, ever in her element, looked out into the audience as though she might devour it. Bo looked the direct opposite of all that.
On the bottom of the screen, the banner conveyer-belted the words BREAKING NEWS: LIVE FROM LAS VEGAS across the lower part of the screen.
“Thank you all for coming,” Sadie Fisher began.
She wore the fashionable eyewear and bright lipstick. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, giving her even more of the fetish librarian vibe. Her white blouse was extra white against the form-fitting black suit. Her chin was high.
“Our judicial system is founded on certain bedrock principles, none greater than the presumption of innocence. In our country, you are innocent until proven guilty. This idea is sacrosanct in our society. No man or woman should ever, ever, be denied their freedom, unless and until the government proves their case beyond a reasonable doubt. No exceptions.”
Terese leaned close to Myron. “I feel like ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ should be playing in the background.”
“And of course,” Sadie-on-the-screen continued, “few things shock the senses of all decent people more than an innocent man or woman serving hard time for a crime that they didn’t commit. If an overzealous or, worse, an overly ambitious prosecutor convicts someone wrongly by accident — takes away their freedom — that, to me, is still a crime. It may not be murder, but it is still very much manslaughter. But if we find out that prosecutors not only wrongly convicted a human being but let them languish in prison after — after — they learned the conviction was a mistake, it is unconscionable. Correct the mistake — don’t cover it up. Own up to it. Do not let your victims spend even one more day behind bars.”
Sadie put her hands on both sides of the podium and gripped the wood.
“We are here to talk about an outrage and a danger to the entire public.”
Terese whispered, “She has a gift for hyperbole.”
“She’s a lawyer,” Myron replied.
On the screen, Sadie nodded toward Bo. He slid forward a bit, his eyes darting everywhere but straight ahead.
“This young man was forced by an overzealous prosecutor to testify falsely in a murder trial. The Clark County District Attorney’s Office threatened him with criminal prosecution, even though they knew that they were demanding he lie. But the corruption goes deeper than one rogue prosecutor. The Clark County DA, in conjunction with other law enforcement agencies, have colluded to keep innocent people incarcerated. They know, for example, that not only did they force my client to testify falsely but that Joseph Turant, who has been imprisoned for four years for the murder of Jordan Kravat, is innocent. If they didn’t know it at the time of his trial, they know it for certain now.”
She paused, fixed her glasses, turned her eyes back toward the camera.
“There are at least six other murder cases nationwide where innocent people are currently languishing in prison — and the FBI knows it. The latest involves the murder of Cecelia Callister and her son Clay Staples — a case where the innocent man currently being railroaded is my client Greg Downing. And I stress this — the FBI knows he didn’t do it.”