ONE DEAD, NO REPORTED INJURIES IN COURTHOUSE CATASTROPHE, reads the chyron at the bottom of the screen. The correspondent in the red dress is still doing her thing, although she’s now doing it on the corner of Main Street, because Court Street has been closed off. It looks to Billy like the city’s entire police force is down there, plus two forensics vans, one from the state police.
‘Bill,’ the reporter says, presumably speaking to the anchor back in the studio, ‘I’m sure there’ll be a press conference later, but as of now we have no official word to pass on. We do have eyes on the scene, though, and I want to show you something that George Wilson, my incredibly brave cameraman, spotted just a few minutes ago. George, can you show that again?’
George raises the camera, centers it on Gerard Tower, then zeroes in on the fifth floor. There’s hardly any shake in the image even at maximum zoom, and Billy can’t help admiring that. Cameraman George stood his ground when the shit hit the fan, kept his head when those all about him were losing theirs, he got footage that will no doubt go national, and thanks to his sharp eyes he’s probably just a step and a half behind the police at this point. He could have been a Marine, Billy thinks. Maybe he was. Just another jarhead bullet-sponge over there in the suck. For all I know, I could have passed him on what we called the Brooklyn Bridge, or hunkered down beside him in the Jolan graveyard while the wind blew and the shit flew.
The Channel 6 viewing audience, Billy among them, is treated to the image of a window with a shooter’s loophole cut into it. The sunglare on the glass helps, just as Dana said it would.
‘That is almost certainly where the shot came from,’ the reporter says, ‘and we should know very soon who was using that office. The police may know already.’
The picture switches to Bill in the studio. He’s looking suitably grave. ‘Andrea, we want to run your original story again, for people who may have just joined the broadcast. It’s really extraordinary.’
They go to the video. Billy sees the SUV approaching with its blues alight. The door opens and the portly sheriff gets out. He has big ears, almost Clark Gable size. They seem to be anchoring his ridiculous Stetson. Andrea approaches, holding out the mic. The courthouse cops move in, but the sheriff holds up an imperious hand to stop them so she can ask her question.
‘Sheriff, has Joel Allen confessed to the murder of Mr Houghton?’
The sheriff smiles. His accent is as southern as grits and collard greens. ‘We don’t need a confession, Ms Braddock. We’ve got all we need to get a conviction. Justice will be done. You can count on that.’
The reporter in the red dress – Andrea Braddock – steps back. George Wilson centers his camera on the opening door of the SUV. Out comes Joel Allen, like a movie star popping out of his trailer. Andrea Braddock steps forward to ask another question but backs off obediently when the sheriff raises his hands to her.
You’ll never make the jump to the bigtime like that, Andrea, Billy thinks. You have to push, girl.
He leans forward. This is the moment, and it’s fascinating to see it from another angle, a different perspective. He hears the shot, a liquid whipcrack of sound. He doesn’t see the damage the bullet does, the editor in the Channel 6 video room has blurred it out, but he sees Allen’s body fly forward and hit the steps. The picture joggles and dips as Cameraman George goes into his reflexive crouch, then steadies again. After holding on the body for a moment, the camera pans to the widebody cop who’s looking up to find the source of the shot.
Then, boom! From up the street behind the Sunspot Café. There are screams. Wilson turns his magic eye in that direction to show fleeing pedestrians （Andrea Braddock among them, there’s no way to miss that red dress） and the smoke billowing out from between the Sunspot and the neighboring travel agency. Andrea starts to come back – Billy has to give her points for that – and then the second flashpot goes off. She cringes, whirls in that direction, takes a look, then jogs back to her first position. Her hair is disheveled, her mic pack is hanging by its cord, and she’s out of breath.
‘Explosions,’ she says. ‘And someone has been shot.’ She gulps. ‘Joel Allen, who was to be arraigned for the murder of James Houghton, has been shot on the courthouse steps!’
Everything she’s got to say from then on will be anticlimactic, so Billy zaps off the TV. By tonight there will be interviews on Evergreen Street with people he knew in his Dave Lockridge life. He doesn’t want to see those. Jamal and Corinne won’t allow cameras anywhere near the kids, but Jamal and Corinne would be bad enough. And the Fazios. The Petersons. Even Jane Kellogg, the boozy widow from down the street. Their anger would be bad, their hurt and bewilderment worse. They’ll say they thought he was okay. They’ll say they thought he was nice, and is it shame he’s feeling?