Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  Sam started out taking notes but when he heard his own name and the gruff voice said, “I know how to deal with hacks like him,” he stopped writing and just listened. Erickson added, "I may be saddled with crazy Tami Fuller as a running mate, but it's worth it. She did a hell of a job keeping a certain investigation front and center.” Sam couldn’t keep from blurting, “God damn it, I knew it!"

  But he fell silent again, trying not to squirm as the Governor said, “He’ll be in jail long before the election. He’s such a stupid bastard, he’ll refuse to cooperate, so there he'll sit for a hell of a long time.”

  It was just a few seconds later that they heard Erickson’s voice taunt, “People aren’t perfect. Not me, and sure as hell not that saucy little wife of yours.” Sam looked over at Tess and saw the color rise in her face.

  And even Sam shut his eyes when he heard, “But once they find out about her and a married man, one everyone saw her running around town with just awhile back? Hell, that old crone Thelma will be delighted, saying she knew all along and that your wife is just a ... Well, it would get awfully hard for Tess to show her face in Lindsborg, don’t you think?” When Sam opened his eyes, he glanced over at Tess. She was looking at Jack’s turned back.

  But it wasn’t until the end, when Sam heard the words, “My whole term would have been tainted by his trial. And I would have never had a second. So I did what I had to do,” that he realized how clearly Erickson admitted what he had done. And his heart started to pound.

  When the recording came to an end, Jack turned around and walked to the coffee table, shutting off the tiny device. For a heartbeat, the silence lingered, and then Sam said softly, “Jesus fucking Christ.” He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, as Jack raised his eyebrows in agreement.

  “Well?” Jack said, putting the recorder into his shirt pocket.

  “It can be edited out,” Sam said. “The part about …” He inclined his head toward Tess’s chair without looking over at her.

  Jack slumped down in the other armchair. “I know that,” he said softly. “It isn’t hard. I could do it myself. And don’t think I haven’t considered it.” The other two stayed silent and he added, “But is it part of the story? I mean, it’s not that hard to see why he did what he did about the fire. Hell, hearing it again, I still have a moment or two of sympathy. But no one can hear the whole thing without realizing how ruthless he was. How ruthless he still is. I keep wondering how, as an editor, I’d see it if it wasn’t so …” his eyes seemed to chase away, back to the bright windows for a second, “… so personal.”

  Sam leaned forward a little, the notebook resting on his knees as he drew circle after circle, thinking. At last, he broke the silence. “Well, none of us here are going to be objective about it, but isn’t the threat to your paper enough to make that point?” He looked finally over at Tess. Jack was watching her too.

  She sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes shifting from one to the other. “Stop it.” It was her normal speaking voice, unlike the men whose voices had been hushed. “Stop acting like you’re not sure what to do. If you want to use that tape, you have to turn it over to the Politifix editors intact. Cutting leaves its mark, you know. Any sign of tampering will taint the whole thing. And if you think for one minute that not bringing this out into the open is an option, forget it. As the governor so eloquently points out, a hell of a lot of people know about the affair anyway. Embarrassing, yes, but it’s only the truth, and I can live with it easier than letting him get away with blackmailing my family or me. So if you two don’t have the balls for it, I’ll go to someone else in the media. And I’ll go on the record.”

  Jack rose, starting toward her. “Tess, I … ”

  “Don’t.” There was a little catch as she said it, but she held up her hand firmly. Her voice was strong when she added, “It’s not a tragedy. I can face it. What about you?” She turned and looked directly at Sam.

  Sam smiled back, a little ruefully. “Obviously I’ll have to explain it to Dodson, but I’m already in his doghouse. Anyone else,” He shrugged, finishing with, “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Her eyes turned to Jack, certain that it did still matter to him. It was his town, the people in it his family. He didn’t say a word, just nodded his head.

  “All right then, so much for this discussion.” She turned back to Sam. “Get your bosses on the phone and work out the details. Is your cell charged?” Her smile was dismal. He nodded. Then she stood, pulling her own phone from her pocket, and started toward the kitchen. “I’ve got to call my family.” Jack knew she was heading for the porch swing.

  “It’s going to take awhile for it all to come together.” He seemed to want to stop her. “You don’t have to do it now.”

  “I do. I need to do it right now.” He started after her, but she shook her head. Jack watched her go.

  Sam’s voice came from behind him, quiet and without a hint of sarcasm. “Leave it, Jack. I told you, she's a savior.”

  Chapter 42

  Sam knew once he explained to Steve Johnson what was happening, all hell would break loose, but even he was shocked at how fast Mike Dodson was pulled off the golf course and into a conference call. With Jack listening, he brought them up to date and outlined all the conditions of Jack’s turning over the tape, ending with “We’ll write the story together. It runs the same morning on both sites. And he wants to be paid for his work.” Jack slipped him a hastily scribbled figure on a piece of paper as Sam went on, “Not what the freelancers make.” He glanced down at the paper and winced, adding emphatically, “He wants a lot.”

  “A lot by Iowa standards, or D.C. standards?” Dodson barked.

  “A lot by anyone’s standards,” Sam answered and told him the amount.

  “Dear God, what makes him think he’s worth that unholy price?” Sam just let the silence hang, and Steve Johnson didn’t say a word either. After a few blustering sighs, Dodson said, “OK, OK,” ending with a muttered, “The guy knows when he’s got the bull by the balls.”

  Sam nodded to Jack. And then, he set his jaw and said, “Before we turn the tape over, there’s something you both should hear from me first.” Preferring to miss Sam’s explanation about Erickson’s references to the affair, Jack wandered off into the kitchen.

  Just a few clipped sentences into it, Dodson exploded with, “Mother of God, why am I just hearing about this now?”

  Boldly, Sam came back with, “You didn’t know? Christ, it’s been public property on the journalism grapevine for years. That night in the conference room, right after Erickson declared, I told you Westphal was married to Tess Benedict. Why do you think I brought it up? When you didn’t object, I figured you saw it as ancient history.”

  Sam thought he heard a soft intake of breath from Johnson, but Dodson started backtracking, “Well, rumor, a gentleman hates to believe it.” Sam smiled to himself, knowing the thing a newsperson hates is to admit he missed what everyone else knew.

  “Well, it’s there on the tape, right between Erickson’s threat to Westphal’s newspaper and admitting he covered up for his father. We all agreed to let you guys make the call on what and how much should be used, either in the story or as a podcast.”

  “We all?” Dodson asked. “That would be …”

  “Westphal, Benedict and me,” Sam supplied.

  “You’re all three there, at his home, together?” Dodson was hesitant, as if he felt foolish, certain he must have misunderstood something.

  But Sam came back with “Exactly.”

  “Extraordinary,” was the mumbled reply. And then briskly, “OK, Sam, I’ll be back in the newsroom in about half an hour, barring any traffic problems. Send that audio to Steve. Just the two of us will listen to it right away. Then we’ll get the lawyers in for their advice. Grab Westphal and start writing. We’ll hash out what to use as we go. I imagine there’s going to be a mighty interesting editor’s note accompanying this sucker.”

&nbs
p; Thinking of tackling the writing, Sam glanced out the window to the porch. Tess was off the phone, and Westphal had joined her. “It’s a tough piece, so give us time.”

  “Of course,” Johnson spoke up. “We’re the only ones who have it. Let’s make sure we get it right.” And then he added, “Ah, Sam you should probably know that Judith resigned from the committee staff this afternoon. It pretty much scotches the investigation, so we just ran a small story on it. Neither she nor Morton would comment.”

  “I see.” It was all he could say as he watched the couple through the window.

  The editors wrapped it up quickly, and when Sam ended the call, he was ready to get to work. He took a couple of steps toward the kitchen, but with another quick glance through the window, he saw that Jack and Tess were deep in conversation. Turning back, he went to the den instead, figuring they needed a little more time.

  “Will said he never wanted to know anything about his sister’s sex life, and certainly didn’t want to discuss it now,” she was telling Jack. “He pretty much promised to ignore, as best he can, whatever might come out. But Danny,” she looked up at him, stress lines around her eyes, “he was appalled. He asked what the hell I was thinking, what had happened to my upbringing. And his final shot was to point out how hard this would be on Dad.” She rolled her eyes, and she felt his hand gently touch her shoulder in sympathy.

  “Well, Danny’s kind of an ass,” Jack said, and smiled when she managed a small laugh at that. “When it blows over, he’ll forget about it. And Keith?” Jack prompted.

  “He knew,” she said quietly.

  “He said that?”

  She shook her head. “No, but he wasn’t surprised. He must have seen something, or heard something, somewhere along the line. He certainly knew Sam and I worked together an awful lot. Maybe when I left the Trib so abruptly it became obvious. I just never thought …”

  Jack nodded, his arm coming around her shoulders, drawing her gently against his side. “No, I suppose not. But he reads people better than most, and he loves you so much. So?”

  Her smile was sad. “He said I was his daughter, and we’d get through it together. And he wanted to know if you were OK, or if he should come up here and help you work through it.”

  Jack laughed, genuine and unforced. “Jesus, I hope you’re not sending the Commander after me. What’d you tell him?”

  Her arm slipped around his waist. “I told him you’d known for a while, and you’re still writing this story with Sam. He said you’re a good man.”

  Jack pulled her closer, her words balm for his aching spirit. “So is he.”

  They spent two straight days at the kitchen table, hacking away, each desperate to get it down, get it right and get it out. The contention was constant.

  Tess walked in the first evening to raised voices, Jack on his feet insisting, “That’s goddamn editorializing, and you know it. Let the columnists take that tact. This is the news story they’re all going to be working from for the next month. Keep it objective.”

  “Bullshit!” Sam snapped, looking across the table, his laptop in front of him. “There’s never yet been an objective news story written, and there never will be. If the truth is in the story, it always swings the narrative one way or the other. Besides, there is no way you or I will ever be perceived as objective. Let’s just put it out there. It’s not like we don’t have the goods to back it up.”

  Tess just backed out, unequal to the task of peacemaker and doubtful either man had noticed.

  Sam and Jack also had diversely different writing styles, making the change of voice between what each wrote so abrupt that neither liked the choppy, disjointed result when they put their pieces together. In the end, they edited each other’s work, Jack better at smoothing out the transitions and blending the styles, Sam the more concise writer, picking out one right word instead of the three or four Jack used. With the exception of quick cat naps taken at random, neither man slept. If they ate, it was a hasty sandwich or something Tess brought from town.

  But if Jack and Sam fought over the story, they presented a united front once they turned in the first draft and started dealing with the editors and lawyers. They fought together for every paragraph, every quote and every word. They even worked a nice good-cop-bad-cop shtick when dealing with Dodson. Sam would lose his temper, swearing vilely, and then Jack would get on the phone with his best down-home, easy manner, claiming to see Dodson’s point, but despairing that the whole story might fall apart if they conceded the change. Dodson blustered and steamed and usually gave up. But if he wouldn’t budge, Sam would get back on and browbeat some more until the editor practically begged to talk to Jack again.

  In the end, they only caved on what might get them in legal trouble. And they did have to concede to Dodson’s editor’s note. When Sam received it in an email he read silently: “Politifix strives to avoid conflicts of interests in pursuing, writing and editing the news. But today’s story about Iowa Gov. Swan August Erickson is extraordinary …”

  Sam skipped down.“ Westphal’s wife, Teresa Benedict, was a photographer at the Washington Tribune at the same time Samuel Waterman worked there. While colleagues, the two had an intimate relationship. She was single at the time, but he was married.”

  His frown deepened, as he scanned. “Westphal married Benedict in a private wedding ceremony in the governor’s office at the Iowa State Capitol.” Sam sighed and jumped down further. “Waterman’s wife, attorney Judith Sampson, took a job during the campaign as chief counsel to the Senate Finance …”

  He shook his head and shut his eyes. When he opened them again he read. “Before entering the room, Westphal turned on his digital audio recorder. He did not announce to Erickson that he was using the recorder.”

  “Je-e-s-us-s,” Sam drawled softly.

  “It’s that long?” Jack was waiting impatiently to read it himself.

  "Dodson didn’t leave out one fucking thing.” Sam stood so Jack could sit down at the computer. “Erickson’s not the only one laid bare.” Jack started to read.

  They had a deadline of 2 p.m. to lock down the story. Editors would need the rest of the day to pull together the art and rework Politifix's homepage for the next morning. The Journal's homepage would match exactly. Both sites would upload at nine a.m. The Journal would run a special morning edition.

  Tess was up in her studio. With the sleeping porch windows open for good ventilation, she was repainting the damaged wall. She looked better, not so white and drawn, but there were still dark smudges under her eyes that emphasized the tender pain in them. Sam hadn’t had a chance to talk with her alone again, and he knew now he wasn’t going to get one. Had she found the St. Francis medal? If she had, she'd understood and remained silent.

  Making good on his promise, Sam got ready to leave as soon as they filed. He packed and grabbed a shower as Jack finished the last changes requested by the lawyers. As he dressed, he wondered how far he'd get before the summons server caught up with him. He was betting the Des Moines airport. It was about 20 till two when Sam walked into the kitchen, freshly shaved and in a clean cotton dress shirt and jeans, to ask, “You got it?”

  Jack looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. “Yeah, I think we’re there. You want to take a look?” He stood and let Sam sit in his place. “There’re only three more small tweaks. I marked them. But read through again. Make sure.” He flipped the kitchen counter television onto ESPN softly while Sam reread the whole thing one last time.

  At last, he heard Sam sigh, “OK then.” Jack looked over at him. “I’m satisfied. You?” Jack nodded and walked over. As he watched, Sam attached the revised story to an email, the message reading simply, “Done. Waterman and Westphal.” For a second, they both just stared into the screen, then Sam leaned forward with a tired smile and made one more change, deleting the names and replacing them with “WaterPhal.” Jack snorted.

  “Well,” Sam glanced at his watch, “it’s after two.” He turned
, and the two men’s eyes met. Sam said gruffly, “Deep down, you always knew you’d have to write this story. You know that, don’t you, Hoss?”

  If Jack was surprised by the abrupt comment, he didn’t show it. But his eyes broke away, looking upward toward the room above them where Tess was working. When he looked back at Sam, all he said was, “They’re waiting.”

  Sam nodded, but held his forefinger suspended over the keypad that would click the send icon. “Fuck,” he laughed shortly. “This must be how a suicide feels right before he steps off the ledge.”

  “I imagine so.” Jack reached out and hit the key himself.

  By late afternoon the next day, Annie Fowler stood peeking carefully from her upstairs window, trying to keep in the shadow of the curtains. At the edge of her tidy front lawn were news crews, television, print, radio and web, clogging the street, staring at her house. Her house.

  She’d told Jack Westphal she deserved to know what happened that night. Now she did. Everyone did. And she realized what she’d expected to be an ending was actually just a start. She bowed her head, the netting of the crisp white curtains touching her face and she cried.

  Acknowledgements

  While writing this book, I was constantly surprised and humbled by those who invested their time and effort to help. I give my heartfelt thanks to: My friends, Christine De Butts, Mary Beth Bestenlehner and Christine Billings, who read the early, rough drafts and found something there to like; My daughter-in-law, Susan Burke, whose gentle, honest opinions helped me to see where more work was needed; My sons, Michael, Joseph and Thomas Buttry, who always offered ideas, advice and words of encouragement; Chuck Offenburger, the extraordinary writer and fellow Southwest Iowan, from whom I stole the memorable “Doberman and a blonde named Bambi” line.