by Tiana Cole
“Hello. Derek Johnson,” I greeted.
The voice was the same as the previous two calls.
“Tsk-tsk, Dr. Johnson. The Tribune published some nasty allegations against you yesterday. Probably the first of many.”
The truth pushed at my chest, wanting to make its way out, to scream in this guy’s ear. I pushed it back and affected a nervous, regretful tone. “Yeah, I saw that. I can’t believe those guys.”
“Awful, what the media can twist around, isn't it?”
“Yes,” I sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I really feel like my hands are tied. I mean, it’s the paper, right? Once that stuff is printed it doesn't go away.”
Was I laying it on too thick? I didn't have Denise’s finesse for this kind of thing. My palms grew sweaty and I could only be thankful I wasn't having the conversation face-to-face.
“You’re right, Derek. Even if you were able to prove your innocence—which it sounds like Ms. Willard has quite a case stacked against you—the initial article will remain in circulation for anyone to read on the internet.”
Tired of the dancing, I cut straight to the point.
“What do you propose that I do? I mean, I recognize your voice. You’ve called here twice asking me to share my research with your employer. Now it seems you people have me where you want me. What’s the next move?”
I definitely didn't have Denise’s finesse. The man on the other end was silent for a moment before letting out a long, slow breath.
“You don’t beat around the bush, do you, doctor?”
“Who do you work for?” I asked, then blurted, “Rashid?”
The pause drew out one more second. “Why do you say that?”
“Only because you've been sniffing around my hospital,” I answered. Best to leave the Tribune out of it.
“Don’t you think you should meet my employer in person, Dr. Johnson?”
There it was. What Denise wanted. When had she said her column comes out? Wednesday? Or was it Thursday?
“Yes, I do,” I replied, then forced out a resigned sigh. “Might as well.”
“Excellent.” The man’s voice was considerably lightened now that he had me pegged. “Let’s set up a time and place, then.”
“Thursday,” I said. “Let’s do this on Thursday.”
With any luck on Denise’s end, I’d never make that meeting.
Chapter 25
Denise
Lucky and I talked only of the tax lawyer on the way to the financial district. By some unspoken agreement, we’d keep our business out of the company car.
After the meeting with the candidate, however, we tucked away in an innocuous sandwich shop and hammered out our plans for the next day—Wednesday.
“The question is, Denise, are you going to have the article done?”
“Of course! Do you think this is my first deadline?”
I pinched small pieces of wheat bread into my mouth while Lucky eyed me warily. “And what about Derek? Have you told him what you’re doing?”
“Not completely.”
“What if Rashid calls him again?”
“I told him to play along. Which reminds me…” I pulled my phone from my bag. “I felt this thing buzz during that… wait, yes. He texted me. Meeting set up for Thursday.”
Lucky grinned. “Perfect. This will all be over by then.”
“Do we have someone in Layout and Copy?”
“We do,” he answered with a mouth full of BLT. “I think it’s actually going to work.”
***
That night I sat at my kitchen table and started working on my end of the deal. Lucky and I had returned to the office and buzzed around like dutiful little bees while Skip watched, smug and self-satisfied, from his office. Lucky edited the photos of the tax lawyer while I worked up a thousand words of copy on her. When Skip and I made eye contact I scowled at him, but I did his bidding and that’s what he wanted.
Safe in my apartment, however, I was about the blow the whole place to hell.
As I worked I thought about touching base with Derek again, but I knew my feelings for him were muddling what I was trying to accomplish at the moment. He didn't appear angry at me anymore, but seemed as though he’d decided that our relationship couldn't bounce back after such a mess. Was he right? I didn't know. I was resolved to clean up the mess for him as well as I could. Maybe then we could get back to where we’d been, or at least start over.
Still… my hand instinctively went to my abdomen. It couldn't exactly be starting over from the beginning. At the very least, I’d made a doctor’s appointment at Lucky’s repeated nagging for the following week. Maybe by then things would be clearer.
My phone beeped at ten, reminding me that I should go to bed. Just another step towards being responsible and healthy as a pregnant woman. My other efforts at healthier eating had reduced my vomiting, but I was still entertaining low-level nausea just about all of the time.
Bedtime would have to be pushed back; my article wasn't finished yet and I had one more day of play-acting at the office.
24 HOURS LATER
Derek
That night I drove to my apartment to fix a meal and attempt to sleep in my bed, but I couldn't. Denise had told me she’d take care of her editor on Thursday, which was a few short hours away. Moreover, my cells were at the critical early stage in the experiment, the part when they may not even make it long enough to get cancer. Often they destroyed themselves just from the process, and there was nothing to be done except watch the dishes constantly while wringing one’s hands. After lingering at home and not sleeping, I thought I could at least sit at the lab and wring my hands some more.
Leaving off my khakis and stiff oxford shirt—my literal uniform five days a week—I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt for my midnight drive. Fall had really and truly come, at least in the evenings. Before long we would be freezing our noses off from the icy lake winds.
On the drive in I couldn't help myself. I texted Denise despite the hour.
How is everything going?
She was up, and her response was nearly immediate:
In general or specifically?
Specific. Everything is in place. Handling a few last-minute details.
Are you being safe?
Safe as houses.
So you’re saying I don’t have to go to this meeting tomorrow with the guy from Rashid?
It took her a few minutes to reply to that.
Derek, if all goes according to plan, Rashid and whatever thug that’s been calling will run away from you screaming for years to come.
I chuckled out loud in my car.
Wow. That’s thorough.
I do what I can.
It was silent for a minute. I was speaking the texts into my phone, so I wondered if the translation was off until she texted again:
Derek, what will happen with us?
I honestly didn't know. I gave her the best answer I could:
Give me time, Denise.
Okay.
Good luck tomorrow.
Thanks.
Chapter 26
Denise
What happened was this: Lucky and I behaved like perfect children, writing copy and editing pictures for a boring story about a tax lawyer uptown. We submitted our work to Skip, were praised for our obedience, and sent down to Copy and Layout to get it all in the Thursday edition for my column. We did all of those things, of course, because Lucky and I were, essentially, disobedient children.
At the end of the day, when the office trickled to empty and Skip watched like a glorified Roman emperor, Lucky and I left along with everyone else to high-fives and congrats for a job well done.
Around nine, Skip left the office for the night after meticulously checking with Copy and Layout to ensure that what he wanted to get printed was happening in the basement. Satisfied, he left the office and drove his BMW out of the garage and over to the Lakeshore, where he was scheduled to attend a cocktail party at the home
of somebody-or-other very fancy and influential. Lucky and I watched this from the Starbucks across the street; as soon as Skip left, Lucky followed to keep an eye on him all night.
“Good luck, Denise,” he told me as he climbed into his nondescript, beat-up car that Skip would certainly never notice.
“Thanks, Lucky. You didn't have to be on my side here. I know it’s muddled.”
His eyebrow ring glinted as he raised his brows at me. “No, it’s really not, Denise. Now go.”
As Lucky pulled away from the curb I went back into the Trib office and made friends with his buddies, one Dave and Lyle, who worked in Copy and Layout and had agreed, by whatever means Lucky had promised, to take out the article on the tax lawyer and replace it with one I’d written about Skip and Rashid Pharmaceutical.
I actually watched as they worked; with no knowledge of the print machine or what goes into the physical construction of the newspaper, I’d have had no idea what to do if I had to go this alone. Something about how old and revered the Tribune was worked in our favor, however. As the oldest paper in the Midwest, we were built on tradition. Sure, we had a website and online content, but we had pride, and pride meant we printed our own paper in the basement of our office like it’d been done for close to a hundred years. It was bullshit to an extent, but also very helpful. Web content could be erased, deleted. The paper, once printed, was for life.
“Two questions, Miss Willard,” Lyle said as he arranged copy on the digital print block. “One, will I get fired?”
Ah, yes. Wouldn’t we all get fired? Lucky was supposed to have dealt with that question.
“Lyle, I'll be honest. It’s possible. What you’re doing isn’t illegal, but it’s against Skip’s wishes. But, if we’re lucky, Skip won’t be around to fire anyone tomorrow.”
That was because I had placed a call to the paper’s CEO—Marilyn Franklin, a very wealthy Chicago newswoman and terrible battle-axe. While her assistant would not let me speak to her directly, I left a message to the effect of, “Skip is doing something you won’t like. Read all about it in my column tomorrow!”
It was clichéd, yes, but so was the news industry.
“What’s your second question, Lyle?”
“Just that, Lucky explained what you’re doing, clearing Dr. Johnson’s name and all, but did you know that Danny’s column has another article about the doctor ready to run tomorrow?”
“What?” I shoved Lyle out of the way and scoured the digital print of Thursday’s edition. Sure enough, Skip had basically steamrolled Danny into taking Derek’s story to a whole new level. This time, the doctored photo appeared with further lies about Derek and his illicit activities. This was worse than Monday’s column. It had the photo, yet was so beyond illegal that Skip had to be losing his mind, that rat bastard.
“Pull it,” I ordered Lyle. “And replace it with my article on the lawyer that you just pulled.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do you want the Trib to get sued?”
His hands went up. “I don’t want to do any of it. I’m out. This is a shit storm.”
He had that right. “Fine,” I said. “You show me what to do and I'll do it. My hands, not yours. Nobody has to know.”
Lyle and Dave both considered my offer and found it amenable. It was another hour of work, but sometimes if you want something done well, you had to do it yourself.
It was finished and ready to print just before midnight. I was slower than the guys, certainly; moreover, I’d stopped to answer Derek’s texts along with Lucky’s. It was a comfort to know that, according to Lucky, Skip had sucked down two gin fizzes and retired to his apartment just after twelve.
“Gentlemen, I thank you,” I said to Dave and Lyle. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We never saw you, Miss Willard,” Dave replied with an exaggerated wink.
I shook hands with them both. “You guys call me Denise.”
They started the print run and I watched as truth printed out of the machine in great piles. In a few hours, the morning crew would arrive to bind the stacks and take them out into the city. I couldn't leave now. I had to stay and make sure it all finished well.
In the meantime, I snuck upstairs to Skip’s office and, using my skeleton key, quietly stepped inside. I worked the incriminating file out from under the Persian rug and stared at it again. He’d entered another amount in it since Monday; probably an extra payment for Derek’s slander. I shook my head and pulled it from the file. The ledger went directly into my messenger bag. In its place I slid an identical ledger inscribed with a personal message to Skip.
I’d written, on every page, “Screw you, bastard.”
In my own handwriting.
I mean, maybe it was a little melodramatic, but so was the news industry.
Derek
I was still asleep on the couch in my office when Logan unlocked the door and walked in. It wasn't the first time that Logan had encountered me asleep on the sofa in my office. It was, however, the first time he’d even seen me in a pair of jeans.
“Whoa,” I heard him whisper from the doorway.
“Close the door,” I mumbled.
I heard the door latch.
“I didn't know you owned jeans, Dr. Johnson,” he intoned with a measure of gravity. I could relate.
“Did you get the paper?” I asked suddenly, remembering that it was Thursday. I sat up on the couch and rubbed my eyes.
Logan’s hands were full, but I did see the Tribune rolled up under his arm. With an unceremonious lift of his elbow, the paper dropped onto the floor at my feet before he proceeded into the lab. I smirked and took the Tribune into my hand. Before opening it I took a long, deep breath, then I opened it and searched for Denise’s column.
As soon as the headline jumped out at me, I almost wept.
Tribune Recants Slanderous Article on Chicago-based Doctor and Researcher
Monday’s article, which discussed the allegedly illicit activities of city doctor Derek Johnson, was a complete fabrication, and moreover, a ploy to blackmail Dr. Johnson into collaborating with the paper’s unpublicized financial partner, Rashid Pharmaceutical. This scheme, perpetrated by the Tribune’s Editor in Chief, included taking financial assistance from Rashid in exchange for publishing slanderous articles regarding Dr. Johnson in hopes of forcing the doctor into a research partnership…
It went on, and included a photo of the ledger Denise told me about a few nights before when she showed up in my lab. It was, in a word, scathing. Also brilliant. The article was mainly focused on Skip and his wrongdoings, but towards the end she did spare a few lines to discuss the accusations against me.
Regarding Monday’s column about Dr. Johnson, the truth is that those charges were fabricated. On the contrary, this reporter found Dr. Johnson’s work not only legal, but inspiring and a great contribution to those that have been or may yet be affected by the new strain of cancer known as ‘Leukemia-A.’ On behalf of the Tribune, this reporter apologizes for the comments printed in Monday’s column.
The weight that had slowly been lifting from my chest was fully gone, and for the first time since Monday morning I felt I could breathe again. A sigh caught in my throat. She had done it.
However, I’d hate to be in the Trib office.
Chapter 27
Denise
The Trib office was something else that morning.
I stayed, of course. After patting my stomach and telling my unborn child that I’d promise to be a good mother tomorrow, I found a soft place in the basement and watched the print run. When the dawn staff came in to bind the stacks and send them into the city, I watched with glee. After that I made my way across the street to grab a coffee and a scone in hopes that it would stay down. I sat in the front window of the Starbucks and watched for Skip’s BMW, nibbling and sipping while knowing that, even if I lost my job and Skip somehow won, I’d done the right thing.
And Derek? Well, we’d see about that.
W
hen the navy blue sedan slid into the parking garage, I took my coffee cup and crossed the street with my head held high. As I passed through the basement, Dave and Lyle slid sly winks in my direction. I ascended the stairs slowly since even the early stages of pregnancy are tiring. At the top of the stairs I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Lucky was the first person I saw. He grinned at me and passed me a small high five as I walked past him into my office. I had just gained my seat when I heard my name.
“Denise!” Skip roared from his office. A quake of fear shook me slightly, but I swallowed it down and followed the sound of his bellow. My head was on the chopping block apparently. Just a few steps away from his office door, however, the elevator doors slid open and Marilyn Franklin stepped onto the floor. For those that noticed her, they fell silent and watched with wide eyes. The rest of the staff continued as normal.
She saw me immediately. Our eyes met, separated by fifteen feet of old wood and the door into Skip’s office. “You’re responsible for this?” she asked in a cold tone.
I hooked my thumb towards Skip’s doorway where he’d appeared; his face was pale as he looked from Marilyn to me and back again.
“No, ma’am. He’s responsible. I just told on him.”
Her lip quirked upwards and she nodded. “Quite right,” she said, and flapping a dismissing hand at me, marched into Skip’s office. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
ONE WEEK LATER
“And how’s the nausea?”
My doctor was elderly and kind, with none of the stern, disapproving ways that I’d feared. On the contrary, he was more like a grandfather. I’d scheduled an appointment with a younger, female doctor, but when I’d arrived at the office I was told she’d had to rush out to deliver a baby.
Which, I guess, was a fine excuse.
Her partner, Dr. Jacobson, turned out to be fantastic.
“It’s getting better,” I answered, reclining on the padded table with a sigh. “As long as I eat something small every hour, drink a ton of water, and get a lot of rest.”