by Dana Killion
“How’s your head?”
No such luck. I looked up from my screen. Erik stood there, leaning against the door frame, his body effortlessly filling the space. I still had serious reservations about our ability to work together as exes but I was locked in. Hell, we’d barely established a professional rhythm in the office as husband and wife before I’d filed for divorce. But I’d known the risks when I pushed Erik to give me a chance. Like it or not, Lane had called it. No one else was going to hire a journalist without credentials. I had taken advantage of an opportunity and needed to live with the consequences. My professional existence as a journalist was tied to Erik, and to Link-Media, until a major story could help me stand on my own.
“Still have a goose egg on my forehead, and the bruises will take a few days, but it’s manageable,” I replied, then focused back on my computer. “I’ll have the Midway privatization story wrapped this morning and send it over for your comments.”
He walked over to my side and tenderly pushed the hair off my face to inspect the damage. I pulled away knowing the staff could see us.
“And what a beautiful goose egg it is. I’ve been so worried about you, Andrea. To think what could have happened…” He seemed adrift in the possible outcomes. “Were you asleep yesterday when I called? Babe, I’ve been frantic thinking about you being alone.”
For a split second, I felt the old tug of affection, then forced myself to summon the image of finding Erik in the break-room with his hands up the skirt of our former copy editor three months ago. Nothing like reality to kill warm memories.
Sadness and regret for what we had lost washed over me as I looked up at him, as did renewed resolve for the mission at hand. One big story would allow me to cut the final ties I had with Erik, get a new job, and uncomplicate my life. It might even allow me to keep my apartment.
“Please stop calling me ‘babe.’ It wasn’t appropriate at the office when we were married, and it sure as hell isn’t appropriate, ever, now that we’re divorced.” I held his gaze, not wanting there to be any question of my thoughts on the subject.
Erik just flashed a crooked smile, leaned in, and placed his hand on my shoulder. “The divorce isn’t final yet.”
“Knock it off, Erik.” I shrugged off his hand. “Batting those baby blues at me doesn’t work anymore,” I said, knowing it wasn’t entirely true. Damn, just being in the same room was ratcheting up the pounding in my head. I stole a glance at the bottle of Advil on my desk.
“Old habits.” He shrugged, not letting up on the sly smile.
“Yeah, I know all about your old habits.”
That got him. The I’m-too-gorgeous-for-words look was gone, only to be replaced by wounded-puppy.
“You can always call it off,” he said, his voice now low and hopeful.
I held my tongue. We’d been through this too many times. He couldn’t change, and I couldn’t live with it.
My silence got him to switch gears. “Did you see the doctor on Saturday? What did she say? And what are you doing in the office? You shouldn’t have come in.” He grabbed my bag and swung my chair around to help me up, deciding I was too much of an invalid to be at work.
“Hold on.” I put my palm up. “I’m moving like a sloth and turning a little purple here and there, but nothing is broken. All I need is a comfortable chair and a computer. Besides, I’d be doing the same thing back at my apartment, but with the screech of a tile saw in the background.”
He shook his head. “All right, but I don’t like it. You get your cute little ass out of here if you feel at all wobbly.”
“Erik! Enough with the language.”
“Sorry.” He smiled that ridiculous, little-boy grin again. “Did Art speak to you? We’ve got a short follow-up piece on the shooting planned for today. I’d love a quote.”
I shot him my best “are-you-fucking-kidding-me?” look. “Maybe he didn’t think ‘babe’ could add anything newsworthy.”
“Andrea, give him a break. He’s a damn good journalist. He’s not adapting to digital as fast as we’d like, but you two need to figure out how to work together. There’s a lot you can learn from him.”
“And I’m sure he’s dying to play teacher. Don’t be naive, Erik. Collaboration is not in that man’s DNA. He treats me like I don’t know how to spell ‘journalist’. He treats everyone—other than you, that is—like we’re his personal file clerks.”
“Well, the two of you need to stop being children and figure it out.”
His words stung, but even to my own ears, I sounded whiny and petty. I’d never have spoken to my boss in that tone as an assistant state’s attorney. I wanted to blame it on my injuries, but that was only partially true. Whether I wanted to face it or not, my self-created career vulnerability occasionally oozed out of its shell and bitch-slapped me in the face.
I nodded in agreement as Erik stepped toward the door, but would have felt better if I had any confidence that Borkowski would be receiving the same reprimand. Once again it was up to “the girl” to make nice.
“Before you go, I thought we should talk about the highway shootings. I know Borkowski’s been covering the story, but I think I can add a new angle. A firsthand account is compelling.”
“He’s got this,” he said, shaking his head. “Same story we’ve been hearing for years. It’s rampant South Side gang violence escalating. The only new angle is that CPD has allowed it to get out of hand. They’ve turned over control of the prison to the inmates.”
I cringed at the insensitive comment, but didn’t trust myself to keep my attitude contained, so I said nothing as he left. Flipping back to my laptop, I sent Borkowski a short summary of my experience, then shifted my thoughts off the highway shootings and pulled up my draft on Mayor Rendell’s mysterious bank account bump. The announcement of a gubernatorial run was only a rumor at this point. I assumed the bad optics of releasing that information hours after a third shooting was holding them back.
If I could connect those funds to the campaign, my piece would add an interesting wrinkle to the election coverage. I placed another call to a possible lead on the money trail, leaving a third message, then dialed the mayor’s office for a comment.
The press liaison I was transferred to dutifully gave me a non-answer, so I asked to be patched through to Owen Platt, the deputy mayor. Platt’s long-standing political career had involved over a decade in the Office of Policy and Strategic Planning, where he rose to Deputy Director before being tapped by Rendell to fill the number two position three years ago. Shrewd, calculating, and connected so deeply into the fiber of city government, that he was the grease that made Rendell’s administration hum. No one was more intimately acquainted with the inner workings of Chicago government than Platt.
After a brief hold listening to pre-recorded community announcements, a gatekeeper-type came on the line. I identified myself and the purpose of my call. Instead of the polite brushoff I expected, she asked me to wait while she checked his availability.
“This is Owen Platt.” A voice thick and smooth like crème brûlée came on the line. “Do you mind if I call you Andrea? We have so many mutual acquaintances I feel as if we’ve already met.”
“Not at all. I understand you and Erik cross paths occasionally.”
The men had known each other casually, intersecting at political functions and business gatherings over the years. In the early days of EMco—a data-encryption company Erik founded, ran for eight years, and then sold for a healthy seven-figure number—Platt had introduced Erik to a hedge fund manager who later became a key board member.
“Yes, Erik and I do find ourselves at the same functions occasionally. It’s a shame those paths have not yet included you. We’ll have to change that. What can I help you with, Andrea?”
Platt’s polished, politically savvy approach was legendary. He was the say-the-right-thing, get-the-job-done guy behind the mayor. But in Chicago, that slick veneer came with well-filed incisors. Whisper sweet nothings in
one ear, while holding a key project for ransom in the other. That’s how it was done. And Platt was a master.
“I’m calling to ask about your boss. We hear that Mayor Rendell intends to make a gubernatorial bid.”
A throaty laugh bounced back at me.
“An interesting idea, isn’t it? After eight years of disastrous conservative fiscal policies down in Springfield that have left this state begging, we could have a candidate who has actually balanced a budget without decimating social programs.”
“Is that a confirmation?” I asked, ignoring the artificially rosy campaign rhetoric.
“Andrea, you are delightful.” Again the laugh. “At the present time, I can neither confirm nor deny. But given our connections, I’d love to explore this further. Come see me tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll have something juicier for you then.”
5
Thirty minutes later I could still feel the oiliness of Platt’s innuendo like a coating on my skin. I stared blankly at my notepad, ostensibly having set out to brainstorm additional leads to the mayor’s money trail. Nothing. Ideas and time had vanished as the storm surge in my head threatened to crest two hours before another dose of meds was advisable. Closing my eyes and resting my elbows on the desk, I applied pressure to both temples, and willed the pain away.
The conversation with Erik floated back. Damn! My moods around him still swung from disgust to tolerance to warm memories, and I didn’t know how to stabilize them. Even if he was legitimately concerned, his honey, baby, sweetheart shit was doing nothing to help my professional credibility. I knew Lane was right; I had to make this job work. The only thing that was going to get me out from under the shadow of being the boss’s wife was a kick-ass story. Shadowing Borkowski like I was some college intern nibbling on his crumbs, might be Erik’s idea of fast-tracking my career, but it also involved a couple of decades of humiliation and groveling. I had neither the time nor the patience. I needed to make it happen on my own, and soon.
“What truck ran you over? I thought you were spending a quiet weekend at the beach?”
Brynn Campbell, my part-time summer intern, stared at me from the doorway, a venti cup of something highly caffeinated permanently welded to her hand. Somehow the girl seemed to exist on coffee and Cheez-Its. Her tawny skin glowed despite the junk food diet, still I wanted to slip a bottle of One-A-Day’s onto her desk for good measure.
Brynn was a recent graduate of Northwestern University, where she double-majored in journalism and computer science. Inside her compact twenty-three-year-old body lived the soul of a forty-five-year-old librarian. Outstanding at research, she’d come to her job interview having prepared an entire dossier on Link-Media. The summary also included Erik’s history at EMco, as well as information on my previous career as an assistant state’s attorney. She’d even analyzed my major cases. I hired her on the spot. I’d seen enough of the usual bubbly young things without a brain in their adorable little heads that typically gravitated toward journalism, expecting to be paid for looking cute and posting selfies on Instagram. Perky annoyed me.
“I had a quiet weekend all right, just never made it to Michigan.” I motioned for her to take a seat. “Car accident. I was in that mess on the Dan Ryan on Friday afternoon.”
“Seriously?”
“Just bumps and bruises.”
“Damn! It’s been all over the news. Another sniper hit, and you were there. Wow. You’re doing the story, right?” she asked, pushing up the sleeves of her Oxford shirt and taking a long swig of coffee.
“Nope. Borkowski’s still on it. I shot him a couple lines on my experience, which he probably ignored. I’ve been shut out.”
Brynn looked up from her cup, eyebrows raised. I shook my head. No need to rehash our mutual opinion of the man. She had already developed evasive maneuvers to avoid Borkowski’s constant requests for help with filing and coffee fetching.
“Give me a second,” I said to Brynn, tapping a couple of keys on my computer. “His piece should have just posted. Let’s see what the ‘Master’ had to say.”
Short, fact-based, utilitarian. He’d gotten the job done in about four paragraphs of text, but having been in the middle of it all, none of the horror, fear, or the agony, had been captured. It had the emotional engagement of a textbook. Wasn’t he curious about the shooter? Was it the same guy or a group? What was the motive? Why these victims? Who were their families?
“Dull and lifeless?” Brynn asked, interpreting my expression.
“He sure hasn’t posed any of the questions running through my mind.”
“He seems to be struggling with how to tell a story in a screenshot versus an old-fashioned two-page spread. Or maybe he doesn’t think the subject matter is big enough for him—at least not big enough for the reporter he is in his own mind,” Brynn said.
“We have national press hovering on the sidelines, painting this town as a crime capital, despite CPD’s feigned attempt to show control of the situation. It’s sounding more and more like the official PR machine is cranking at full speed and soft-pedaling reality. How can that story not be big enough to push more aggressively? There’s more life in an obituary column.” I closed the page in disgust. “I put in my pitch to Erik for an insider segment, but he shot me down. So, like it or not, you and I are going to stay focused on the Midway story and Rendell’s money trail.”
After discussing the to-do list with Brynn, I shifted gears. My Midway story had taken an interesting turn this morning with the report of an officer-involved shooting. Apparently a confrontation between some protestors and a police officer became physical. Guns were drawn, and a protestor had taken a bullet to the leg. There had to be more sludge to that one. An administrative contact from my years with the State’s Attorney’s Office could give me what the press liaison wouldn’t.
Before reaching for the phone, I reviewed my notes, but my mind was still wrapped around the highway shooting. Maybe it was the flashbacks to the dead man’s face; maybe it was my bruised chest that roared with every move; maybe it was Erik telling me no. Whatever it was, I couldn’t seem to shake the tragedy loose from my thoughts. Succumbing to curiosity, I pulled up the news coverage.
The reporting was as thought it would be: a territory feud between the Black Disciples and the Gangster Disciples. And the subtle suggestion that young men were being forced to kill as part of their initiation or proof of loyalty. CPD had used that explanation after a GD took credit for the first shooting on Facebook. Civilians were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Gang violence had been part of the South Side’s history for decades. More recently, the economic collapse of 2008 had initiated a storm of hardship. Hospitals had closed. Schools had closed. A full-service grocery store was miles away by bus. With jobs and basic services eliminated from these neighborhoods, gang life was often the only option for far too many young men.
Whether the bleeding of neighborhood resources and basic amenities were a contributing factor to gang proliferation, didn’t seem to matter as long as economic hardship and its consequences were confined. Put those complex problems in a box where the average white middle-class Chicago resident could read the headlines and think about it as someone else’s problem.
Young black men were dying every day just because they had walked down the wrong street, with barely an acknowledgement from the rest of the city. The death toll made the news, but where was the outrage over a generation being born with a gun in hand? What about the outrage over the destruction of those young lives?
But kill a couple of tourists on their way to Navy Pier? Well, that got noticed.
Enough. It wasn’t my story. I closed the browser and reached for the phone.
“Jacqui, it’s Andrea Kellner. How’s life at CPD these days? You ready to give up the glamour and riches of government life?”
Jacqui Torres had been an administrative assistant, whipping police detectives into shape, for thirty-five years. No one got a pass from her. Sloppy, incomplete
reports were met with a scolding that took grown men back to their Catholic school days. Like a good cop, she was both feared and respected. She also knew everything that was going on behind the scenes.
“Are you kidding? And give up the in-office mani-pedis and daily massage breaks? Hell no!”
“I see you haven’t lost your gift of sarcasm. How’s that worthless husband of yours?”
“Mean and lazy. I should have divorced him twenty years ago. Too late now. I guess I’ll keep him around. The roof needs replacing,” she said. “And how’s that sweet piece of ass you’re married to?”
“Full of bullshit as always.” It was our typical banter. I didn’t bother to let on that my playful spouse bashing actually had teeth behind it these days.
“Well, he is a man. So, is this a social call, or have you come to your senses and returned to the State’s Attorney Office? ‘Cause I got a problem with the last twit they sent over.”
“I’m afraid not,” I laughed. “I’m still pushing a pen in the private sector.”
Jacqui and I were still dancing around the boundaries of our new relationship, and I probed a bit for dirt on the Midway situation, pushing as far as I felt I could. Jacqui would slap me down if I stepped over the line. She filled me in on the details. As she described the physical aggression of one of the protestors, it sounded to me like the victim was lucky he only got it in the leg. Not that even a justified shooting was going to play well for the officer, given Chicago’s hypersensitive political climate. And the national media’s hunt for these stories, as well.
“What are you hearing about Friday’s shooting on the Dan Ryan?” The question tumbled out before I could debate myself.
“Oh, my lord, everyone over here is in one pissy mood. The Mayor’s Office is knocking heads. The vise is tightening on our favorite superintendent, and you know what that means for the rest of us. CNN is planning some big story on how gangs are controlling the city, the AMA is threatening to pull its September convention at McCormick Place, and your people are camped outside of police headquarters with cameras and microphones like we’re giving away money. This is not a happy place.”