Chapter 35 Jordan
THIRTY-FIVE
JORDAN
U mad, bro?
“Maybe you can find her by going online, Dad,” said Sydney at breakfast. “I mean, a TikToker spotted her last time.”
Jordan pushed back his empty plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “If that happens again, I guarantee my phone will blow up.”
Sydney put her elbows on the table and tilted her head. “And everyone else’s will, too. Maybe we can find a clue or something before that happens.”
“It’s a little late for me to learn social media,” he countered. “Plus, I think Steve Jobs should have been buried upside down with a stake through his heart.”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt to try,” said his wife, giving him a look as she stood up to refill her coffee.
Her expression told him he should let Sydney help to keep her mind off Bree. Amber was so good at nonverbal communication he sometimes wondered why she used words at all.
“You’re both aware I don’t have any social media accounts,” he said.
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, Dad. We do. And we can do the hard parts for you.”
Which was how he came to spend the next couple of hours looking over his wife’s and daughter’s shoulders at their phones as they burrowed down rabbit holes on the internet.
Sydney was in no shape to go back to school yet, so Jordan put off work and gave in, deciding it probably qualified as family time.
It seemed like a million people had joined the hunt for Cara Campbell and the volume of commentary was deafening, even though it was clear hardly anyone had bothered to read past the headlines before telling everyone in law enforcement how to do their jobs.
Both Amber and Sydney were quick to swipe or scroll away from his memed picture, doing their best to spare his feelings, but he couldn’t help seeing the unflattering image over and over again.
It was like being the winner of a twisted popularity contest.
But not all of the information they uncovered was useless.
They listened to the latest update from the California Death Trip podcaster Dylan Danvers—who had been at yesterday’s press conference with Troy Silverman, which couldn’t be good—then followed his link to Cara Campbell’s defense of chasing rich husbands.
“Who knows, maybe she is innocent,” mused Amber.
To which an offended Sydney replied, “Mom!”
“She was honest about what she wanted, and her husband was cool with it. They had a prenup, so even if she did it and got away with it, she wouldn’t have gotten very much money.”
“A multimillion-dollar life insurance policy isn’t very much money? And she was totally covered in his blood.”
“Both fair points.”
“And at trial they said she was worried he might go bankrupt, so she would lose her lifestyle.”
Amber shrugged. “She’s certainly lost it now. All I’m saying is that, from what I can tell, it seems like she really did love him.”
“And his money.” Sydney looked at Jordan for help.
“From what I’ve seen, some people love their partners until they don’t,” he offered. “And then they kill them.”
Most people clearly believed Cara was guilty and were rallying around Karl’s adult daughter, Taylor.
But a vocal minority seemed to think she was innocent, citing her own injury and the sheer unlikeliness of it all: they couldn’t believe she was the type to do it.
There were alternative theories of the killer, from a robber (Cara claimed Karl’s watch had gone missing), to a disgruntled plastic surgery patient, to a wannabe gold digger who decided that if she couldn’t have Karl, Cara couldn’t, either.
Jordan couldn’t help wondering if any of these sleuths knew anything about the case they hadn’t learned on social media.
“Let’s focus on finding clues to her whereabouts,” he continued. “Remember, my job is not to relitigate the trial but to catch her. Is anybody out there talking about Fisk?”
Amber shook her head as she attacked her phone with both thumbs. “The guy has no online presence and there are no photos of him. People are really leaning into the Sasquatch theory.”
“Wait, the Washington Post found his military ID,” said Sydney. “Here it is. Sergeant First Class William Fairfax Fisk, California National Guard.”
Jordan was surprised by Fisk’s aristocratic middle name, which suggested a family background he wouldn’t have guessed.
Like so much about the man, it was a mystery.
He had been hiding from the world for such a long time that it probably wasn’t surprising they couldn’t find him now.
If he was with Campbell—still a big if, but one that seemed more and more likely—what the hell were the two of them talking about?
When the Burke Family Task Force’s social media investigation started leading them in circles, Jordan finally begged off and headed into work. Even though he’d steered them away from the subject, he puzzled over the question of Campbell’s guilt while he drove.
There was no question that many people were wrongfully convicted in the US.
But most of them were Black and Brown, urban or rural poor folks railroaded by corrupt or incompetent cops because they couldn’t afford decent representation.
Meanwhile, Campbell’s attorney, Roy Abel, charged five hundred dollars per hour—it was right there on his website—and got most of his clients off.
That he had failed with her seemed particularly damning.
Opinions were like assholes, Jordan concluded. Everybody had one. And when every asshole in the world was on the internet, it looked more and more like a toilet. One he wished he could flush away forever.