He’d found that sources sometimes went eerily quiet after a story they’d leaked went public.
There was no point in returning to the courthouse. Dos Santos and Bearon had already given him the gist of the meeting with Judge Butcher, and he was sure that, by now, it was already on the local news. He’d have to file a story on it by the end of the day, but he had bigger things to worry about.
Dos Santos was right. If the photos were fake, he might be ruined. He would be fired from The Standard. That was a certainty. The only question was whether the fact that he was behind the photo would spread far enough to keep him out of the business for good. Maybe he could get a job back home covering high school sports.
He pulled out his cell phone and began scrolling through texts. He’d been inundated with messages from journalists he knew, all wanting comments for their own stories. He squinted one eye, as though he didn’t want to see what might pop up. As he finished scrolling, a new text popped up from Lance Brickman, The Standard’s sports editor. Alex loved hearing from Lance, who had taken him under his wing early on and, over the last year, had become something between a mentor and a friend. He’d helped teach Alex how journalism worked in the real world and, in exchange, Alex helped him meet his deadlines from time to time.
As he read Lance’s message, the lump in his chest tightened to a dense ball of dread.
We need to talk. Meet me at Dive Bar at 5. Don’t call me.
Chapter 8
Alex had introduced Lance to Dive Bar on the Upper West Side a few months earlier. He’d known within five minutes of meeting him that Lance wasn’t the kind of guy who’d want to join him for a night at one of the swanky bars Alex went to with Bearon. Dive Bar was more his style. Poorly lit, not especially clean, but full of real New York characters. The sort of people who hadn’t yet been priced out of what was becoming one of the most expensive neighborhoods in America. They poured a range of Cognacs by the glass, and that’s all Lance ever drank. But it was well north of The Standard, and nowhere near Lance’s apartment, so the fact that he suggested meeting there meant one of two things. Either he didn’t want to be seen by anyone he knew or he felt enough pity for Alex to be willing to make the trek uptown.
Probably both.
Since Alex couldn’t think of anything else to do, and couldn’t stomach going back to the office, he arrived early. He didn’t consider himself a day drinker—and he never wrote while drunk—but he’d nursed a beer all afternoon while making calls for his daily story on the Mendoza trial. He’d managed to reach a source in the Judge’s office who confirmed that Butcher had given Dos Santos twenty-four hours to clear up the implications of the photo. But despite a call every hour and three messages, he hadn’t heard back from Joey. He hoped she was just busy, or that she was avoiding him just to avoid being linked to the photo. But his fear was that she was avoiding him because she’d already gotten what she wanted from him.
He wrote his story on his laptop and emailed it to the copy desk just before Lance strolled through the door in a brown overcoat and matching hat.
"Damn kid, you look like shit." Lance spoke slowly, like someone who’d seen it all and wasn’t going to adjust his pace for anyone. In journalism, he had seen it all. He’d been one of the top sports reporters in New York City since the mid-eighties and was on a first-name-basis with every player, general manager, and owner in the tri-state area. He’d repeatedly declined offers from ESPN to appear on their multi-box talking head shows out of loyalty to The Standard. At this point he was as close as a reporter could come to "living legend" status.
He hung his coat on a hook by the end of the bar, then took a seat two down from Alex. He set his soft leather briefcase on the chair between them. "Did you file?"
Alex nodded down at his laptop on the bar. "Just now."
"Good. Even when you’re down, you must file."
Lance ordered a Courvoisier and Alex ordered another beer. When the drinks arrived, Lance took a small sip and pulled a cigar out of the inner pocket of his coat. He ran it under his nose and inhaled deeply, then set it on the bar.
Alex said, "So what did you want to tell me?"
"That you might be screwed."
"How? What’s going on? I haven’t talked to The Colonel all day."
"It’s not The Colonel you need to worry about." Lance reached into his briefcase and pulled out a single piece of paper. He put the paper on the bar between them but covered it with his hand when Alex reached for it. "You didn’t get this from me, okay?"
"Sure."
"No," Lance said. "Really."
Alex looked up.
"You didn’t get this from me. Got that?"
"Got it," Alex said.
"I have friends at The Post. Every once in a while I’ll give them a tip on something and every once in a while they’ll do the same for me. Friend of mine there knows I know you. Reached out to me with this."
Alex met his eyes. "I promise. I won’t say anything."
"Another thing. You cannot step on their story, okay? He gave me this because he trusts me and he hoped I could get you to go on the record, since this is going to run anyway. I told him, ‘Hell no Alex won’t go on record.’ But, you know me, I don’t believe in much of anything except the fact that the Red Sox will never beat the Yankees in a playoff series. But I believe that you don’t step on another man’s scoop, even when it’s about you. Got it?"
"Got it. Plus, how bad can it be?"
"Bad. It’s gonna lead The Post in the morning. And they’re still reporting it, so it could get worse by the time it goes to print."
Alex flipped over the page and read. It was copy for a story. No headline.
A single photograph threw the murder trial of reputed drug kingpin Manny Mendoza into turmoil Wednesday, alleging that flamboyant defense attorney Diego Dos Santos maintains a secret relationship with Maria Fernandez, the mother of the alleged victim in the case, Victor Alvarado. If true, the relationship would be a conflict of interest too great to be ignored and would likely eliminate Dos Santos from the trial.
Confused? So was The New York Standard, the paper that released the photo.
Why? The photo was staged.
According to three sources contacted by The Post, the photo purporting to show Diego Dos Santos with Maria Fernandez at the opening of the Latino Heritage Museum in February actually shows Dos Santos with actor Gloria Ruiz, who bears a striking resemblance to Ms. Fernandez.
A simple mix-up? A journalistic error? Nope.
In an exclusive interview with Ms. Ruiz, The Post has learned that the photos were staged with the explicit intent of framing Mr. Dos Santos. After the photo came out on Wednesday, Ms. Ruiz told The Post that she was approached about a week before the event by a man who wouldn’t identify himself. "He said he wanted to play a trick on Mr. Dos Santos. That it was a big night for him because he’d helped fund the museum, and they wanted to trick him."
According to Ruiz, she was paid $5,000 in cash for just over two hours work, half in advance and half the day after the event.
She was provided with a ticket to the event, an outfit to wear, even given detailed instructions about how to wear her makeup. "They gave me photos of some woman," Ruiz said. "Told me to do my makeup to look like her. I asked them why but they were really secretive. I figured it was just a gag, until I saw the photo in The Standard yesterday."
The photos she was given by the mystery man, obtained by The Post from Ruiz, show the real Maria Fernandez at a club opening in Miami. In the photos, Fernandez is dressed in the same outfit Ms. Ruiz wore on the night in question.
Mrs. Fernandez could not be reached for comment.
At the event, Ms. Ruiz got as close to Mr. Dos Santos as possible, and was photographed with him in a number of situations. “He was shaking hands with everybody, kissing every cheek,” she said. “It was easy to get the pictures with him. He didn’t have any idea what was going on.”
According to Ms. Ruiz, she was never t
old who was ultimately behind the payment, but she added, "I never trust the papers. They got all sorts of hidden agendas. So it wouldn’t surprise me if The Standard was out to get Dos Santos."
It’s unclear at this time who was ultimately responsible for leaking the staged photo to The Standard. Although reporters generally do not have any say over the photos that run with their stories, sources inside The Standard say that court reporter Alex Vane may have been behind a late-night switch, possibly because of a long-standing grudge against Dos Santos.
When Alex looked up, Lance was smiling. "You don’t have a grudge, do you, Alex?"
"Are they allowed to just make stuff up?"
Lance laughed. "You started this with that faked photo, Alex. The irony’s on you. You know how The Post looooooves to stack puns on top of alliteration on top of clichés? I’m thinking: Vain Vane Vanishes from Messed-up Mendoza Trial...Nah, that’s no good. How about Faked Photo Finishes Full-of-Himself Reporter."
Alex knew this story was going to break hard. The public loves murder trials, and they also love media gossip.
The story combined both.
Alex guessed that if Lance already had it, others did as well and local TV would be picking it up soon. The Post had probably payed Ruiz well for the interview, and had certainly made her sign an exclusivity deal that meant no other paper could talk to her for a period of time. So they’d likely be leaking the story all over to push up sales of tomorrow’s paper. Alex’s face could be on Court TV by the end of the night.
Alex had been ignoring calls from unknown numbers all afternoon, and now he knew why. He slid the paper back to Lance, who crumpled it up and put it back in his briefcase.
"How bad can this get?" Alex asked.
"You know the difference between negligence and actual malice?"
"Uh, I remember something about Paul Newman sleeping with Sally Field in some movie about that sort of thing or something or other. Yeah, um...I think I missed that day in journalism school."
"When you get something wrong, if the person decides to sue you for libel, he has to either prove that you acted with negligence or that you acted with ‘actual malice.’ Since Dos Santos is a public figure, the legal standard would be actual malice and it means that in order for him to win a case against you, he’d need to prove that you knew the information was false before you published it."
"Which I didn’t."
"Yeah, and it’s even more complicated because proving that you were behind the photo is tricky since you’re not the photo editor or the caption writer."
"But he could go after Susan, right? Technically, she wrote it even though it was my idea."
"He could, but it’s not likely. Colonel is going to run a retraction and The Standard’s legal team is already working on a formal letter of apology to Dos Santos for the mistake." He paused and took a small sip of his cognac. "But there’s another issue."
"What?"
"Judge Butcher."
Alex didn’t understand for a moment, then it hit him like a punch to the stomach. "Contempt of court?"
Lance nodded, frowning. "There’s no guarantee, but I’d be surprised if you don’t hear from him by tomorrow morning."
Chapter 9
Thursday
Alex slept in short restless bursts all night and finally rolled out of bed at 4 a.m, half exhausted and half wired.
He’d listened to phone messages from four reporters and two local TV producers, some asking for a comment about the photo and some asking for a comment on the piece in The Post that everyone seemed to know about. He deleted them all.
He dressed and walked down to the deli on the corner and bought a copy of every newspaper. The Times and the Daily News had run small stories on the photo and its effect on the trial, but neither of them had Gloria Ruiz as a source. The Post had expanded its story slightly, inserting the standard "Alex Vane could not be reached for comment," but they hadn’t dug up any new information. In the end, they’d chosen a headline that emphasized the trial more than Alex’s error: Caption Catastrophe Creates Courthouse Crisis. The subheader read: Actress Paid 5K to Frame Diego Blanco.
They’d run the same photo Alex had slipped into The Standard but added a red arrow and a dialog box that read, "Not Maria Fernandez." He was relieved that they hadn’t focused on him, but realized it was just because he wasn’t well known enough to merit a headline that focused on him. It was all about selling papers. If Lance had made the same mistake, he would have been ridiculed for days because of The Standard’s rivalry with The Post. Lucky for him, no one knew who Alex was.
Online, there were rumors and speculation, but nothing that expanded on the story. The only piece of note was on LegalLeaker.com. It confirmed Alex’s worst fears. Though it was unlikely that Dos Santos could make much of a case for libel, Judge Butcher had a number of options. The blog laid out Butcher’s combative history with the press and the multiple cases in which he’d threatened journalists and, in one case, imprisoned one for refusing to testify.
After two cups of coffee Alex tried to go back to bed so he wouldn’t have to face the day, but he was too jittery to sleep. And at 6:30 a.m., the call came from the Judge’s secretary. Butcher wanted to see him in his chambers at 8 a.m. sharp.
* * *
A secretary showed Alex into Butcher’s office, a wood-paneled room on the second floor of the courthouse. Alex had been there once for a brief meet-and-greet when he’d been assigned to cover the court for The Standard, but he wasn’t sure Butcher would even remember him. The meeting had taken place with four other reporters and Alex hadn’t done more than shake Butcher’s hand before being subjected to a lecture about journalistic ethics that ended with the admonition, "Don’t mess around with my jurors. Don’t mess around with my lawyers. And do not mess around with the integrity of my trials."
Butcher sat with his feet up on a large desk, staring down seriously at a stack of papers on his lap. He pulled off his glasses and set the papers down as Alex took the seat across from him.
Alex was bracing internally for the storm that was likely to rain down on him, so he was surprised when Butcher said, "I’ve just spoken with your editor."
He hadn’t smiled, but he hadn’t spat venom as Alex expected, either. "Thank you. I mean…good to hear. I mean, what did he say?"
"Calm down, son."
Alex was practically shaking. Ever since Lance had pointed out that Judge Butcher might want to speak with him, Alex’s mind had been swimming with three words: Contempt. Of. Court. He’d spent much of yesterday evening reading about the intricacies of First Amendment law and other statutes that relate to journalists. He would have mastered these topics in journalism school if he hadn’t skipped class so much. He’d already known that the First Amendment protected his right—and the right of The Standard—to publish almost anything it wanted. Neither the police nor any agency of the government could legally stop him from publishing something, even if it was false. But it did not protect The Standard, or Alex himself, from the consequences of those publications. So just as The Standard could print false news about someone without the government intervening to stop them, that someone could sue The Standard for invasion of privacy, libel, or a host of other violations related to the publication.
Judges had another power, the power to compel journalists to give up their sources. Though many cases had been fought over this issue, and news organizations had taken it all the way to Supreme Court, the bottom line remained the same. If Judge Butcher had a compelling legal interest in forcing Alex to testify about where he got the photo, he could do so. Alex’s right to stay silent was not protected by The First Amendment.
Butcher slid a stack of papers around on his desk. "Baxton called me to go to bat for you, Alex. You’re lucky because I was planning on kicking the shit out of you the moment you walked through the door. Legally speaking, of course. You must have some powerful friends."
Alex didn’t know what to say.
"Here’s the
situation. The publication of that photo almost forced me to declare a mistrial. And ten minutes ago I’d planned to throw you in jail for interfering with my trial. And the fact that it was false—and my hunch is that you knew it was false—"
Alex tried to interrupt but Butcher held up a hand. "No, Alex. It’s my time to talk. You’ve done enough. The fact that you probably knew it was false meant that you deliberately tried to have Mr. Dos Santos thrown off a case, you tried to assist a defendant in walking free. In one of my trials. And even if you didn’t know the photo was fake—which I’m sure is why you’re sitting in front of me looking like the kid in class who just can’t wait to be called on—the effect is still the same."
Butcher stood abruptly and Alex stood as well, not knowing what was going on but hoping the conversation was over. "Sit down, Alex."
Butcher stepped around the desk, paced for a moment, then stopped to stare at a wall of diplomas. "Are you telling me you didn’t know the photo was fake?"
"Yes, sir. I mean no, I didn’t know."
"That’s what your editor said as well. That you are a fool, not a criminal." He tapped a fingertip on the glass frame that held one of his diplomas until Alex turned around. "I’ve decided that I’ll let you go with a slap on the wrist. I’m going to believe you didn’t do this intentionally. Baxton has always been straight with me. He’s a military man and I trust him. Plus, he knows the consequences of lying to a judge. But someone staged those photos and leaked them to you with the express intent of disrupting this trial."
"It might have been a mistake," Alex offered, weakly.
"You got set up, son. And the more you speak, the more naive you sound, and the more I believe that you weren’t in on it. Hard to believe The Standard gave you this job."
Alex tried to defend himself but nothing came out.
The Cutline (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 0) Page 6