“He did not. And I don’t think he would accept this diagnosis or the idea of Judith committing suicide…if it ever came out,” Paul adds, carefully watching Jahan’s face.
“Hmm. Well, as sad and horrifying as this is, and as much as I hate to say it…this could mark an opportunity for us, and for the show. For Judith herself. For the legacy of her work.”
Paul tilts his head as if he doesn’t entirely understand what Jahan means.
“Paul, I know it’s a bit…delicate, but I think we should share this revelation—carefully and with qualifications, of course. Our press release has already generated excitement, but this? Something like this could absolutelyignitethe show.”
There. Jahan has done it, given him a directive, couched in that comforting use of the collective pronoun. Maybe Paul will be the spokesman—his head on the proverbial chopping block for the Stanleys, the Malcolms, and the avid fans, but he’ll have the weight of the gallery and Jahan’s impeccable status behind him. Wedecided to release this story.Wefelt it was a necessary addition to provide context for Judith’s work.
When Paul feigns hesitation, Jahan leans forward over his desk, looks Paul in the eye.
“I never knew Judith in real life, but, looking at her pictures, I believe she would have wanted this. She would have wanted her viewers to know the truth, don’t you think so?” Paul gives a slight nod and shrugs. “She’s an artist who fearlessly plumbed the depths and revealed stark truths. Isn’t that how you’d describe her?”
“Absolutely. But she was a private person, Jahan, I don’t know…”
“She isn’t a private person anymore. She asked for your help withpublication and you gave it. She has since become a public figure, and is about to become an evenlargerpublic figure. And she is—gone. There’s no help for it.” It’s a comfort to hear Jahan voice the rationalizations that Paul has told himself many times, even if one is a half-truth at best.
“I want to do right by her,” Paul says softly. “And if you think this is the best way—the best way to be fully honest with the public, to give them the full picture, then…I’m on board, whatever it will cost me.”
Jahan claps him on the back, grinning from ear to ear.
“It won’t cost you anything, my friend. If you’re worried about Mr. Stanley, he signed a contract, didn’t he? Handed over her work to you. He can make a fuss—it will only add to the attention, honestly—but I have averygood team of lawyers. Very, very good. You’ll be protected, Paul.”
Paul thinks of Jahan’s beautifully groomed, suited lawyers encircling him. Protecting him. Shielding him from the worst possible outcomes of the world. He’s become one of those people at last: The safe, exalted ones. The ones with teams who whisk danger away. The notion fills his stomach with warmth and his eyes with tears. He has to look away quickly to hide it—though he supposes this show of emotion only enhances his performance of hesitation and gratitude. Jahan leans toward him.
“Paul, you’ll be doing a great service. You’ll bring a more sensitive, multidimensional portrait of Judith Stanley to light. The truth about her life—and death—will make her photographs even more resonant with viewers. They’ll see her complex, flawed humanity, something every single person on the planet can relate to.”
Paul nods along, feigning a growing enthusiasm. He remembers making this same argument with Malcolm, who swiped it away. Spat on it, essentially. Malcolm could have profited by this, too, Paul thinks, appearing with him on television and radio as the “psychological expert” in Judith Stanley’s case. But he lost his chance, and Paul doesn’t need him now. He doesn’t need anything but Jahan’s unwavering support—and he has it.
31.
Several weeks before the gallery show opens, Paul sits inThe New News Hour’s small but sleekly furnished greenroom, staring around at the black-and-white photographs of New York landmarks that line the walls. His hands are trembling, his stomach unsettled. He admires the tray of fresh pastries and the plate piled high with fruits he can never afford, but he can’t force himself to eat. He desperately wants more coffee, too—and a cigarette, of course—but he’s afraid of getting too wired. He tells himself he’ll befine; he’s done interviews before. But he’s never done an interview like this one: on national television, telling viewers that Judith Stanley, the tragically murdered, now-famous photographer, was a lunatic who essentially ended her own life. Even with Jahan’s blessing and that influentialwelifting him up, he can’t nullify the sense that he’s doing something drastic and outlandish—somethingdangerous, even.
A surge of pain in his chest confirms it; Paul wonders if he’s having a heart attack. At least he’ll die wearing a beautifully tailored suit (courtesy of Jahan’s staff). The makeup artist knocks on his door, comes in to apply foundation and pat down his shine. Chatting with her helps calm him, and then, once she’s packed up her supplies and left, he stares at what’s to come: the walk to the soundstage, the mindless introductory banter with the host, and the weight of those bright, hot lights as he makes his unsavory announcement.
He thinks of Tom sitting lonely in his living room over a TV dinner of Salisbury steak and potatoes au gratin, hearing the host announce his name.Paul Sorenson to discuss the new retrospective of Judith Stanley’s work at Doven Gallery…He thinks of Charlie, too, scoffing at the sight of him onscreen. Again Paul’s chest throbs with pain. He presses his fingers deep into the spot, hoping he can at least delay the heart attack for twenty or so minutes.
There’s another knock at the door, then a slim, smiling young woman in a perfectly fitted maroon suit steps inside. “You ready, Paul?” she asks. He drops his hand from his chest and smiles back. Trembling Heart Attack Paul is unfit for national television, so he does his best to banish him.
“You bet,” he says, rising to his feet. He follows her down a narrow, turning hall that leads to a bustling studio. Don Gregor, beloved former football star andThe New News Hour’s host, is suddenly before him, shaking his hand, ushering him onto the stage to take a seat in the show’s faux living room. Before Paul has a moment to take a sip of water or adjust to the glare in which he sits, exposed, he hears the cameraman counting down to one.
Paul sits, tense and unmoving, as Don introduces the segment. He recounts the official Judith Stanley story, ending with the known details of her “tragic death.” Then he turns to Paul and asks about his “discovery” of Judith and the journey to publishing her photographs. Paul finds, despite his nerves, that the more he speaks, the more relaxed he becomes, and the easier it is to be the man the audience wants to see. They aren’t here in the studio with him, but he can sense their gratifying attention, their warm approval—of his looks, his flair for storytelling, his bright conversational manner.
“Paul, how does it feel knowing this gifted artist can’t produce any more work because a still-unknown assailant killed her?” Don asks.
“Well, it’s—it’s terribly sad and disturbing,” Paul begins. The words catch and start to carry him; he only has to follow their flow. “It’s an incalculable loss to those of us who knew her. Especially to her family,of course. It’s also a loss to the art world, and to the many, many people out there who’ve become fans of her pictures.”
Don nods solemnly. “And what about this man, her attacker. Is there any new information on him? About who he could be? I understand you were questioned, too, as the last person to see her alive.”
Paul doesn’t appreciate the jab, but it’s given him the perfect segue. “I was questioned, yes. But never treated seriously as a suspect, Don. And what I’ve learned since—through research and conversations with…extremely knowledgeable people, is that there may notbeany assailant. At least, not in the way you might expect. Judith may not have been murdered.”
“What the heck?” Don asks, looking genuinely stunned. “What exactly do you mean, Paul?”
“Well, this is hard for me to say. Very hard,” Paul says, the story rolling out of him now. “But as you said yourself, there’s been no sign of her assailant, and it was her own knife, with onlyherfingerprints on it, that was found beside her. She also claimed that her stalker appeared in the background of all of those marvelous self-portraits of hers. Well, I—and others—have gone back through every last one and scoured them for any sign of this man. We found nothing, Don. Absolutely nothing.”
As the drama of his own words crescendos inside him, Paul sees this effect mirrored in Don’s face. The host’s next questions come stuttering out.
“So you’re saying—but who killed her, then? And why?”
