The Red Files

by Lee Winter

  I could come with you, a small part of Lauren’s brain cried out. And yet the flat, distant tone told Lauren with sickening certainty that she’d been deluding herself to think whatever this was had more than one night in it.

  How stupid could she be? To think someone like Catherine Ayers would want more from someone like her.

  Ayers turned to resume her gazing out the window.

  “I’ll get my stuff and get out of your hair,” Lauren snapped, embarrassed at her foolish hopes. “It’s been…an experience…working with you.”

  Ayers didn’t reply. Didn’t even bother to turn.

  Bitch, Lauren’s brain offered with a snarl.

  Sexy bitch, her lower brain supplied helpfully.

  * * *

  “Holy fucking crap,” Frank said. The news boss was thumping his chest in a way that didn’t exactly look healthy. But his face was incandescent with excitement. “Jesus’s donkey at a disco,” he added for good measure. He slapped down the printout in front of him. Lauren had emailed him their new story, a collaboration done via a curt exchange of emails, and he’d ordered them both in to discuss it.

  “You weren’t kidding me, were you? Now this is a killer page one splash.”

  His eyes darted from Lauren to Ayers and back again. “You showed the editor this yet?”

  “Yes,” Ayers said. “Neil’s reaction was much the same. Except for one thing. He said we can’t run it.”

  Frank’s knuckles whitened, strangling his pen. “Yeah. Fucking Boy King got wind of your yarn. How the hell did that happen? Who talked?”

  “One of the men in suits, most likely,” Ayers said. “Don’t ask me which agency. We’ve lost track.” Her voice was low and cold. Even Lauren, used to all her moods by now, felt the chill off this one.

  “Well we have a problem now, don’t we?” Frank grumbled. “We could have pulled this off if Harrington didn’t have a clue. He’s sent me a memo—anyone who writes so much as a brief with the word SmartPay in it will be marched out of here.”

  “He can’t fire everyone,” Lauren protested. “That’s crazy.”

  “Can if he wants.” Frank mulled it over for a moment. “But it wouldn’t be the brightest move if he wants to still put a paper out.”

  Lauren checked the clock. It was one. Their editorial deadline was six. And the paper’s presses would start rolling just before ten.

  “We still have time,” she said. “We just have to get everyone in editorial behind us. We tell them what the story is about, and we count on them to all back it. If everyone stands up to him, he won’t fire us all.”

  Ayers coughed.

  “What?” Lauren asked.

  “That’s…optimistic,” she drawled.

  “Are we or are we not in the news business? Supposedly dedicated to getting at the truth,” Lauren snapped. “Are we not all about putting the story first? I think someone once told me that was important.”

  “Not everyone will share your idealism,” Ayers countered. She turned to Frank, eyebrow cocked. “Or am I wrong?”

  “Mmph,” he grunted. “You’re both right. And I’m willing to put it to the test. We’ll call a meeting. Spell it out to the whole floor. But it has to be unanimous. All in or none in.” He eyed them both skeptically. “Better hope one of you has a silver tongue.”

  Lauren glanced at Ayers. “Catherine’ll do it.”

  Ayers’s head whipped around to glare at her. “Me? I’ve already made it clear I don’t have much faith in a room full of journalists having the greater good at heart. Trust me, I know people will only let you down if it’s not in their own interests to be brave.”

  “That’s why it should be you to talk to them,” Lauren argued. “Coming from you, it’ll make them think that if even the infamous cynic Catherine Ayers backs it, then it has to be something worth getting behind. And it’s not like I can argue anything—even the handful of people who know who I am don’t respect me. I’m just that girl who writes about parties.”

  “She’s right,” Frank said. “You’re the only hope of getting them to put their necks on the line and ignore their own publisher.”

  “Well,” Ayers muttered, “expect me to say I told you so later.”

  Lauren looked at her, unimpressed. “Don’t bury us yet.”

  Ayers rolled her eyes. “What time do we do this?”

  “I’ll get the departments all in here for two,” Frank said. “That give you enough time to come up with a pitch to make it seem worth risking their jobs?”

  Ayers said nothing. She didn’t need to. The doubt was clearly etched on her face.

  “Sure it will,” Lauren interjected with forced enthusiasm. “Thanks Frank.”

  He grunted. “Don’t thank me yet. Probably just delaying the inevitable. Now get outta here. I’ve got to think of a way to explain to the Boy King why his entire staff doesn’t deserve to be fired on the off chance you two actually pull this off.”

  Lauren shot him a grin. “See,” she said, “this place is drowning in optimism.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grunted and waved them out.

  * * *

  “What the hell have you gotten me into?” Ayers said testily at five minutes to two. She peered around the small, interview room they’d been using to prepare her speech. “Did you not remember the part where I told you how everyone turned on me in DC? The members of the fourth estate don’t care about the truth unless it helps them. Selflessness and journalism do not go together. Trust me.”

  “You’re underselling our colleagues,” Lauren said. “That was DC. This is LA. They might surprise you. And come on, this is the biggest story they’ll have ever seen. Sell them that—if it’s self-interest you think motivates them, spin them a line about getting some of the reflected glory.”

  “You know our intruder yesterday was probably right,” Ayers said tightly. “This will likely be very bad. We’ll make enemies in high places with this story.”

  Lauren stepped back, stunned. “And you’re afraid.”

  “Only a fool wouldn’t be. And we have good reason. But I’m not afraid for the reason you’re thinking.”

  Her phone began to ring.

  “Ayers,” she barked, her gaze still slicing into Lauren’s. She suddenly dropped her eyes as she listened. “What? When? Both of them? Are your men okay?” After a pause, she gritted her teeth and said, “Understood. Bye.”

  “What is it?”

  “That was my security company. Last night at a stop light, a pair of vans flanked them when they were taking our intruders to the police. Armed men, professionals, took the two prisoners. The security boss has been trying to track them and didn’t want to call before he did. He thinks now that the hostile vans match vehicles run by a private security contractor that often does certain specialized work for government intelligence agencies.”

  “You mean like Blackwater?”

  “They’ve been through a few name changes,” Ayers said. “But yes. Anyway he’s doubled the number of my guards, but he still seems worried.”

  “Then our best protection, hell, our only protection, is to print this now,” Lauren said.

  “Agreed. These agencies are more of a threat when they think there’s a chance of stopping the story. After the fact, they’ll just have us blacklisted while their experts snipe at us from a distance.”

  “That had better be a metaphor.”

  “I hope so, too.” She gave a tiny smile that fell away.

  Lauren wondered where that had been this morning. Ayers’s attention drifted back to her paperwork.

  There was a knock on the door, and Frank’s secretary stuck her head in.

  “They’re ready for you.”

  “Thanks Florence,” Ayers replied. She stood to full height, an air of confidence and resolve settling on her face.

  “Okay,” she said, tilting her chin up. “Let’s do this.”

  * * *

  The shocked looks on the faces of reporters, sub-editors, designers, s
ecretaries and photographers crammed into the editorial floor was almost comical, Lauren thought as she watched Ayers command the room, spelling out in crisp, no-nonsense tones what their spy scandal scoop involved. Frank and Neil framed her on either side, arms folded across chests—imposing sentinels offering silent support.

  When Ayers finished, Frank stepped forward.

  “We’re telling you this because we want to run this story tonight,” he said. “We have the proof. We’re ready. But our publisher has threatened to fire anyone who touches it. Neil and I have taken the decision to support whatever you all decide to do here next.”

  He stepped back and waved for Ayers to continue.

  “What we want to do is run the story,” she said, “despite the threat of us all being fired.”

  There was a murmur.

  “But we think it’s not fair,” she continued, “that the few people among us who happen to be in production roles should bear the whole burden of responsibility for our story. Why should only the sub-editors and designers be at risk? We are a newsroom. We live and die on this as one. We should all want the truth to be told and bear that risk together. We believe Harrington would never fire us all.

  “And make no mistake, this is the greatest story you will ever see in your careers. Do you want to be part of history? To be remembered as the news team who stepped up and broke the scandal in the face of a corrupt publisher.”

  “How is he corrupt?” one voice shouted.

  “He’s one of SmartPay’s top stockholders,” Ayers replied. She held up a document. “I’ve found that Harrington Jr. has seventeen percent of the stock in the company. If the price goes into free fall—and it will when this story runs—it will cost him millions. On the other hand, if SmartPay proceeds unchecked, he’s on the cusp of making multi-millions. Make no mistake; his ban on us publishing has nothing to do with national interests or security concerns. This is greed, pure and simple.”

  “Who gives a shit about that?” a voice called out from much closer. “What about us? We have mortgages. Kids. We can’t afford to risk being fired so you get one last chance to haul your trashed reputation back out of the gutter.”

  Lauren craned her head. Doug Daley. She snarled. There were more than a few nods around the room, agreeing with his sentiment.

  “So says a man who has to steal a story just to have any reputation at all,” Ayers retorted.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You took Lauren King’s parking corruption story and pretended you’d found it.” Her voice was cool, lip curling in disdain.

  There were disbelieving murmurs.

  “Is that true?” Neil turned on Frank, who shifted awkwardly.

  “Well…sort of,” Frank admitted in a low voice. “I gave King’s story to Doug because that’s his area of expertise.”

  “And then Daley sold it as entirely his own research,” Ayers concluded. “How many awards are you putting it up for, anyway?” she asked the local government reporter. “You’re a fraud. Your opinion is therefore irrelevant here.”

  Daley stared at her as though he wanted to rip her tongue out.

  Ayers took one look at him, and a predatory smirk twisted her lips, her eyes narrowing. She went in for the kill. “But just think, Daley, here’s your chance at last to have a hand in a story that will have this newsroom, and everyone in it, immortalised in history. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You can even lie to your reflection and tell yourself you broke it.”

  Lauren winced at the depths of the maliciousness. It might have been deserved, but it didn’t go unnoticed, and the editorial staff started to shift uneasily. She glanced at Ayers. Catherine was a creature of habit—vicious, cutting habit. And right now she was supposed to be bringing the newsroom around to her side, not reminding them of all the reasons they disliked her. She knew the staff accepted Daley far more than an outsider who’d made no effort to befriend them in the past eighteen months. At best Ayers tolerated them, and everyone in the room knew it.

  The murmurings were starting to sound sympathetic in his favor.

  “You see,” Daley said triumphantly, jabbing his finger toward the room. “They don’t want to follow you in anything. You’re just a bitter, dried-up, old has-been put out to pasture.” He spun around to the room and raised his voice. “All in favor of risking your jobs and your mortgages in the tightest job market journalists have ever seen on the hope the Caustic Queen’s risky vanity project pays off, raise your hands.”

  About half the hands in the room slowly went up. Some were wavering. Others, like Florence, had her hand up straight and tall, a determined look on the secretary’s face.

  “And those who want to vote for job security and not taking on the entire federal government and its national security assholes, raise your hand.” More hands lifted.

  “There you are then!” Daley said. “Your story’s buried and so say half of us. The smart half at least. This dangerous shit storm you’re trying to drag us into is over.”

  The group began to disperse, splintering into two halves. Those who’d voted no looked sheepish and didn’t make eye contact, huddling toward other no voters. The rest looked disturbed by their colleagues’ cowardice, and several muttered jibes could be heard.

  “Sorry,” Frank told Ayers quietly. He looked to Lauren. “You, too, kid. Had to be unanimous for it to work.”

  “Goddamned Doug Daley,” Lauren spat. “If it hadn’t been for him—”

  “Then it would have been the next person. Times are tough. The newspaper market is shrinking; Doug’s not wrong about that,” Frank sighed. He studied Ayers. “Guess you get to say that you told her so now.”

  For once he wasn’t being a smart-ass. Shoulders slumped, not waiting for an answer, he shuffled over to talk to Neil.

  Lauren felt sick to her stomach.

  “Maybe you should have been the one to speak after all,” Ayers told her quietly. “It seems cynics with a bad reputation can’t win anyone over. Maybe we needed your unsullied optimism in the end.”

  “I was so sure,” Lauren muttered. “I thought truth was all we needed. Story always comes first. And I believe that. I do.”

  “I know,” Ayers said. “You’re a believer and a fighter. Dangerous combination. You either lead the revolution or get killed trying.”

  Lauren’s phone rang.

  “King,” she said, not looking away from the Ayers’s sympathetic gaze.

  “He what?” she barked so sharply that Frank, Neil, and half dozen reporters in the general vicinity stopped and stared at her. “Okay. Thanks for the head’s up, Max.”

  “It’s our publisher,” she said. “Someone here told Harrington about the meeting.” Her eyes settled on the publisher’s elderly secretary who suddenly busied herself with shuffling papers around. “He’s on his way up to speak to the floor.”

  “Shit!” “Hell!” “Oh great!” reporters began speaking over each other, looking around quickly.

  “Think he’s going to fire us anyway?” one asked.

  “He can’t; I’ve got my alimony payment due. I’ll be toast if he does.”

  Ayers took out her cell phone and went to a corner for privacy as Lauren tried to calm them. They ignored her completely. Well, she was still a no one. She sighed.

  Ayers returned to her side. “I’ve called in some reinforcements. It might be enough.”

  Lauren frowned. “I thought we’d done all we could?”

  “I had one ally left, and I decided, well, I may as well go down having tried everything.”

  “Two allies left,” Lauren said pointedly.

  Ayers paused. “One valuable ally,” she corrected.

  Lauren stared at her. “Really? That was necessary?”

  “No, but factual. Truth isn’t always palatable, is it?”

  Lauren glared at her. “If this is about this morning—”

  “For god’s sake, do you have a one-track mind?” Ayers interrupted coldly. “But s
peaking of truth, I made a promise to destroy the Boy King, and I sincerely plan to keep it within the next fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  Paul Harrington Jr. strode into the middle of the newsroom. His Armani suit was showy and expensive, his tie bright red. His designer shoes—black, polished, and pointy—burned a trail across the news floor.

  “What is this?” he demanded, turning to address everyone. “Was my memo not clear? Anyone who runs a SmartPay story gets fired. Yet you all stop to discuss it? Am I the publisher here, or am I not the fucking publisher?”

  He sounded enraged, but even in his fancy suit he gave the impression of a little boy having a tantrum.

  “Yes Paul,” Neil said calmly, stepping up to him. “You are the publisher. Why don’t you step inside my office, and we can have a meeting about what took place just now and why.”

  “I think we should have it out, right here. I want someone to explain to me what happened.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Well?”

  “We voted,” Daley spoke up. “Not to run Ayers’s story.”

  Harrington’s head snapped around. “Voted. Like it was up to you people when I’d already said no?”

  Daley swallowed.

  “Well, let’s see it—show of hands. Who voted yes?” Harrington asked.

  The crowd shifted anxiously.

  “Come on, Paul,” Neil said soothingly. “You can’t ask them that. That’s not fair.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Disloyal ingrates on my payroll.”

  “Oh some of them are very loyal,” Neil snapped, clearly annoyed.

  “What?” Harrington glared.

  “Loyal to the truth.”

  “You’re in on this mutiny, too?” Harrington sized him up. He smiled. “Well they say management sets the tone. You’re fired.”

  The watching reporters murmured their growing disapproval, shooting the publisher outraged looks.