Try Try Again (21 page)

But first, his daily ritual. He ran a webscript which gave
him the temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction, ground-dryness at
eight strategically located nearby spots, with projections for the next several
days. Only a slight chance of wildfire and no chance of a drenching rain, he
concluded. His beloved mansion just downhill from Mulholland Drive would be –
almost – safe from the ever-present danger of fire, or the chance the entire
mountain would rain-slide downhill in the direction of Sunset Boulevard. Safe for
the next several days, anyway.

Turning back to the show, it occurred to him to wonder
exactly what Jillian Hall had keyed off of – exactly where she had won that
first, crucial, T-slice, and how many other contestants had tied her score for
that slice. If Hall was the clear winner – no ties – that would be so unusual
as to be suspect. If Hall had been an undistinguished agonist before winning
big, that would also be suspect.

How should he proceed? Carefully. A rumor in the showbiz
press that he was concerned about a potential fraud, would be almost as harmful
as the exposure of a fraud itself. Not just anonymous whispers, but the
Director himself was suspicious. He shuddered at the thought.

Hub had a light lunch and soaked in his enormous bathtub –
his friends actually referred to it as “The Enormous Bathtub,” or “Lake
Mulholland,” or, less kindly as “Hub’s Tub” – often followed by “glub glub.” They
could laugh, but Hub’s best thinking took place there. It was his refuge, his
den, his study, occasionally shared but normally only with very close friends of
either sex with whom he wanted to get even closer. It was actually a heated
indoor pool, but he had had it built in the shape of an old-fashioned
lion-paw-cornered bathtub, complete with fake hot and cold taps and a shower
nozzle.

He waved a hand at his webV screens and ordered them to
re-run season two, episode four. He fast-forwarded to near the end of the
British Foods commercial. In just a few seconds he’d be watching the point in
the show where Jillian Hall had done what no contestant had ever done before.

His customized datascreen next to the webV displayed, in
real-show time graphics, how many logons there were, now many contestants were
doing Poorly, Average, Well, or Very Well. It was part of WizWhiz’s job to
tweak the show so that most people scored Well or better most of the time, thus
creating enthusiasm and higher viewership. The resulting numbers were sold, in
confidence, to potential advertisers after being slightly “edited.” This
tweaking, of course, was performed by WizWhiz to Hub’s and Frankie’s
specifications.

Hub’s datascreen also showed how many T-slices - fractions
of a second - the current “best” agonist had been “best.” Of course at any one
time, hundreds of contestants could be tied for “best,” owing to the
granularity of the scoring subsystem, but most dropped back after a second or
two. Fifteen consecutive seconds as “best” was rare, and fifty-six point five
seconds, scored in season one, episode two had been the record until the
previous evening.

But now there was a woman (the datascreen said she’d won a
thousand dollars in season one) who’d been best or tied for best for one
hundred and fourteen and a half seconds before her measured performance dropped
below another agonist’s. Hub wondered if the show had insurance against
liabilities like that, decided that was Frankie’s problem and not his own.

Not paying attention to the virtues of bubble and squeak in
the British Foods ad, Hub concentrated hard. In a few seconds, the cop would be
saying something about “waved his hand at Jerry Sullivan.” Then Charley Dukes
would rise a little in his chair and look at Liv Saunders, who would glance at
him with a thin smile. That’s when Jillian Hall’s one hundred and fourteen and
a half seconds of glory would begin.

How did that happen? He watched those one hundred and
fourteen and a half seconds, and then again, and one more time. The number of
“Doing Very Well” contestants had dropped suddenly. Why was that? He knew  Very
Wells were typically the most avid fans; they knew every second of the show,
every inhalation and exhalation from each principal in the trial. Why would
their scores drop off like that, allowing Jillian Hall to be the top contestant
while the others’ scores dropped, then gradually rose again until Hall was tied
and then beaten – but not before she’d won three million dollars.

Some kind of trickery must be involved, he thought, some
kind of cheating. Only eleven contestants consistently won prizes of more than ten
thousand dollars, and he knew them by name. “Jillian Hall” was not among those
names.

Could contestants’ scores have been faked? Other
contestants’ IDs hacked and a lower level of play recorded for that critical
minute-plus? That would be hard to believe. Some twelve million screens were
tuned to the episode, and more than eight million of these had active agonist
logons. That would be eight million IDs all hacked at the same time and then
unhacked, all without any intruder alerts or smoking guns. Anybody who could do
that would be a tech billionaire and could give three million dollars to a cat
shelter.

Or perhaps Hall had an advance look at the episode, had
practiced with the “tweaked” version Frankie the producer had authorized. That
would certainly be the simplest explanation. If Frankie had “leaked” the
revised episode four to only one person, the slight changes in timing and tempo
that had been made between seasons one and two might have thrown the other
contestants off their game just a little, leaving Hall the only one with
sufficient practice to win. Agonists who’d been thrown off balance might take those
one hundred and fourteen and a half seconds to recover their mental balance and
get back in synch with the trial.

Well, whatever the reason, she’d become famous, and that had
to be good publicity for the show. So why was he bothered? Cheating? What kind
of cheating, if not an advance look at the show? But why of all people was a
mid-level employee of a small business in some Virginia cow-patty the chosen
cheater? Didn’t make sense.

Any kind of cheating, if it hit the news, would be
disastrous to the show, and to him personally, even if he hadn’t been involved.
He remembered his grandfather’s telling him about the fate of the quiz show,
“Twenty One” in the ‘fifties. The contestants were given the answers in
advance. When that blew up, everyone involved was ruined; some didn’t work
again for years. Hub didn’t want that fate. “I don’t know” was never an excuse;
being out of the loop just made you look dumb.

He replayed Jillian’s win again without learning anything
else. Then it occurred to him to look at exactly how the season two “tweaks”
were made. Frankie had made a few minor changes for season two, and that fact had
been announced before the second season aired. Hub pulled up episode four of
both seasons side by side, fiddled with the controls until both screens were two
minutes from going into the British Foods commercial (season two), and the
ChronoSwiss watch commercial (season one).

At that point, before the commercial break, both seasons
were identical. Chief Gardner was on the stand, being questioned by prosecutor Brent
Nielsen. Nielsen seemed to be conscious of Gardner’s newfound hero status,
gently guiding him through the Q&A.

And then the commercial break.

And then something was different, something involving the
defense attorney. Season two wasn’t exactly like season one. The difference was
subtle enough casual viewers would never notice, but a dedicated agonist would.
And could be thrown off the pace.

Could Liv Saunders herself be a ringer for “Jillian Hall”?
Stranger things were known.

By that time, Frankie Dickstein’s admin had left Hub a
message with the time and place of the Awards Ceremony. Hub’s mental Outlook
flipped a few screens and made a note.

After twenty-five minutes, still soaking pleasantly, Hub had
a plan. He called his office, asked his 'girl’ (for $200K/year she put up with
that shit) to set up a call with Liv Saunders, the attorney. How to reach her? Grantwood
Pennsylvania, then, could be someplace else now. Have her call me. About? About
my calling her; just do it.

And he’d make sure Jillian Hall would to come to the
Ceremony. Don’t take no for an answer. Ask her if she wants to buy our entire
frigging show so she can have all the prizes. No, that was a joke; don’t ask
her that.

The girl having done her e-phonebook job, Hub put in a call
to Ms. Olivia Saunders in Grantwood, Pennsylvania. He waited impatiently to
speak with her. He hadn’t seen her since the season-one awards ceremony, and
then very briefly; who knows what could have happened to her or where she might
have gone? But after a few minutes, the girl informed him that Olivia Saunders
of Grantwood, Pennsylvania, was on the line.

“Ms. Saunders? This is Hub Landon. We met briefly at the ‘Try
Try Again’ season one awards party.”

“Yes, I remember,” her voice said. There was a slight
silence as Hub waited for Liv to say something more, but she didn’t. Not like
Hollywood, he observed silently.

Hub waited another half second, but no response was
forthcoming. He remembered she’d been distant at the season-one Awards party,
had hardly said a word. At the time, Hub attributed it to stage fright. But no,
it seemed to be her natural style.

“Ah, …” he didn’t know whether to call her Olivia or Liv or
Ms. Saunders, or what. He decided on “Ah.” “Ah,” he continued, “I guess you
know someone from your part of the country won – well, a lot of money in episode
four, playing you.”

“I heard about that. And no matter what you people on the
Coast think, Pennsylvania isn’t the same ‘part of the country’ as Virginia.
Their army invaded us once, if you’ll recall.”

This didn’t seem to be going well.

“Certainly, certainly,” Hub said. “I won’t keep you on the
phone for more than a second, but as you know you have a standing invitation to
attend all ‘Try Try Again’ events, especially the season-two Awards Ceremony
that’s coming up shortly.” He hurried on, not waiting for the now-expected monosyllable.
“And I have a very special reason for really wanting you to attend the event
this time. So, are you planning to be at the Awards Ceremony?” he asked.

“I’ve been invited, but I’m not going; showing the flag once
was enough.”

“I really wish you would, just this one time, even if you
don’t care for the festivities. I have a special purpose here, something we
need to discuss.”

“What’s that?”

“Something I can’t really explain now, but it needs your
personal expertise.”

“As a lawyer?”

“As
that
lawyer – the one who defended Charley
Dukes.”

“
That’s
over and done with. I wish it hadn’t become a
webV show.”

“Do you really think Charley got justice?”

“Ah – he intended to kill Ezra Barnes, and he probably did.
So his conviction was warranted – that’s about as far as I want to go right now.”

“Why was Barnes killed?” Hub persisted. “There’s got to be more
to the story than came out at the trial. And why was Dukes killed then, later?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know. But what does that have to
do with my attending the Awards Ceremony?”

“If you could arrive a day early, we would have time to
discuss it. Perhaps get some justice for Charley – the justice you stood up for
in that trial, even if posthumous.” Hub wondered if he was laying it on too
thick.

The line was silent.

“Confidentially and please don’t tell anyone,” he hurried
on, “but I suspect some kind of cheating here. We never expected anyone to win
more than – oh – a million at the very most. Something went wrong. I’d like you
to fly to L.A. and meet with me and the winner, Jillian Hall, and help me
figure out what happened.”

“Why me?” Two syllables. Progress.

“Mostly because she was playing you on the show, and you
might have some kind of insight on how that could have worked for her. And also
because as a trial attorney used to psyching out people on the stand, I think
you might be able to .…” Hub had never been good at monologues, and he was
becoming quietly desperate.

But then Liv spoke. “Not all of us lawyers have the power to
read minds, Mr. Landon; we act that way sometimes to spook witnesses into
telling the truth. But look: I doubt if I’ll be able to help you, and I’m reluctant
to get involved in your investigation anyway. I’m not a…”

Hub interrupted. “You’re the perfect expert witness – it was
something you did, or something you and your now-dead client did, that Hall keyed
in on and won – or knew about in advance and won, or … something. That’s what
I’m concerned about. I do need your help here.”

There was enough silence that Hub glanced at the phone to
make sure they were still connected. Finally, Liv said “All right, I’ll come to
the event and meet – Jillian Hall, is it? Someone like me. Someone who made
more money being me, than I’ve ever made being me. I’m curious, maybe a little
jealous. It hadn’t occurred to me before that I’d ever meet someone who’d made
money imitating me. It’s an unpleasant feeling. But OK, when and where?”

“Fine!” Hub said, in gratitude that a real conversation had
finally broken out. “I’ll email you a plane ticket. I have a lot of electronics
here at my place in the hills, so we can dissect the show in very slow motion.
And a pool too, so you should bring a swimsuit. Seriously. I hold meetings
there. If you can see what I’ve been looking at, I think we’ll be prepared to –
gently – find out how Hall did so well. First class, of course. And a room at
the Four Seasons.”

“I’ll be there, Mr. Landon. Thank you for thinking about
me.” She disconnected before Hub could mumble the standard words of farewell.

“Justice for Charley”? What a laugh – Charley had got all
the justice he was ever going to get: once in court, once in a prison riot. But
his plan had worked, and Liv Saunders would be there. Hub mused softly about
this distant, stark woman. A change from most of his friends, especially the
men. A beautiful woman, he mused, although “older,” that is, getting on to five
years younger than he was. He’d enjoy seeing her again.