The Real Family Stone of Portland, Oregon revealed Max’s crude but skilled editorial eye. It was exactly what he and Jackie had hoped it would be: a chronicle of the truth.
After the video was uploaded, they both sat and waited. Twenty-four hours later, they were still waiting. There had only been seventeen views, sixteen of them their own clicks. Jackie was crestfallen. Not Max.
Jackie
I told you, Max, no one cares.
Max
Nyet, Solnyshko, nyet. It is not that no one cares. It is that no one knows. Many people will care.
Jackie
Like who?
Max
The many people who watch you on television.
Jackie
But how are we supposed to know who they are?
And then it dawned on Jackie.
Jackie
Wait. I think I can answer my own question.
Max
?
Jackie
Don’t go away, I’ll be right back.
Two minutes later, Jackie sent Max a photo of the stacks of her fan mail.
***
Sister Benedict Joan’s press conference was scheduled to begin at eleven a.m. sharp. Most of the reporters who had promised to come had not yet arrived—par for the course in their profession, she thought—but it didn’t matter, a schedule was a schedule. The Sister was about to step to the podium when she felt a light touch on her shoulder. The Sister whirled around and was confronted by the impish smile of Cardinal Trippe.
“Why don’t we give this a few more minutes,” he said gently.
“Timeliness is next to cleanliness, Your Eminence,” the Sister stammered, “and you know what …”
“Yes, yes, Sister. But wouldn’t our larger goal be better served by more, not less, media?”
The Sister gritted her teeth and tensed her neck in frustration but nodded a curt assent.
“And you’re sure you’re okay to do this?” The Cardinal nodded toward the podium. This was the third time the Cardinal had asked this question, each time his smile broad and blindingly white. The Sister was growing to hate that smile.
“I’m sure His Holy Eminence is merely teasing me,” she answered, making it clear that Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration did not enjoy being teased.
“Not teasing at all, Sister. It’s just that the pressure of speaking publicly can be paralyzing if you haven’t done it before.”
“I am only here to introduce Your Grace. Nothing more.”
Three more reporters had filed in, and Sister Benedict tapped her watch.
Cardinal Trippe grinned, shook his head, and gently plucked the stack of index cards from the Sister’s hands. “Please, Sister, go ahead.” The Sister let out a breath of air and stepped to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her voice gruff and unrefined. The sound of it through the microphone caught her off guard. She was, as the Cardinal had predicted, frozen. The damnable fool got inside my head, she thought in a panic. The Sister looked to the Cardinal, who nodded his encouragement for her to continue. For the first time, she found his presence oddly soothing, almost beatific. It gave her an unexpected jolt of confidence.
“Please welcome Cardinal Matthew John Trippe.” Her mouth was too close to the microphone, and it caused a momentary ring of feedback. She stepped down from the podium, forcing herself to keep her head high. The Cardinal took her place.
“Friends,” he began, making eye contact with each of the reporters before him. The Sister marveled at the ease with which the man worked the room. Maybe, she thought, he’s not so useless after all. “We are here today to call attention to an affront to the dignity of human life that is taking place in our community. Of course, I refer to the television show Life and Death.”
For the next thirty minutes, Cardinal Trippe read through the index cards prepared for him by Sister Benedict, each one more inflammatory than the one that came before. They threw every epithet under the sun at Life and Death and the American Television Network. Two of the cards were so filled with bile and hate that the Cardinal, much to the Sister’s chagrin, simply ignored them.
No matter. The Sister, having recovered from her poor performance at the microphone, was ebullient. She finally felt like they were doing something, and what’s more, she knew in her heart of hearts it was only the beginning. Sister Benedict Joan was certain that her part in the Stone affair was not yet over.
***
Ethan Overbee was sitting at his eight-foot-by-four-foot solid oak desk in Los Angeles when his phone chimed with two alerts, one from Twitter, one a text message. The desk, which was really the size of a conference table, vibrated with each notice.