Nathan's Run (1996) (11 page)

"It's, uh, the police, sir," Tom stammered. "They want to talk to you on the hotline. They say it's very important."

"Quit calling me sir, you moron. This isn't a ship. Tell them we're in the middle of a show. I'll call them back when we're done." He moved to replace the earphone, but Tom's body language told him there was more. "What's wrong?"

Tom shifted his feet uneasily. "Well, I already tried that, and they said something about obstruction of justice charges."

Enrique looked as though he'd just been slapped. "Obstruction of-Shit! That's exactly what I need right now," he said through clenched jaws. "Okay, fine. I'll take it in here." Dismissing Tom by turning his back on him, Enrique angrily snatched the phone from its hook.

"This is Enrique Zamora, can I help you?" His tone sounded anything but helpful.

Patrolman II Harold Thompkins of the Braddock County Police Department was determined to be noticed. After five years of rotating shifts, traffic stops and every conceivable piece of grunt work, he was ready to try some real police work. Even as a little kid, watching Columbo and MacMillan and Wife, Harry knew that he'd be a detective one day. He was willing to pay his dues, work his way through the ranks. So far, he'd punched all the right tickets, getting his Associate's degree in Criminology before applying to the Academy, and busting his balls to graduate at the top of his class.

He took the detective's exam at his first opportunity, just two weeks after his fifth anniversary with the department, and, true to form, finished in the top three percentiles. Problem was, he was a healthy white Christian of European ancestry who was too young to have gone to Vietnam, and at this particular time in his department's history, that put him at a significant disadvantage.

What he needed was an opportunity to shine on the job, not just in the classroom. He needed the big success. He needed to find just the right piece of evidence or uncover just the right lead to break a big case. He'd studied the rise of other officers in his situation, and it was clear as crystal that the most reliable road to a gold badge was to get a tenured member of the club to carry your flag. For the last six months, Harry had volunteered for all the right cases, attended all the right meetings, and engineered the right introductions to get himself known in the network. But he was still missing the big kill.

When Sergeant Hackner came to him that morning with the task of tracking down Nathan Bailey's location through the telephone records, he knew this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. Hackner was a good guy, and a known flag carrier. The fact that he was best buddies with Lieutenant Michaels made it all the better. For Harry, the mission was clear. He'd do his job quickly and efficiently, making Hackner look good to his boss, and at the same time have a pivotal role in what was turning out to be a high-profile case.

Utilizing what he'd learned at the Academy, he'd started his quest with the obvious-a call to the phone company. After being handed off a half-dozen times from one bureaucrat to another, Harry was finally connected with the Vice President of Customer Service, who broke the news that absent a court order, he could not authorize the dissemination of telephone records without the customer's permission. Invasion of privacy and all that, don't you know. Harry asked if he understood that this could be the key to corralling a murderer, in response to which the vice president said something about a call waiting on another line.

Court orders took forever, and they were well outside of Harry's power to obtain. Legal briefs would have to be filed, and arguments would have to be heard. Even on an expedited basis, obtaining a court order could easily take more time than the Bailey kid figured to take holing up somewhere. If they waited, they could lose their prisoner. And even if they caught him, it would be the Commonwealth's Attorney who would get the credit, not him.

No, Harry needed to go to the source. He needed to talk the owners of those telephone records-The Bitch and her production staff-into releasing the records to his custody. He just had to be persuasive. He briefly considered a soft-pedaled, altruistic approach, but rejected it as too wimpy. Instead, he settled on the forceful approach. Those radio people didn't know squat about the real world. If he leaned on them hard enough and played the obstruction of justice card just right, they'd cave in. After all, what did The Bitch have to lose? Helping to solve a murder case was the kind of publicity anyone would welcome.

By the time Harry was done with Enrique Zamora, the producer could hardly speak, he was so befuddled. Now, as he sat on hold, Harry found himself regretting some of the things he'd said. In the spirit of the moment, Harry had led Enrique to believe that there was imminent danger of jail if he didn't cooperate. Harry had no such power, of course, but he supposed that really didn't matter. What the American public didn't know about their rights was amazing. Even more amazing was how willing people were to surrender those rights if you just gave them half a chance.

As he sat on hold, listening to some inane car commercial, Harry decided that if challenged on his representation of fact, he would simply tell whomever that the producer must have been mistaken.

On her side of the glass, The Bitch sipped at her Diet Coke and took another caller. The message on her screen said that Joanne from New York City didn't believe that Nathan did anything wrong.

"This is The Bitch. Joanne from New York, what's your problem?"

The Brooklyn accent from the other end of the phone was as thick as syrup. "My problem is that I don't think that sweet voice could do any of the things that the police are claiming he did. He sounds like he could have been my son when he was that age."

"What's not to believe, Joanne? The kid says he stole a car to get into jail, and that he killed the guard-supervisor-to get out.

Granted, he claims it was an accident rooted in self-defense, but you have to believe the basic facts."

Joanne explained her position, but Denise was distracted by Enrique's voice in her headphones telling her to go to a commercial. She shook her head and scowled, pointing to her watch. They had another six minutes before the next set of spots. Enrique scowled back and mouthed something unintelligible through the glass. Then he held up the telephone.

When Joanne from New York paused to take a breath, Denise dumped her call. "Well, I guess everyone's entitled to their opinion," she said. "Some folks just want to make them up on the fly. We've got to do a couple more spots, and we'll be right back."

As soon as the commercial started, she wheeled back around to Enrique. "What the hell's the matter with you? I don't take hotline calls during the show. You know that."

"Lighten up, Denise," Enrique shot back. "I've got a cop on the phone who wants to use our telephone records to trace down Nathan's call."

Denise evaluated the options in an. Instant. If word got out that the police could trace calls through a radio talk show-her radio talk show-that would spell the end of controversial discussion. Government and military officials would stop calling to complain about their bosses for fear of being fired. Citizens would stop calling to complain about the president for fear of being audited. Every well-placed source she'd established over the years would instantly evaporate. Without controversy, and without callers, The Bitch would be just another disc jockey.

"Hell no," she responded quickly. "You tell him that our telephone records are off limits. We're talking a serious First Amendment issue here."

"Well, I already told him that-at least the 'hell no' part-and he says he's going to bring us up on obstruction of justice charges if we don't cooperate."

Denise recoiled at the thought. "Oh really? Well, patch him through to my board. We'll put him on the air when we come out of commercials. What's his name?"

"Thompkins."

The current commercial ended fifteen seconds later, with Crazy to take holing up somewhere. If they waited, they could lose their prisoner. And even if they caught him, it would be the Commonwealth's Attorney who would get the credit, not him.

No, Harry needed to go to the source. He needed to talk the owners of those telephone records-The Bitch and her production staff-into releasing the records to his custody. He just had to be persuasive. He briefly considered a soft-pedaled, altruistic approach, but rejected it as too wimpy. Instead, he settled on the forceful approach. Those radio people didn't know squat about the real world. If he leaned on them hard enough and played the obstruction of justice card just right, they'd cave in. After all, what did The Bitch have to lose? Helping to solve a murder case was the kind of publicity anyone would welcome.

By the time Harry was done with Enrique Zamora, the producer could hardly speak, he was so befuddled. Now, as he sat on hold, Harry found himself regretting some of the things he'd said. In the spirit of the moment, Harry had led Enrique to believe that there was imminent danger of jail if he didn't cooperate. Harry had no such power, of course, but he supposed that really didn't matter. What the American public didn't know about their rights was amazing. Even more amazing was how willing people were to surrender those rights if you just gave them half a chance.

As he sat on hold, listening to some inane car commercial, Harry decided that if challenged on his representation of fact, he would simply tell whomever that the producer must have been mistaken.

On her side of the glass, The Bitch sipped at her Diet Coke and took another caller. The message on her screen said that Joanne from New York City didn't believe that Nathan did anything wrong.

"This is The Bitch. Joanne from New York, what's your problem?"

The Brooklyn accent from the other end of the phone was as thick as syrup. "My problem is that I don't think that sweet voice could do any of the things that the police are claiming he did. He sounds like he could have been my son when he was that age."

"What's not to believe, Joanne? The kid says he stole a car to get into jail, and that he killed the guard-supervisor--to get out.

Granted, he claims it was an accident rooted in self-defense, but you have to believe the basic facts."

Joanne explained her position, but Denise was distracted by Enrique's voice in her headphones telling her to go to a commercial. She shook her head and scowled, pointing to her watch. They had another six minutes before the next set of spots. Enrique scowled back and mouthed something unintelligible through the glass. Then he held up the telephone.

When Joanne from New York paused to take a breath, Denise dumped her call. "Well, I guess everyone's entitled to their opinion," she said. "Some folks just want to make them up on the fly. We've got to do a couple more spots, and we'll be right back."

As soon as the commercial started, she wheeled back around to Enrique. "What the hell's the matter with you? I don't take hotline calls during the show. You know that."

"Lighten up, Denise," Enrique shot back. "I've got a cop on the phone who wants to use our telephone records to trace down Nathan's call."

Denise evaluated the options in an . Instant. If word got out that the police could trace calls through a radio talk show-her radio talk show-that would spell the end of controversial discussion. Government and military officials would stop calling to complain about their bosses for fear of being fired. Citizens would stop calling to complain about the president for fear of being audited. Every well-placed source she'd established over the years would instantly evaporate. Without controversy, and without callers, The Bitch would be just another disc jockey.

"Hell no," she responded quickly. "You tell him that our telephone records are off limits. We're talking a serious First Amendment issue here."

"Well, I already told him that-at least the 'hell no' part-and he says he's going to bring us up on obstruction of justice charges if we don't cooperate?'

Denise recoiled at the thought. "Oh really? Well, patch him through to my board. We'll put him on the air when we come out of commercials. What's his name?"

"Thompkins."

The current commercial ended fifteen seconds later, with Crazy Somebody-or-other screaming about thousands of dollars in savings at a local car dealership. At her cue from Enrique, Denise opened her microphone.

"Welcome back, America, to this most unusual show this morning. The interest spawned by my conversation with Nathan Bailey just continues to grow. On the line with us now is a police officer from Braddock County, Virginia, who's threatening to send my staff and me to prison over all of this. Officer Thompkins, this is The Bitch, and you are on the air." She stabbed his blinking light with her forefinger.

For a long moment, there was no sound from the other end. Finally, a tentative voice said, "Hello?"

"Officer Thompkins?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Denise cackled into the microphone. "Ma'am? Did you just call me ma'am? You must not listen to this show very often, or you'd know better than to call me ma'am. That word's got the same letters as mama, and honey, I ain't your mama. Now, I understand you want to throw me in jail. What gives?"

The voice stammered badly on the other end. Denise loved it. "Am . . . am I on the radio?"

"You called a radio station, mister. That generally gets you on the radio. So, why do you want to toss me in the hoosegow?"

"I'm sorry, but I think we need to discuss this in private. I didn't call to get put on the air."