photograph on the table.
Whitmore looked at the photo as if Emma had just turned over the river card in a game of Texas hold ’em: her face gave away nothing. “I want to know who you are,” she said to Emma for the second time.
“I told you who I am: I’m the person Joe DeMarco sent to show you that picture. That’s all you need to know.”
“But why should I believe you? How do I know this isn’t some kind of trick?”
“Listen to me,” Emma said. “I don’t
like
you. I don’t care if you sit in a jail cell until the day you die. The only reason I’m here is because I’m doing DeMarco a favor. Now if you don’t want to confirm that’s your source, I’ll leave and you can stay here until you rot.”
When Whitmore just stared at her, obviously trying to make up her mind, Emma rose to leave. She was halfway to the door before Whitmore said, “Yeah, that’s him. That’s Derek Crosby.”
Emma turned around, shook her head slowly, and then smiled. She smiled because she knew how Whitmore would react to what she was about to say. “No,” she said, “that’s not Derek Crosby.”
“What?” Whitmore said, confused by Emma’s response.
“Derek Crosby works for the CIA. The man in that photo does not. He assumed Crosby’s identity so he could feed you the story. In other words, he tricked you and he used you.”
“What!” This time Whitmore shrieked the word. “Well, who the hell is he?”
Emma started to tell her Acosta’s name but then decided not to. She didn’t want Whitmore to know anything else because she was likely to publish whatever she knew and she was too selfish to care if that would hurt the government’s case against Acosta. The other reason she didn’t tell her was because she despised Whitmore and knew that not telling her would drive her crazy.
“Well?” Whitmore said. “Who is he?”
“Ask DeMarco,” Emma said, and then turned away from Whit-more and rapped on the door to tell the guard waiting outside that she was ready to leave.
Whitmore stood up and screamed, “Goddamnit, tell me who he is! I have a right to know.”
“Mahata Javadi had the right to live,” Emma said. “You don’t have a right to anything.”
Whitmore’s cell mate was lying on her bunk, reading a magazine. She looked up as Whitmore entered the cell and gave her a nod but didn’t speak.
Whitmore’s first two days in jail, she had had the cell to herself. She figured the folks who ran the place didn’t want to put her in a cage with some violent psycho because if something happened to her, the
Daily News
would raise a front-page ruckus. But then they put another woman in with her, a petite black gal named LaTisha who wore her hair in cornrows. And it turned out that LaTisha was the perfect roommate: she didn’t talk much, she’d been in prison before, and she seemed to know how the system worked. Most important, she’d been able to keep Whitmore supplied with cigarettes—although she was charging her fifteen bucks a pack.
Whitmore had told LaTisha her story the first day they met, how she’d been unjustly jailed because she wouldn’t reveal a source. “Good for you, girl,” LaTisha had said. “Nobody likes a snitch.”
Whitmore didn’t bother to explain that there was a big difference between a reporter not revealing a source and someone testifying against a criminal, but she didn’t think LaTisha would appreciate the distinction. LaTisha seemed bright enough but she was pure ghetto.
LaTisha tossed the magazine she was reading onto the floor—one of those black fashion magazines where the models all looked like aliens to Whitmore with their flawless, metallic complexions, nonexistent waists, and arms and legs that were impossibly long and thin. “So how’s it goin’?” she asked.
“Not good,” Whitmore answered. “There’s this asshole that’s supposed to be helping me, but he’s jerking me around.”
“Oh, yeah,” LaTisha said.
Whitmore could
Whitmore looked at the photo as if Emma had just turned over the river card in a game of Texas hold ’em: her face gave away nothing. “I want to know who you are,” she said to Emma for the second time.
“I told you who I am: I’m the person Joe DeMarco sent to show you that picture. That’s all you need to know.”
“But why should I believe you? How do I know this isn’t some kind of trick?”
“Listen to me,” Emma said. “I don’t
like
you. I don’t care if you sit in a jail cell until the day you die. The only reason I’m here is because I’m doing DeMarco a favor. Now if you don’t want to confirm that’s your source, I’ll leave and you can stay here until you rot.”
When Whitmore just stared at her, obviously trying to make up her mind, Emma rose to leave. She was halfway to the door before Whitmore said, “Yeah, that’s him. That’s Derek Crosby.”
Emma turned around, shook her head slowly, and then smiled. She smiled because she knew how Whitmore would react to what she was about to say. “No,” she said, “that’s not Derek Crosby.”
“What?” Whitmore said, confused by Emma’s response.
“Derek Crosby works for the CIA. The man in that photo does not. He assumed Crosby’s identity so he could feed you the story. In other words, he tricked you and he used you.”
“What!” This time Whitmore shrieked the word. “Well, who the hell is he?”
Emma started to tell her Acosta’s name but then decided not to. She didn’t want Whitmore to know anything else because she was likely to publish whatever she knew and she was too selfish to care if that would hurt the government’s case against Acosta. The other reason she didn’t tell her was because she despised Whitmore and knew that not telling her would drive her crazy.
“Well?” Whitmore said. “Who is he?”
“Ask DeMarco,” Emma said, and then turned away from Whit-more and rapped on the door to tell the guard waiting outside that she was ready to leave.
Whitmore stood up and screamed, “Goddamnit, tell me who he is! I have a right to know.”
“Mahata Javadi had the right to live,” Emma said. “You don’t have a right to anything.”
Whitmore’s cell mate was lying on her bunk, reading a magazine. She looked up as Whitmore entered the cell and gave her a nod but didn’t speak.
Whitmore’s first two days in jail, she had had the cell to herself. She figured the folks who ran the place didn’t want to put her in a cage with some violent psycho because if something happened to her, the
Daily News
would raise a front-page ruckus. But then they put another woman in with her, a petite black gal named LaTisha who wore her hair in cornrows. And it turned out that LaTisha was the perfect roommate: she didn’t talk much, she’d been in prison before, and she seemed to know how the system worked. Most important, she’d been able to keep Whitmore supplied with cigarettes—although she was charging her fifteen bucks a pack.
Whitmore had told LaTisha her story the first day they met, how she’d been unjustly jailed because she wouldn’t reveal a source. “Good for you, girl,” LaTisha had said. “Nobody likes a snitch.”
Whitmore didn’t bother to explain that there was a big difference between a reporter not revealing a source and someone testifying against a criminal, but she didn’t think LaTisha would appreciate the distinction. LaTisha seemed bright enough but she was pure ghetto.
LaTisha tossed the magazine she was reading onto the floor—one of those black fashion magazines where the models all looked like aliens to Whitmore with their flawless, metallic complexions, nonexistent waists, and arms and legs that were impossibly long and thin. “So how’s it goin’?” she asked.
“Not good,” Whitmore answered. “There’s this asshole that’s supposed to be helping me, but he’s jerking me around.”
“Oh, yeah,” LaTisha said.
Whitmore could
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