Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  The cottage door burst open and they both jumped as several Secret Service agents rushed into the room, guns drawn and held with both hands. “Freeze!” an agent screamed, veins bulging in his face red, his eyes wild. “Put your hands up and move slowly away from the table.”

  Damn it. Here goes. Dawson looked at Frankel helplessly as he put his glass down and slowly raised his hands.

  Chapter 57

  Washington, D.C.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, Dawson, Frankel, and their gray-suited attorney walked down the wide, tiled corridor in the dimly lighted courthouse.

  Dawson was angry and exhausted—angry that the Herald, even with the liberal-leaning Olivia Baldwin at the controls, would not run the story. His work had been sabotaged. But he and Frankel had fought back. They’d gone directly to the public with the story.

  His anger was somewhat softened by one of the newspaper’s lawyers, who’d shown up late last night and told them they’d be released in the morning. There was little left to do but try to get some sleep, the lawyer said. But for Dawson, sleep was nearly impossible. The plastic mattresses on their cell’s metal bunk beds had smelled of antiseptic. The metal toilet flushed noisily. Now Dawson ached for a shower, a change of clothes, and a cup of strong, black coffee. Through the thick glass of the doors he saw the scrum of news reporters waiting outside.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Frankel said. “I don’t like being the center of attention.”

  “I hear ya,” Dawson said.

  The lawyer paused at the door, then turned to face them. A sallow-faced man with thinning hair, he reminded Dawson of Richard Nixon. “Now remember, keep your remarks short and to the point. Don’t go off on Madsen or the government or the court. Okay? I’ll start with a couple remarks. Then you guys can talk. If you go overboard, I cut it off.”

  Dawson looked at Frankel, who nodded, and then at the lawyer, who grimaced as he leaned against the door and pushed it open. They strode into the daylight.

  A couple of steps out the door they were surrounded by reporters and cameramen who thrust a dozen microphones toward their faces. Reporters shouted out questions as the lawyer raised his hands for quiet.

  “My name is Jacob Sanborne, and I’m with the firm of Sanborne, Collins, and Wentworth. My clients here,” he said, turning to Dawson and Frankel, “have been released pending a review of the charges that have been erroneously brought against them. My clients are innocent, and we look forward to an opportunity to make our case in court.”

  “Do they have to reveal their sources, then?” a reporter asked.

  “That’s not the immediate issue here,” Sanborne said.

  “What is it then? Madsen’s office says Dawson threatened him.”

  “It’s basically a misunderstanding,” Sanborne continued. “My clients are journalists with impeccable reputations, as you know, and they are known for asking tough questions. On occasion, and under a line of probing questions, some people may think threats are being made, or even insinuated, when in fact they are not.”

  “If it was all a misunderstanding, then why was the Secret Service involved?”

  “You should ask them,” Sanborne said. “But I would suggest that since they are required to respond to any and all calls related to security in our nation’s capital, such calls must be taken seriously, even if it turns out to be a false alarm.”

  “Why was the story taken down from the Herald’s website?” a television reporter asked.

  “You should direct those questions to the newspaper’s management,” Sanborne said.

  “Do you stand by your story?” another reporter asked, looking at Dawson.

  Dawson stepped forward. “Of course. Each and every one of the allegations contained in the story is based on solid evidence and is fully documented.”

  “Are you out to get Madsen?” another shouted.

  Dawson swallowed hard at the question. Hell yes. He deserves it. But he couldn’t say that. At least not now. He shook his head. “That was never my intent. However, I came to possess critical information that shed light on the dealings of a man who could be the next president of the United States. The American public deserves to know as much as possible about every candidate so they can make an informed decision about who should lead this country.” Dawson scanned their faces. “I’ve worked with all of you. This is a tough business. It is our job to tell the truth, especially when it comes to the kind of information I encountered in the course of this investigation. If we do our jobs correctly, and hold our elected officials accountable for their action, then our country is better for it.”

  “This question is for Frankel,” another reporter called out.

  Frankel stepped forward and nodded warily.

  “Is the Herald going to print the story?” the man asked.

  Frankel shrugged. “I have no idea, but I hope so. I’ve been in this business for forty years. I’ve never seen a story that’s better documented.”

  * * *

  Reggie Butler dreaded this meeting. He’d been up most of the night working to get Frankel and Dawson out of jail. It now fell on him to fight on behalf of the newsroom. He wished Frankel was at his side. Frankel was good in these situations. Butler now had to face Murphy, Dixon, and Baldwin, the three people who controlled the company. They sat at the end of the Herald’s upper floor conference room, glowering silently for the second day in a row as the newspaper’s legal team briefed them on Dawson and Frankel’s release.

  “If they had just backed off like we asked, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Dixon said, flexing his jaw, his eyes red as he struggled to restrain himself. “So let me get this straight. They’ve been held in the U.S. federal district court cells overnight. But they were released not long ago this morning?”

  The lawyer nodded. “We negotiated their release under a stipulated agreement until their formal arraignment. They should be here soon.”

  “Frankly, I would have left them behind bars,” Dixon said.

  The lawyer’s cell phone vibrated on the table. He held it to his ear, listening intently. “Okay, thanks.” He hung up. “There were a lot of reporters outside the courthouse when they were released moments ago. Can you turn on the TV?” he asked, waving to the flat screen on the wall.

  Butler jumped up, retrieved a remote control, pointed at the TV, and pushed the On button. The screen slowly came to life. Butler flicked through several channels until he found a shot of reporters crowded at the base of the courthouse steps, then took his seat as they all stared intently at the scene.

  The face of a female co-anchor then filled the screen. “A reporter and an editor at the Washington Herald newspaper were taken into custody last night by federal agents. The reporter, Kyle Dawson, has been charged with threatening a presidential candidate, New Mexico Senator Micah Madsen, and with possession of classified material. The other man, Ed Frankel, the newspaper’s managing editor for more than a decade, has been charged with obstruction of justice and harboring a fugitive.”

  “The arrests have to do with a story posted by Dawson on the newspaper’s blog and on his Facebook page,” a male co-anchor said. “The Herald later removed the story, and the government was apparently able to convince the people at Facebook to do the same.”

  “What do we know about the story?” the female anchor asked.

  “The story, if true, could be very damaging to Senator Madsen’s campaign. He has made border security and an immigration crackdown a major part of his campaign. The story contains charges of corruption that link him with one of Mexico’s most powerful and notorious drug cartels. The story also claims that Madsen, his family, and his associates collected millions of dollars from what seems to be illegal cross-border trade. Some of this money is funding his campaign.”

  “Serious charges,” the female anchor said. “But both men were released this morning. What does the Herald say about all of this?”

  “The Herald’s management has refused to comment,” the male anch
or asked.

  “That’s strange because the Herald has a reputation for exposing corruption,” the female anchor said. “We look forward to finding out more. And now for a look at the weather.”

  Butler hit the mute button on the flat-screen TV, then looked at Dixon and Baldwin, each shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. Butler took a deep breath and could not restrain himself from smiling. He knew exactly which way the wind was blowing, and it was becoming a gale force blow. The story was out. The Herald had been embarrassed. They had to print it now. Frankel and Dawson had achieved what they wanted, whether the others in the room liked it or not. “We have no choice but to publish the story,” he said.

  Dixon turned to Baldwin. “I don’t like being pushed around, and that is exactly what Frankel and Dawson are doing.”

  Butler took a breath and pushed on. “People love a good scoop. That will never change. Even the TV anchors said they were looking forward to what we have. People are expecting us to print it.”

  Butler looked to Baldwin, who sighed deeply, looking at her hands.

  “The basics of the story are already out,” Butler said. “If we print it, then it shows we’re not willing to be pushed around by political power brokers.”

  “What do we say about the fact that it was up on our website then taken down?” Baldwin asked.

  “That’s simple,” Butler said. “We say we needed to check some final details. We won’t print a story until we’re certain of the facts.”

  Baldwin drummed her fingers on the table. “This story not only has all of Washington talking, it’s got the whole country talking. As much as I dislike how Frankel and Dawson have handled this, it’s put the Herald back on center stage.” Baldwin looked at each of the men in the room. “Get Frankel and Dawson in the newsroom right away. We’ll spend the rest of the day going through the story with a fine-tooth comb. We’ll post it on our website at midnight. Tomorrow we banner it.”

  “Shit!” Dixon said, slapping the table.

  * * *

  It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when a stack of newspapers was dropped on the city desk in the Washington Herald newsroom. Dawson sat in his chair, his boots on his desk, scrolling through the e-mails on his phone inbox. His head was swimming from a night of drinking. It had been his and Frankel’s reward to themselves after spending the day and much of the evening poring over every detail of the story, again, explaining the sources and references, with the two lead lawyers present the entire time.

  If the lawyers had had their way, little of what Dawson had written would be published. Too much legal exposure, they complained. But eventually they had to concede. Madsen was a public figure. He’d put himself in the public spotlight. Everything he had ever said or done was open to public scrutiny. And that is what the Herald was doing, Dawson argued. He’d won most of the arguments.

  Dawson lifted a couple of copies from the stack of newspapers. The front page headline read: MADSEN NAMED IN GUN, DRUG SCHEME. A secondary headline read: EDITOR AND REPORTER RELEASED FROM JAIL. Below the headline was a photo of Frankel and Dawson at the press conference. Dawson smiled, despite the throbbing in his head and the burning in his eyes.

  Chapter 58

  Washington, D.C.

  It should have been easy to watch Madsen take the fall, Dawson thought in retrospect. But it wasn’t. It was like watching a wounded animal die, one that’d been hit by a bad shot and was bleeding out, slowly and painfully. Not that Madsen had made it any easier for himself.

  The day the story was printed and despite a thumping head from the night’s drinking and lack of sleep, Dawson reluctantly went to Madsen’s presidential campaign headquarters for his retaliatory press conference. In the eyes of Madsen’s campaign staff, he would be enemy No. 1. They might try to block him from entering—or worse. He went for no other reason than to show he stood behind what he’d written. He was prepared to take whatever abuse they wanted to dish out. He paused outside and looked up at the exterior, festooned in red, white, and blue. A large sign over the entrance read: “Madsen for President, a Proven Man, a Proud American.” Yeah, right.

  Dawson walked with a group of reporters down a hallway and into a large room where microphones crowded a podium on a low stage. No one was checking press passes, which was unusual for Madsen’s tightly controlled campaign. Perhaps now it didn’t matter. Madsen’s campaign was crumbling. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. The backdrop of the stage was a large American flag, which glowed in the overhead stage lights. Dawson stood in the back of the room, partially hidden in the shadows, as Madsen stepped onto the stage and strode to the podium. Neither Trini nor Jodie Serna were in sight. Dawson wondered why. Rats scurrying from the light.

  Madsen smiled and waved, trying to put on a confident front, but it did little to cover the weariness in his eyes, apparently having been up late, his bloodshot eyes ringed with darkness. He somberly scanned the crowd, a man on the precipice of defeat. “Today the Washington Herald made an underhanded and deliberate attempt to destroy my campaign,” he said in a deadly serious voice. “I am confident, however, that in the end, the truth will come out.” The tenor of his voice picked up a notch. “The truth is that I am completely innocent. Come next Tuesday, the American people will reject these dirty tactics and will choose to elect me as their next president and put America back on the road to strength and prosperity. I know you didn’t come here to hear another campaign speech, so I’d be happy to take questions.”

  A reporter’s hand shot up, prompting a nod from Madsen. “The story in today’s Herald presents convincing evidence that millions of dollars were deposited in off-shore accounts for you and members of your staff and family. Are you saying that’s not true?”

  Madsen nodded. “I’ve been a long-time supporter of our brave men and women on the front lines of America’s war on illegal narcotics. As I tried to explain to the reporter from the Herald who wrote the story, these accounts were set up by the DEA as part of an extensive sting operation. My staff, my family, and I all voluntarily put our names on these accounts to help the operation by giving it an air of legitimacy. We were all unaware of the details until recently.”

  Another reporter’s hand shot up and again Madsen nodded. “Millions of dollars were funneled into these accounts. The documents show that. But what happened to the money?”

  Madsen smiled weakly and shrugged, lifting his hands. “I don’t know! That’s what I’m trying to make clear. The operatives of the DEA handled all of the details.”

  The reporters murmured, shook their heads in disbelief, and looked at each other skeptically. Their reaction made Dawson smile. Another reporter raised a hand. “What about the accusations that link you to the murders of a land developer as well as the head of the Borrego cartel?”

  At the mention of the word murder, the room fell silent. Dawson smiled again to himself. He wanted to hear Madsen’s answer.

  Madsen dropped his confident smile. “Those are heinous charges. That the Herald chose to link me to them is outrageous. Simply outrageous. I have a legal team looking into what can be done to protect me, my family, and this campaign against this scurrilous attack.” Madsen paused, gathering his thoughts. “To answer your question, I think it is obvious that these murders were the work of a rogue band of undercover operatives working in conjunction with the DEA. How and why these former criminals were involved with the DEA needs to be investigated. But I can assure you that while I sponsored legislation supporting these operations, I had no control over these details of who and how it was carried out.”

  Dawson had heard enough. He slipped his notebook into his coat pocket, turned, and ducked out the room before any of Madsen’s people realized he was there.

  That had only been the beginning of the end.

  A week later, on election night, Dawson, Frankel, and Butler, and a handful of other reporters, clustered in front of TV screens on the wall of the Washington Herald news room. They watched CNN’s Wolf Blitzer and John King stand in front o
f the network’s elaborate election-night sets.

  “Based on exit polls and early results, CNN is now prepared to declare that incumbent Barry Harris has been re-elected to a second term as president of the United States,” Blitzer announced. “Harris has defeated the challenger, New Mexico Senator Micah Madsen.”

  The camera switched to King. “This is one of the earliest predictions CNN has ever made in a presidential election.” King moved to one of the large screens depicting the states in red and blue. “Even though the polls have not yet closed in many Western states, exit polling makes it clear that Senator Madsen was unable to overcome the scandal that surfaced just last week, Wolf.”

  “That’s right, John,” Blitzer said. “The charges contained in the investigation by the Washington Herald have taken on a life of their own. Now there’s talk about an indictment by the Justice Department.”

  Dawson’s heart skipped a beat. Yes! He felt like punching the air with his fist. He couldn’t restrain a smile as half a dozen other reporters looked at him and nodded in approval. In the muted world of journalism, he thought, that was about as good of an endorsement as he was going to get. Frankel sauntered over to him.

  “Did you hear that?” Frankel asked. “An indictment against Madsen?”

  Dawson nodded. “The words have a nice ring to them, don’t they?”

  Frankel extended a hand. “Nice work. It took some doing, but we got it there, didn’t we?”

  Dawson shook his hand and held his gaze. “Thanks, Ed.”

  A couple of hours later, Dawson and the others watched as all of the TV networks went live to the dimly lighted hotel ballroom in downtown Washington. Madsen’s massive campaign staff and supporters crowded a cavernous ballroom. But rather than being in a celebratory mood, the faces were glum and the atmosphere somber.