Lillian Vance, Whitfield's PR chief, takes the request call at 7:50 a.m. Thursday morning. She declines. She declines a second time at 8:14.
At 8:33, Caroline Bishop sends an email to Lillian's personal address with seven attachments and a one-line subject: Comment by 9:00 or we run.
Lillian opens the first attachment. It is a transcript of Eleanor Whitfield in her own clear voice on the morning of October 22nd saying, "I gave him Mama's brooch." Lillian reads it twice. She walks down the hall to Harrison's corner office without knocking.
"Sir, I need five minutes of your time before the press conference. Privately. Now."
Harrison looks up from a speech draft. "It's in twenty minutes, Lillian."
"I know. I am asking you anyway."
Something in her face must be different. He hesitates, then he sets the speech down. "Five minutes."
"There are three people in Conference Room B: the boy's lawyer, a paramedic, a nurse from your mother's facility."
"Cancel them."
"Sir, I am asking you as the person whose job it is to protect your reputation. Five minutes."
For a moment, Harrison's face is the same face it has been for two weeks: locked, polished, untouchable. Then something in his jaw moves—a small thing, an old thing.