Dev Conrad - 03 - Blindside by Ed Gorman Page B

‘Boy, she’s one hell of a character, isn’t she?’
    â€˜I kind of like her.’
    His expression indicated that I was one strange guy. ‘You trying to get into her knickers?’
    But then Lucy was there. ‘It’s time.’
    May God have mercy on our souls , I thought as we all shuffled toward the front door.
    The press conference lasted forty-eight minutes. Mrs Watkins and Sister Louise were the early winners. They were good TV: Mrs Watkins’ crackling voice that became more sentimental when she spoke at length about Jim Waters and Sister Louise’s exuberance when she talked about all the people he helped at the shelter and how much they relied on him for their needs. You couldn’t always predict how the media masters would edit an event but I didn’t see how they could cut the relative and the nun completely.
    Then came the questions for Ward. Most of us are actors. We know which face to put on at any given moment. And how to sound appropriate. This isn’t necessarily insincere. If a person is weeping in front of you, you want to look suitably concerned. You put on the concerned mask.
    I guess when you’ve been told all your life that you are one fabulous guy it’s difficult to not sound fabulous even when you’re trying to convey sadness. Ward gave it a good try – nobody had cared about Jim Waters more than he had; nobody knew as much about Jim’s dream of an America that would someday live up to the aspirations of our forefathers – but it had a hollow quality. It was the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am of goodbyes. I got a second opinion from the cold hard stare Kathy kept on him. She didn’t seem to care for fabulous any more than I did.
    The questions mostly ran to the obvious. Had the police ruled out a random robbery and murder? Had anybody around Waters noticed his mood being different in the past few days? Did Waters ever tell any of the other staffers that he was afraid of anything? The man from not-news was of course the first to storm the castle. ‘Some people are saying (translated: my bosses who want a scandal are saying) that Waters might have known some secrets about your campaign that you were afraid might be made public.’
    â€˜So you’re calling me a murderer? At least have the guts to use the word because that’s what you’re implying.’
    â€˜I didn’t call you a murderer, sir.’
    â€˜You did by innuendo.’
    â€˜I just wondered if you wanted to refute all the whispers.’
    â€˜The whispers in your mind, you mean? From the big boss back in New York?’
    â€˜So you don’t want to speak to that? Is that what you’re saying?’
    â€˜I’m saying you’re not a reporter. You’re a flack for Burkhart. And that you’ve invented these so-called ‘whispers’ so you can help Burkhart in the election. Why don’t you ask Sister Louise here or Mrs Watkins if they think I had anything to do with Jim’s death?’
    Mrs Watkins hobbled over to the rostrum and said, ‘If my husband Norm was still alive he’d come down there and kick your ass for saying such a thing.’
    Whoops of delight sounded loud and merry on this day of drizzle and chill. A media hero was born. An ass-kicking old lady who had put a hack reporter in his place.
    Even Kathy was smiling. Our glances met. She looked snug and happy in the blue Burberry she wore.
    In a single sentence Mrs Watkins had changed the shape and tenor of the press conference. Since there’d been little of news value in Ward’s remarks the interest went to the old lady who provided good TV. As much as not-news was a disgrace to the profession, the other networks weren’t in truth always much better. There’s a great deal of sloppy, inaccurate, biased news available at the dinner hour every night across the board.
    Ward knew how to play it. For the rest of the conference he kept