It was, by this time, a rhetorical question. Without testimony from Cheryl or Jackie, there was no case against Pak. You could read all about his malfeasance on anonymous blogs, but no mainstream news outlet would touch the story. Neither would any prosecutor. Yet, Ted reminded himself. Yet.

Ron Reisner’s face filled the screen. He, too, loved the television, but in his case the television loved him back. Having seen him in person at court appearances, Ted was always surprised at how charismatic the man was on the screen. In person, he always looked stressed and rushed, even when he wasn’t. His skin had the pallor of a vampire’s, and his gleaming bald pate showed odd bumps and wrinkles. On television, he glowed.

“He looks good,” Ted said, “for a guy who almost died last year.”

“He’s wearing makeup,” Lester said.

“He has to; otherwise, all could see he is a demon,” the Preacher said.

“I’ll give an ‘amen’ to that,” Lester said.

“By their fruits, you will know them,” the Preacher said.

Ted was now only half paying attention. He was looking for Jacqueline Clavette—and she wasn’t there. As far as he could determine, no one had seen her since the shooting. He had phoned Jill repeatedly in the first weeks after, but she would not take his calls. Finally, he’d realized that she had blocked his phone, so he had called her on Lester’s. She answered but hung up the moment she heard Ted’s voice.

Jill had given him a single directive—to keep her Jacqueline safe—and he had failed her. There weren’t words in any language that could heal the wound that had caused. Ted felt a whole lot less guilt over this than he had imagined he would. Jackie had created her own bad karma.

Reisner finished speaking and flashed $50,000 of dentistry at the camera.

“What did he say?” Lester asked. “Was anyone paying attention?”

“Who cares?” Kenzie took a long slug of beer. “None of these guys will ever mention the real cost—a whole community torn apart, lives disrupted or shattered, people homeless. The lucky ones will survive by paying more for less and living with a two-hour commute.”

“Amen to that, too,” Lester said.

The camera backed off again, framing the three principals as they put the golden shovels to the ground. On cue, the three men plunged the blades into the earth, and Ted felt his stomach muscles tighten, as though he had been stabbed.

The onlookers applauded and the screen cut back to the studio. The show was over, but the replays would be on the evening news on every local channel. The governor’s aspirations to higher office would ensure the scene would be repeated on national news as well. Ted felt sick.

“I need a drink,” Lester said. “What time is sunset?”

“Not for four hours or so,” Kenzie said.