Chapter Twenty Three

            “What the hell was that?” Said Rosie. She was standing outside a forlorn Methadone clinic and David was painfully aware of the looks that the patients shuffling in and out were giving him.

            He shifted awkwardly and stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, “You mean George Fletcher? The guy who confessed to the killing?”

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“You stood by and allowed a dumb ass to confess to a murder that he didn’t commit. There’s no evidence that that mama’s boy put his penis in her vagina, surprised to even be there, and then fired a shot that split her head in two while he was pumping for all he’s worth.”

            David winced at her tone, and looked up at the sky pissing rain, “Atlas has no leads and that frustrates the audience. Ratings drop and the network has no choice but to perk things up. That idiot will be released in twenty-four hours. He means nothing. Do you want to maybe continue this conversation somewhere dry?”

            “But not before the viewing audience pumps up the ratings by crushing the internet with inquiries about that guy.” Rosie continued, ignoring his request.

            “I don’t control what the network does.”

            “But you are the most trusted man in America.”

            “I didn’t ask for that label.”

            “But you own it. When Atlas tells the country that some guy snuffed a woman they expect that you reviewed the evidence and that you concur with the findings.”

            “No, they don’t care. That’s the crux of this whole thing, Rosie; no one actually cares.” They awkwardly stared at each other and David cleared his throat, “Why did you want to meet here anyway?”

            “I’m giving you a hint. You look sweaty, David, and it isn’t hot today.”

            “I have a cold.”

            “Yeah, I bet you do. You on anything for your cold?” Rosie smirked, and David scowled.

            “Look, whatever point you are trying to make, make it somewhere inside with coffee.”

            Rosie shrugged, her face still awash with an obnoxious, knowing grin and she led him silently to a small flophouse turned hipster coffee joint a block away. Once they had ordered coffee and settled into the grimy seats, David noticed that Rosie was staring at him intensely.

            “What?” he finally demanded, “Keep staring if you want but I’m not going to do a trick.”

            “Look around. There’s not a person in this coffee shop that isn’t reading about the history of that poor George Fletcher kid, wondering where he was born, how big his dick is, and whether his mother breast fed him.”

            “And?”

             “It’s none of their business. When someone is accused of a crime no one stops to ask if they’re really guilty. They’re convicted in the press and then they have to prove their own innocence.” She sneered, “You say no one cares what you think, but they obviously do.” She jerked a thumb at the kid sitting behind her with his computer set up, and David noticed on the “trending now” bar on the kid’s homepage that every entry was a query about David’s role in the arrest, whether or not he believed that George Fletcher did it, and about who wanted to sleep with the most trusted man in America.

            David awkwardly looked back at Rosie, and decided to finally mention the throbbing vein in her forehead, which was getting larger and redder by the minute, “Why are you getting so upset?”

            “Because my father is rotting in prison and no one, including you, has proven that he was guilty.”

            “I…”

            “What? Do you know what my father was working on at the time he was arrested?”

            “When I arrested him he was trying to delete evidence that proved he was complicit in the-“

            “No.” she interrupted him, her voice gravely with withheld emotions, “You’re not just stupid, you’re blind. My father never fabricated DNA or anything else like that. He was trying to figure out who was using his lab to tamper with evidence. He wanted to know how it was being done and why.”

            “Mr. Cosworth testified…”

            “Have you ever investigated who Mr. Cosworth is and why he might have had a motivation for reporting my father for planting evidence?”

            “He worked for your dad.”

            “Let me give you a hint. His real name isn’t Cosworth. He’s a plant.”

            The color drained from David’s face and he abruptly rose. “I have to go.”

            “What about…”

            “Later.”

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