The Trinity Game

of his soup kitchen in the Lower Nine.
    Julia smiled. “That’s what secular humanists have been saying for ages, minus the God part.”
    Daniel smiled back at her. “Well, you can ask Tim all about it. On camera.”
    Her eyes went wide and she let out a small gasp. “Really? When?”
    Daniel knew how important this story was to her, felt a thrill at being able to deliver it. “He wants to sit down with you for an interview, as soon as you can arrange it.”
    “Oh my God.” Her face flushed and she looked a bit embarrassed, perhaps at having revealed such naked ambition, such elation at the prospect of bagging her prey. She put her hand on his. “Thank you.”
    Daniel’s excitement turned decidedly sexual, and he didn’t know exactly what to do with it.
This is not a date,
he reminded himself, crossing his legs. “I told you you’d get the scoop,” he said. “But he won’t tape it. It has to go out live.”
    “Not a problem.” She picked up her cell phone, dialed. “Kathy, Julia. Great news. I’ve got Trinity.”

“P ut that in your wallet,” said Pat, handing Daniel a card key. “If the shit hits the fan and we gotta split up, we rendezvous at the Pelican Motel on the Westbank Expressway across the river in Gretna. Room 104. It’s booked for the next three nights.”
    “Got it,” said Daniel.
    “You know I think this whole thing is a terrible idea.”
    “I know.”
    “I tried to talk him out of it,” said Pat. “Got nowhere.”
    “He’s committed to this. He knows we can’t do much to protect him at a public rally. He just doesn’t care.” Daniel tucked the card key away. “All we can do is our best.”
    “We gonna have to get very lucky, brother.”
    “I know.” Daniel checked his watch. “Julia’s gonna be there with her cameraman in an hour. We should get going.”
    The door from one of the back rooms opened and Tim Trinity stepped into the gym. He wore a new silk suit, royal blue to match his Bible, crisp white shirt, matching pink silk tie and pocket square. His boots gleamed white. His hair was back to silver.
    “How do I look?” Trinity grinned. “Ready for prime time?” He straightened his tie, shot his cuffs. “Couldn’t believe it, Ozzy still works at Rubensteins. Still had my measurements on file, evenremembered: long-point collar, French cuffs. Now
that’s
customer service.”

    Julia and Shooter drove out to Parran’s Po-Boys in Metairie and parked in front, as per Daniel’s instructions. They arrived early, split a seafood muffuletta for dinner. Shooter went back out to the news van to make sure the satellite uplink was working, and Julia stayed in the restaurant, reviewing the questions she’d written for the most important interview of her life.
    She’d written her questions on index cards. Now she put the cards in three separate stacks, according to importance. She had forty-seven cards—enough for a ten-hour conversation—but only one hour of airtime with Trinity.
    She pushed the two “less important” stacks aside and shuffled through the questions in the “essential” stack. She’d still only have time for half of them, even if Trinity was succinct in his answers. And once the conversation got rolling, she’d need time for follow-ups and redirects.
    Damn, it was hard to choose. If the interview went well, she’d ask him to stick around and continue the conversation on tape, for airing later, so it was important to get him relaxed, but she wasn’t going to resort to lobbing him softballs. It was a popular “bonding technique” used by many television reporters, but she’d always considered it disrespectful of the viewers’ time and trust.
    And besides, her professional ego would not allow it. She’d worked too hard to be taken seriously in this job, and she was damned if she’d allow herself to be made “soft” by the pressures of television.
    Her phone rang, and she answered it. It was Daniel.
    “We’re in a motel a few blocks from you,” he said. “There’s a green Forester parked beside your van. The man inside is a friend, Pat Wahlquist. He’ll lead you here.”

    Shooter angled a couple of chairs toward each other and wired a microphone to Tim Trinity’s lapel, then switched on two powerful lights and stood behind the camera. He donned a headset as Julia gestured to one of the chairs and Trinity sat.
    She took her chair, straightened her jacket, and spoke into the mic for a sound check. Shooter gave her a thumbs-up.