As the Wicked Watch(17)

“Absolutely,” I said.

“I trust you.” He smiled.

“Thank you, Dr. Chan. Is it all right if I tape my closing right here before we head out?” I asked.

“Sure, no problem. I myself have to step out for a moment. Just come on out when you’re done, and I’ll escort you back upstairs,” he said.

As he walked out of the room, I turned to Scott. “Okay, Scott, let’s get this over with.”

“Are you ready? You need a minute?” he asked.

“No, no, I’m good. I know what I want to say. I’m ready.”

Outside the courtroom, most people would never hear violence against another person described in the horrific detail Dr. Chan had just shared with me privately. We shield them from it. We as in the media, police, and prosecutors. Sometimes I wish the public did know. Then maybe people would understand the true impact of violent crime and the destruction of human life.

“I look okay?” I asked Scott.

“You’re gorgeous!”

I stared into the camera, and for a moment I forced myself to forget that Pamela might be watching. People had to know the truth, as much of it as I think they can stand.





5




Following my interview with Dr. Chan, I drove back to the studio, one hand clutching the steering wheel, the other pressed against my cheek, in disbelief over what I’d just learned about the inconceivable horror of Masey James’s final moments.

She was eviscerated, Jordan.

I could feel my heart beating, not in my chest, but in my head, like a bass drum relentlessly keeping time. Along the way, I called producer Tracy Klein to see if she was available to edit the footage, which is scheduled to air tomorrow night. Tracy is as good as gold, the most gifted editor at the station and certainly one of the most dedicated. God bless her, she worked an hour and a half over on her Saturday shift to sit with me in the dark, cramped editing booth to chop up the interview precisely as I instructed. I am usually not so hands-on, but Dr. Chan has put a great deal of faith and trust in me, so I make it my business to ensure that nothing I report in any way compromises his position.

It was dark when I pulled out of the underground parking lot, and I mourned the loss of the evening sun when the days grow shorter as a precursor to fall. Back in Austin, I looked forward to the change of seasons and the unbridled majesty of fall’s mosaic. In Chicago, fall’s beauty is the first sign of the inevitability and brutality of the winter to come.

I felt a similar kind of dread wash over me on the way home. After this day, it is the last place I want to be—drinking alone. No stash of cute throw pillows and scented candles from Pier 1 was going to make me feel better, but I could use a drink, so I called Zena. She’s usually up for anything and just the person I needed to pull me out of this funk. Just dialing her number, I could feel the tension leaving my body. I asked her to meet me at a wine bar in my neighborhood. Zena Gardner, or Z, is like a little sister to me, but I admirably refer to her as my “big sister” because at twenty-five, she’s already so accomplished. She co-owns a clothing and jewelry boutique with her mother in Oak Park. She also has majority stock in an organic coffee company and owns two rental properties—one in her native Brooklyn and another in Philadelphia she inherited from her grandmother and renovated—and she recently moved into a three-bedroom condo she owns in Bucktown.

I arrived first and headed straight for the more private lounge area in the back, with its low, plush blue velvet couches and candelabras on teakwood side tables. I plopped down and let out a deep breath, then discreetly slipped out of my pumps. The server hadn’t noticed me yet, but that was okay. I needed a moment to catch my breath and sink into this velvety comfort.

Z arrived about ten minutes later. The couch had me in its grip by then, and I struggled to find my footing to get up and greet Z with a hug.

“Hey, girl! Don’t get up. You’re fine,” Z said.

But Z had no idea how badly I needed that hug. I fought gravity and stood up, holding out my arms and greeting her warmly. “Thanks for coming out. It’s been a rough couple of days, girl.”

For some people, my opener would have invited questions, such as “Why?” or “What happened?” But not Zena. It wasn’t that she didn’t care; her default mode was always to listen and pivot to the positive.

“Wait! When did you cut your hair? I love it!” she said.

Zena hadn’t seen me since the big chop a couple weeks ago. I made a drastic change from a bob that kissed my shoulders to a short do spiked at the top and shaved close to my scalp in the back.

“I liked your style before, but this is you!” Z said. “Not everybody can pull it off. It suits your face.”

“See, I think so, too. But it’s still a big debate in the newsroom.”

“What are you in the mood for?” she asked.

“You know I love my big reds. Let’s get a bottle,” I said.

“Bet!”

Z and I chopped it up until just before midnight, when she was distracted by the chirp of an incoming text message on her phone. She grabbed it off the table so fast it looked like a flash of light beaming across the table. I knew something was up by the sneaky grin that crept across her face.

“I know that look,” I said. “I’m about to be kicked to the curb.”