Johnson’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
Henry explained about the hard drive. The DA was clearly no computer whiz, but eventually he understood. At Johnson’s instruction—which he barked out like a military order—Henry dismounted the Superstream from the Sony and laid it on the mammoth desk. Then he opened his briefcase and took out his PowerBook.
“Can’t you just plug the drive into my computer?” Johnson asked.
“No. You have a PC. This drive takes a special program to view, and I only have the Mac version. If you have a FireWire port and cable, I can set things up so that a converted copy will be sent to your computer while we watch the original on mine. You’ll be able to watch that copy on your PC afterward.”
“There’s no ‘we,’” Johnson said firmly. “I’m viewing the tape alone.”
“It’s not a tape,” Henry said patiently. “It’s a digital file on a hard drive. And that hard drive belongs to my newspaper.” This was not strictly true. Henry had purchased the Superstream with his own money; the Beacon didn’t have the budget for that kind of equipment, and if he weren’t divorced with a grown child, he wouldn’t, either.
“That drive may contain evidence in a murder case,” Johnson argued. “I’ll make the decision about what’s going to happen to it after I’ve seen what’s on it.”
Henry thought about this. “I don’t think you can legally keep me from seeing what’s on my newspaper’s hard drive. But whatever you decide now, I’m taking my computer with me. It’s not evidence in a trial, and all my work is on it. So you’d better let me make you a copy you can watch on your computer.”
While Johnson left the office to find a FireWire cable, Henry made a fast decision. After opening the program that would play the video file on the hard drive, he altered its settings so that the file would be copied to his PowerBook’s hard drive at the same time it was being converted and streamed to the district attorney’s computer. In all probability there was nothing on the drive, but if there was, Henry would leave the office with his own copy. By the time Shad returned, Henry was standing beside the DA’s Wall of Respect, looking at a photo of Johnson with Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown, celebrities whose stock had fallen quite a bit since the days of Shad’s mayoral campaign against Wiley Warren.
“This what you need?” Johnson asked, holding out a FireWire cable.
Henry made the necessary connections, then set the program so that all the DA would have to do was tap the PowerBook’s trackpad to play the file.
“Time for you to go,” Shad said. “How do I watch the tape?”
It’s not a tape, Henry repeated silently. “Just tap the trackpad on my Mac. That’ll engage the play button on the screen. Do you want me to start it for you?”
“Yes. But as soon as you hit play, go out to my assistant’s office. I’ll tell you when I’m done.”
Henry touched the trackpad, and the light on the Superstream began to blink. A clattering sound emerged from the Mac’s speakers, then something like a strangled wail.
“Get out!” Shad ordered.
As Henry moved toward the door, he glanced down and saw the familiar image of Viola Turner’s sickbed. The woman herself was rolling across it as though trying to escape from some predatory animal. His heart leaped into his throat.
“Get out!” the DA shouted.
Henry hurried into the anteroom and shut the door behind him, his pulse still accelerating. The drive had recorded something. And whoever had stolen the DV tape from the camera hadn’t realized that. And why would they? Few laymen would recognize a Superstream video drive, and the idea of old Ku Klux Klansmen recognizing advanced digital technology almost made him laugh. Henry hoped Shad Johnson wouldn’t notice the PowerBook’s hard drive thrumming as it copied the file from the Superstream. The DA would probably be too absorbed with whatever was on his own screen to notice the whirring of the Mac’s drive motor; also, his clunky desktop PC would be droning and clicking like an old washing machine as it copied the video stream.
“Are you all right, Mr. Sexton?” asked the DA’s assistant.
Henry wiped his forehead, and his hand came away covered in sweat. He hadn’t realized how anxious he was. What the hell? he thought with amazement. I’m copying evidence in a criminal case without permission. Technically the hard drive belonged to him, of course, but still. Shad Johnson wouldn’t hesitate to jail him over something like that. “Do you have any water?”