What Goes Up

by Allen Weiner

  “That guy up there sounding like a hero for the county is a murderer,” Dan said matter-of-factly. “I can’t wait to tell you more.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sue held her breath for the three-minute elevator ride to the first floor. In her life as a reporter, she had never heard such a horrific story. Sadly, Max was rarely shocked by man’s inhumanity to man. A student of the Holocaust, nothing surprised a man who grew up in a neighborhood filled with those who lived through demonic places such as Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. Still, Dan’s recounting of the previous year of his life made the hair on the back of Max’s neck stand on end.

  “For the past year, I have been driving a flatbed up Interstate 81 to Central New York, collecting barrels of gunk, and driving them back here to Pennsylvania.” Dan continued as if speaking in a trance. “I was told to take the barrels and dump them in an abandoned coal mine near Tamaqua. I was never told what was in the barrels, and many of them were rusty with some serious wear and tear. When I lugged them to the front of the empty mine, there were often many spillages. I will tell you one thing—it stunk. And it burned the hell out of my eyes.”

  Max got his wits about him. As the elevator doors opened, the conversation moved to the hotel lobby. Max and Sue sat on a small sofa while Dan sat in an overstuffed chair, angled to face them. Talking about the sordid details of his last twelve months lifted a weight from his shoulders. Dan rubbed his eyes, hiding the fact that he was beginning to cry.

  “I hear what you’ve been through, and I know it’s been terrible, but why did you decide to show up tonight?” Max asked.

  “Well, Mr. Rosen. Today I got some bad news. A few months ago, I was getting these awful headaches that would come and go. Eventually, they got so bad that I went to a neurologist down in Allentown at St. Luke’s. They ran some tests, and it appears I have migraines and, believe it or not, early-stage Parkinson’s Disease. Jesus Christ—I’m only thirty-five.

  “I wanted to see that bastard who ruined my life stand up at that meeting and tell all his lies about what he’s done for this county.” Dan paused, bending his head as he began to weep uncontrollably.

  Max looked at Sue as she reached into her purse for a tissue. Despite all the emotional shortcomings of his own life, Max had the innate ability to push his personal feelings aside and think clearly in such high-stress situations. He gave Dan time to unburden himself of this built-up dread while he opened his briefcase and pulled out a notepad.

  Max inched closer to Dan, so their conversation could remain as private as possible. There were several routes the reporter could take to bring this story to light, but Max felt it was equally important for Dan to be taken care of. The uncertainty of Max’s recent weekend with his buddies offered at least one immediate solution.

  “A lot is going on here,” Max said softly to Dan. “I think there are a few paths we can take. First and foremost, I have a friend who is an attorney in Philadelphia who, I am sure, would love to hear your story and take the necessary legal action. We want to ensure that you get the best medical care possible and that Andersen Trucking pays for it.

  “Also, we need to find out exactly what’s in this crap that is being dumped in empty mines. I seriously doubt you are the only trucker working for Andersen that is being harmed by this. I will look into that, and I need to speak to the managing editor of the Chronicle to get the resources needed to put this on the front page. I cannot guarantee you anything, but we will give it everything we have to bring these people to justice and get you the care you deserve.”

  Max was determined to kill three birds, and if it took several stones, he was up to the challenge. First up, he needed to get Norm Weiss involved. Even if Dan didn’t fit the exact profile of a whistleblower, the ailing truck driver was desperate for someone with the legal prowess and resources to come to the aid of the thirty-five-year-old truck driver. Recalling his conversation with Norm before the basketball game, Max remembered the passion with which his friend spoke of his firm’s commitment to this new area of practice.

  While Max was loath to give Norm any advice, he imagined there were other truckers—from Andersen and other companies—in the same boat as Dan. Growing up with a father whose favorite TV program was Perry Mason, Max felt he earned a telelaw degree from CBS. With that less-than-rudimentary knowledge, he thought there could be something he had heard of called a class action lawsuit. Whatever the proceedings, Max knew Norm Weiss and his firm were up to do battle.

  Leaving the hotel, Max and Sue walked to his car and headed back to the bureau. The ride took longer than normal, but Max was silent as he thought carefully about the steps that lay ahead to make this front-page news. After getting to Nesquehoning, his first task was to write down everything he remembered beyond the frantically scribbled notes he took. He needed to not only get the attention of the Chronicle’s editors but also wanted to ensure that every fact was checked and checked again. Even though a lot of time had passed professionally, he was still on the clock for his probation period based on earlier mess-ups. Max’s big series on the Carbon County arson case was yesterday’s news; he knew it was time to add to that success. And if Max could do it without secretly bugging a county elevator, so much the better. Even though, in this situation, a memorable elevator ride played a major role.

  After typing up several pages of notes, Max asked Sue if she could come over to his desk to look over what he put together. She walked over from a desk across the aisle and grabbed a chair from the desk behind Max’s. As she pushed her chair up to see his work, Max noticed she had a heavenly smelling fragrance that he had not noticed before. The scent was flowery, like lilies, with a touch of spice that threw Max off his game as a warm feeling of flush took over his body. He hoped that she put on this delicious perfume for his sake, but this was neither the time nor place to ask.

  Sue made a few notes on Max’s typewritten sheets that added some color to the evening’s events. For one thing, she recalled that Dan had a prescription bottle in his shirt pocket and that his hands shook when they said goodbye. Those insights told Max that, no matter how the reporting moved forward, he needed Sue on his team. He already realized the Chronicle was likely to assign a more experienced staffer to the investigation.

  Max’s good fortune was that Al Hickey was on the editor’s desk at the bureau that night. Before jumping the gun and talking to an editor in Allentown, Max wanted to go through proper channels, and he knew Al was a great place to start. He would take Al’s direction on who to contact next and include himself in whatever conversation.

  Al Hickey was a man who had seen and heard it all. In his twenty-plus years at the Chronicle, he covered murders, prison escapes, raging fires, and even a kidnapping. At least those were some of the stories Al was willing to share over a few cold ones at the bar next door. Listening to Max’s retelling of Dan’s story of illegal chemical dumping, Al wrote down a few notes and asked Max a few follow-up questions. He then told Max to sit tight, and he would call the managing editor first thing in the morning. While Jack Devlin, the paper’s managing editor, didn’t exactly work banker’s hours, he would not be at his desk at nine thirty on a Thursday night.

  Max tossed and turned all night. The waiting room in his brain was overcrowded with people and issues wanting attention. He did the best to put them at bay, but the net result was less solid sleep than what his mother would have approved. Around four in the morning, Max got up and went over to the makeshift office he set up in the living room. The workspace consisted of a bookcase with a fold-down shelf and a kitchen chair. To clear his mind, Max drew a diagram with the names of the people and companies involved and played connect-the-dots to determine how to approach the investigative reporting that lay ahead. Max felt the drawing would be a great tool to bring to whatever meeting Al Hickey arranged in Allentown.

  Over a microwaved cup of leftover Folgers instant coffee, Max shook off the cobwebs and got ready to jump in a hot shower. Just as he was ready to turn the
water on full blast, the phone rang. Max grabbed a towel and dashed out to the kitchen to answer.

  “Hey, Max, it’s Al Hickey.”

  “Hi, Al. I was just about to get in the shower. What’s up?”

  “That’s an image I’ll try and forget,” Al said with an oversized laugh. “We have a meeting down at the Chronicle at eleven thirty. It’s with Devlin and a few other people.”

  “Wow, that was fast. I appreciate you pushing this through. How about I meet you in the parking lot a few minutes before?”

  “Sure thing, kid. See you then.”

  Max got ready in record time and boiled some water for another cup of instant coffee. He looked through his fridge for something to eat on the run. On his last trip home, Max brought back marble rye from Don’s Bakery. A quick pop into the toaster and a piece of sweet Muenster cheese on top, and it’s a somewhat hearty meal to go.

  With traffic light on a late Friday morning, Max made to Allentown in record time. He was at least twenty minutes early, so he drove by the Allentown Fair Grounds, the site of some of his best memories from college. Driving past the farmer’s market toward the newspaper, Max remembered all the great ethnic food he loved from his college days—especially pretzels. Not the soft pretzels they sold on street corners in Philadelphia, but the hard ones that were common in Pennsylvania Dutch areas of Reading, Lancaster, and Allentown.

  By the time he imagined going through the samples at the Tom Sturgis pretzel factory, Max had pulled into the Chronicle parking lot. Al Hickey was waiting there next to his green Chevy Impala. Standing next to Al was Tom Monahan, Max’s colleague from the bureau. His presence made sense; with Tom’s experience and great reporting skills, he was a natural part of the team.

  The Chronicle was not big on devoting space to large conference rooms. Max, Al Hickey, Tom Monahan, Jack Devlin, and Tim Daniels, publisher of the newspaper, jammed into a 175-square-foot room short of two chairs. Al and Jack Devlin stood as Daniels started the meeting.

  “This is some story you have on your hands, Max. Tell me how you came about it. Don’t spare me the details.”

  Max pulled out his notebook and the papers he typed at the office after meeting Dan at the Carbon County Chamber of Commerce event. Remarkably poised, Max rose to the occasion, speaking with confidence and purpose. Devlin and Daniels, the paper’s top dogs, scribbled notes on legal pads as Max went on for a solid twenty minutes.

  The managing editor and publisher were passing notes back and forth while Max spoke. Their exchange was far from a grade school exercise of sending around giggling slips of paper that said the teacher smelled like vegetable soup. The high-powered newspaper execs compiled a list of next steps, including speaking to the Chronicle’s lawyer and contacting state and federal agencies such as the EPA.

  Max concluded his soliloquy, and for a moment, there was silence in the room. Devlin and Daniels looked at each other as if to determine who should act as spokesman. Devlin, twice a Pulitzer Prize finalist for the newspaper’s work in covering local politics, took Max’s place at the front of the small conference room. Devlin was a former offensive lineman and punter for Lehigh University in the mid-sixties. His punting was the talk of Division 1-D back in the day, and there even was a rumor he had been offered a tryout with the New York Jets. Devlin looked more like a football coach than a former player in a three-piece suit and power red tie undone at the collar. Still, his presence and reputation commanded respect by his peers and direct reports at the Chronicle.

  “So, here’s the plan,” Devlin said with authority. “We’re going to work as a team, reporting to me. For the reporting, I want Tom to take the lead, but I want Max to play a major role.

  “I understand that Max has a legal contact in Philly, and that’s perfect. If you can give me his name and number, I’d like to give him a call after the meeting and tell him about our course of action. We want to ensure we don’t do anything that would interfere with any investigation the state or EPA will do into this chemical dumping. Let’s be clear: our goal is to tell the story that not only digs deep into this calamity but inform and educate our readers. We want to make it personal. Let’s find out how many others were impacted by this. We should do what we can to see if this dumping did any harm to area farms or bodies of water. I want Al to supervise Tom and Max. And Max, I want you to know this is the kind of work that turns rookie reporters into MVPs,” Devlin concluded, using a sports metaphor he knew Max would appreciate. “You will get a co-byline for everything we publish.”

  As the room emptied, each attendee knowing his part moving forward, Al asked Tom and Max to meet him at Trivet Diner for a quick lunch. The venerable restaurant was about ten minutes from the Chronicle’s HQ and on the road that led back to Carbon County.

  Max and Tom walked to their cars, and as Max opened his door, Tom called out and hustled over to his colleague.

  “Wait up a sec,” Tom said, running out of breath as he double-timed it across the parking lot. “I just wanted to tell you how great it will be to work with you. I just wanted to let you know that it’s important for us to share everything we find. We must trust each other.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Max replied with the utmost sincerity. “Even though we don’t know each other all that well, I think we share the same goals. See you over at the Trivet,” Max said as he worked his way into the front seat.

  As he started the car and turned on the radio, he thought about the times he went to the Trivet during college. It was a late-night spot for early breakfast after a night of drinking. Wisely, Max ended his trip down memory lane right there. No point in digging up the past when the immediate future looked bright.

  The three men sat at the Trivet Diner, waiting for their lunch orders. It was noon, and they were lucky to get a booth when several workers from nearby Whitehall Mall came in during the midday break. The booth faced Tilghman Street, which ran several miles from Allentown’s heart through Macungie to the start of the Carbon County line. Traffic was especially heavy with the new entrance to the Pennsylvania Turnpike a few miles north of the restaurant. Motorists can quickly and easily get on the popular toll road north toward Wilkes-Barre or south toward Philadelphia, Valley Forge, or head west at the turnpike interchange and pull into Pittsburgh in four hours.

  After the waitress delivered their food, Al Hickey launched a discussion on his approach to the investigation. Al had no issue talking with his mouth full, which caused Max and Tom to hide their laughter. Neither of the younger reporters dug into their meals while Al held court.

  “Here’s how I think we should divide things up,” Al said after taking a bite of his overstuffed burger. “Tom, I’d like you to meet with the folks from the EPA. I know they have an office here in Allentown. If they cannot help, you’re going to have contact with the Philly branch.

  “Max, I want you to speak with Dan and get the names of other truckers—either one with Andersen or other local companies—and talk with them. We need to approach this from several angles—the truckers who got sick, area farmers who may have crops that failed from the chemicals, and even pets that may have gotten sick. Also, Max, follow up with your lawyer buddy, whatever his name is. I know Devlin is talking to him, but he’s your friend, so I’m sure he can share some points that may be slightly off the record.

  “As for me, I’ve lived the Carbon County my entire life. I will check with some doctors I know and see if they have had a bunch of patients with illnesses related to this poison. I know they can’t give me names, but general information will help.”

  Al dipped into his side of french fries and took a breather. Before speaking, Max gulped down a few spoonfuls of the soup of the day. It could have been vegetable or navy bean, he couldn’t tell. He hadn’t visited the Trivet before midnight on his previous trips to the local late-night destination. The food didn’t matter much this time; Max’s adrenaline was pumping, and he was ready to dive into the work ahead, not the watered-down bowl of canned sou
p on the table before him.

  “One thing I wanted to ask,” Max said to Al and Tom. “Do you mind if I ask Sue to help me contact the people affected? She has a great bedside manner, and that would be valuable in many of these conversations.”

  Al looked at Tom, and the two men shrugged their shoulders to say it was fine with them.

  “Just make sure her helping you doesn’t take away from other assignments she might get,” Al said as the men got up from their booth. “With what happened to Ray, we’re shorthanded, and we can’t put another body from the bureau on this full time.”

  Al, Tom, and Max got in their cars and pulled into the traffic, heading up Tilghman. Max flipped onto the radio, and the song “I’m Every Woman” by Chaka Kahn blared through the Volvo’s stereo speakers. Max laughed at the song, thinking about the conversation he was going to have with Sue when he got back to the office.

  At two o’clock on a Friday afternoon, traffic from Allentown to Nesquehoning was heavy. People making their way to the Poconos for skiing or just R&R took over the highway. After the day’s intensity, Max enjoyed the time to decompress and focus on the music on WAEB, Allentown’s only pop music station. Afternoon jock Guy Randall Ackley mixed in pieces of cornball humor between songs, doing his best to keep those stuck in their cars from serious road rage.

  Max pulled into the bureau’s parking lot and made his way to the office. As he opened the door, Max brought with him a blast of cold air this late November afternoon. Everyone turned around when a loud whooshing sound accompanied Max as he made his way to his desk. As he hoped, Sue was sitting at his desk frantically pummeling on his Selectric as if it were fighting her words.