Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (15 page)

“Inside?” I asked.

“Affirmative,” he said. “Apparently, the wedding extras in the mall movie include five gay couples. A group opposed to same-sex marriage is staging a demonstration. You’re my closest crew. Can you head over?”

“It means busting my identity-theft victim interview.” While I normally thrived on breaking news, I was still trying to steer clear of the mall.

“But that doesn’t even have an airdate yet and this is happening now,” Ozzie remind me.

I didn’t see any way out. “There might not be much to shoot by the time we arrive. The mall doesn’t allow groups to wave signs and demonstrate. They’ll be evicted immediately, and it’s so cold they’ll scatter once they get outside.”

“I know,” Ozzie said, “but maybe you can catch up with them when they’re kicked out. Or find somebody who shot cell video of the commotion. Give me an ETA”

Malik exited the interstate and headed east on the Crosstown highway. “Tell him, fifteen minutes tops.”

I phoned Lisa and told her about the change in plans, assuring her the station was still committed to her story. “This is just
one of those out-of-nowhere news events we have to chase. I promise we’ll reschedule.”

The issue of same-sex marriage had undergone a contentious battle in Minnesota. The fight wasn’t just political. Fervor came from the Catholic pulpit as well, pitting parishioner against parishioner in the debate. At the polls, voters had rejected an amendment to the state constitution to define marriage as “one man–one woman.” Months later, in a surprise move, lawmakers inserted the word “civil” before all references to the word “marriage” and passed a law making gay weddings legal in the state.

That didn’t mean everyone was happy. While thousands of same-sex couples had already exchanged vows, opponents vowed to repeal the law once the political climate changed. And protests kept the issue in the news.

When we arrived on the scene, about a hundred people were gathered in front of the mall, and two police cars with flashing lights blocked the entrances. A middle-aged man and a heavyset woman carried a long banner reading:
TODAY GAY MARRIAGE, TOMORROW POLYGAMY
, while other folks marched behind chanting “Don’t mock marriage.
We Don’t
”—a play on the film’s title.

Malik pulled over, grabbing his camera from the back of the van to shoot cover video of the crowd. As I changed seats in the van, two protesters waved their signs in front of us to get their messages on TV. One read:
ALL BORN OF A FATHER AND MOTHER
. The other said:
TESTICLES DON’T HAVE EGGS
.

“Good luck, Malik.” I left him to look for parking. Word of the rally was apparently attracting supporters of gay marriage to turn out for a counter protest. I passed two women in the ramp waving a flag that read:
EQUAL LOVE
.

Minutes later, when I caught up with my cameraman, more protesters were being ushered outside. This rally presented more of an embarrassment to the mall than an actual security threat. I nudged Malik and made sure he shot a man with a
handmade sign that read,
GAYS SHOP AT MOA. WHAT’S THE FUSS ABOUT MARRYING
?

We rushed around for sound bites and learned the riot had been mobilized through Facebook and Twitter by opponents to same-sex marriage who used the film as an excuse to face off. We were surrounded by proof of the power of social media. People were taking pictures of the demonstration with their cell phones and posting them online. One woman texted me some interior video she shot before being kicked out, in which the protest leaders spoke of not wanting straight and gay couples wed in a joint ceremony during the movie.

“Hollywood is Satan!” one of the speakers shouted. I forwarded that scene to the Channel 3 assignment desk.

We spotted Velma waving her arms to keep the crowd back while balancing a cell phone between her shoulder and chin. I would have liked to dodge her, but Malik was already moving in with his camera to get official Mall of America reaction. At the same time that we reached her, so did Nick Garnett.

He and Malik greeted each other like old buddies. He and Velma acted like colleagues in a hurry. Neither of them had coats, and her dress, while stylish, offered little protection from the winter wind. Garnett and I squirmed like the testy exes we were, waiting to see who would speak to the other first, but we both stuck to our jobs.

While security guards tried to disperse the crowd, I clipped a wireless microphone on Velma for an interview. She was familiar with the drill. “What can you tell us about the protest?”

“While the mall recognizes the right to free speech, we are a place of business and can’t allow this action to interfere with our customers’ shopping experience.”

Once again, Velma’s weird speech pattern was noticeable, but there was nothing we could do to fix it. A photographer from a competing station shoved his camera into our Q&A with Velma. There wasn’t much we could do to oust him.

“What will happen once they begin filming the movie,
We Do?
Is there a chance we’ll see more of this?” I gestured to the pushing and shouting around us.

“The movie is a comedy,” Velma said. “It is not making a political statement.”

“What about the gay couples in the wedding scene? That’s apparently what set off this commotion.”

“Straight or gay, anyone can marry at the mall,” she said. “One hundred couples were cast as extras in a film. All this brouhaha over their sexual orientation is misplaced.”

Her voice was lost after that because a cop with a blow horn began urging everyone to leave the grounds or risk being cited for trespassing. That didn’t apply to us because courts give broad latitude to media covering news events in public places.

Velma halted the interview, saying she was freezing and had to head back inside. I heard her swear and mutter something about her PR predecessor having it much easier with
Jingle All the Way
and
The Mighty Ducks
. But by then she’d turned off the mic and started marching away in high-heeled ankle boots made out of some reptile.

“This one surprised us.” Garnett was explaining to a Bloomington Police captain that, while mall security analysts monitor social media for references to MOA, this protest was imminent by the time they caught track of it.

I signaled to Malik that we should hang back and try and get some of that info on video, when Velma returned to tap Garnett on the arm and tell him, “No media interviews. I gave them all they need.”

After our years as a couple, I could still read Garnett and at that moment I knew he was peeved that a communications flack was telling the mall’s head of security what to do. Especially in front of me.

A female security guard hanging in the background removed her coat and wrapped it around Velma’s shoulders and they
walked back into the mall, heads together like they were whispering. I wondered if they were talking about me, then told myself to stop being so insecure.

•  •  •

Garnett was a better on-camera interview than Velma, and he knew it. His voice inflection sounded more natural. As much as I wanted to test his resolve following Velma’s orders, I decided to walk away and prepare for my live shot. This time I didn’t bother turning to see if he was watching me leave. Because if he wasn’t, I didn’t want to know.

I had no proof that their relationship was more than professional, but they had the advantage of proximity. And were both on the rebound. Him from me. Velma from a nasty divorce. As a TV reporter, my job required me to look good, but nobody looks better than a recently divorced woman.

•  •  •

Back at Channel 3, I listened to a voicemail message from David Johnson, apologizing for not calling me sooner. “Good thing you didn’t need a ride home that night. My car got towed after that blasted snow.” He wanted to know if I’d had a chance to think about his offer.

I leaned back in my desk chair to admire the fish painting and imagine myself snorkeling in some tropical reef with my profit.

S
carface flashed the taboo cell phone like it was an extra ace. “Jack, your turn to call out if you want.”

As the rest of the gang hovered, he dialed, taking assurance from the fact that the voice answered his call. If the day came when the phone kept ringing and no one picked up, he would know his penitentiary predicament was about to get much worse. Right now, just hearing an outside “hello” soothed any anxiety.

Inmate 16780-59 turned his back as if that would give him some semblance of privacy in a place where none existed, and lowered his speech to a whisper. “Fine, I guess. Anything I should know?”

The brief conversation instantly came to a halt when he dropped the phone as he reached to protect his neck from a hairy arm that had wrapped around his throat.

He tried calling for help as his knees collapsed. The floor was hard, but the grip against his windpipe was harder. No scream left his lips, just a muffled gasp of confusion. He heard the voice from the phone speaker calling out his name and he stretched his fingers toward the device as he struggled against the acute pain.

A hand retrieved the cell and held it close to his foaming mouth. “Say good-bye to your people.” The prisoner recognized
Scarface’s voice and tried twisting to look at the big man, but the arm kept squeezing tight.

“What’s happening?” the phone voice kept asking. “Are you okay? Jack, talk to me.”

Scarface loomed over him and snapped his fingers, instructing whoever had the hold on his neck to ease up. “Last words.”

“Why?” he sputtered.

Scarface shrugged. “You got outbid.”

“Help me,” He pleaded to the voice on the phone. His heart was beating too fast and he could no longer speak.

“Finish it,” Scarface told the man with the choke hold.

After ten seconds of spastic jerking, he lost consciousness and slumped. The last sound he heard was his name echoing from the phone. “Jack, are you there?”

The assailant kept up the pressure until the whites of the dead man’s eyes oozed red. By then his face was swollen and his body was still and quiet on the prison floor.

The voice on the phone spoke urgently. “Somebody, talk to me. Is everything okay?”

“Yep,” Scarface answered. “We’re done here.”

“Good,” the voice replied.

B
y the time I woke up the next morning, the Associated Press had moved a news story out of New Jersey reporting that Jack Clemens, a multimillionaire fraudster, had died in prison. They’d picked it up from a local television station whose crime reporter had probably called the medical examiner in a routine check for “unusuals.”

Facts were sketchy.
Minnesota Businessman Dies Behind Bars.

I always knew that landing a camera interview with him was a long shot, but I fully expected Jack to at least phone me. I’d even programmed my voicemail to instruct the prison operator that I accepted collect calls, even from correctional facilities, so he could leave a message in case we missed each other.

If Jack was dead, so was my plan for confirming that Leon had ratted him out. I volunteered to cover the news of his demise, and since nobody else seemed to want the story, the assignment was mine.

I started out by contacting the prison to learn a cause of death. That would determine our news coverage. Plenty of incarcerated people die of natural causes, but if prison violence was involved, we might be looking at a national story. And I might even be able to sell Bryce on a trip out east.

“I’m sorry,” their public information officer said. “But we are awaiting an autopsy report before commenting.”

“Can you give me a sense of what happened?” I asked. “Did he drop dead or have some help? Off the record, are we looking at foul play?”

The guy wouldn’t engage. “We will be releasing information as it becomes public.”

Another two hours passed before that happened. And when it did, the wire story called it murder.
White-collar criminal Jack Clemens was found dead in prison, apparently strangled by another inmate. Clemens had pleaded guilty to conspiracy and fraud charges and was serving a ten-year sentence.

I was just leaving a message for his attorney, seeking his reaction and asking why his client had been moved to an out-of-state prison, when Bryce entered my office and closed the door. Considering what I knew about his history of harassing women, that move made me uncomfortable. In the past, Nicole and I had texted each other if one of us was alone with Bryce so the other could casually interrupt the meeting. We hadn’t needed that plan recently and my cell phone was out of reach.

“Is there something you’d like to discuss?” I stood up before he could sit down. “I was just making some calls, but I can join you in your office.” That way the rest of the newsroom could keep an eye on us through the glass walls, and Bryce would keep his hands on his side of the desk.

“Let’s chat here for a bit, Riley. Why does the FBI want to talk to you about Jack Clemens?”

“What?”

“An Agent Jax is waiting in the lobby right now.”

“Really.” I sat back down. I hadn’t expected that. My desk was a mess of paper. I sorted through a stack and handed him a copy of the letter I’d mailed to Clemens in prison. “It’s possible they know about this.”

He looked impressed as he read. “Why did you want to interview Jack Clemens?”

A knock came on my door and Miles Lewis stuck his head in.
“The FBI apparently wants to ask you some questions. There’s an agent here who is losing patience.”

Miles was Channel 3’s media attorney. He vetted investigative news stories, advised reporters on open government meetings and public data, and handled subpoenas and other legal affairs.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “I’d like to ask him some questions as well.”

“It might not work that way,” Miles responded.

“Agent Jax has a lot of nerve showing up here. I’ve left numerous messages for him and he’s not returned my calls.”

“Is he the same jerk who screamed about us running the snitch story?” Bryce asked.