FORTY-SEVEN
I always made a point of avoiding the Citizen offices on Baxter Road, partly because my life was downtown and I hated the suburbs, but also because I couldn’t stand to get tangled up in the whole corporate, chain of command, cubicle world. When I was starting out, I had loved newsrooms. People could smoke at their desks, cuss to their heart’s content and talk back to the bosses, all of whom they addressed by their first names. The newsroom was still full of scribblers and newshounds, relics from the days of typewriters and hip flasks. They understood news and they understood people because they had come from the bottom up. Now, my average colleague was 25 years old, held at least one master’s degree and understood Snapchat.
Sometimes, I had no choice, though, and my meeting with Colin about the Champagne story was one of those times. It wasn’t Colin’s fault. “Corporate,” as he called the evil presence of head office, was in the building and had demanded a briefing on the story.
As I walked into the newsroom, I saw that it was even more depressing than the last time I had been there. The room was vastly smaller than what I had been used to at the Star, which was about the size of a football field. The Citizen newsroom was more like a small-town arena, but without the ice. It wasn’t the size that bothered me, but the lifelessness. The last time I had been out at Baxter had been an election night, all hands on deck. With every journalist in the room, there was at least some semblance of liveliness and purposeful activity. This afternoon, the place was a morgue, the few people present staring intently at their computer screens.
I saw Colin in the glass-walled cubicle he warranted due to his high position. His suit jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up. I thought he looked worried, suddenly older. He had a red pen in hand and was slashing at a document on his desk, then scrawling in additions. My story, I was sure. Colin was awfully old school when it came to some things. Most things, really.
I walked into his office without knocking and said, “So, are you cutting the shit out of my story?”
He looked up as if surprised to see me, then glanced at his watch. Maybe my being right on time had taken him by surprise. He put his pen down and focused on me.
“No, not at all, just rewording a few points to satisfy the concerns of the bloody lawyers.”
“Good, because this is still my column, right?”
“It will have your style, of course, but we need to consider that we are giving this news play.”
It was a bit odd discussing fine points of journalism with Colin in his office, given the changed nature of our relationship, but I could act professionally if I really had to.
“No problem. I’d like the see the final draft, though.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
In the end, I had told him everything Gail had told me. I had too many secrets already in my life. I didn’t want to add another. After relating the whole story of what happened to Mae on the roof, I said, “What are your thoughts on the Gail Rakic situation?”
“Intriguing information, but she is not the focus of our article. Nor did she commit any crime. Obviously we have to acknowledge that the death was a suicide brought about by the actions of others, but we don’t need to bring her into it.”
I nodded. It seemed fair. Even if Gail had called 911, it wouldn’t have made any difference. If she felt guilt, then that was her punishment.
“Our focus here has to be on Mae,” Colin said. “I like the way you have cast her as a victim of geopolitics.”
“Sounds awfully dull when you put it that way. I didn’t actually use the word geopolitics, did I?”
“No, and if you had I would have taken it out.”
He leaned forward then and looked at me intently, as if he were trying to get inside my head. It was a habit I didn’t really care for.
“The main thing I want to ask you is just how certain you are that Champagne is dirty? How strong is your gut instinct? We’re burning this guy here. After this story, he will be done and he won’t be the only casualty.”
It was the question that had occupied me on the drive out to the newsroom. Some journalists could nuke a target without blinking an eye. I wasn’t one of them. Not anymore. A devastating story like the one I had written would have real, lifelong consequences for Champagne. Part of me said that Champagne had decided his own fate when he got tangled up with Mae. I didn’t entirely discount what he had told me, though. I had known enough guys who wanted to play the white knight for an attractive woman. Still, what was he thinking?
The story would most likely blow up the prime minister and his government, although I can’t say I really gave a shit about them. If they were driven from office, they would quickly be replaced by another gang of equal value.
No, my main concern was Mae. People needed to know what her life had meant and how she had died. To me, she was a courageous woman who would have done anything to help her father. I only hoped that I would have done the same, in her position.
“To be honest, I’m not 100-per-cent sure, but even if we take what Champagne said at face value, he has to go as foreign minister. And we have to tell Mae’s story. There is no way he doesn’t bear some responsibility for her death, even if he wasn’t on that roof. I think this is one of those times when we have to put in everything we have and let the readers decide.”
I knew that last was a bit of a dodge, but I wasn’t going to argue against my own story.
“Agreed, and this CIA angle that Reilly and Farrell have brought in is intriguing. Who knows how that will play out in the end, but it gives another whole dimension to the story.”
I didn’t know how Reilly and Farrell had managed it, but the picture of Chip Leggett naked in the mud was a collector’s item. I wished we could put it up on Twitter, but it was our protection.
Colin and I had avoided talking about the fact that this was a career-making story for both of us. It would generate international headlines. It wasn’t why I had written it, I told myself. I had no idea where the story would go when I first started to look into Mae’s death. Somewhere in the depths of my black little heart, I took joy in knowing that this was going to be my moment and that it was going to come at the expense of some pretty bad guys. It was everything that I had failed to achieve in the Adirondacks, and at far less personal cost.
“Other media still lagging?” I asked.
“Yes,” Colin smiled. “No one has done more than match our story. We will be miles ahead when this new piece hits.”
“What do you figure corporate wants?”
“Christ knows. The chap’s a bit of a bed wetter. Probably just wants us to hold his hand, assure him that it’s all good and true. I know he also enjoys the concept of my ‘reporting’ to him. Seems to get his trouser snake to uncoil.”
As I tried to shake that image from my mind, Colin’s desk phone rang. He picked it up, listened briefly, then said, “Right. We’re on our way.”
“We have been summoned,” he said to me. “Best behaviour.”
I vowed to try.
FORTY-EIGHT
Derek Hall cracked open another Red Bull, his sixth of the day. He took a sip while drumming nervously on his desk with a pen. What had he forgotten? He’d called in favours with every news organization on the Hill, promising unspecified future scoops in exchange for laying off the Mae Wang story, which he assured them, 100 per cent, was a crock of shit that would end up embarrassing the Citizen and them, too, if they followed it.
So far, the wall was holding. Most had gone with a bare bones Canadian Press version of the story and played it down. Derek refreshed the Citizen website again. Still nothing. Maybe that was a good sign. According to Elise, the paper was getting close to its deadline for the next day. If they got past 4 p.m., six at the outside, he might be in the clear for now.
Maybe Redner and Morin didn’t have a second barrel to fire. It would be surprising, but sometimes things broke his way.
Then there was the matter of the Amer
ican embassy employees who had been roughed up by two guys they thought were Canadian cops, then left in some parking lot, the one guy without clothes. The embassy had made an informal inquiry and Derek had been trying to get Luc Champagne to smooth things over, but the minister was conveniently incommunicado. Ever since Derek had tried to find out more about any possible connection between Champagne and the Chinese girl, the minister had clammed up. That couldn’t be good. With any other minister, all Derek had to do was keep mentioning the PMO and they folded. Not Champagne. He acted like he didn’t give a shit.
The American thing didn’t seem to have anything to do with the Chinese problem, but it was still part of the shit storm he was facing.
At least the PM had managed to keep the opposition at bay during Question Period, expressing serious concern about the girl’s death while not promising to do anything about it beyond demanding answers from the appropriate authorities. It had been going pretty well until he got into partisan territory, reminding the Conservatives that one of their own members had gotten into trouble over amorous emails exchanged with a Chinese journalist. The boss could be such a jackass when he got off script. The idea had been to lead the questioners away from the notion that there was any connection between the dead girl and anyone on the Liberal side. Instead, he’d pointed them right at it.
Sharpe had been no help, either. It was no mystery why. The new regime had shown the old warhorse the door within weeks of taking office. Clearly, he was still bitter and in no mood to come to their rescue now. The bigger worry was that Sharpe knew something and would use it.
Derek thought about another Red Bull, then decided against it. There was still a long day ahead. He needed to ration his caffeine, and pray.
* * *
Sharpe scanned the Citizen’s page-one story again. Once one got past the trashy headline about spies and love nests, there wasn’t a lot of substance to it. In his considered view, the PM could withstand the story if the two journalists couldn’t put more flesh on its bones. And there was so much more flesh to be had.
As a patriot, he knew that his duty was to keep his knowledge to himself, as he had for decades. It was what the job demanded, but then, he didn’t have the job any more. One could argue that the duty persisted all the same, but he found himself in a tricky spot. The PM was mercurial in most respects, but one could consistently rely on him to act in his own self-interest. If a substantial portion of the whole story came out, the PM and his minions would be looking for someone to hang it on. The logical fall guy was Sharpe himself. He had been national security adviser at the time that some of the worst offences had taken place, although it wasn’t really his job to prevent that. Clearly, CSIS and the RCMP had dropped the ball. But who better to blame than an old has-been who was already off the team?
When threatened, make a pre-emptive strike. That had always been his advice. It was an appealing option in some ways, but the challenge would be to avoid being sucked down by the vortex he was creating. That would not be easy.
He scanned the major news sources to see if anyone was developing the story, but uncovered only copycat coverage. It was still possible that all this would blow over. Was that what he really wanted? Uncharacteristically, he found himself uncertain.
Then he plugged the thumb drive he had received into his computer and began to peruse the now-familiar file again. It really was quite a story. It would be a shame if it was never told.
FORTY-NINE
Colin and I walked down the corridor to the publisher’s office in silence. I knew that I was thinking that some little shit from head office wasn’t going to spike my story. I hoped that Colin was thinking the same.
“Who is this bird we’re seeing?” I asked.
“Thomas Putnam, senior vice-president of content production.”
I would have been surprised if Putnam had ever produced anything more valuable than a memo, but he was near the top and I was just a slug on the bottom.
As we entered the publisher’s office, there was no sign of life. The outer office felt abandoned, like an empty house. The blue carpet was starting to look a bit threadbare and I noticed a large lightcoloured area on the oak wall panelling. When I had first started at the paper, that spot had been covered with a large “artwork” that was nothing more than a white board with hundreds of nails driven into it. I wondered if someone had taken it down because it was a brutal reminder of the bed of nails the business had become, or if it had been sold off for scrap metal to help keep the creditors at bay. The publisher’s secretary was long gone, her oak desk dusty and abandoned. For that matter, the paper no longer had a publisher either, the thinkers at head office having determined that a local paper was best run by an executive in another city.
“Let me do the talking,” Colin said.
“Yes, boss.”
Colin gave me a sidelong glance, but didn’t rise to the bait. He straightened his suit jacket and marched quickly down the short hall to the publisher’s inner office. I followed.
As we entered, Thomas Putnam held up a single finger to warn us not to break his concentration. He was staring intently at his phone, fingers flying. Angry Birds, I wondered?
Putnam couldn’t have been a day over 35, but he had thinning red hair that was spiked up in a vain attempt to disguise its scarcity. Everything about him was slight. His black suit, two buttons done up, couldn’t have been more than a 36 regular. He had a square little head set on a skinny little body and an expression that said, “Don’t fuck with me.” Or what, I wondered. Would he bite me on the ankle?
When Putnam finally put down his phone, Colin said, “Thomas, this is Kris Redner.”
Putnam looked me up and down, not seeming too pleased with what he saw. He was clearly mulling something. I wondered if he was going to tell us to call him Mr. Putnam.
“Sit,” Putnam said. I feared that his next command was going to be roll over.
“Let me cut right to it,” he said. “I’ve reviewed this piece in detail and I have consulted with my colleagues at corporate. I’m afraid we are not going to be able to run it in its present form.”
Colin touched my knee just in time to prevent me from offering a frank point of view.
“This is, of course, a story of major national and international significance,” he said. “The biggest this paper has had in some years. Are you able to give us some guidance as to what we need to enhance to get it in the paper?”
“Well, I think that’s your job. What I see here is a lot of supposition and innuendo that is going to do the government and Minister Champagne a great deal of harm. I don’t see the rock-solid named sources and clearly displayed, indisputable fact that I would expect to find in such a piece.”
“Is Minister Champagne’s reputation our problem?” I asked.
“The well-being and the future of this newspaper is our problem.”
“I think that can only be enhanced by outstanding journalism like this that will force all the other media to follow,” Colin said.
“And how many are following today’s story?”
“I’m sure they are working on it. If we delay we could lose our competitive advantage.”
I had been surprised by the weak response from our competitors. Was it a holiday on the Hill? Something was wrong there.
“Nevertheless, I think we need to take the time to get it right. That was a lesson I learned when I was with MuchMusic. We rushed a show to air without proper market research and it tanked rather badly. Cost us a lot of credibility.”
I vaguely remembered reading Putnam’s appointment announcement. It had spoken glowingly of his experience in digital media. It didn’t say he was some kind of hopped-up DJ who had never spent a minute in the news business. Had he ever even read a newspaper?
“Notwithstanding your music industry experience, more than 30 years in the news business tells me we need to get this story out today,” Colin said. “Think of it this way. Today’s piece is like a chapter in a much longer sa
ga. We advance the story bit by bit, stay ahead of the competition and keep going until we’ve got it all.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid those days are gone. There is a strong consensus at corporate that publication would be premature. We need to be mindful of the bigger picture. I don’t think I need to tell you that discussions with the government on enhanced tax credits for digital advertising are at a delicate stage.”
Colin was starting to get a bit red in the face now. I wondered if it would be at all feasible to throttle the little prick. By the time anyone found his body in this lonely office, the Champagne story would already be online.
Putnam’s phone pinged. He glanced at it and said, “We’re done here. I have a conference call in two. Get me more.”
“So just to be clear,” I said, “you’re spiking my story to protect corporate financial interests.”
“Spiking it? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“It’s a journalism term,” Colin said. “Back in the days of stories being typed on paper, the ones that weren’t going to get into print were impaled on a sharp metal spike.”
“Fascinating,” Putnam said as he fiddled with his phone. “Did they deliver the paper by horse and buggy back then as well? Now get moving, and think digital as well. I don’t see any video aspect here at all. That’s unacceptable.”
Putnam made a little sweeping motion with his delicate pink hand, as if to brush us out of his office. I got up quickly out of my chair and perhaps Colin thought I was going to go right over the desk and break those annoying little fingers. He put a restraining hand on my arm and gave me the look, then turned me around and marched me out of the office before I could commit any crimes.
Once we were safely out of earshot, Colin said, “What a bloody little piece of work he is. Wouldn’t know a news story from his knob and I daresay I know which he has spent more time handling.”
“Can you imagine him at MuchMusic? He has to be related to someone there. He’s about the least funky white boy I’ve ever seen. How the hell did he end up here?”
Spiked Page 29