What would happen, I find myself speculating, if I just glide into happy talk with this guy. What if I forget what happened to Brad, forget about Franklin back at the station, forget about wrinkle-free Cyndi from Cincinnati who’s no doubt packing her extensive hair-spray and eye-shadow collection in preparation for her foray into my job territory. Don’t let them banish me to the home for obsolete reporters. Get out while the getting’s good. While it’s still my decision.
Chapter Six
J
ust as I’m considering whether a second marriage at my age means no bridesmaids, Josh brings me back to reality. The moment he begins to read, it’s my jaw that drops. If I hadn’t been so distracted by my theoretical future with a certain schoolteacher, I probably would have predicted it.
“Master Bowser, you come in happy times…” Josh is saying.
It’s Bowser and Bagot.
My brain begins racing faster than my mouth can form the words, and I know I’m not finishing any sentences.
Josh has turned his chair to face me, and his eyes are locked into mine. He nods intently, listening, as I spill out what I know: Brad’s collection of company files; the refinancing spams; the obscure quotes, including Bagot and Bowser; my search through Google and my experimental e-mails in reply.
“And here’s what makes it even stranger.” I’m winding up now, hoping I’m making sense. “I checked the new e-mails I got back, and each of the spam addresses I sent a quote to sent me back another e-mail. With another quote.”
“But it’s spam, isn’t it?” he asks, looking perplexed. “The whole essence of spam is that it’s random, nonspecific. Blasted out to everyone, like junk mail. Everyone gets the same thing.”
I nod in agreement. “Absolutely. It doesn’t make sense.”
We both pause. The room is quiet; the golden afternoon light filters through the walnut-rimmed windows, lighting the thick dark-green rug with a patch of color.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” I suggest. “I sent back the completed quotes as sort of…a lark, you know? I didn’t really think I’d get a reply.”
“Right,” says Josh.
“So…” I pause to get my thoughts in order. “I’m wondering if that’s what Brad did, too. And if he did, whether that’s when he discovered something.”
“Discovered what?”
“Well, that’s the question.” I get up and start to pace around the bookshelf-lined office. I focus on the thick carpeting, thinking.
When I look up, Josh is staring at me. Good staring. Over-the-journalism-line staring. He fidgets, caught, then pretends the moment never happened.
“All right, let’s see,” he continues. He’s ticking off points on his fingers. “Brad had a cache of files. He asks me to dig up some obscure quotes. He writes to you, apparently with something to reveal. Then, there’s a car accident. Police think it’s suicide. And his wife tells you her husband was worried about something.” He shrugs. “That’s as far as I get.”
From somewhere, I hear the theme music from To Kill a Mockingbird. And then, from somewhere, I get an idea.
“Josh,” I say, “do you know a Mack Briggs?”
Josh raises his eyebrows. “Mack Briggs? Like a Mack truck?”
“Far as I know,” I answer. “At least that’s what Melanie said. She told me Brad sent this ‘Briggs’ the same e-mail he sent us.”
But Josh shakes his head. “Never heard of him.”
Every door in the journalism universe simultaneously slams shut. Maybe Brad’s secret just died with Brad. But I have to ask one more question.
“Back to why I’m here,” I say. “Did Brad ever mention any, say, inappropriate or illegal financial dealings at Aztratech?”
Josh looks surprised, and then surprises me by laughing.
“Well, there’s a bombshell.” Josh pretends to do a double take. “Where’d you come up with that one?”
I’m clearly putting my full hand on the table now, though I can’t quite remember when I decided to go all the way. Within a few minutes, he hears all about Franklin’s research, the lawsuit against Aztratech and our theory that Brad might be a whistle-blower.
His face evolves from skeptical to impressed. “Sounds…plausible,” he finally says. “But did you ask Melanie? I mean, if Brad was ready to rat out his employer to the feds, as you so colloquially put it, wouldn’t he have told his wife?”
“You’d think so,” I reply. “But she says no.”
Both of us pause, and in that quiet moment, I swear I hear bells. In fact, I know I recognize Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Then I realize Josh hears it, too.
“‘Ode to Joy.’” He waves a hand toward his window, smiling. “On the school’s carillon. Means classes are over for the day. Time for all good students to head for the dorms. Or the football field, or wherever.”
“And time for me to go, too, I guess.” I rummage in my purse for a business card. I also send a swift prayer to Saint Maysie, patron of happy romantic endings. “Here’s my number if you think of anything,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
He takes the card. And Saint Maysie answers my plea.
“Um, Charlie,” Josh begins, coming around from behind his desk. “You know I’m the adviser to the drama department?”
I’m gratified to see he’s now the one looking uneasy.
“Anyway,” he continues, “this Thursday, we’re having our student performance of ‘The Gold-Bug.’ Edgar Allan Poe, remember?” He hands me a black-and-white playbill, its cover amateurish but adorable artwork. “It ain’t Shakespeare, but you still might get a kick out of it. I hope this isn’t out of line, but the kids have really worked hard and…” He looks at me quizzically. “Can you make dates with people you interview?”
Franklin jumps from his chair, following me to the coatrack as I hang up my jacket. I’m still floating in a romance-novel haze, but the usually perceptive Franklin seems focused on his own agenda.
“What in hell were you doing?” he grills me. “What the hell took you so long?” His accent transforms hell into hay-ull, which makes it somewhat less threatening. Anyway, I know he’s not really angry—this is his “I have something interesting to tell you” mode.
“I’ll give you the lowdown,” I promise, “but what’s up with you? You look like you’re sitting on something hot.”
“It’s not me, it’s one Mr. Wesley Rasmussen who will soon be in the hot seat,” Franklin says.
“Wesley Ras…?”
“Rasmussen, Rasmussen,” Franklin repeats, grinning. “CEO of Aztratech. And here’s the scoop. He’s going to do an interview with you about the pharmaceutical whistle-blowing case.”
“No way,” I say, plopping down in my chair. I swivel toward Franklin. “It’s in litigation. His lawyers wouldn’t allow it.” I urge my brain to move faster, consider the options. “I mean, he’s got nothing to gain, right? Sure, he might want to tell his company’s side of the story. But if the feds think Aztratech is ripping off taxpayers, going on camera seems like a losing proposition.”
“Here’s what happened,” Franklin says. “I called him, said we were doing a survey of all local pharmaceutical companies. Research on drug pricing, whether drug companies may be overcharging the government. He’s huffy and dismissive, says, ‘Oh, that’s all nonsense, media hype.’ So I’m all apologetic, yeah well, da da da, our bosses say we have to do this story.”
“So he doesn’t know we know about the lawsuit,” I say, realizing what Franklin didn’t tell him.
“Right.” Franklin smiles. “I figured we don’t have to give him everything, you know? It’s not like it’s news to him there’s a lawsuit. You start out with one of your wide-eyed-little-girl interviews, see what he tells us. Then hit him with the big one.”
Course they don’t teach in J-school: Getting the Interview—The Art of Omission.
“Ask if he knows who the whistle-blower is.” I nod. “Sure. It could work. When’s the interview?”
“I’m hoping today, even though it’s late-ish. Calling him now to confirm it.” Franklin turns to the phone.
While Franklin calls Aztratech, I do a quick spam check. It looks as if every one I answered sent me a response.
Franklin had updated my computer settings and showed me how, with my monitor set properly, the same weird spams display fancy graphics of dollar signs and houses for sale. I switch my system back to the old way. I want to see the quotes instead.
I click on the first Hello, a new re-figh deal for you… With a flash of white, the screen changes to the now-familiar typeface, and this time, what’s clearly part of an address.
Vermont Songwriters Association, RD 2 Box
Fine. I know the drill. Into Google it goes, and out comes Vermont Songwriters Association, RD 2 Box 277 Underhill VT. 05489.
I am one hundred percent mystified. Am I playing a game? Or is someone else playing a game? Or is there even a game?
I copy and paste the full address, and send it back. Just one more, I promise myself. I click on the next Hello, a new re-figh deal for you.
The hard drive spins as it pulls the e-mail from cyberspace. A blank screen, followed by words. And then, a trapdoor under my chair opens, and I spiral though the blackness, rabbits with pocket watches going by, Mad Hatters, dormouses. Dormice. At my desk, things get curiouser and curiouser.
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces… It’s The Tempest. The same quote Brad sent Josh.
My fingers still resting on the keyboard, I stare at the monitor. It hums tauntingly, daring me to understand.
The only thing that’s clear: I’ve gotten exactly the same e-mails Brad did. I sent back the second half of a quote, and whoever got it sent me this in reply. Just the way, I bet, they did to Brad. Was the bottom of Brad’s rabbit hole a miserable rain-soaked morning and the crash of metal? Suicide because of what he found? Or something else?
I sit up and shake my head to clear it. There’s no rabbit hole. Spam is just spam. But I cut and paste the rest of the Tempest quotation just in case. We are such stuff as dreams are made on. And once again, I hit Send.
Franklin clatters down the phone and hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s the directions to Aztratech,” he says. “Rasmussen’s all set. Your photographer is Walt.” He looks apologetic. “Sorry. No choice. He’ll meet you in front of the station in five.”
I gather up my stuff and turn for the door. “This’ll be good,” I say enthusiastically, tucking a notebook in my bag. “Even with Slo-mo Walt. I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.”
“Hey,” Franklin calls after me.
I turn around, impatient. “What? I’m all set. I’m outta here.”
Franklin is standing by his desk, hands on hips. “Before you head to your big ‘get,’” he says, “you want to tell me about whatever it was that happened at Bexter this afternoon? Whatever secrets you’re keeping from me?”
“No secrets,” I sort of lie. “I, uh, just interviewed Professor Gelston, who’s really not that much of a geezer, turns out….” I trail off, tongue-tied even trying to explain it.
“You’re blushing, girl,” Franklin reports. “’Nuff said.”
I know Tyra Banks can’t possibly work at Aztratech, but the lanky fashionista emerging from the elevator’s polished doors into the high-tech lobby is a real-life photocopy of the supermodel. Her carefully cropped hair, with just a smattering of silver, her got-to-be designer suit with its black ribbon belt tied artfully around the waist, her charcoal suede pumps.
“Charlie McNally? I’m Gwen Matherton, Mr. Rasmussen’s assistant.” She looks at her sleek watch. “He’s running a little behind today, I’m afraid,” she adds, with a look I translate as he’s really an important, busy guy, you’re lucky to see him, you’re not going to be allowed much time. “So set up your equipment, then I’ll bring him in.”
Fifteen stories up, Wes Rasmussen’s mahogany-and-steel office looks like a movie set, skillfully designed to suggest Big Commerce. Big Responsibility. Big Money.
Gwen leaves us alone, saying she’ll be back in ten minutes. Walt, with much exaggerated clanking of equipment (clearly to prove how hard he’s working), sets up his lights and clicks his camera onto the tripod.
I survey the room, looking for insight into this mogul. Awards, degrees: none. Family photographs: zero. Desk mountained with papers, and a leatherbound row of books held up by snarling brass lions. Nothing personal—no, wait. Recessed into the paneled wall in front of me is one cabinet, pin-spotted to show off the one thing it contains: a fantastically intricate model of a wooden sailboat, canvas sails unfurled. Before I can check it out, I hear the door open.
Now I know why Wes Rasmussen, CEO of one of the most go-go pharmaceutical companies in New England, is pressed for time. He’s obviously got an important meeting coming up—in the clubhouse. He’s wearing a yellow polo shirt, khaki pants, boat shoes with no socks. For someone whose corporate power is legendary, at least according to the background material Franklin gave me, this guy looks like someone who can’t wait to get out of the office and into a comfortable golf cart.
I shake his wooly-mammoth hand as we introduce ourselves, and he waves me to a chair. He pushes a button on his desk and a panel in the wall slides open. He pulls out a navy blazer, putting it on over his knit shirt, as the hidden closet slides shut.
“This’ll do for TV, won’t it?” he asks. He has the air of someone who’s not used to anyone saying no. “You don’t want much from me, I imagine.” He sits behind his desk and looks at me inquiringly. “Now, what can I do for you?”
Walt clicks the microphone onto Rasmussen’s lapel, then goes back to his camera. “Rolling,” he announces.
“Okay,” I begin with a benign smile. “First, Mr. Rasmussen, how would you characterize the current pricing controversy?” I always ask easy, noncontentious, open-ended questions first. Brings their guard down.
Rasmussen spreads his arms expansively across his desk. “Ms. McNally,” he says, “the pharmaceutical industry is one hundred percent focused on keeping America and the world as healthy as humanly possible. We partner with the federal government to provide life-saving medications to underprivileged folk who can’t afford them. It’s a system that works to everyone’s benefit.”
He smiles at me, as if I’m some fifth-grader, and starts to stand up. “Got it?”
“Mr. Rasmussen,” I say, smiling in pretend apology, and gesture to him to sit back down. “Forgive me, just a couple more quick questions. My producer told me to ask you, you know?” My trusty “just an employee” technique.
He puffs with noblesse oblige, deigning to give the girl a chance.
“So to clarify,” I say. “How would you answer criticism that pharmaceutical companies like yours are making an unsuitable profit on government contracts, all at taxpayer expense?”
I get the fifth-grader expression again. “Ms. McNally,” he says, “the pharmaceutical industry is one hundred percent focused on keeping America and the world as healthy as humanly possible….”
He continues, giving word for word the same answer he did the first time. I almost laugh out loud. Obviously, Rasmussen has a prepared statement, which he’s memorized and tried to make sound spontaneous. That doesn’t work so well when you give the exact same statement a second time.
“As you said before,” I acknowledge. “But what I’m asking is, does your company, in order to increase profits, charge excessively high prices for government contracts because taxpayers foot the bill?”
Rasmussen scowls, and I can see him assessing how to handle this. He’ll look guilty if he throws me out or cuts off the interview with the camera rolling.
“Ms. McNally,” he finally says, “the pharmaceutical industry is one hundred percent focused on…”
I interrupt. “Mr. Rasmussen, thanks so much, we have that.” Time to pitch him the biggie. “But what’s your specific answer to the allegation that your company is defrauding the government?”
“Uh, Charlie,” I hear from behind me. “Wait a second.” It’s Walt.
What the hell now?
I smile brightly at the increasingly uncomfortable CEO. “Technical difficulties, I think,” I say, acting as if this is nothing.
Walt’s moved away from the camera. “Camera battery’s dead,” he says. “Gotta get another one.”
“There’s one in your bag, correct?” I am going to kill him if there isn’t.
He shakes his head. “Gotta go to the car.”
As he saunters away, I realize a new battery is fifteen stories down, fifteen stories back up. If I can’t keep Rasmussen at his desk, the battery isn’t the only thing that’s dead. So’s this interview. And my career.
“Mr. Rasmussen,” I begin, life-support systems full throttle, “let me just give you my condolences for your employee Brad Foreman.”
Rasmussen leans back in his chair, props an ankle over a knee. “Well, thank you, yes. We were all very surprised, of course.”
“Did you know him well?” I continue. It’s a tacky question, but I’m a reporter and he certainly thinks we’re all tacky anyway.
Fifth-grader look again. Fifth-grader on the way to the principal’s office, if I read him correctly. He actually harrumphs.
“Not really,” he says brusquely. “One of my headhunters found him in a search for second-tier employees. Office wasn’t on this floor, of course.”
Rasmussen is obviously putting as much space as he can between them. But I’m thinking if he suspects Foreman is the whistle-blower, he’ll characterize him as some sort of know-nothing, someone with no access and no possible knowledge of pricing practices.
The CEO doesn’t disappoint me.
“Foreman wasn’t a decision maker by any means,” Rasmussen continues. He gives a patriarchal wave. “Just a number cruncher. But you know, there’s always room for worker bees. Sorry, of course, about what happened to him.”
Prime Time Page 7