Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  Tina wanted this cassette, and right away. Leslie could envision her patronizing expression and her outstretched hand.

  And that image persuaded Leslie to at least explore the notion pressing itself upon her heart and mind. She took a pen and poked it into a tiny slot on the side of the cassette, pressing a release button so that the cover flipped open. Now the playing surface of the tape was exposed. Yes, she thought, it would be easy for something bad to happen to this tape.

  Like what? Well, somebody could put their fingers right on it . . . and they could even pull it out of the cassette . . . and there could be an unfortunate accident . . . and they could pull the tape out . . . like this . . . and like this . . . and like this . . . and like this!

  The process started slowly, and she felt like a bad little girl who shouldn’t, but after the first ten feet or so she yanked and pulled with a vengeance, with a blind leap into angry, reckless irresponsibility. This one’s for Deanne, and this one’s for Max—oh, this was exhilarating!—and this one’s for me, and this one’s for John, and . . . and this one Tina can shove right up her nose!

  “This story will not have my name on it!” she said to herself. “Right is right, and wrong is wrong, and . . .” She lapsed into words of fiery judgment.

  “What are you doing?” came an alarmed voice behind her. She jumped, startled, caught in the act. But it was John Barrett, staring at her, his face full of questions.

  She didn’t wait for him to ask. She just started reporting as she gathered the strewn tape into a brown tangle at her feet. “The story’s been hijacked!”

  “What—”

  “We were there at the clinic this morning and gave them the Request for Medical Records, and the files were clean, absolutely clean—no Annie, no Judy, nothing, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because that woman in that office over there, that Tina Lewis, tipped them off! She heard the whole story from me yesterday. I told her all about Annie Brewer, and I told her about Annie’s code name Judy Medford, and by the time we got to the clinic this morning they knew we were coming and they had the files picked clean and made us look like dumb pro-life idiots—just that easy, cut and dry, neat and clean, and . . . and guess what? Now we’re newsworthy!”

  John pulled a chair over and sat close to listen. Leslie was too upset to slow down. “And you know what else I think? I think Tina leaked this story to the other stations, because now they’re on it, which is Tina’s way of making sure NewsSix is on it. But it’s not my story, no way! It’s not going to have anything to do with malpractice or what happened to Annie. It’s going to be about the . . . the vicious witch-hunt by anti-abortionists that failed, and it’s going to rub their noses in it, that’s what it’s about. And Marian Gibbons is going to write it and voice it and do the package because I won’t, and that means the Brewers and Annie get used. Used, that’s all, and then dumped.”

  “Marian’s doing the story? How did she get it?”

  “Tina wants it run, but I won’t have my name on it! I didn’t go after this story to have this done to it.”

  She could see John looking at the pile of tape on the floor and explained, “This is the footage from this morning. My footage. This is the story that never was, and it’s going to stay that way!” She got to her feet, her arms draped with loop upon loop of tape. “Excuse me. Tina wants this video right away.”

  John stood just to keep from being run over. “Leslie! You . . . you can’t take her a ruined pile of tape!”

  “Bump into me, will you please?” She didn’t wait. She bumped into him. “Oof! There, I’ve had an accident. She’ll understand.”

  And with that, she was off for Tina’s office, dragging several feet of tape behind her, parading through the newsroom, drawing stares, questions, even a few laughs, heading for disaster, maybe the loss of her job.

  “Leslie!” He had to stop her. He took three steps . . . And then he stopped. By now the whole newsroom was watching. He looked back at them.

  “What’s going on, John?” asked Dave Nicholson, the consumer specialist.

  John looked toward Leslie, still heading for Tina’s office, then back at his colleagues, still waiting for an answer. The roof was falling in on the Annie Brewer story, and if Leslie made it to Tina’s office with that pile of videotape, everything and anything was sure to hit the fan. His first instinct was to run, as if fleeing from a leaking gasoline truck before it blew. Back off, get away, stay clean.

  He went with his first instinct. He was still clean. He faced his colleagues . . . and shrugged, his arms upraised in befuddlement. He shook his head. He didn’t know. He went—fled, actually—to his desk to await the storm.

  Meanwhile, Leslie stepped briskly into Tina’s office and without introduction, explanation, or invitation let the tape tumble and pour onto Tina’s desk. Tina jumped from her chair as if someone had spilled coffee in her lap, her arms upraised, her mouth and eyes at full width.

  John could hear Tina’s expletives from his desk clear across the newsroom. His hand was shaking as he turned on his computer and tried to get to work. A futile notion, of course. There was no way he could concentrate on his tasks, not with this going on. He had to get involved; he had to stand by Leslie and hopefully diffuse this explosion.

  But he still sat there, strangely paralyzed, unable to move. If he went in there now and sided with Leslie . . . He could just see Ben Oliver bursting in and seeing the lines drawn, hearing the accusations, seeing that pile of ruined videotape. He and Ben had reached an understanding, and if John were to be associated with Leslie’s behavior . . .

  What to do, what to do? Perhaps the best thing, the professional thing, would be to wait, to let the storm subside a bit, and then carefully and calmly step in—if invited—and help all the parties sort it out objectively, professionally. That’s what John Barrett, news anchor, would do, and John was sure Ben Oliver, news director, expected no less.

  So he waited, working on nothing except justifying remaining in his chair, until a wise and rational endeavor occurred to him: he needed information. Yes, information. He couldn’t jump into this thing without all the facts, right? Remaining safely in his seat, he scrolled through the story lineup for the Five O’clock: the gubernatorial campaign, a body found up on Highway 16, an apartment fire on Magnolia Hill . . .

  Oh-oh. “Abortion battle.” The story was slotted in the computer already. John looked around the newsroom but didn’t see Marian anywhere. She might still be on the assignment. She had called in the lead-in: “As if to underline the debate over parental consent, one family confronted that issue head-on today in an unsuccessful attempt to pierce the veil of privacy at a local clinic. Marian Gibbons is live in front of the Women’s Medical Center . . .”

  You gotta be kidding. No. Please, no. So Marian would be live at the clinic, doing a stand-up before and after a videotaped package. But it got worse. John was the anchor assigned the lead-in and the scripted question at the end. It would be his face, his voice, his name framing the story. He was in this mess, like it or not.

  Max Brewer wouldn’t like it, that was for sure. Deanne Brewer wouldn’t like it. Rachel Franklin wouldn’t like it. Carl wouldn’t like it. And Mom wouldn’t like it.

  And no, John Barrett wouldn’t like it either. Not one bit.

  The door to Tina’s office was closed, but he could still hear some shouting going on in there.

  He had to get involved; he had to enter the battle. Hopefully he could bring peace, perhaps a little reason. But he had to contain this mess. He had to stop it.

  He took a deep breath and rose from his chair. Then he marched with the utmost sobriety and self-control across the newsroom toward Tina’s office. The shouting became more discernible the closer he got, and by now no one in the newsroom was working.

  Hal Rosen the weatherman was fascinated and not at all timid about staring toward Tina’s door.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” he said, and then clawed the air like a scrapp
ing cat, making the appropriate sound.

  John approached the door anyway, but didn’t get there before the door burst open and Tina Lewis came strutting out, her jaw well ahead of her.

  “Move, John, if you don’t want to get run over!” she ordered with a wave of her hand.

  Leslie was right behind her and caught John’s eye. “John, you talk to her!”

  John tried to head Tina off, blocking her path as politely as he could. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

  Tina stopped but resented having to. “Don’t you patronize me, you son of a—”

  Another voice. Like subtitles. John could hear it—he could feel the pain in it.

  The Tina in front of him was saying, “I know you and Leslie are in this together, so don’t act so innocent. I’m taking you both to Ben. I’ve had enough of this—”

  But as Tina unloaded on him from her storehouse of epithets and outrage, another voice cried in agony and fury, “Leave me alone! It’s my life! How dare you call me guilty! How dare you remind me!”

  John listened intently. The last time this happened, he was disoriented and confused. This time he was fascinated.

  Leslie worked her way around Tina so she could face both her and John. She was trying to use a controlled, professional voice, but it still quaked with emotion. “I have confronted our executive news producer with several accusations, and she is understandably upset.”

  Tina spit angry words at Leslie along with an expletive.

  But the accusations were true. John knew it. He could hear it, even see it. He could see Tina sitting at her desk, talking on the telephone, saying Leslie’s name, consulting a slip of paper and pronouncing the name Judy Medford—M-E-D-F-O-R-D.

  But what could he say? He didn’t get the chance anyway.

  “What the @$#!!*& is going on out here?” Ben Oliver, news director, hater of waves and wavemakers, ultimate decider between life and death, had come out of his office, down the aisle, and right into the discussion, pouring out salty language where no further salt was needed. “My job isn’t hard enough, now I’ve got to break up fights in my own newsroom?”

  Tina immediately gathered herself together and got in the first word. “Sorry for the intrusion, Ben, but we have something here that needs to be settled.”

  Ben was unsympathetic. “What are we paying you to do?”

  She countered skillfully, “Ben, I’m too upset, too wrapped up in this problem to be objective and professional. I need your balance in this.”

  Ben grimaced at that line, but listened anyway. “All right, what . . . what?”

  “We have a story here that’s—”

  Leslie cut in, “I’d like to start please, so it can be told from the beginning.”

  Tina was indignant. “I believe I was talking—”

  Ben pointed his finger right in Leslie’s face. “You start.” He pointed in Tina’s face. “You finish. And I’ll ask questions.” He glared at John. “Are you in this too?”

  John shrugged and looked bewildered. “I don’t think I’ve heard it all yet myself.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I might be involved.”

  Ben locked eyes with Leslie. “All right, talk, and talk fast.”

  Leslie rose to the challenge. “We were pursuing a story on possible malpractice at an abortion clinic. We had good reasons to believe that the clinic was responsible for the death of a seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “What clinic?”

  “The Women’s Medical Center.”

  “What girl?”

  “Um . . . her name was Annie Brewer . . . An African-American.”

  “What reasons?”

  “An autopsy report, for one thing . . .”

  Tina broke in. “Hand-copied excerpts from an alleged autopsy report, incomplete, with the pathologist unavailable to corroborate.”

  Leslie pressed on, fighting for her life. “The pathologist’s name is Mark Denning, and he was at the Westland Memorial Hospital where Annie Brewer died on May 26th. He performed the autopsy and filed the report—”

  “Which can’t be found,” Tina added, “and neither can Denning.”

  “We also had a witness who was in the clinic at the same time and saw Annie get an abortion there—”

  “Unwilling to go on the record or appear on-camera. And, Ben, ask her who the parents are.”

  Ben looked at Leslie for the answer.

  “Max and Deanne Brewer.”

  That meant nothing to Ben. “So who are they?”

  Tina provided an answer. “You might recall the governor’s rally and the riot that broke out. Max Brewer was right in the middle of it and we got him on-camera, brawling and assaulting people. Prior to that he was jailed for assaulting people at the Women’s Medical Center. The man is a pro-life fanatic.”

  John had to clarify that. “Now just a minute!”

  Ben’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, so you are part of this?”

  John explained, “Max Brewer and my father were friends, and I don’t appreciate—”

  Ben put it together. “You’re part of it. Hang on . . . we’ll get to you.” He looked back at Leslie. “Keep going.”

  Leslie was losing steam, knowing she was losing her case. “We thought we might have a story of malpractice. All the facts seemed to indicate it. So when the Brewers filed to become legal personal representatives of their daughter’s estate and then took a Request for Medical Records to the clinic, we wanted to cover it in case something turned up and the Brewers could prove that the clinic was indeed at fault.”

  Tina countered, “And their legal tactic produced nothing. The Request for Medical Records came up dry.”

  Leslie stared daggers at Tina and said, “And we both know why, don’t we?”

  Tina looked at Ben and said, “The Request came up dry because the Brewers are unreliable, impulsive, and vindictive over the death of their daughter, and they’re simply looking for a scapegoat, which happens to be, in this case, the Women’s Medical Center. I tried to tell Leslie that when she first came to me with the idea.”

  Leslie’s face opened up as if she’d just heard a horrendous lie. “Ben! Mr. Oliver, I have good reason to believe that Tina Lewis—” Leslie stopped. Tina was looking toward her office, toward that pile of ruined videotape. Now she was looking back at Leslie.

  Ben demanded, “What about Tina?”

  Leslie withdrew visibly. “Nothing.”

  Ben studied both of them for a moment, then asked Leslie, “Are you finished?”

  Leslie gathered up any remaining momentum and finished with, “I started pursuing the story because I was convinced there might be a problem at the Women’s Medical Center. I knew the evidence was sketchy, and I was hoping the Request would turn up something. When it didn’t, I figured the story was dead and I wanted to leave it that way and just let the Brewers be. Now Tina wants to turn it around—”

  “I do not want to turn it around! I only want to report what happened—just what happened. We’re already running the story on Slater and Wilson and their differences on parental consent, and I thought this would make a good sidebar. The other stations are running it, they’ve already interviewed the Brewers and the people at the clinic, they’re all set to go, and I figured since we were there, right there, and had footage and good contact with the Brewers, it was our story—it was our idea in the first place. The problem here, as I see it, is that Leslie is interested in running the story only if it’s to the advantage of the pro-life position, and I for one can’t abide that kind of bias.”

  “Bias!” Leslie squeaked. “You’re talking about bias?”

  Tina butted right in. “And as for Max Brewer, he’s already been in the news because of his behavior at the governor’s kickoff rally. Leslie ought to know that; his brawling almost endangered her. He’s newsworthy. We have video of him already.”

  John jumped in. “Now wait a minute! We’ve been through this before, remember? My father’s
on that tape!”

  Tina jumped right back at him, “News is news, John! It happened!”

  Leslie spouted behind them, “Tina, you’re the one who made me shoot the story that way!”

  And now all three of them were talking at once.

  Ben heated up quickly and brought the meeting back to order with a nerve-quaking string of cusswords. “If you people don’t shut up I’m gonna fire all three of you!” They ceased immediately. “Now I want to know what happened and that’s all I want to know, and I don’t give a rip what your political persuasions are, is that clear?” He pointed at Leslie. “You were there, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, her voice greatly subdued.

  “So tell me what happened.”

  Tina started, “They—”

  Ben’s hand went right in front of her face, and she stopped.

  “Tell me what happened,” he told Leslie.

  Leslie recounted the events of that morning as clearly as she could recall them, trying not to be biased but factual.

  “So you didn’t find anything?” Ben asked when she was through.

  “That’s right. We were hoping something would turn up—”

  “See?” asked Tina. “They were hoping. She’s clearly on the Brewers’ side!”

  Leslie tried to remain calm as she countered, “Deanne Brewer was hoping to confirm the cause of her daughter’s death and the people responsible, and I was hoping to have a story. Neither occurred.”

  Ben digested Leslie’s account for a moment, then asked Tina, “So what do you have on this?”

  “Marian Gibbons went back today to get interviews from the clinic personnel and from Mrs. Brewer. She’s doing the package for the Five and Seven O’clock, and we’ve slated her to do the story live from in front of the clinic.”

  “So did she get reacts from both sides?”

  “Both viewpoints will be represented. I emphasized that with her.”

  Ben shifted his weight backward and looked them all over. “Then why don’t you people just do your job like the reporters I thought I hired and leave your politics out of it?”