As she speaks, she’s pulling a photograph out of her folio and sliding it across the table.
I gasp at the same time Jackson says, very firmly and very evenly, “No fucking way.”
The picture is of Ronnie.
“We need to get ahead of it,” Harriet says gently. “She’s in your life. And, honestly, there’s not much the press likes more than a single dad fighting for his kid. You want the press to love you? Let them see you caring about that little girl.”
Jackson says nothing, but he puts his palm over the photo, as if doing that can keep his daughter safe from all this.
For a moment, no one says anything. Then Damien stands, circles the table, and leans back against it beside Jackson. “It’s going to come out.” His voice is firm, but gentle. “And when it does, everyone will see the connection between your daughter and the movie—and it will be crystal clear why you didn’t want the movie to go forward. Get on top of it, and we can soften the impact. Wait, and it’s going to be brutal.”
“I’m not throwing my daughter to the wolves.” He is tense, as if one wrong word from anyone in this room will cause him to bolt. “Not until it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Jackson—”
But Evelyn cuts off Damien’s protest. “No, we can make this work.” She glances at Harriet, who nods almost imperceptibly, then turns her focus back to Jackson. “But you keep your eyes on the prize, okay? And that’s staying out of jail. That’s being around to watch that little girl grow up.”
Jackson says nothing, but he’s watching Evelyn with interest.
“We’ll play it your way for now, but that might change. I need to take the media’s temperature. See if they warm to you, or if that ice in your eyes spills over. Too icy, Mr. Steele, and we may need to attach a sweet little girl to your image. Do you understand that?”
His jaw clenches, and one hand grips tight to the edge of the table. But all he says is, “Yes.”
Evelyn nods, satisfied.
“What is going to happen tomorrow?” I blurt out the question, as much because I want to know as because I want to change the subject. “Are they going to arrest him? Can Jackson post bail?” I can hear the panic in my voice, and I’m touched when Jackson takes his hand off his daughter’s photo so that he can grasp mine.
“They might arrest,” Harriet says, as if she’s commenting on the possibility of rain. “Normally in a high profile case like this I’d assume not, but in this case Jackson did assault both the screenwriter and Reed, though we don’t know if the police are aware of the first incident. And he did visit Reed the day of the murder. The prosecution may not know that. But maybe they do. Maybe they’re going to disclose it tomorrow. And maybe they’re going to parlay that into an arrest.”
Jackson nods, looking a little bit shell-shocked.
My mouth is completely dry, and though I’m holding tight to Jackson’s hand, I can’t feel his fingers. It takes me a couple of tries, but finally I can form words. “You said normally you’d think not? Why not?”
“As a rule, the police don’t want to act prematurely because once they arrest, the clock starts ticking. And especially in a high profile case, they like to have time to get their ducks in order.”
“But don’t they want to order those ducks here, too?”
Harriet looks straight at me, and though I hate the way she doesn’t pull punches, I can’t deny that I respect it. “My fear is that the ducks are already all lined up.”
“Wouldn’t we already know? I thought the police have to disclose evidence.” I can’t seem to be quiet. I have to wrap my head around it. “Or is that just the way it plays out on television?”
This time, Harriet does smile, at least a little. “They do, yes. But not yet. Certainly not before there’s an arrest.”
“Oh.” I finally get it. She fears that tomorrow Jackson will be subjected to a full song and dance presentation of the evidence, and the grand finale of the show will be putting him in cuffs and carting him off to a cell.
Oh god.
“If the worst happens, we’ll move for bail, of course,” Charles says. “Until then, we’re going to hope it doesn’t happen.”
The meeting continues for almost two more hours, covering so many details and plans that it feels like all the information is going to spill out of my ears. Even I’ve been given marching orders. Like Jackson, I need to be polite and charming to the press. But I have the added benefit of being able to say that he was with me at a party the night of the murder. Of course, that Halloween party was just over the hill in Studio City, and any reporter worth his salt will know that Jackson could have easily gone from Reed’s to the party.