Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  You and I pay taxes too, and Mr. Mahoney’s taxes are a very small part of the total. But they aren’t “his” taxes anyway. They are his debt to society. None of us has any more right to demand our schools do something our way than he has to tell the Highway Administration what roads to build and how they must build them. While private schools have the luxury of fostering whatever narrow set of beliefs they prefer, public schools don’t. Funding our schools is basic to fostering the sense of healthy diversity and pluralistic thinking essential to the future of this country.

  Mahoney advocates abstinence indoctrination, with its implicit conformity to fundamentalist Christian beliefs. No doubt he’d like to see creation taught instead of evolution. Again, it’s his right to send his children to a private religious school. But it’s not his right to try to turn our public schools, which his children don’t even attend, into the mirror image of a fundamentalist school. The rest of us have rights too. That’s what this country is about.

  Do I want to spend more money on taxes? No. Do I support our schools? Yes. These may seem like conflicting priorities, but the choice is clear. Children are the future of our country. So instead of abandoning our schools and casting stones at those trying to help them, how about we try something else, something harder but a great deal more productive? How about we choose to invest in our schools, reminding ourselves that an investment in our children is always the best investment in our future.

  Sue put down the paper and sighed, “Oh, Jake.” She shook her head slowly, both hands wrapped around her coffee cup, absorbing its warmth.

  At 9:05 the door bell rang. Smiling, Sue opened the door to a typically rumpled Jake, with a brown v-neck sweater and casual maroon shirt underneath. Sue always had to fight the instinct to straighten his collars or volunteer to iron his shirts. After the two eyed each other a moment, she threw her arms around him and gave him a bear hug.

  “Wow.” Jake responded. “What will the neighbors think?”

  “That some strange man is visiting me. And they’ll be right,” Sue laughed. “Come in, Jake. Sit down.”

  Sue pointed toward the living room, which looked exactly as it had twelve days earlier. Jake walked in, eerily looking around the room as if he expected some bats to suddenly dive bomb him. He avoided the couch where he’d last sat with his friends, choosing the rocking chair over by the coffee table. As he sat down his eyes dropped to the shiny but pockmarked hardwood surface.

  “I put the quarter in my jewelry box,” Sue volunteered. “For some reason I felt like hanging on to it.”

  “Yeah. I guess I almost expected it to be just sitting there on its side. Crazy thing, wasn’t it?”

  Sue nodded. “How’s it been for you, Jake?”

  “Listen, Sue. I’m sorry I haven’t been over, and I haven’t called you since the funeral. I…”

  “I know, Jake. Don’t even think about it. I am going to miss Sunday afternoons though.”

  “Yeah. Well, at least there’s going to be a lot less clean up.” Jake was instantly sorry he’d said it.

  “I already miss cleaning up after you guys.” Sue choked on her emotions, then tried to harness them with a smile. “I hope you can still come over once in a while, Jake. I’m no substitute for Finney or Doc, but I’d be glad to make popcorn, pass you a beer, and show you how little I know about football.”

  Jake smiled weakly.

  “The kids miss you too. Little Finn’s always talking about you.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking maybe I could take him to a ballgame or something.”

  “That’d be great. It would mean a lot to him. Me too.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll check my schedule and give him a call.”

  Jake cleared his throat even though he didn’t need to.

  “Listen, Sue, I’ve got to talk to you about something. It’s a little strange—no, it’s really strange—and I don’t know any good way to get into it, so let me just tell you what happened.”

  Jake recounted the story of the yellow three-by-five card, his meetings with Ollie and the trip to the wrecking yard. Sue leaned forward, hanging on every word.

  “The bottom line is, somebody was trying to kill Doc.” Jake decided not to bring up the possibility they were trying to get him or Finney. She didn’t need that.

  Sue sat there, still from the shoulders up, rubbing her hands together as if they were frostbitten. “Just when you think life’s getting as crazy as it can, it gets crazier.”

  Sue got up and went to the window. Jake couldn’t see her face but knew she was crying. After several minutes of awkward silence, he started back in.

  “Ollie wants me to come up with suspects. I mean, there’s no one obvious, so I’m supposed to come up with anybody who had a conflict with Doc, an ax to grind. I’ve met with Mary Ann, you know, Doc’s secretary? I got a few ideas from her. And I’ve got a few of my own.”

  “Who?”

  Jake resisted an instinct to hold back, giving Sue the full list, “scorned women” and “betrayed husbands” and all. Jake could tell from Sue’s expression she was aware of Doc’s indiscretions. He wondered if it was sinking in that one of Doc’s affairs might be the reason her own husband died. When it did, she’d have to be bitter. No, angry. Looking at Sue, he could imagine anger, but not bitterness.

  “Jake, I’m glad you told me all this, scary as it is. What can I do to help?”

  “Well, I have to ask you something. It’s a little delicate, but…”

  “You want me to go undercover as a prostitute to flush out the murderer?”

  Jake laughed. “Well, not quite that delicate.”

  “Good.”

  “Ollie said I should check on anything, no matter how improbable. You know how Doc used to perform abortions? And he was on the committee that got the abortion pill and the fetal tissue research grant over at the hospital. And, this is confidential, but it appears he might have done some late-term abortions even recently.”

  Sue closed her eyes and sighed. The latter was obviously news to her.

  “So I thought maybe one of the anti-abortion people might have…might have gone after Doc.”

  Sue looked at Jake in disbelief. “You’re suggesting a prolifer murdered Doc and Finney?”

  “No, not really, but Ollie wants every possibility.”

  Sue looked hurt. Her body language said she was holding her reaction in check. “So what are you asking me, Jake?”

  “Well, I guess for some possible names.”

  “Is this like when actors were asked to turn over names of people in Hollywood that might be communists?”

  “Sue, come on, I just—”

  “You just want the names of people who object to children being killed because anybody who’d defend a vulnerable child is likely to be a murderer, is that it? Will the names be taken before a Senate committee, or were you just going to print them in your column and let other people harass them? Is this going to be the latest Tribune lynching of the politically incorrect?”

  Sue’s eyes blazed, and Jake tried to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

  “It’s not like that at all, Sue. It’s just that Doc got some pretty hateful letters. I’ve gotten a few myself. I know how you feel about this thing, and we’ve got some honest differences, okay? I’m not saying anybody you know did this, but somebody did it. I’m just trying to find some possibilities, no matter how remote. But I can see this is too much for you.” Jake started to get up. “I’ll just—”

  “Sit down, Jake.” Sue felt awful and looked it.

  “Yes’m.” Jake reversed himself and fell back into the rocking chair.

  “Jake, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. My emotions are on my shirt sleeves. I blew it. Please forgive me.”

  “Look, Sue, you don’t have to apologize.”

  “Yes, I do, Jake. Let me try to explain. I guess I get a little defensive about this stereotype that people like me are hateful. I know you didn’t say that, but I’m used to having
that laid on me. You probably didn’t know that for the last six months or so I’ve been going down to the Lovepeace clinic once a week to counsel women as they go in. I’m just there to help, but people are always giving me obscene gestures. And I’ve been at Lifeline to protest RU-486. I never saw Doc there, to be honest I hoped I never would. I always went an hour after he went to work so I wouldn’t have to face off with him. I’ve gotten to know these…‘protesters.’ The idea that one of them could possibly do such a thing is…. To be honest, it really offends me.”

  “Sue, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t, Jake. You’re my friend. And you were always such a special friend to Finney.”

  Tears streamed down Sue’s cheeks now, overcoming every effort to hold them back. Jake wished for a moment he was more like Finney, that he could reach out and touch and comfort her. But he couldn’t. The trip across the living room was too long, comforting too foreign.

  Sue grabbed the Kleenex beside the table lamp. “I’ve been buying this stuff in bulk,” she laughed. “I keep it nearby in case something reminds me of Finney. Problem is, pretty much everything does.

  “I’m okay now, Jake. Of course I’ll help you. I don’t know everybody in the different prolife groups, but I’ve got friends who do. If there’s somebody vengeful or weird or something, somebody that could have done this, maybe they’d know. I’d be glad to introduce you to them, and you can ask them yourself.”

  “That’s not necessary, Sue. I thought if you just happened to know a name or two…”

  “What’s wrong? Afraid to meet some Bible-banging fundamentalist bigots?” Sue grinned, good-naturedly baiting him.

  “No, not afraid. Just not sure how helpful it would be.”

  “I think you’d be surprised at how down to earth and honest these people are. As long as we assure them nothing they say will get printed in the Tribune, most of them would love to meet you and help any way they could. It wouldn’t go in the newspaper, would it?”

  “Of course not.” Sue’s distrust for journalism irked him.

  “On Mondays a dozen of us meet to pray for pregnant moms and their unborn babies. Most of us are women, but there’s a few men too. We could meet right here next Monday morning at 7:00. I’ll have coffee and donuts for you, Jake. Your favorite kind.”

  “Okay, why not? Monday will work.” Trying too hard to act casual, Jake glanced nervously at his schedule book and wrote it in.

  “Don’t worry, Jake. Nobody’s going to try to baptize you or anything.”

  “Thanks, Sue. That’s reassuring.” He started to get up.

  “Can you stay a few more minutes?”

  “Sure.” He sat down again. “What’s up?”

  “I just read your column about Carl Mahoney.”

  “It wasn’t really about Mahoney. I just quoted him on some things.”

  “What everybody’s going to remember is about him. Listen, I know Carl and Linda Mahoney and their kids. They go to our church. Their kids go to our school. They’re about the sweetest family you’d ever want to meet. I’ve never heard them say an unkind word. Sure, they have convictions, but that doesn’t make them self-righteous rednecks, Jake.”

  “I didn’t say they were, did I?”

  “Yes, actually you did. Not in those words, of course. Jake, I don’t know how else to say this, but you have a way of putting people down, putting labels on them. The truth is, the Carl Mahoney I’ve known for years is not the Carl Mahoney you portrayed in that column.”

  “Look, Sue, you didn’t hear the interview. I asked him questions, he answered, I quoted his answers. Okay, I took issue with him. It was nothing personal.”

  “What do you think it’s going to do to Carl and his family?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jake, come on. Words have an effect on people. Proverbs says, ‘Life and death are in the power of the tongue.’ My high school debate coach called what you did in your column setting up a straw man. You state the other person’s position as if it were stupid, then that sets yours up to sound smart. And when your case isn’t strong enough, you resort to ad hominem arguments, attacking the person’s character.”

  “I know what ad hominem means.” Sue was in lecture mode and Jake bristled at being lectured.

  “You should, because that’s exactly what you did with Carl. Once he’s labeled as a right-wing extremist, people won’t listen to him. So they won’t have to deal with the common sense stuff he’s saying.”

  “Are you finished?” Jake asked.

  “Not quite. Actually, Jake, every day I read straw man and ad hominem arguments sprinkled throughout the Tribune. It isn’t occasional anymore. It’s constant. People with beliefs and values like the Mahoney’s—and mine and Finney’s—are misrepresented. I resent that, Jake. It’s like you’re tolerant of every position except ours. Your new term for moral conviction is ‘bigotry.’ I don’t think it’s right and I don’t think it’s fair. Why can’t you just quote exactly what people say and stick to the facts?”

  Jake rolled his eyes, digging in for another skirmish over media bias.

  “Come on, Sue. Ever read a courtroom transcript? It’s accurate, but incredibly boring. We have to select and summarize, cut to the heart of the issue as we see it. If we just record every word of an interview, it’s way too long and it’s deadly dull. Nobody would read it.”

  “I don’t have to know every word, Jake. Just enough of them to get an accurate picture. And no offense, but when I read the paper I’m not interested in hearing the heart of the issue as the reporter sees it. I just want to know what happened, hear what people actually said, and have the freedom to come to my own conclusions. I’m tired of having to wade through the reporter’s slant in search of the real facts.”

  “You do understand a column is supposed to be opinion?”

  “Of course I understand that. I like to read columns, even those I disagree with. Give your opinion, give it sarcastically or forcefully if you want to. But you’re not entitled to distort and take out of context. You’re not entitled to misrepresent people’s positions and integrity. I know Carl Mahoney’s positions and I know his integrity. How come I didn’t see either in your column?”

  Jake started to respond, but Sue went right on, unfolding the morning Tribune. “Look at this, Jake. This article on legal efforts to prevent special minority status for homosexuals. First, it quotes the governor comparing the issue to Nazi Germany and the holocaust. Then, look at this lead quote that supposedly captures one side’s position. ‘Homosexuals are animals. They don’t deserve to have any rights at all.’ Jake, I’ve had dozens of discussions with supporters of this measure, and not once have I ever heard anything approaching this kind of hateful attitude. My bet is the woman was misquoted, but even if she wasn’t it’s grossly inaccurate to portray this as a typical attitude.”

  “Look, Sue, I know the reporter who wrote this. He’s a nice guy. He wouldn’t make this stuff up.”

  “I’m not saying he’s not a nice guy, Jake. The drunk driver who killed Jenny was a nice guy. I’m just looking at the results.”

  “Look, Sue. We’ve got better things to do at the Trib than plot to overthrow the church or whatever it is you people think we’re doing. While you send us letters telling us we’re going to hell, your political adversaries send us nice concise press releases. They also return our phone calls, which your side often doesn’t. Any wonder if they come off looking better?”

  “I’ve never sent a letter like that and I hope you know it, Jake. And could it be past experience that makes people hesitate to return your phone calls? But maybe you’re right—maybe we don’t relate to the media the way we should. But help me with this, will you? Reading the Trib every day I keep getting the distinct feeling that to not be a bigot you have to believe every choice and every action is as good as every other one. The only way to avoid bigotry is to have no morals. And the one group it’s okay to have hateful intolerant attitudes toward
is Christian conservatives. Am I wrong? I really want to know, Jake. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “What I’m thinking is, you don’t like the message so you shoot the messenger. Journalists are just messengers. We tell people what’s happening. If they don’t like it, they blame us for it.”

  “Okay, I can identify with that. When I say abortion kills children, I’m just stating a scientific fact, but I feel like people get so angry at me, like it’s my fault.”

  “That isn’t what I had in mind.”

  “Of course it isn’t. I’m just telling you I relate. When you say something that’s true but unpopular, people take it out on you because they just don’t want to deal with the truth.”

  “Right. So you understand our dilemma?”

  “I understand your shoot-the-messenger analogy. What I disagree with is your application. If you carefully communicate what really happened and what was really said—like a messenger is supposed to—and then people blame you for it, then yes, they’re being unreasonable. But I don’t hear anyone blaming the media for the famine in Africa or the scandal on Wall Street. I certainly don’t blame you for the mass murderers and the rapists. But what I’m saying is that often you don’t do what messengers do. You don’t just convey what actually happened or what was actually said. You don’t just tell the truth. You put your own spin on it. You don’t let the reader take the facts and relate his own values to it, you impose your values on it. Like the idea that anyone who believes homosexual behavior and abortion are wrong is a bigot.”

  “Well, Sue, if the shoe fits…”

  “But does the shoe fit, Jake? Am I a bigot just because I believe what virtually everyone in this country recognized only forty years ago? Because I agree with Abraham Lincoln that homosexual acts and abortion are morally wrong? Is it wrong to believe there are some moral absolutes? Do we wake up every morning and take a new vote, and if 51 percent decide something that used to be wrong is now right, does that make the other 49 percent a bunch of narrow-minded hate-mongers?”