I Is for Innocent

Alvarez. "Rooney!" she called, her eyes pinned to the set. I turned and looked at the picture. "Andy Rooney" was correct and the audience was applauding. The next clue came up and she said, "Oh, shoot, who is that? What's-his-face? Andy Warhol!" Right again, and she flushed with pleasure. She looked over at me. "I could make a fortune on that show, except probably the day I got on it'd be some category I never heard of. Blowfish, or exotic plants. Can I help you?"
    "I'm not sure. I'd like to look at some five-year-old news footage, if you have it."
    "Something we taped?"
    "That's what I'm assuming. This was the verdict on a local murder trial and I'm pretty sure you'd have covered it."
    "Hang on a minute and I'll see if somebody back there can help you."
    She rang through to 'somebody' in the bowels of the building, briefly describing the nature of my quest. "Leland'll be out in five minutes," she said.
    I thanked her and spent the mandatory waiting period wandering from the front entrance, which looked out onto the parking lot, to the sliding glass doors on the far side of the reception area, which looked out onto a wide concrete patio furnished with molded white plastic chairs. A three-dimensional view of the city wrapped around the patio like a screen. I could imagine the station employees having lunch out in the hot sun – women with cotton skirts discreetly pulled up, men without shirts. A big dish antenna dominated the view. The air looked hazy from up here....
    "I'm Leland. What can I do for you?"
    The fellow who'd appeared through the doorway behind me was in his late twenties and had to be a hundred pounds overweight. He had a mop of curly brown hair surrounding a baby face, with wire-rimmed glasses, clear blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and no facial hair. With a name like Leland, he was doomed. He looked like the kind of kid who'd been tormented by his schoolmates since the first day of school, too bright and too big to avoid the involuntary cruelties of other middle-class children.
    I introduced myself and we shook hands. I explained the situation as succinctly as possible. "What occurred to me was that with local reporters present on the day Barney was acquitted, there were probably Mini-cams rolling as he emerged from the courtroom."
    "Okay," he said.
    " 'Okay' wasn't really the response I was looking for, Leland. I was hoping you had a way to go back and check the old news tapes."
    Leland gave me a blank look. I wish a P.I.'s job were half as easy as they make it look on television. I've never opened a dead bolt with a pass of my credit card. I can't even force mine into a doorjamb without breaking it off. And what's it supposed to do once you slide it in there? Most of the latch bolts I've seen, the slanted angle is on the inside so it's not as though you could slip a credit card along the face of it and force the latch to move back. And where the angle faces the outside, the strike plate resists the insertion of even the most flexible object. Leland seemed to be taking the same implacable position.
    "What's the matter? Don't you keep that stuff?"
    "It's not that. I'm sure there's a copy of the footage you're looking for. The master tapes are catalogued by subject matter and date, cross-referenced and cross-filed on three-by-five index cards."
    "You don't have it on computer?"
    He shook his head, with just a hint of satisfaction. "The logistics of the system don't really matter much because I can't let you see the master tape without a properly executed subpoena."
    "I'm working for an attorney. I can get a subpoena. This is no big deal."
    "Go ahead then. I can wait."
    "Yeah, well, I can't. I need the information as soon as possible."
    "In that case, you got a problem. I can't let you see the master tape unless you have a subpoena."
    "But if I could get it eventually, what difference does it make? I'm entitled to the information. That's the bottom line, isn't it?"
    "No tickee, no washee. That's the bottom line," he said.
    I was beginning to see why his imaginary classmates liked to torture him. "Could we try this?" I pulled out a mug shot of Curtis McIntyre. "Why don't you look at the tape and tell me if he's on it. That's all I want to know."
    He stared at me with that blank look all petty bureaucrats assume while they calculate the probabilities of getting fired if they say yes. "Why do you want to know? I really wasn't listening before."
    "This fellow claims he had a conversation with the defendant in a