If being targeted for ridicule by Sam was bad, it was nothing compared to the national gossip rags. To be fair, as a professional journalist, I could understand how a television anchor accused of murder might be newsworthy. But the coverage went viral overnight, even in the mainstream media.
My anchor efforts were posted on YouTube and scored the number of views usually reserved for controversial reality-show contestants or unusual pets.
And my snickering mug shot was everywhere.
Wall-to-wall satellite trucks were parked outside the station so all the network morning news shows and cable channels could go live with updates about Murder in America’s Heartland.
Because I wasn’t allowed to talk about the case, Noreen did several live interviews explaining that the station kept me on the air because of a patriotic belief in “innocent until proven guilty.”
“What about ratings?” she was asked. “Isn’t putting a murder suspect in the anchor chair just an unprincipled stunt to increase your numbers?”
It was for the best that I wasn’t doing any interviews, because I would probably have screamed back something like, “Do you idiots think I’d kill a human being to help the station’s ratings?” But their answer might have taken the discussion down an uncomfortable path.
Noreen had a much smoother reply. “Channel 3 prides itself on impartial news coverage. Viewers can rely on us for objective reporting. We believe everyone deserves their day in court and are prepared to take whatever action is appropriate at that time.”
The media appeal of my case came down to it being a slow week for celebrity dirt (Tiger Woods hadn’t had his tree/SUV accident yet), and no famous people died. So the National Enquirer put me on the cover, running a handcuff photo they bought from the Minneapolis newspaper. Normally, traditional media organizations shun tabloids and their checkbooks. But during a media meltdown, integrity has a price. I’d heard a rumor that the Minneapolis paper got twenty grand. That was the kind of detail Sam would have nailed in his column had it not involved his own employer.
The scandal sheet’s headline read media murderer wins ratings. “Alleged Media Murderer,” I wanted to shout.
The Globe published gossip grudge leads to murder.
Again, “Alleged Murder.” Or “Murder Charges.” In neither case was I in any position to demand a correction.
I imagined the graphic designers preferred not to clutter up the covers with extra words. I also imagined their media attorneys vetted the copy knowing I’d never actually sue them, because I needed to budget for my criminal defense.
Inside, the Globe ran a sidebar interview with the first boy I’d ever kissed. We once climbed to the top of the water tower in town and talked for hours under the moon. I read the item eagerly until I got to the part where he told them he had a hunch way back then that I could be dangerous and that’s why he dumped me. I had recalled being the dumper in that relationship. Again, I was in no position to insist on a correction, from either them or him.
People magazine showed better news judgment. Their cover raised the question of whether Kanye West was a jackass and included only a small inset of my mug shot in the cover corner. I considered rewarding their discretion with an exclusive interview, should I ever be able to talk. But by then, the odds of them remaining interested in me were dismal.
My mom and her Red Hat ladies were making a scrapbook of all the coverage to give me for a Christmas present.
What really bothered me was that I was being portrayed as a sociopath … psychopath … even lunatic. Sam was being painted as a victim. And not just a murder victim, either. A First Amendment martyr.
A pile of flowers, American flags, and photographs of Sam made a giant memorial in front of the Minneapolis newspaper offices. In the middle was an old typewriter. Beside it was a familiar crystal vase full of spectacular wildflowers. The card read “Those Remaining Are Irate Though Often Regretful.”
I took a picture with my cell phone but didn’t need Xiong to tell me the message spelled TRAITOR.
TARGET DIRTBAG. BASTARD. GO TO HELL. TRAITOR.
“I’d like a bouquet of wildflowers,” I said, walking into the floral shop before my news shift.
Daisy immediately recognized me and put down an almost-finished Sudoku puzzle. Baby Jimmy watched in a playpen with his thumb in his mouth, holding a stuffed white teddy bear.
“Why don’t you tell me about you and Sam?” I didn’t offer up that Jeremy had already briefed me.
She starting making wedding corsages as we spoke. The story she told was similar to his. After being deceived and dumped, she saw no reason to tell Sam she was pregnant.
“I never wanted to see him again.”
I didn’t point out that now she didn’t have to. But I did ask what prompted her to reach out to me.
“I wish I’d thrown a drink in his face,” she said. “So when you did, I wanted to give you an ‘atta girl.’”
I told her if I could take back that drink, I would. And if I could raise a baby with his father, I would. And if I could go back and introduce my most recent love to my parents, I would.
“My life is full of regrets,” I said.
“You have to also make it full of hope.” She picked up Jimmy and hugged him tight. I watched closely, trying to understand what might motivate Daisy, as both a mother and a murderer.
“Raising a child alone is a huge challenge,” I said. “Weren’t you tempted to make Sam share the cost at least?”
“I didn’t want his money.”
Just then the phone rang, and it sounded like an order for a green plant to be delivered to a hospital. Daisy handed her little boy to me as she wrote down the details. He and I stared at each other. As far as I could tell, he didn’t have Sam’s piercing eyes or big mouth.
“I didn’t kill your dad,” I said as I bounced him in my arms.
His mom hung up the phone fast and took him back from me. But I felt I had scored a victory. She never would have let me hold her baby if she thought I was a cold-blooded murderer.
I handed her pictures of her flower notes with the codes written underneath. TARGET DIRTBAG. BASTARD. GO TO HELL. TRAITOR.
I didn’t say anything because I wanted her to speak first. But all she said was that she needed to get back to work and that it was time for me to leave.
Clearly she hadn’t wanted Sam’s money while he was alive. Perhaps she decided his death would make it bearable.
• • •
That night when I drove up to my garage, my headlights shined on a vase of flowers sitting in front of the door. I got out of my car to move them so I could park. The bouquet was Daisy’s signature arrangement. The note merely said, “I hated him, but I didn’t kill him.” This time there was no hidden code.
I wasn’t sure what to believe.