by Grayson Cole
With food in hand and Otis still lamenting in the background, Michael turned on the television to catch the last of a basketball game. He sank into the couch and smiled contentedly as he took in his downtown Birmingham loft. A part of an urban revitalization project, his home was luxurious, for sure. Constructed on the site of one of the most dangerous government housing projects in the area, the buildings were populated by Birmingham’s young professionals and retired wealthy. Stylish slate floors, dove gray walls, and high ceilings could have made Michael’s place cold and sterile, but it was none of those things despite his sparse furnishings. His gaze shifting around the room, Michael became reacquainted with his home. It was everything he had ever wanted. He needed space, and it had space. Space was something he’d never had much of growing up with four siblings in a two-bedroom apartment, so he hungered for it. He kept his furniture to a minimum. Just outside the kitchen was a small mahogany table Claudia, his sister, had forced him to buy, though he didn’t think he needed one, with four mahogany chairs around it. Now he was actually grateful for his sister’s insistence ’cause that table had seen many a wild game of spades and dominoes. In the living area, there was the leather recliner he had gotten himself for his thirty-first birthday and a single sofa. It was navy leather and just long enough for him to stretch out his full six feet, three inches while watching the big-screen TV or listening to the stereo system. Beside the couch sat a sturdy oak table and a black floor lamp that he had gotten at an auction in Zimbabwe.
As far as he was concerned, he had all the furniture he needed. With the rugs he’d added, the place looked stylish and roomy and yes, warm. He was not nearly so Spartan when it came to his art. His walls were covered with African tapestries woven from coarse wool, paintings and prints from nearly every place he had ever been. They were all vibrant, colorful pieces celebrating the lives of black people all over the world. His favorite, however, was by a little-known artist, Hattie Andersen. It was titled Attending the Sunset. The print was large, almost tapestry-sized. There were two dark little girls in pristine white dresses squatting on rocks at the shore. Their eyes were focused on their entwined hands beneath the surface of the translucent blue water. Hovering over them stood a shirtless, skinny, light-skinned boy with long dreads. He held a stick taller than he was and stood with his eyes trained out on the horizon. He didn’t know what had drawn him to the painting. Maybe it was the boy who looked so sovereign and fierce, or was it the little girls and the way they clung to each other’s hands beneath the water’s surface. He simply didn’t know. He fell asleep thinking of the three children.
Michael didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he awoke to a loud ringing and the realization that he had fallen asleep on his sofa. Groggily, he swiped at the sleeve of his sweat shirt until his eyes focused on the face of his watch. It was almost nine. He sat up with a start. Jet lag had attacked him and he knew he was going to pay the price. Rubbing his head, he looked around and was greeted by his ominous answering machine once more. He went to grab his cell and sat down on a step of the staircase ready to check his messages and determine what he needed to do. His house phone rang. Before he could answer it, the machine picked up and he heard, “I don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re avoiding me, but you’re going to have to deal with me sometime, little brother.” The line went dead just as he picked up. It was Claudia. He didn’t know whether he should call her back just yet, or listen to the messages.
Machine first, he thought. At the beginning, the messages didn’t seem as if they were all that important, mostly Claudia telling him to call her, a couple from Tamitra, too. He found himself half-listening. They had been “off-again” for more than six months and he thought it was time to keep it that way. He would have to tell her about the Art Sentries situation once he got a moment, but not yet. He leafed through the book he’d been attempting to read on the plane as he listened. There were a couple of messages from colleagues inquiring about the Hatsheput article. One of his peers, also a good friend, asked him for an interview on it. There were more messages from Claudia, same as the first until one caught his attention. Her voice cracked and she sounded… well… distraught. “This is Claudia again. Michael, I know you landed. And if you’re avoiding me because you really did screw this up, then I am ashamed of you. I don’t know where you are, but you have put us in some real trouble with this Hatsheput article. Real trouble. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message. I need you to call me right now.”
He was dialing before it was even over.
“Hello?” the clear and high voice of his nineteen-year-old niece sounded.
“Hey, Tonia. It’s Uncle Mike. Is Claude there?” Since they were kids, Michael had always referred to his sister in the masculine form of her name. When her kids or her ex-husband wanted to annoy her, they did the same.
“No, you just missed her. Literally.”
“But she just hung up the phone. Maybe she called me on her cell.”
“Maybe,” Antonia said thoughtfully. “But that’s weird. She was headed to dinner—I think it was pretty important—because she told me that if you called to tell you not to bother calling her cell. She said she wouldn’t be back probably until late but she wanted you in her office first thing in the morning.”
“Do you know who she went to dinner with?”
“Yes.”
Weird that Tonia wasn’t forthcoming with the name. The kid couldn’t hold water. “Who?”
“My dad.”
Michael’s eyes widened. His spidey-senses tingled. Claudia Ann Harrison and her ex-husband Derrick Laymon did not have dinner, especially not without their kids. The pair had not had an amicable breakup. In fact, Michael would go so far as to say that Claude hated the man openly when their kids weren’t around. She didn’t ever disparage him in front of their children, but they probably had an inkling. Michael didn’t know what had caused their break-up—Claudia had insisted that he not dig, that he respect her boundaries—but it was the only thing that still brought his sister deep, visible pain.
“Why?” Michael blurted.
“Work.”
Michael cursed himself. His ex-brother-in-law was a retired FBI investigator with a lot of contacts, but Claudia had made a vow not to call upon him for work at the paper when they split. Once she made that vow, she’d never broken it, even when it would have been so much simpler to use his connections to get at the heart of a story. If she had broken that vow, she was desperate. And before she’d gone, she had reached out to Michael one last time. This was about the Hatsheput article.
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“Nope.”
Michael did not like the sound of this at all. “If she gets back early, tell her I’m here. If she wants to call, I’ll answer.” He hung up the phone more confused than before.
He went up the stairs into the spare bedroom he used as a study. Stacks of paper were everywhere, on the desk, on his computer, on the windowsill, on the floor. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a black-and-white streamlined desk and two shiny metal file cabinets overflowing with files. He looked at his cover stories mounted on the walls. It was rare that any of his articles were contested and he’d never been responsible for any libel lawsuit brought against the paper.
He sat down at his desk and slid his computer monitor sideways. He swept up his leather bag and set it down in front of him. From the bag he took out every scrap of information on Hatsheput he’d gotten in the islands. He read the article itself over and over again. He couldn’t see a thing wrong. In fact, he thought it was one of the finest articles he’d ever written.
But something had to be wrong. He couldn’t let this pass. He picked up his phone and called his sister anyway.
Claudia didn’t answer right away. Unusual. His sister never let her phone ring. On the fourth ring, he heard her voice.
“Mike!” she breathed, sounding startled and relieved all at once.
“Yeah,
Claudia, it’s me. I’m so sorry I didn’t answer before now. I didn’t know anything was going on. What’s happening?”
“I was contacted by Hatsheput Industries yesterday. It would be an understatement to say that they were unhappy with your piece last week.”
Michael lifted one shoulder though she couldn’t see it. Wouldn’t be the first time a company had been out for blood after he had published something it would have rather kept secret. “So?”
“So, after their lawyers and the lead investigator on the Art Sentries case got done with me, I figured you might want to know what kind of hornet’s nest you’ve stirred up. Hatsheput Industries has been engaged in an ongoing investigation regarding the scholarship fund. They’ve been cooperating with the FBI for more than a year now. They refused to speak with you about this because they didn’t want to impede the investigation. Turns out they have an answer to the question in your article: ‘What more has Hatsheput Industries to hide?’ Nothing. Absolutely nothing, but that they are outstanding corporate citizens doing what the police asked them to do.”
Michael’s stomach dropped, his throat closed up, and his pulse threatened to hammer through his skin. “I suppose Derrick confirmed that tonight.”
“He did.”
“Has he told you anything else?”
Claudia sighed long and heavy. She sounded tired. “He has, but I can’t talk right now. You need to get on this tonight. Find out what you can. I’ll work it from this end. Be in my office first thing in the morning.”
“Will do.”
“And Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“Come with a plan.”
She hung up.
Michael didn’t sleep that night.
Chapter 3
A towering figure dressed in shoes made of soft Italian leather, khaki slacks, and a deep blue button-down, Michael Harrison had an arresting effect on the women at the Harrison Tribune main office. Any one of the women in the administrative assistant pool would have loved to cry on his broad shoulders. His skin, a rich shade of coffee, was matched by thickly lashed eyes of the same color. Dimples framed his mouth in a heart-stopping smile.
But he wasn’t smiling today, and he wasn’t up for any innocent flirtation with the ladies in the office. Today, Michael’s jaw was set in determination as he headed straight into Claudia’s office. He didn’t even bother to ask Sarah, her assistant, if his sister was free.
Claudia glanced up briefly when she heard the door open. “Nice to know you had the decency to come in when I asked you to, though you didn’t have the decency to return any of my calls.”
“Sorry, Claude. I didn’t know.”
“Of course not. There’s apparently a lot you didn’t know.”
Humiliation threatened to smother him as he sat down across from her. He grimaced at his sister. “Direct hit.”
Her tone softened. “The Art Sentries Foundation piece, baby brother. You really messed it up.” She sat forward, resting her elbows on her desk. Michael said nothing, just waited. Claude continued, “Listen, when you were researching this who did you talk to on Hatsheput’s end?”
“You know I do my research, Claude. Come on now. I met with an executive who wanted to keep things off the record. That guy led me to Marshall Ellis.”
“Marshall Ellis, the criminal?” Her tone was incredulous.
Michael felt his skin start to heat.
“Yes, the criminal. I knew that going into the investigation. I just wanted to see what he would reveal. Ellis was a Hatsheput leader, and he’s on the board that manages the scholarship fund. The focus of the story was on the four boys who died this past year. Ellis gave me a lot of information about them that checked out. He was more than forthcoming, and was trying to bill himself as some sort of good Samaritan.”
“And those instincts you brag about didn’t sound any alarms?”
Michael rolled his eyes. Another direct hit. “No, they didn’t. I knew he was lying about his involvement. That’s why I interviewed several of the other sponsors as well as some artists—”
Claudia interrupted, “So Marshall Ellis was the only person you interviewed from Hatsheput?”
Michael crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was getting impatient, impatient and irritated. “I told you, I had one source from inside the company who led me to him, and no one else would talk to me. I tried to get in touch with all the right people in that company, from A to Z, and they gave me the runaround. I was able to verify that the company stopped funding Art Sentries through public records.”
“Who was this source?”
Michael stumbled. She had never asked him this question, and he had never asked it of her. His source had been reliable, had given him what he needed to uncover the corruption. There was no reason to pass his name around. “Come on, Claudia. You know the deal. So what’s the next step? You said they contacted you.”
“A VP from Hatsheput flew in late last night, just like you. They’re threatening to sue for defamation and libel and a whole host of other things.”
“What did Derrick say about the investigation?”
His sister winced. Michael wasn’t sure if that was from what she had learned or from his invoking the name of her ex.
“He confirmed what Hatsheput alleged. They were a part of the fund but weren’t overseeing it. Call it negligence if you want, but they weren’t actively a part of what was happening over there. The FBI contacted them after exonerating them of any real guilt and asked them to get more involved. Marshall Ellis was a longstanding friend of Nyron’s but a complete disaster in any of the roles he played at the company. He didn’t know he was being sent over as a pawn in this dangerous game. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have been so stupid. He talked to you to cover for himself.”
Michael’s thoughts rushed forward, fueled by the adrenaline of panic. “Okay, so this doesn’t change the fact that my story was sound, based on what this Ellis fellow knew.”
“Yes, but you left it lingering out there. There have been companies destroyed by the hint of scandal, especially companies with a reputation for philanthropy. Their fundraising efforts are diminished; vendors, sponsors, even buyers don’t want to be associated.”
Michael held up a hand to silence her. “I get it.”
Claudia lost her temper. “Getting it isn’t enough. This company could sue us for writing an article based on information we got from a man arrested yesterday for embezzling from the very fund you did your expo on—”
“Ellis was arrested?”
“Yeah. They were leaving him out there so as to not tip anyone off, but after our article, that was out the window. Michael, do you understand what I’m saying? They could sue us for insinuating Hatsheput is just a front for organized crime when they were actually trying to catch the people responsible. They could sue us because they are likely to lose customers and important business relationships because of a slanted article published in a widely read and respected black publication. I’ve thought of all that. What about the fact that we just tipped off criminals to the fact that the company and the foundation are being investigated? What if they are never caught?”
Bile pooled in his mouth and he thought he might vomit. He took deep breaths and his eyes rolled back as he went over every detail of the past two weeks in his mind. Meeting Ellis, meeting all those young artists, never getting his calls returned by Hatsheput executives, writing a furious story. Never before in his life had he written a piece with this sort of fallout, especially a correct one. Claudia was right, they were well-respected; if they published something, people trusted it to be true. He took more deep breaths and closed his eyes, praying not to be sick.
“I can’t believe I did this.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“God, Michael,” Claudia breathed sympathetically. “I know this was an accident. If anybody knows that, it’s me. Still, we are in real deep. Luckily, they’re willing to meet us halfway on this. We can fix it. We have to.” Th
en she turned her eyes back to the files on her desk, the consummate businesswoman. “We have to turn these people into heroes. You understand? Heroes. What you’re gonna do is, first, print a front-page follow-up about how Hatsheput advocates for the young Caribbean community even in the face of imminent danger, and, second, write a feature article for next month’s Harrison Gazette on Hatsheput.” The Harrison Gazette was a monthly full-color magazine that came out with the paper. That once per month issue was always the most popular and it would definitely get the point across. “Then you are going to work this story. I expect an update every damn issue until it’s closed. You understand?”
“What about the investigation?”
“You’ve already changed the game, Michael. They’re going to have to do things differently. What’s done in that respect is done.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Detective Laymon didn’t tell me.”
Detective Laymon. Michael almost wished he had time to ask Claude about this. When they were married, she had frequently referred to her husband as Detective Laymon. It was at once derisive and affectionate. When the trouble started and thereafter, he’d been Derrick, said hard and forcefully, with a whole lot of edge and aggression. But Michael didn’t have time to prod her about it. He had transformed from reporter to disaster recovery coordinator.