The Trinity Game

demand. Understand? See, we’re fighting for the survival of journalism; the ‘Platonic Ideal’ isn’t even on the table. And if you don’t bend, you break. You gotta stay in the game, and we only bend that one thing here. You keep the rest of your ethics intact, and you can still do stories in depth when you can justify them. Some of us have managed it before you. And for that, you’re welcome.”
    “Thank you,” said Julia. “I appreciate the advice.”
    “I knew I was gonna like you, once we got that chip off your shoulder,” said Kathryn Reynolds. “I want you to think about what I said. The future ain’t what it used to be, but it’s coming right at us, regardless.” She nodded, putting the subject to rest. “As for Trinity, I don’t tell you what to put in your pieces for the
Picayune,
so don’t tell me what
isn’t
news for CNN.”
    “Deal,” said Julia.
    They clinked mugs and drank to it, Julia now glad Herb had made the deal with CNN. She could learn from this woman.
    Kathryn Reynolds plucked a remote off her desktop, flicked the television on, muted it. Soledad O’Brien was doing a stand-up in front of Trinity’s Lakeview mansion. Blue tarpaulin covered the roof of the main building, while the garage had a new metal roof. The front yard was mounds of dirt, and a tractor stood in the driveway.
    Julia had done the research on this segment, prepared a crib sheet for O’Brien’s field producer. In the weeks after Katrina, Trinity had taken the first lowball buyout offer from his insurance company, and simply walked away from the place. A record producer who’d worked with the Stones and U2 now owned it.
    “Go get some sleep,” said Kathryn Reynolds. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow. ‘Trinity’s Grand Sermon,’ complete with all the freak-show angles.”
    Julia drank the last of her coffee, put the mug on the edge of the desk. But she didn’t stand. “Can I ask you something?”
    “You just did. Ask me something else.”
    “What do you think is going on with Trinity? I mean, best guess, given what we know.”
    Kathryn Reynolds chuckled. “Honey, I haven’t the foggiest notion. Maybe he has a brain tumor, and it activated a portion of his brain that the rest of us can’t access…and maybe that portion of his brain enables him to perceive one of the six or seven collapsed quantum dimensions. Information traveling backward through time. Or something like that. I’m not totally up on my quantum mechanics, but if I were you, I’d be interviewing a physicist. And an oncologist.”
    “I’m talking to a physicist Monday,” said Julia, “but the brain tumor angle hadn’t occurred to me. Thanks.”
    “Not that it’ll come to anything. It’s pretty wild.”
    “Honestly, to me, it’s a lot less wild than the existence of a God.”
    “Well now, I’m a believer,” said Kathryn Reynolds. She looked toward the television. “But that don’t mean I believe Yahweh is sending us messages through this douchebag.”
    Julia stood, shouldered her bag. She stopped at the door.
    “Thanks, Kathryn.”
    “Call me Kathy.”

T he city was desperate to keep people from flooding the neighborhood to the point of inevitable tragedy, and the television networks were only too happy to help. They set up huge screens and PA systems in Centennial Park, Piedmont Park, Five Points, and in the parking lot of Trinity’s warehouse-studio-church, with the city picking up the tab. They also sent cameras and reporters to cover the reaction of Trinity’s Pilgrims to the sermon.
    Trinity had remained silent during the limo ride from the hotel. It was an impressive operation, with a police cruiser in front, another behind, and six motorcycle cops zooming ahead in pairs to close intersections, then dropping back into formation as another pair zoomed ahead to close the next, in perfect choreography. The sort of display that normally would’ve thrilled Trinity. But he didn’t seem to notice. He seemed to be slipping into a state of deep relaxation, and Daniel decided to honor the silence.
    He couldn’t think of anything useful to say anyway. Twice he started to tell his uncle about the stolen camera and the photos it contained, but he held his tongue. This wasn’t the time; Trinity needed a clear head. Daniel would come clean after the sermon.
    The motorcade made good time to Trinity’s television studio, sped down a ramp and swept into a basement garage that had been cleared for maximum security.