by Mimi Johnson
His eyes went wide. It was from a man named Clinton Delavan: “I've been a volunteer firefighter for over 20 years. The last fatal I worked was the Corner Grocery Store fire in Sheffield almost ten years ago. Really tragic case you might want to research. Two teen-age boys died. I was with the first men to make their way in and found them in the storage room. It still haunts me. Governor Erickson's family owed the store, of course, but I think I heard it was his dad who managed the place." Sam's breath went out of him in a gasp.
And then he wanted to kick himself. There were Corner Grocery stores all over Iowa. It should have occurred to him to check each and every one for a fire story. It was a rookie mistake, and if the grand jury investigation, his own divorce and Tess wandering into and out of his life hadn’t distracted him, he’d never have made it. Bringing up the Lexis-Nexis search page, he typed in the simple query: ‘Fatal fire, Corner Grocery, Sheffield, Iowa.' The Des Moines Record stories came up immediately. One headline was enough: “Two teens die in fire in Erickson-owned store.”
Sam reached for the phone. When Johnson’s gruff, sleepy voice answered, Sam said softly. “I found it, Steve. I found Carl Erickson's fire.”
He gave up any thought of sleep and he didn’t see any reason Steve Johnson shouldn’t forget it, too. But even with the Record’s stories, it wasn’t an easy sell.
“OK,” Johnson said when he picked up the phone in the den so he could talk without disturbing his wife. “What’d the Record have?”
That was a problem. There was the first-day story with the facts of the fire. The names of the two boys who were killed hadn’t been released at press time. There was a follow-up the next day, naming the dead and mentioning that another juvenile was in custody. There was a longish piece on the joint funeral, which had been held at the school gymnasium. And then there was a story saying that authorities had announced they had a plea from the juvenile in custody, and that all court proceedings of the case would be sealed.
“So you’ve found a few stories on a fatal Corner Grocery store fire. A fire that some kid admitted setting. What else?”
“What else? You and Dodson said to find the evidence of a fire. I found it.”
Johnson sighed. “Well, it would be a little stronger if you could tie Carl Erickson to that store.”
"I think Carl was the manager."
"What makes you think so? According to the Governor, he was sitting on his ass drinking himself to death about that time."
Sam knew better than to explain how he'd found that unconfirmed information, and said instead, “Give me some time, and I'll nail it down. Remember, the doc said he was obsessed with a fire, a fire where young guys died.”
“Yeah, a doctor who won’t go on the record. Even if you’re right, even if this is the fire …”
“If?” Sam clenched the phone in a white-knuckled grip. “How many fatal fucking fires do you think the Ericksons were involved in?”
“But Sam, who’s to say that Carl Erickson’s obsession with this fire wasn’t just a fixation of his alcohol-addled brain? You gonna tell me that doesn’t happen? The deaths of these two young guys could have just dragged up an old wartime memory of comrades Napalmed to death. He might not have ever been within 200 miles of the place.”
“Bullshit. This is it I know it. Jesus, Steve, it’s not like I’m doing anything better. Let me chase it.”
“How? The court records are sealed.”
“I can check …” Sam broke off what he was going to say, suddenly remembering combing through the court cases of Judge Richard Webster. “Sweet Christ, this is where Webster comes in. He was a lawyer in Sheffield, the town where the fire was. I bet if I check my notes they’ll show he was working there when it happened. I searched every case he was ever involved in, but I didn’t find it because it’s in that mother-fucking closed juvenile file. Instead of going to Kansas City, I’ve got to get back to Iowa.”
For a long moment Johnson was silent on the other end, and Sam knew he was thinking things over. Then he said, “Sam, you need to go to the convention.”
“Jesus, Steve, I’m doing rewrite there for a cast of thousands. Anybody else …” Sam’s voice rose.
“Hold on, just let me finish. You’ve got to have your nose to the grindstone every time Dodson glances in your direction, you got me? I’m struggling to keep every single writer on my staff, but …”
Sam’s heart sank. “Layoffs?”
Johnson didn’t answer, saying instead, “Your plane leaves in about five hours, and it’s too late to send someone else in your place. Play ball with me Sam, for your own sake.” The editor’s tone softened. “But I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send a stringer to the courthouse tomorrow to ask for the file. They’ll tell him no, but that’s the place to start. Then we can get one of our lawyers to make an appeal that it be opened.”
“That’ll take forever and come up with zip. Steve, the best way for me to prove my worth is to drag in this story. I’ve got to go to Sheffield. I bet half the fucking town remembers every detail, along with the names of everyone involved. I know I can get a fleet of old-timers to confirm what you and I both know. Webster was the kid’s attorney. Maybe some of the dead boys’ families are still around. You know someone will give me the name of the boy who pleaded out. Then I can go find him. It’s so fucking clear: Swede Erickson and Richard Webster railroaded that kid into confessing. That's why Erickson is still paying Webster off. And why Webster troubled to call my boss and give him a pile of bullshit about me.”
“OK,” Johnson said with a sigh. “I’ll try to find a way to get you there. But go to the convention for now. I’ll work it from this end and try to convince Dodson to send you to Sheffield. But it’ll help if you get your ass to Kansas City.”
Sam fought his frustration and muttered through clenched teeth, “OK, but I’m counting on you, Steve. This is it.”
“Maybe, but it’s still speculation. We’ve got to play this just right because believe me, Dodson was plenty pissed after your last trip to Iowa. Neither one of us are exactly on his hit parade right now, especially with Evie saying she hasn’t found anything to back up your suspicions.”
“Well, tell him about this. Even a used-up old hack like him should see that there’s something to look at here.”
“Sam, do you have any idea how much interference I’ve been running for you?” Johnson sounded exasperated. “The man is just itching to make more room in his newsroom budget, and you draw the highest salary on the reporting staff. Evie wouldn’t hesitate to fill Dodson in about you and Tess if she knew it was her husband you interviewed for that profile. It’s all Dodson needs to hear, and he’ll figure this whole thing is just your vendetta against Tess's new husband and his old family friend. And he'd know I was complicit with the whole conflict. Buddy, he’d cut us both off at the knees. So get to the convention and man the trenches like a good solider. And Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“For God’s sake, stay out of jail. You end up there, and this story gets locked in with you.”
Sam stayed at his desk, web-searching for anything else on that specific fire, but found little more. He left with just enough time to stop home for a quick shower, toss some things in a bag, and catch his flight.
About the time Sam Waterman was clearing airport security, Jack Westphal was kissing his wife good-bye.
Neither had slept well, and Jack had finally risen and showered before the sun was up. He was in the kitchen pouring coffee when she came down, but when he held up an offered cup, she wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she said, “I can be dressed and packed in twenty minutes. I'll keep you company on the drive.”
Now he shook his head. “Tess …”
“I will go out of my skin, waiting here. My imagination will torture me if I don’t know what’s really going on.”
She looked so white in the thin morning light. He touched her face. “It’s not that I don’t want you with me,”
his voice was soft. “But this is going to be unpleasant." He gave a grim chuckle at his own understatement. "You don’t know what he’s like when he’s crossed, and I’d rather you never have to see it. All hell is going to break loose when he drops out. I’m planning to run for it when it breaks. I’d lots rather be running toward you than with you. The worry over this has you sick.” He bent and kissed the top of her head. “Stay here. Work on your project, but get some rest too. I won’t be gone long.”
Her voice was muffled against his chest. “What if he doesn’t?”
“What?” Jack wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
She leaned back so she could look up into his face. “What if Swede refuses to drop out? What will you do?”
That was the thought that had kept him awake all night. “He’s got to,” Jack answered. “He’s got to stop. He was crazy to think he could get away with it. And once he knows I put it together, he’ll have to see it would be insane to think no one else will. But, if he refuses …” He sighed and looked out the window, “I don’t know. Honest to God, Tess, I just don’t know what I’ll do.” His eyes came back to hers, so shot-through with red they looked like they ached.
“All right then,” she stepped back, and dug in the pocket of her yellow robe. “Take this with you. Please, Jack?”
Glancing down, he saw the gleam of a white gold chain and knew immediately what it was. She’d had it repaired. And his jaw set hard. He didn’t want it. But looking down into her pleading eyes, he hesitated only a second, and then slowly bent so she could slip the medal over his head. Then he pulled her close, holding her tight for a long time before he kissed her.
When he left, she stood on the front porch with Rover, watching the long tail of dust slowly settle back onto the gravel road behind him.
While each traveler came closer to Kansas City, Swede Erickson happened to be thinking of both. He’d just arrived himself, and his penthouse suite was a swirling mass of anxious aides and staff, talking to each other and on phones. Off the main room, in the quieter conference room, Erickson asked his communications director, “You've got that lady from Politifix coming up?”
“Any second. She’s delighted you gave her ten minutes. But keep it to that, OK, boss? We’re already running behind.”
“Right, but remember, Carly, I need at least half an hour with Jackie tonight.”
She sighed. “It’ll have to be late. It’s the only way to give him that much time. It can’t wait until you’re back home for a few days?”
“I won’t be back in Iowa for over a month, and something’s wrong. He sounded bad, not jazzed at all about all this. Jackie’s not the sort to get dragged down.” Erickson was looking down at the briefing papers in his hands, and when he glanced up, he saw she was watching him with an annoyed expression. “Come on. The kid needs to sort through something, probably a problem with that wild little tail he married. I want to talk to him.”
As she shrugged, an aide knocked on the door to let them know Ev’alyn Bundy was waiting outside.
For a quick ten minutes, Swede schmoozed with Evie about the coming campaign against the Democratic candidate, and the possibilities of what he might say in his acceptance speech. And finally, he confirmed for her that his running mate would be Tamarac Fuller. It was hardly a surprise; it had been rumored ever since she threw him her support. But giving it to Bundy and Politifix now cemented that Evie rather than Waterman would be covering his campaign for the duration. It wasn’t until he was seeing her to the door that Erickson got to his second purpose for granting her a little time.
“Kansas City’s a great city,” he began. Will you get to enjoy it? I hope Politifx sent enough staff so you don’t have to work every minute you’re here.”
“I damn well better," she insisted. "Too many people would love to have my job for me to slack off. And Politifix has more of them arriving every day. The last few stragglers get in today.”
Erickson nodded. “I suppose that means I'll be facing Mr. Waterman again? I have to say, it’s a lot more pleasant talking with a pro like you.”
Evie smiled, flattered. “We are expecting Sam any time now. I’m not sure what they’ve got him doing, but his role is scaled back. He’s had some personal problems.”
“Maybe that explains the scurvy treatment I got from him. He beat that Dick Webster appointment over my head until I thought the guy was obsessed. But however tough he was on me, he seemed to really have a scudder for my friend Jack Westphal.”
“Really?” Evie thought back on Waterman’s profile, trying to remember just who Jack Westphal was.
Erickson nodded. “That surprised me, because I thought he’d find a lot of common ground with Jack. They’re both newsmen. And then Jack’s married to someone who used to work with Waterman at the Trib. You were there too, right? Maybe you remember her, Tess Benedict?”
Evie was almost out the door, but she suddenly stopped and turned to look at the Governor, her eyes wide. “Sam interviewed Tess Benedict’s husband?” Erickson nodded again. “Everyone remembers Tess. She was a favorite at the Trib and, well, she really made a name for herself.” Evie held out her hand, and Erickson shook it. As she went through the door, she didn’t see the governor’s small smile.
Erickson excused himself from his press aides. “Got to tap a kidney,” he explained as he hurried toward his own bedroom and bath. With the door closed, he pulled out his private cell phone. Impatiently he waited for the pick-up, and as soon as he heard it, said, “Max, you still in contact with the guy who’s trying to plant that summons on Sam Waterman?”
“Yeah. He was waiting outside his apartment in D.C. most of last night, but Waterman must have found a new woman and slept elsewhere, because he never surfaced. The guy gave up around three a.m., figuring to catch him at the Politifix newsroom this morning, but he didn’t show there either.”
“That’s because he was getting on a plane to Kansas City. Give the ass a call and let him know the bastard is part of Politifix's convention team. Waterman should be easy to find in the press center at Bartle Hall. Or find out where Politifix is putting their people up and pass that along. Someone can probably catch up with him over his hotel breakfast tomorrow morning. Either way, I want that man served and back in D.C. meeting with Politifix lawyers.”
As always, Jack Westphal made the drive to Kansas City at a fast clip, but to him it still seemed interminable. It felt like a lifetime ago, that day back in November when he’d decided to make reservations to come here, just in case Swede made it this far. As he walked into the lobby of the Crowne Plaza, he was weighed down by the feeling that he was the guilty man.
There was a message at the front desk from Swede saying he should come up to the suite about 11:30 that night. Jack knew he could pass some time getting something to eat, but at the moment he couldn't imagine ever feeling hungry again. He checked in. Once in his room he called Tess, and they talked in fits and starts. There wasn’t much to say yet both seemed reluctant to break the connection. When he did hang up, he tried to grab a little sleep, but finally he got up, showered, and changed.
Adjacent to the Convention Center, the hotel was a madhouse of politicians, aides, handlers, pundits and journalists, all at a fever pitch of tension and excitement. Riding down in the back of a crammed elevator, Jack tried to imagine what it would be like by tomorrow night if Swede had dropped out of the race, and he shivered as the doors opened. At least a dozen people were waiting, but only a couple managed to squeeze in. Jack caught the eye of the dark-haired man at the back of the crowd that was left behind. Sam Waterman gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement just as the door shut.
From the enormous, impossibly crowded pressroom, both men looked down at the convention floor and watched, as Swan August Erickson became the enthusiastic choice of his party for presidential nominee. Each knew the other was there somewhere, but both had only the candidate on their minds. As journalist after journalist broadcast, tweeted and blogged that the Erickson
bandwagon had morphed into a sleek fighter jet, zeroing in on the Democratic incumbent, only the two of them had serious reason to believe that the Erickson campaign would never survive to the election.
Chapter 37
For the rest of his life, Jack would remember with sickening clarity odd, small things about the room: the bad print of a wheat field on the far wall past the conference table; the way the wallpaper border didn’t quite line up at the corner above the bar; the stains on the carpeted floor, over near the windows, three burnt-orange rounds, each about the size of a quarter. His eyes shifted from the stains, to the corner, to the picture, and then back again, all while Swede Erickson’s voice washed over him.
When he arrived at the suite, the place was still on the insane high of watching the actual nomination. It seemed to Jack as he crossed the main room that everyone he glanced at had a cell phone to their ear. When Deb nodded him through to the conference room, he found it jammed with people. There was even more laughing and joviality there. And every person was a high-placed pol or well-known party leader. Swede was in the center of the room, shaking hands, accepting congratulations. When he caught Jack’s eye, he smiled. But it took nearly an hour before the room slowly began to clear. At last, insisting that the candidate had to get some rest, Carly Taylor shooed away the stragglers, and just before she followed them out, she turned to Erickson and said, “Remember, Governor …”