by Allen Weiner
The plan was an homage to the scheme called “The Thing” that the Soviets used to spy on the US Embassy in Moscow in 1945. The modern twist was, instead of planting a sophisticated listening device as the Soviets did in the Cold War, a small FM transmitter would be surreptitiously placed underneath the ashtray in the elevator. The transmitter would emit a broadcast signal to a nearby radio tuned in to a specific FM frequency.
At lunchtime and when offices closed, Max would casually lurk on a bench outside the courthouse with an earphone plugged into his Zenith transistor radio. This special news broadcast aimed at an audience of one would come in loud and clear at 93.4 on his radio dial. As with any reporter worth his keep, Max would have a reporter’s notebook—a five-by-nine spiral pad—on his lap to take appropriate notes.
Max peeked outside the men’s room to make sure the coast was clear. He and Barrett walked over to the elevator and pushed the up button. The doors popped open, and the freshly cleaned ashtray was attached to the far wall near the back left corner. The faint smell of ammonia and furniture polish overwhelmed them as the door opened to the forty-three-square-foot enclosure.
If either Max or Barrett felt like dozing off or were overcome with anxiety, the fresh smell of pungent cleaning fluid would keep them awake. Max pushed the stop button, which held the elevator in place.
Of the pair, Barrett was better with his hands than Max. His special talent was due, in part, to the extra digit he had on his left hand. In addition to being able to tie his shoe with one hand, Barrett could manipulate small objects into tight spaces.
Max handed Barrett the FM transmitter, purchased that day as part of a Heathkit from Radio Shack. The unit was a two-inch square device to which the reporter had soldered a small antenna and three-volt battery. Max then took a soldering iron from his briefcase and placed it gently in his buddy’s left hand. Two minutes later, the bug was planted underneath the ashtray, in a location that was unlikely to be detected by the cleaning crew. The two men walked briskly toward the fire door and out onto the alleyway that ran the length of the building.
“And so, that’s that,” Barrett said, quite proud of his role in the caper. He then turned and walked down the alley toward the front of the building. Some ten steps before he reached the front of the courthouse, Fine let loose with some prophetic words.
“What goes up could come down with some great headlines.”
Chapter Three
It rained pretty much straight through the weekend after Max and Barrett put the finishing touches on their scheme. Before going their separate ways, Max stood next to his friend’s shiny new BMW and took a transistor radio from his briefcase. Nervously, almost in a full tremble, Max plugged the earpiece into the 3.5 mm hole of his Zenith transistor radio. The goal was to see if the selected FM frequency would deliver static or a quiet hum of elevator silence.
With anxiety in full bloom, it took Max longer than it should tune the radio dial. Barrett was tempted to grab it from his co-conspirator but hesitated. A long two seconds later, with eyes closed, Max gave the thumbs-up sign.
When Max had an entire weekend off, he usually made the trip to his parents’ home sixty miles south and east. With almost too many threads jockeying for space and time in his conscience, Max knew that sleeping in the single bed of his early twenties was a bit incongruent with the daring feat that was put in motion. To top it off, at twenty-five and sort-of living on his own, Max was not in the mood for twenty questions from his parents—well, his mom, for sure. He also knew that his father did not share any of their son’s recent work disaster with his mother—a woman who was uncannily skilled at reading her son and would have put him in a guilt-inspired headlock to reveal his job suspension and probation.
Facing an entire weekend with no plans and a bit anxious, Max spent Saturday cleaning his place and going grocery shopping. College football season was winding down but living in a hotbed for Penn State football made him a surrogate fan of a team on its way to an undefeated season. More than anything, Max loved listening to the games on the radio where he could dive headfirst into Ray Scott’s play-by-play. Scott was one of the nation’s best football announcers, and his account of the Nittany Lions win over Pitt on that rainy Saturday allowed Max to sit back and enjoy a lazy afternoon.
Sundays were the bane of Max’s existence. While it was seven years since Max simultaneously attended both public high school and religious school, the sadness that enveloped him on Sundays remained palpable. True, staying home and watching the Eagles limp their way to another horrific season was not anyone’s idea of fun. But sitting in a classroom studying the minutia of Jewish law and customs was equally torturous. Leaving religious school at 6:30 p.m. on Sunday, when it was dark at that hour from late October to May, was a feeling that would follow Max for the rest of his life.
This rainy Sunday, the blues were in full bloom. The sheer illegality of what he and Barrett had cooked up, and its implications moving forward, was slowly sinking in. Not one for any sort of daring escapade, Max wanted to hop in his car, drive to the courthouse, sneak in and rip the transmitter from its hiding place in the main elevator. Stopping himself in a moment of panic, Max reflected on some recent life changes.
Since beginning his newspaper career three months earlier and achieving some form of independence from his family, Max was going through the slow, painstaking process of building confidence and self-esteem. After parking his new Volvo in the lot adjacent to his office on his first day of work, Max had stood next to his car and thought about what lay ahead. He realized his generally passive and shy approach to life would have to change dramatically. The psyche of a young man who always lived in fear of the reaction to less-than-stellar schoolwork and exemplary behavior would have to be pushed to the side to make room for someone whose career goals required equal amounts of courage and talent. So far it was a work in progress, with a few baby steps here and there.
The unease that Sunday morning brought began to fade. Max caught the tail end of the Eagles game on the radio, and what a meaningful game it was! Captured by NFL Films to be part of team history, the Eagles beat the New York Giants 19–17 on a play that would later be called “The Miracle at the Meadowlands.” For the lifelong Eagles fan, now sixty miles from his home, the radio broadcasts were a nice antidote to a miserable Sunday afternoon.
Max’s mood ultimately changed to one of anticipation for the week ahead. An early dinner and a few hours of listening to Dr. Demento on WMMR was the perfect end to a day that started with far too much introspection. He slipped into bed shortly before 10 p.m. and fell asleep to the sound of his downstairs neighbors’ TV playing the theme to “Dallas” at a decibel level fit for the hard of hearing.
Eager to get the week started, Max walked into the newspaper bureau office’s front door at 10 a.m. Monday. The Chronicle, a morning paper, created odd working hours for reporters. Primetime was from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. when the local cities, towns, and boroughs conducted their public-facing business. The news deadline was 11 p.m., which required a reporter to return to the office after these meetings had adjourned and bang out a quick, precise account of the event.
High visibility news events such as crime, fire, car accidents, and the like did not adhere to any set schedule. Whichever reporter was in the office when a fire broke out would be sent to the scene to report and most likely take pictures. In his first week, Max was sent to a two-alarm blaze in Lehighton. As a green reporter, he excitedly gathered the facts, took some horrifically beautiful shots of a rampaging blaze, and wound up with his byline on the front page of the Chronicle’s local section.
Max stopped dead in his tracks when he reached his desk. There were two notes jammed into his IBM Selectric roller—one from Ray, his boss; the other from Ervin, the night editor. Both men separately told Max he had done a nice job on the pysanky egg piece, especially liking the picture that accompanied the feature story.
Nothing builds one’s confidence like an attaboy from the boss
, along with the man in charge of handing out assignments most weeknights. Max made his way to the board where that night’s activity was posted and saw he was assigned to the Carbon County Executive Board’s monthly meeting. It was not much of a thriller as the matters discussed did not draw many citizens. There was time at the outset of the meeting for locals to ask the five-person board questions and air their grievances. The interchange between the board and people from Jim Thorpe, Lehighton, Nesquehoning, and other area boroughs and townships rarely had any newsworthy gems. The public back and forth after the public forum was about as exciting as watching paint dry.
Even after a few months as a reporter getting a first-hand lesson in civics, Max learned about executive sessions—closed-door meetings that often took place before the public part started. Colleagues at the Chronicle told Max that these private sessions are where the serious business took place, and the open forum was just for show.
With Max and Barrett’s clandestine surveillance in place, it seemed possible that some of the executive board members might discuss their private talks in the elevator after the meeting. This assignment may provide a test of the viability of the hidden transmitter trick and whether it could yield a juicy piece of news or even gossip. Max had just enough time to have a quick dinner before the open executive board meeting, after which he would try and tune in to his new favorite FM channel.
As expected at the meeting, a few locals stood in a line about twenty-five feet from the large, several-inch-thick semi-circular mahogany desks behind which sat the five board members. A woman from Jim Thorpe complained about her neighbor who worked on rusted out cars day and night in his driveway. The noise kept her from a good night’s sleep. She was followed by a man from Coaldale who wanted to know why the county changed the trash pickup day from Tuesday to Thursday. The head of the executive board, Mike DeFranco, said he would take the two issues to the appropriate authorities and thanked the pair for coming to the meeting.
There was only one order of new business: to announce that the bid for a replacement water storage tank for the county’s correctional facility had been awarded to Kevin’s Water and Heating in Jim Thorpe. Other matters were equally mundane, including hashing out the details of the local Thanksgiving Day parade. The meeting was adjourned after one hour.
It was showtime for Max. He had roughed out a plan to sit on a bench outside the courthouse and pretend he was listening to a local high school basketball game. The Jim Thorpe High men’s basketball team played for the state title, so a reporter jotting down notes with an earpiece plugged into his radio was unlikely to cause suspicion. Max hopped in the magic elevator before the board members dispersed and quickly made his way to his surveillance spot. His pen and pad came out, and Max was waiting for the show to start.
And start it did. Tuned to 93.4, Max heard the elevator doors open with voices mid-conversation stepping inside. Max was excellent with remembering voices, and he heard Mike DeFranco make fellow board member John Cleaver laugh. It seemed DeFranco, who fancied himself a cutup, was telling one his patented jokes—no doubt minted in fifth grade—which brought laughter to the pair.
“I want to thank you for backing me on awarding that bid to my brother-in-law. Ever since that big HVAC repair chain from Allentown opened shop here, his business has gone to hell in a handbasket,” DeFranco said.
“Hey, it was my pleasure,” Cleaver responded. “I’m sure we’ll come up with a way to pay me back.”
Shocked at what he heard, Max dropped his pad on the ground in front of him and nearly crashed his transistor radio into the sidearm of the bench. He scribbled notes as fast as he could so he could capture every word of the conversation between DeFranco and Cleaver. Max also roughed out the news story he would need to write for the morning edition.
Driving back to the office, Max could easily have run off the road, given his level of distraction. He was armed with information that could be the basis for an investigation with serious repercussions, not to mention the kind of reporting that would put him back in the good graces with the powers that be. Two men, considered by their peers to be beyond reproach, appeared to be caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
As Max wheeled into one of the Chronicle’s assigned parking spots in the lot down the street from the office, he contemplated his next move. While he was anxious to jump into this story of possible corruption, Max’s experience over the past few weeks began to wave a major red flag of caution. Unlike the rigged conversation he overheard that got him in hot water, the interchange between Cleaver and DeFranco took place in the elevator, where there was an expectation of secrecy. There was no way the two men could be aware their conversation was overheard by a reporter sitting outside the courthouse.
Baby steps. That is what Max decided he would take. He first sat down and put together a summary of that night’s executive board meeting. The content was dry, and there was little room for analysis or a need for elaboration. A bid for a new water tank was announced, and plans for decorating key spots throughout the county with holiday lights were discussed before getting tabled for later approval.
Max walked his two typewritten pages up to Ervin and placed them in the editor’s inbox. The young reporter did not expect much in the way of Ervin’s questions and walked back to his desk, stopping at the desk directly across from him. Tom Monahan, a reporter a few years older than Max, was finishing up a feature he had been working on regarding repurposing some of the area’s vacant coal mines.
At a young twenty-nine, Tom Monahan had already become a reporter’s reporter known for his excellent writing and detailed approach to his craft. Tom graduated from The Ohio State University with a degree in journalism and was editor of the Lantern, the school’s prestigious newspaper.
Tom and Max were not exactly friends—more of friendly colleagues. Other than their place of employment, they had nothing in common. Tom was married with a child on the way. He wore a three-piece suit to work while Max was prone to open-collared shirts and slacks that resembled what later would be called Dockers. Occasionally, Max did ask Tom a question or two when he got stuck on a story or advice on approaching an interview.
Max asked Tom if he could interrupt for a minute. Tom lifted his head from his Selectric and smiled. “Sure,” he said. “What do you need?”
“I know you’ve talked about the Sunshine Law, and business conducted at civic meetings has to be made public. Is that right?” Max asked.
“Well, yes, but it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Tom replied in a tone that sounded more like a professor than a fellow reporter. “Why, what do you have?”
Leaving out the part that included the illegal surveillance, Max told Tom about the bid announced at the board meeting and how it seemed a bit suspicious. Max added that there had been an executive session before the general meeting, which is when he thought the bid was rigged.
“Explain to me why you think it was shady,” Tom asked Max about the award to Kevin’s Water and Heating. “From what you have told me, I’m not sure why you are concerned.”
Not an especially good liar, Max had to think fast on his feet. Fortunately for Max, his remarkable associative memory did a quick scan with some excellent results.
“So, do you remember the finals for the AA State Football Championship? I remember covering the event, and Jim Thorpe High School was playing some team from Carbondale. I distinctly remember DeFranco and his family making a big deal when Steve Doll, Kevin’s son, made a spectacular catch to win the game. In fact, after the game, I took a picture of the Dolls and the DeFrancos together with Steve in the middle.”
“Yeah, I know where you are headed, and it’s a little thin if you ask me,” Tom said with great skepticism. “I’ll tell you what. The Sunshine Law is a bit iffy on executive sessions, but if there was business discussed at the closed-door meeting that was then brought to the general meeting, the details of that business should be available to the public.”
“I’m no
t exactly in the position to make such an inquiry,” Max said, nearly pleading with his colleague to dig into the allegation. “Can you make a few calls?
Tom stared at Max with a mix of sympathy and annoyance. The more senior reporter was doing an investigative piece on abandoned coal mines, but he had a soft spot for Max, especially considering the newbie’s nearly tragic mistakes. A few seconds passed, and Tom nodded. “Yeah. Give me a few days.”
Max kept his head down, and Monday night turned into Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. During that time, Max was sent to school board meetings in Palmerton, Lehighton, and Nesquehoning, where nothing out of the ordinary took place. Max played things close to the vest and wrote succinct reports from his nightly assignments, patiently waiting for Tom to get back to him. A few trips to his listening post outside the Carbon County yielded nothing of significance.
Friday, Max walked into the office toward his desk, where he saw a small envelope with the words “Max Rosen” typed across the front. Fearing the worst in the form of a pink slip, Max opened it as his heart pounded. For a moment, Max was taken back to the frantic days when he would bring home a report card that he knew would not pass muster. That cocktail of fear, panic, and anxiety was a drink he had hoped was in the past.
Call me at home, the note read. Tom signed it. Tom’s day off, but he made a special trip into the office to leave the note.
With hands trembling, Max called Tom, who answered on the first ring.
“You were right,” Tom said. “They rigged the bid. Three other bids were lower from companies that had great reputations for service. How about we meet Monday before work to talk about the next steps?”