Gospel (33 page)

‘I see,' said Caroline, now uncrossing her legs, and leaning forward in her chair. It was a subtle move but one that put Karin slightly on guard, their personal space was diminishing and Karin instinctively sat further back in her seat.

‘How would you describe the relationship between your husband and the late Vice President?'

Karin paused, unsure of how best to answer this question. Caroline noticed her hesitancy and began to direct Karin down a path along which she hoped the woman would follow.

‘Were they friends?'

‘Yes.'

‘Colleagues?'

‘Stuart consulted on governmental health initiatives, so I suppose they were colleagues to some degree.'

‘And your husband was considered by many to be the most likely candidate for the position of US Surgeon General when it became available later this year.'

‘Well,' said Karin, starting to feel uncomfortable, not sure where this was going. ‘Many considered him a solid alternative.'

‘Karin, I appreciate how difficult this is for you. Your husband, as we all know, has been the subject of much conjecture in regards to more recent events which affected his relationship with Tom Bradshaw. There have been rumours that the Vice President and your husband had a major falling out – over the funding for the Professor's cardiac research program, the Vice President's sudden open support of Dr Alexandria Weiss as the next US Surgeon General and, more specifically, your husband's affair with Jessica Douglas, the wife of one Senator Raymond Douglas, one of the Vice President's oldest and dearest friends. How do you, as the Professor's wife, respond to such rumours? Perhaps you can dispel them for us once and for all.'

Karin was trapped. Caroline Croft had her in a corner and she knew it. The only reason Karin had orchestrated this interview was to make the outrageous claim that she knew the true identity of Tom Bradshaw's killers, to ‘
Plan B
' the situation by giving the public, and a potential jury, another scenario to consider. But truth be told, while she was sure her husband was innocent, she had no idea who the real murderers actually were, and now she realised her ‘strategy' may not have been so clever after all. Even if she managed to create doubt in the minds of the public, the second part of her plan, to reveal on national TV that she and her husband had confided in their lawyer – one David Cavanaugh – as to the identity of the real murderer, could just as easily backfire. She had hoped such revelations would coerce David into taking on the role she had created for him, but he could just as easily turn around and tell her and her husband to ‘go jump' which in reality, he probably should.

And so the success of her strategy was based entirely on her belief, her hope, that David was still the man she had married all those years ago. Perhaps if he saw her open claim of Stuart's innocence – on national TV no less – he would realise how much she needed him and that Stuart, no matter how David felt about him, was an innocent man heading for a lethal injection unless her lawyer had the courage to find and reveal the truth.

If she was wrong, and the years of rejection had strangled her ex-husband's idealism, then this entire charade was for nothing – worse still, it could bury her husband and herself along with him. Whatever the case, she knew it was too late to turn back now. Caroline was forcing the issue of Stuart's motives, and Karin knew, if she had any hope of achieving what she had set out to, she would have to answer Caroline's questions as honestly as possible until the opportunity arose for her to execute her now seemingly pathetic plan.

Caroline was smart enough to drain this interview dry before allowing Karin to fulfil her own agendas. They were two intelligent women using each other for their own objectives and underneath all the pretence and platitudes, both were aware of it. Right now Caroline held the upper hand and Karin had no choice but to play along.

‘Dr Montgomery?' said Caroline. ‘Do you need a break?'

‘No,' said Karin. ‘I'm fine, let's continue.'

‘I'm so sorry,' said David, who had started on the twelfth floor, was now on the tenth and working his way down. ‘I was sure my wife told me room 1005. You see, she checked in this morning and left me a message giving me the room number and, well, obviously I got it wrong.'

The large hairy man with the cigar in his mouth and a too small bath towel hanging loosely about his waist said nothing, just stood there and grimaced through yellow teeth. ‘I just got in from a thirty-one-hour flight from Melbourne, via South East Asia with a four hour delay in LA and an unscheduled three hour stop in Denver due to engine trouble.'

‘I'm sorry I . . .'

‘You knock on my door again, I'll beat the crap out of you.'

‘Right,' said David, becoming accustomed to having doors slammed in his face. That was the last ‘
Do No Disturb'
sign on the tenth floor so David headed down the corridor for the elevator, ready to tackle level nine.

‘Hold the elevator please,' he called out to an attractive elderly couple who had just disappeared behind the now closing elevator doors.

‘I'm sorry, son,' said the old man, holding his foot against the doors. ‘Like Central Station 'round here tonight. Houston is a big city – but it's a long way from Boston, if you know what I mean.'

‘Sure,' smiled David, pressing the number nine.

‘You with the famous people?'

‘No, I . . . What famous people?'

‘With all the lights and cameras,' he said.

‘Oh yes,' said his cherry-haired wife, the elevator now slowing as it reached the floor below. ‘It was that news lady, the pretty one who looks like Dianne Sawyer – but it's not Dianne Sawyer. What's her name Roy?'

‘Caroline Croft?' interrupted David.

‘Yes, that's her. She looked very professional. All dolled up, but not in a tacky way, more . . . well . . . more like Dianne Sawyer.'

The elevator light indicated ‘9', as it slowed and the doors opened.

‘Where?' asked David quickly. ‘Did you see what room they were going to? I'm sorry but this is important, I have a message for Ms Croft and . . .'

‘Well that's easy,' said the old man. ‘1012, right next door to us!'

The doors started to close and David, mid-thought, was too slow in his efforts to force them back open – he should have jumped out at nine and taken the stairs back up.

‘Does that help, sonny?' asked the man.

‘Yes, I'm sorry. Thank you,' said David, now frustrated by the elevator's slow descent.

‘Our pleasure,' the man beamed. ‘My name is Roy by the way,' Roy extended his hand. ‘You drop us at the lobby and you can mosey on back up.'

‘Great, thanks.'

‘And if she has time to sign autographs,' said his wife, ‘my name is Edith, Edith Ranch, which is kind of appropriate given our home State.' They both smiled at each other, and laughed at a joke they had no doubt told a hundred times. ‘If you could ask her to sign something on our behalf then you could slip it under our door if that's okay. Room 1011,' she said.

Level 8, level 7
. . .

‘
Suite
1011 actually, dear,' countered Roy. ‘It's an executive suite. It's our fiftieth wedding anniversary and the kids chipped in to buy us this holiday. We met in Boston don't you know – back in '54. Edith was on summer vacation with her folks and I was on leave after a stint in Korea, just some skinny marine who had never stepped two feet from home until Uncle Sam came a callin'. Anyways, me and my buddies were up at Bunker Hill and I see this flame-haired beauty walkin' the tour with her family. And whatta ya know. Turns out she's Texan too and open minded enough to
consider stepping out with a mangy lookin' fellow with the crazy name o' ‘Scrawny' Roy Ranch Jnr – and the rest, as they say, is . . .'

‘History,' finished Edith.

Level 3, level 2
. . . David could feel his heart pounding in his chest, making it almost impossible to concentrate on what the Ranches were saying. He felt like he was stuck in a world of slow motion, waist deep in a tub of the thickest molasses, and desperate to move – now.

‘Best decision I ever made hookin' up with this now not so scrawny sailor,' grinned Edith, with true admiration in her bright green eyes. ‘Yes Siree, this city holds a special place in our hearts. The good Lord was definitely on hand on that fateful day when we just happened to be in the same place at the same time and we . . .' But Edith Ranch was interrupted by the ‘ding' of the elevator chime indicating they had finally reached the ground floor. A relieved David pressed the open door button before standing back to let them pass.

‘Well, good luck, son. We'll be seein' ya,' said Roy as David pumped the ‘close door' button with his right hand and watched the pair disappear again, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, with not a care in the world. And in that moment, as the doors squeezed shut, pinching Roy and Edith from his view, David felt a rush of emotion for Mr and Mrs ‘Scrawny' Roy Ranch Jnr of Houston, Texas – everything from admiration and respect to regret and envy, that they had what they had and he had lost what he'd lost.

I could lose Sara over this
, he said to himself.
And for what? For Truth? For Justice? For Joe? For Karin?

But it was too late. The indicator ‘dinged' 10, and despite what he knew were valid hesitations . . . despite his feelings of shame and remorse, he found himself allowing Sara to slip from his mind and sprinting towards Suite 1012 – towards trouble, towards confrontation, towards his future, towards his past – towards Karin, as if his life depended on it.

God, she was good. One of the best Caroline had ever seen, which was saying a lot considering her interviewing expertise had cornered and crucified former Presidents, Prime Ministers, royalty. At first Caroline assumed Karin would be just another emotional subject so consumed with stress, fear, regret, and better still, anger, that she would basically spill every bean on her plate with some more thrown in for the bargain.

But she was wrong. Karin was smart, calculating even. She was charismatic – straightforward but approachable, stunning but accessible. She faced every question with interest and honesty, denying her husband's infidelities, backing up her claims of his hard work and compassion with examples, and admitting that while the rumours were hurtful, she knew they were part and parcel of a situation such as this. Was she frustrated? ‘Yes.' Was she bitter? ‘Not yet.' Was she hopeful? ‘Of course.'

Caroline knew that while she was getting a blockbuster program, Karin Montgomery was also fulfilling her own agenda. This woman was 100 per cent believable and her magnetism, candour and immediate likeability would have millions of Americans questioning their foregone conclusion of her husband's guilt. She was his major asset and one serious thorn in the prosecution's side.

Bottom line, Karin had fulfilled her part of their agreement, she had given Caroline her exclusive and more. Now Caroline owed it to her to wrap this one up with the questions Karin needed to answer, and selfishly, the very same queries and responses Caroline and her audience most wanted to hear.

‘Finally, Karin,' said Croft. ‘Prior to this interview you told me you had something to tell the American people – about your husband and the accusations made against him.'

‘That's right.'

‘You do not believe your husband killed Vice President Bradshaw?'

‘No. In fact I know he did not.'

‘But how can that be? You were downstairs in the ballroom of Boston's Fairmont Hotel at the time of the Vice President's death.'

‘Yes.'

‘Several floors below where your husband was attending to the Vice President.'

‘Yes.'

‘And you do not believe the Vice President committed suicide?'

‘No.'

‘And you were not witness to his murder.'

‘No.'

‘Then forgive me, Karin, but how can you make such claims and expect the American people to believe you? Why wouldn't they just dismiss your
well-meaning defence of your husband as just that, a wife's blind loyalty to her beloved spouse?'

‘Because . . . because I know who
did
kill him.'

‘You know the identity of the Vice President's murderer?' Caroline picked up the pace.

‘Murderers.'

‘More than one person?'

‘Yes.'

‘But as you said to me earlier, you do not feel comfortable revealing this information in this interview.'

‘No.'

‘For fear of your husband's welfare?'

‘And that of my own.' This just came out, and with it, the piercing jolt of realisation that what she had just said was most likely true. That she was putting herself in danger – and Stuart, and David.

‘Then why not tell the FBI, the police, the prosecutors?'

‘Because I have been advised by my attorney, by Stuart's attorney, not to. He . . .'

And then she stopped. Just like that. Mid sentence, as if she were remembering something . . . something obvious that had previously eluded her.

‘What is it, Karin?' asked Croft.

‘The number,' said Karin.

‘The number? What number?' asked Caroline, annoyed at this pause at such a crucial stage of the interview.

‘. . . the cell that tried to call me,' Karin said almost to herself. ‘I used to know it by heart. I used to call it at least four times a day. He hasn't changed it in all these years, but then again, why should he? And I turned it off. I hung
up
on him! God, what if he . . . ?'

‘Karin, who was it? Who . . . ?'

‘I'm sorry,' said Karin, standing up from her seat and removing her microphone. ‘I . . . I don't think I can . . .'