Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  “Anyway, you asked why’d they kill him? Maybe he held out for more money. Maybe he refused to do it again. Once you’re on the payroll you’re expected to play ball. If you’re no longer an asset, you’re a liability. That’s how it works. Maybe his conscience was acting up. Maybe he talked to a priest, or looked like he was going to confess. Omerta.”

  “What?”

  “Omerta. It’s the old syndicate term. The code of silence. It’s their way of saying, ’You talk, you die.’ They make clear, usually after you’ve already got your hands dirty and it’s too late to back out, that if you talk, they’ll kill you. And that’s another reason they do so well. These days most people don’t think anything’s worth dying for. Guess you can hardly blame them, huh?”

  Jake nodded and was disturbed that he had. Nothing worth dying for? He’d once heard a general say, “If nothing’s worth dying for, nothing’s worth living for.”

  Maybe that was it, maybe the sickness of this society that screamed out to all but the hopelessly deaf was the product of believing nothing was worth dying for. And therefore nothing was worth living for.

  Jake and Sutter went their separate ways. Jake headed to feed the meter, carrying on his shoulders a weight no man should have to bear alone.

  Jake came back to a note in Jerry’s handwriting, taped on the middle of his screen, the only guaranteed place a journalist will look. Jerry saw him return and explained from across the divider.

  “I answered your phone. Your machine didn’t seem to be working, so I thought what the heck, it could be the president. It was bigger. A reporter from the LA Times. He wants an interview. You must be more important than I realized.”

  “An interview? About what?”

  “Didn’t say, and I didn’t pry, either. You know me. I’m too much of a professional. I may eavesdrop when you call him back though.”

  “Thanks, Jerry.”

  “Hey, that’s why I’m here. Can I get coffee? Shine your shoes? Fetch you a newspaper?”

  “You could shut up for a few minutes,” Jake said with mock irritation.

  “Oh, sure, no problem. Shut up? Just say the word, Mr. Bigshot columnist doing an interview with the LA Times. For you? Anything.”

  Jerry continued to mumble under his breath. Next to being the human thesaurus, this was one of his most endearing features. He was one of many reasons Jake loved working at the Trib.

  Jake picked up the gray phone and raised his left shoulder to cradle it against his neck, while his fingers pounded out the ten numbers with the same rapid skill he punched computer keys. He looked at Jerry’s note.

  “Yeah, can I speak to Frank Harmes?” He looked at Jerry, who was listening intently. “Sounds like he’s got a secretary.”

  “Hey, I answered your phone, remember? I don’t care if it is the Times, no reporter has a secretary. No way.”

  “Frank Harmes here.”

  “Yeah, Frank. Jake Woods at the Trib. My secretary gave me your message.”

  Jerry rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, great, thanks for calling me back, Jake. Secretary, huh? Wow. Before I forget, Cornelius Leonard sends his greetings. Just saw him yesterday. He was here for some meeting with the big wigs. They introduced him to some of us in the newsroom.”

  “No kidding? I just saw Leonard in New York.”

  “Somebody was saying something about your column on condoms and people’s reactions, and Mr. Leonard said he knew you. You’ve got a rep as one of the best columnists on the coast. People like your stuff. And this column seems quite a bend in the road, so it’s really piqued some interest. Mr. Leonard suggested I call you. Just a second. I’ve got it here on my desk somewhere. You know what it’s like.”

  “Believe me, I know.” Jake looked at the piles on his desk. Nothing a little kerosene and a lighter couldn’t fix.

  “Before I forget, how big’s the syndication? How many papers you in?”

  “Last I heard, forty. Creators Features tells me there’s a dozen more considering it.”

  “No kidding? That’s great. Congratulations. Yeah, okay, here it is. By the way, Leonard got a charge out of this.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he says you really kicked up the dust this time.”

  “He’s right.”

  “He also said he’s proud of you. Takes courage to take on the big boys, he said.”

  “What can I do for you, Frank?”

  “Well, just a few quick questions about what you wrote here. First, you allude to something, where is it? Okay, you say, ’I used to think that way. Recent events have helped me to see how wrong I was.’ What recent events are you referring to?”

  “Just some personal experiences. I saw first hand in a school situation how some kids’ lives were affected by condom distribution and the basic ’all sex is okay’ philosophy. It wasn’t good.”

  “And you think the school was wrong to pass out condoms even to the sexually active kids who could get AIDS?”

  “Well, my point is, our first responsibility is to help them see why they shouldn’t be sexually active. I don’t think it’s right to pass out condoms and send the message to go ahead and do the behavior that spreads HIV in the first place. A lot of what’s passing for birth control education is irresponsible because it neglects or minimizes the one alternative that’s 100 percent effective in preventing what we all say we want to prevent.”

  “And this position represents some sort of conversion on your part, doesn’t it? I mean, you’ve never had a reputation for being a conservative, have you?”

  “I’ve had a change in thinking, like I said in the article, if that’s what you mean. I’m not saying I’m a conservative. In some areas I’m liberal, others conservative. I don’t care what the label is, I just said what I believe.”

  “Could you tell me a little more about this experience with the school?”

  “No, sorry. It’s personal. Not for publication.” The moment Jerry heard this, he got up and took a walk. Jake appreciated it.

  “Can you talk off the record?” Harmes asked.

  “Just between us, right?” As if there were some other meaning to off the record. Jake felt a little silly.

  “Right.”

  “Okay … my daughter was given condoms and what amounted to encouragement to have sex by a school nurse and a teacher. I went down there to … talk to the teacher and find out what was going on. I didn’t like what I saw.”

  “And … what about your daughter?”

  Jake hesitated, but the guy was in Los Angeles and no one else was going to know. “Again, off the record, she’s pregnant and has the HIV.”

  “No kidding?” The voice conveyed a sense of pleasure in having discovered something big.

  This guy’s starting to bug me. “Listen, Frank, I’m pretty busy and to be honest, I don’t feel like talking about this. It’s pretty draining stuff. And I’m still getting lots of grief on my column. I need to go.”

  “Just a couple more questions. Why—”

  “Sorry, gotta go. Good to talk with you.”

  Jake hung up and sat motionless. He was offended at this reporters insensitivity. What did he care about Carly? To him she was only an interesting dynamic, a piece in a puzzle, whose misery had been for him just a source of stimulation. Jake wondered how often he had grabbed hold of people’s tragedies with equal pleasure, using someone else’s pain to fuel a story.

  Frank would be frustrated to have to sit on the information. Jake was just glad he understood the business well enough to have stipulated “off the record.” Too many people depended on a journalist’s sense of discretion to leave out what was obviously harmful to innocent people. Jake learned long ago such discretion couldn’t be depended upon. Sometimes it didn’t exist.

  Thinking back he remembered several cases where he passed on personal information that had made for a great story, without regard for others’ feelings. When people had been hurt, he was sorry but felt they were overreacting. Th
e news was the news, and people had the right to know. More particularly, the journalist had the right—and the duty—to tell.

  Jake spent the afternoon trying to put out fires. Someone had organized a phone campaign to hound him. They were all saying the same things, using the same language, as though reading from a script. There must have been a mailing or a mass fax. People who hadn’t even read the column were referring to someone else’s summary and interpretation of it, but whenever Jake asked where it came from they wouldn’t tell him. Some worked at Planned Parenthood, some were school teachers, several were NEA executives, including Barbara Betcher, who said she and her group couldn’t believe Jake had been used as “a tool of the religious right.” He had done “untold damage” through his “irresponsible” column.

  Jake was struck with the sheer arrogance of these responses. Whenever he would ask for any hard evidence or statistics to refute what he’d said, invariably they had none to offer and seemed offended or mystified that he was even asking.

  One leader of a local feminist group called and warned him that unless he printed a retraction they would be forced to withdraw their invitation to speak at a businesswomen’s breakfast a week from Saturday. He’d forgotten about the breakfast and didn’t feel like going anyway. Because she was surly, and Jake was weary, he couldn’t resist pulling her chain.

  “So you’re threatening me, is that it? I write one column you don’t like, and I’m dog meat? If I don’t parrot your creed, say just what you want, then you break the commitment you made, what … six months ago? How would you distinguish this phone call from intolerance? Or an attempt at censorship?”

  She went ballistic. Jake pulled the phone eight inches from his ear. Sandy, eyebrows raised, heard every word, including a few that made her blush. When the caller finally ran out of breath Jake said, “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t looking forward to your breakfast anyway. Josephine’s makes runny omelets, and I’m tired of those flaky little croissants. Besides, I don’t know if I want to identify with a group that throws a tizzy fit when a journalist chooses to exercise the first amendment!”

  Just as she was launching a new barrage, Jake hung up, a triumphant smile on his face. He grabbed a black marking pen, opened his appointment book to next Saturday, and put a thick line through the speaking engagement. Then he picked up a pencil and wrote below it, “Ask Carly out to breakfast.”

  His mail stacks were three times the usual size. Everyone who generally loved his columns hated this one, and everyone who generally hated them loved this one. He felt somewhat betrayed by those who would turn on him for just one column that he felt was accurate and fair, as if one aberration from the accepted dogma represented a permanent fall from grace unless he recanted.

  He was equally amazed at those he’d offended for years who now rallied to his defense and didn’t seem to hold his previous columns against him. Jake felt his world being turned upside down.

  The next day Jake had been at his desk almost three hours when Clarence wandered over to him, holding masthead down what Jake assumed was the morning Trib.

  “How’s my man doin’ today?” He slapped a greeting on Jake’s hand.

  “I’m surviving. Barely.” Jake heard the battle fatigue in his own voice.

  “I came to ask if I can take my hero to lunch. Writing that column makes anything you did in Vietnam pale in comparison. Plus, I’ve done some reconnaissance, and my sources say you could use a body guard. The word is, there’s some snipers setting up right in this newsroom. I don’t mean to worry you, but I’ve seen some M-14s and a 40-millimeter grenade launcher aimed at your cubicle. And radar has picked up enemy aircraft from the NEA, ACLU, NOW, and NARAL. Just stay close to me, man. They wouldn’t dare hit a black man. From a distance they’d assume I was a liberal!”

  Clarence’s warm smile and hearty slap on the back were truly welcome.

  “Lunch sounds great, Clarence.”

  “Good. They’ll expect us to take the elevator, but we’ll double back and duck down the stairs. Seriously, Jake, I figured you could use some company.” Clarence was suddenly solemn. “And this isn’t going to help things.”

  He flipped over the newspaper in his hand and flopped it on Jake’s desk. It was the Los Angeles Times.

  “D3,” Clarence said.

  Jake hadn’t given another thought to the call from the Times. “The guy didn’t portray me as a hero, huh? It was a three-minute interview, with a minute and a half off the record. I didn’t think I gave him enough ammo to do me much damage.

  Clarence gave a blank look. He obviously wanted to be there when Jake read it. Jake’s heart raced. What did this guy say? He was nice enough, knew Leonard—he didn’t sound antagonistic.

  Even as he thought it, Jake kicked himself for being so naive. How many people had he won over with a congenial voice and agreeable interview style, only to crucify them in print?

  There it was. “Columnist’s Family Problems Cause Belief Shift.”

  No. No, he didn’t. He couldn’t have.

  Popular Oregon Tribune columnist Jake Woods, syndicated in forty western newspapers, including the Los Angeles Times, surprised his readers two days ago with a column attacking Planned Parenthood.

  “It was mean-spirited and totally false,” Vicki Noonan of California Planned Parenthood said. “It’s amazing a journalist could just repeat this right-wing propaganda as if it were true.”

  When I asked Mr. Woods to explain his position, he said he now believes it is “morally wrong to pass out condoms, even if doing so saves the lives of young people.” His explanation was simply “they shouldn’t be sexually active.” He also said, “I believe public schools are acting irresponsibly by giving attention to sex education.” In the interview he referred to some sort of personal “conversion” that has influenced his thinking.

  Woods has been a firm supporter of schools teaching young people how to avoid pregnancy and STDs, but in his controversial column he said, “recent events have helped me to see how wrong I was.”

  What were these recent events, which are not specified in the column? Woods says they involve his teenager daughter, who became sexually active, got pregnant, and contracted the HIV. Woods believes the public school and its teachers, as well as Planned Parenthood, are to blame for what happened to his daughter.

  Another Planned Parenthood spokesperson, Maria Krueger, said, “I’m genuinely sorry for this personal tragedy in Mr. Woods’ family. But instead of attacking those who are doing the most to help, I hope Mr. Woods will use his influence to help other children avoid the hazards of unsafe sex.”

  Jake sat in perplexed silence. After ten seconds he said in a shaky voice, “Clarence. All that about my daughter? It was all off the record, every word. I clarified that two or three times, and he agreed to it. He lied to me. He betrayed my confidence … and I’ve betrayed my daughter. My God, Clarence, she was suicidal about this thing. Now it’s all out in the Times. What am I going to do?”

  His anger toward the Times reporter burned hot, but for the first time he could remember his broken heart laid a stronger hold on him than his anger.

  Clarence knelt down, there was no place to sit, and looked at him sympathetically.

  “And he twisted the rest of what I said. The words, most of them, were mine, but they’re completely out of context. Conversion was his word, not mine. How could anyone with a conscience do this? He set me up, talking about Leonard, made me feel like he wasn’t going to trash me. Why didn’t I tape it? I should have taped it, then I could call the Times’s publisher and play it for him and get this jerk fired.”

  Even as he said it, he knew there was no chance of that. The reporter would say he didn’t remember or didn’t understand. He’d be sorry, but say Jake should have been more clear. It would be the word of one reporter on the wrong side of a position against another on the right side—or rather, “just doing his job.” This was a reporter who would never need anything from Jake again. He’d gotten hi
s story, scored his points. He didn’t need Jake to like him.

  “Jake, have you ever violated someone’s confidence to make a good story?”

  “Maybe if it wasn’t completely clear, or if it was really necessary, but not like this.”

  “Difference in degree, but not in kind?”

  Jake shrugged and nodded lamely. He did understand, and it bothered him that he did. There was a built-in protection in the shared values and politics of his profession. Once he’d stepped outside those shared values, he’d become fair game. That was his problem, and he’d have to live with it. What he couldn’t handle was Carly suffering for his naiveté.

  Clarence was sympathetic. “Even the bad ones don’t usually pull that on other journalists—sort of honor among thieves, I guess. Usually it’s just done to mortals, not fellow members of the pantheon. You don’t want to cross someone in a position to throw lightning bolts hack at you. I had it happen once myself—the off the record thing, I mean. The twisting and out of context stuff, well, that’s par for the course. That goes without saying, given my political incorrectness. I guess you haven’t been on this side of things enough to be on guard, have you? Well, it could be worse. Remember that hospital chaplain that got fired when Jamiesen printed his off the record support of the ’no special rights for homosexuals’ ballot measure? At least you’ve still got your job.”

  Jake didn’t answer, and right now having his job was no consolation. He just sat there staring, thinking of Carly’s fifth-grade flub-up in the Christmas play and wondering how he was going to explain this to her. And to Janet.

  “Journalism’s like fishing, Jake. It’s a lot of fun as long as you’re holding the pole. The fish’s point of view is a bit different, isn’t it? Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”