by Julie Kramer
Buzz looked disturbed. “Endings can be tricky. Sometimes fans think a game is over and leave early. Then the game turns.” He bent down so we were eye to eye. His gaze made me anxious. “You and me are just getting started. Certainly too soon to be talking about ending anything.”
I tried pushing past him to get to the door. But he pivoted and guarded it like we were on a basketball court and my escape path led to the hoop.
“Knock it off, Buzz. I have to get to the set.”
He pretended to be shooting a layup as he continued to block the door with his wide reach. “The buzzer hasn’t sounded yet, we got plenty of time.”
I didn’t answer, just tried acting bored.
“Get it? BUZZer,” he said.
Because of our proximity to a live television newscast, I wasn’t afraid for my life, but I was starting to fear Buzz. Some jocks have a sense of entitlement that comes from sold-out arenas.
“I bet you’d cheer when the BUZZer sounds.” He pressed up against me in what surely would be called a foul.
I weighed whether to kick his shin or knee him in the groin but decided the latter contact would only encourage him to think I was interested in touching that part of his body. Just as I kicked, the door opened and slammed him from behind.
Buzz swore, crunched over, and looked down at Clay Burrel’s cowboy boots.
“You two aces okay in here?” Clay asked. “I was just fixin’ to check my face.”
“I’m heading to the studio,” I said. “Take all the time you need.”
And as I left, I heard Clay give Buzz a high five and congratulate him on his game-winning shot.
After finishing my set piece, I headed past the assignment desk, the back way to my office, to avoid any lurking sports guests. On the way, I stopped to thank Clay for his timely intervention.
“The guy’s a jerk, and I was glad to get out of there,” I said.
Apparently the simple curiosity of a newshound made him open the green room door. “Never seen it closed before. Wondered what I was missing out on.”
So that night I decided to let first impressions be bygones, be friends with Clay Burrel, and stop trying to steal his headless homicide story. After all, we were both part of the Channel 3 family.
I even offered to buy him a drink, but he declined because he was already going out for a beer with Buzz.
“Sorry, little lady.” Clay smiled as he pressed his index finger against my forehead. “But he asked me first.”
I decided to forget being friends with Clay. Who needed him, anyway? Noreen was thrilled with my dine-and-dash story. So were the police.
Before the newscast even signed off, they’d received half a dozen calls, all claiming to know the identity of the meal moocher. And the best part was they all gave the same name.
John Borgeson was picked up that night and taken to jail.
I got his mug shot in time for the morning news the next day, then did a noon-news interview with a neighbor who described him as a quiet man who had kept to himself after losing his job as a bank loan officer a few months earlier.
A couple of the tipsters were former coworkers of his; others recalled him answering employment ads for their company. Apparently, whenever Borgeson had a job interview downtown, he would steal a meal, purloin sirloin, take steak … I had fun with the script, and viewers called in with more suggestions. David Letterman even included a joke in his late-night monologue.
Noreen gave me an I Told You So lecture. “See, Riley, it doesn’t have to take weeks or months to produce top investigations. Let’s hit the streets and find some more like this.”
I didn’t want to get into what would only be a pointless discussion about journalism’s role in “serving the public,” working for the “greater good,” and being a “voice for the voiceless.”
I just nodded and told her I’d do my best. And said a silent prayer that the news profession didn’t completely lose its swagger before going bust.
CHAPTER 31
((RILEY, LIVE))
CHANNEL THREE HAS LEARNED
THAT THE MAN KILLED IN THE
WIND FARM EXPLOSION IS ON
THE TERRORIST WATCH LIST.
With one connection, the blown-up body by the wind turbines became a major news story. Enough of the man’s remains remained to match his fingerprints to a name on a terrorist watch list.
Authorities released a photo of Lucas Harlan, the dead bomber, taken from an old passport or driver’s license. Dark eyes. Bald head. Couldn’t tell if it was natural or shaved. None of the farmers I spoke to recognized him. Yet something seemed familiar.
He was an American citizen, thus a domestic terrorist. But he’d also been tagged because he’d traveled to the Middle East about a decade ago and participated in what was now suspected of being a terrorist training camp.
He’d moved around the United States, never staying anywhere long. He often worked temporary office jobs, keeping under the radar. The Department of Homeland Security was asking anyone with information about the bomber to contact them.
Nick Garnett was on the case, handling questions at a news conference open to all media. I was disappointed not to get a one-on-one interview. He was introduced at the podium by Mr. FBI Guy, who summed up the importance of Operation Aeolus.
((GARNETT/CU))
OUR BEST EVIDENCE THAT
LUCAS HARLAN WAS A
TERRORIST IS HIS DEATH BY A
CELL PHONE BOMB …
NORMAL EVERYDAY
FOLKS DON’T TEND TO BLOW
THEMSELVES UP.
WHETHER HE HAD
ACCOMPLICES … REMAINS
UNDER INVESTIGATION.
The farmers were anxious, and I could understand why. Located in America’s flyover land, they’d never had big trouble before because they’d never had anything anyone wanted before. Now, because wind is a valuable resource, they felt like targets. All their bluster about fighting off Islamic extremists was gone.
Some told the wind company they wanted out. But Wide Open Spaces said it was too late. They had signed contracts. They had spinning turbines. They wanted their electricity.
Until now, the wind farm owners had given me the brush-off when it came to doing a sit-down camera interview. All I’d gotten was some walking video of them on-site and a short sound bite saying they were cooperating with the authorities in the investigation of the explosions. But now, with a feeling of mutiny in the wind, they wanted to come across as in charge. So they invited me to tour Wide Open Spaces headquarters.
“Before these bombings,” said the company manager, “our biggest challenge as an industry was getting electricity from the soybean fields to urban areas.”
“A new power grid is being planned for rural Minnesota,” his assistant said. “But now turbine security is diverting our attention and finances.”
They showed Malik and me a large computer monitor that had small wind turbine graphics across the screen that represented each of the real things. It resembled a war room, except instead of a map of nukes, they had windmills. Three flashed red. They appeared in the same geographic location as the blasts.
“We can watch if there are disruptions.” The manager pointed to the red flashes. “This is what happens if a turbine has a problem.”
“Except that’s after the fact,” I said. “Do you have any plans to prevent trouble?”
I could tell this was a question he dreaded.
He explained that law enforcement couldn’t constantly jam cell signals in the area, unless they had reason to believe a threat was imminent. And even then, terrorists could always use a cell phone timer to detonate the bomb without making an actual call.
Starting this week, Wide Open Spaces was bringing in patrol guards after dark. And hoping to hire an explosives-detection canine of their own. They felt going public with all their precautions would reassure the residents living around the wind farm and discourage troublemakers.
((WIND MANAGER SOT))
WITH THE DEATH OF THE
BOMBER, WE EXPECT THIS
MESS TO BLOW OVER SOON
AND OPERATIONS TO BE
BACK TO NORMAL.
National media were now interested in the explosions. The New York Times sent a reporter to do a “Troubles in Lake Wobegon” kind of story. And 60 Minutes had Katie Couric on the way.
When Malik and I arrived to interview the farmers and their families about living with fear, Malik’s presence behind the camera now made them nervous. Certainly they were less eager to be featured on TV than they had been earlier.
Then my dad told me about whispers around the neighborhood that Malik might be connected with the bombers and passing information to them.
“That’s crazy,” I said to anyone who would listen, dismissing that kind of talk.
I actually thought I’d done a good job of convincing folks about the folly of stereotypes and not to prejudge people, until something hit our van windshield at the only stop sign in town.
“What was that?” Malik said.
Another egg splashed the driver’s window, and we turned and saw my old schoolmate Billy Mueller with a proud smile on his face.
“Just ignore him,” I said.
“Easy for you to say,” Malik replied. “He’s basically calling me a terrorist based on my ethnic background.”
“I don’t think Billy is that sophisticated. I think he’s calling you a terrorist simply because your name sounds different from his. Malik Rahman. You know how messed-up the watch list is; for all we know, you’re on it.”
“I do have difficulty with airport security,” he acknowledged.
Over the last few years, it’s been widely reported that the government terrorist watch list is a joke, stacked with numerous duplicates, respected politicians, even children and dead people.
When word started to leak that the wind farm bombing victim/perpetrator was part of the terror file, I called the only real federal source I had, Nick Garnett, to see if it might all be a mistake. He took my call but kept the conversation all business.
“It’s a hit,” he said, verifying the rumors. Then he told me the time and location of the news conference and hung up.
These developments didn’t go over big in the Twin Cities Muslim community. (Minnesota has one of only two Muslim congressmen in the country.) Upset with any hint that Islamic extremists were behind the wind bombings, they protested the coverage outside the station, dismissing Lucas Harlan as a Muslim wannabe.
We were targeted because in the minds of the public, Channel 3 owned the wind story. The protesters simply marched up and down the block, some in regular street clothes, some wearing more traditional garb. Quite a few waved signs reading “Channel 3 is unfair!” or “Islam Loves Green,” and even “Turbans for Turbines.”
Malik and I were on our way back to Wide Open Spaces to shoot another standup. He’d asked me to take a different photographer to the wind farm because all the eyes watching him suspiciously made him uncomfortable.
But just as Sancho was Don Quixote’s traveling straight man, I felt like Malik was mine.
“Forget it,” I said. “Then we’re just letting them win. We need to show them how wrong bigotry can be.”
As a compromise, I offered to drive and let him nap. He could even pick the radio station. About an hour into the trip I glanced in the rearview mirror, and my face looked so horrible I wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t since I was behind the wheel.
“Why didn’t you tell me my skin was so splotchy?” I shook Malik awake.
He mumbled something about trying to sleep.
“But you’re my cameraman; you’re supposed to have my face, if not my back.”
“Not my job,” he replied. “I shoot what’s in front of me. Real life. Real people.”
“I stopped being a real person the day I became a TV reporter. Noreen will kill me if I show up on camera like this.”
I pawed through my purse before I realized I’d left my makeup bag in the green room, so I pulled off the highway in Rochester so I could pick up some foundation and powder at a mall department store.
On the other end of the counter two women in veils were buying several bottles of expensive perfume. They appeared to be part of the royal entourage, accompanied by a bodyguard and a flunky carrying packages. The Rochester newspaper had recently run a front-page story that the Saudis had pumped two million dollars into the local economy.
“I wish I could report the news from behind a veil,” I told Malik. “Then no one would care what I looked like.”
“Be glad for your freedoms.” I looked up and grasped that, from behind her cloak and veil, one of the women had spoken English.
Malik drifted away and the two of us chatted briefly and cordially about her stay in Minnesota and how well the Mayo Clinic was treating them. She alluded to women’s rights being nonexistent in Saudi Arabia. Then her shopping party grew restless, so I said good-bye, and they moved on to the shoe department.
After they were out of earshot, Malik whispered, “There’s a problem.”
“Please don’t let it be a newsworthy problem. We have enough headaches.”
The two men apparently had been chatting in an Arabic dialect, unaware that Malik was somewhat familiar with it. His father, a university professor, had made sure various tongues were spoken at home. “They were talking about bombs.”
“What was the context?” I asked. This was crucial.
But Malik couldn’t follow the details. It’s possible, he conceded, they might just have been discussing the wind farm explosions. Or might even have recognized me as the reporter covering the story and been gossiping. Or they might have been discussing building bombs.
I recalled a speech President Obama had made a few months earlier, vowing to stop importing oil from the Middle East in ten years. I wondered if that national goal could be motivation for oil-producing countries to stall the green movement, maybe by urging extremists to blow up American wind farms. Could the terrorists’ motive be economics, not ideology?
I kept the Saudi shoppers in sight as I called Garnett to share the theory.
“It’s me,” I said.
“You really need to call the Homeland Security press office,” he replied. “I have work to do.”
“This might be the best tip you get all day.” I reminded him that the Saudi royal family was in town for medical checkups and explained what Malik might have heard. “What do you think? Any chance some of their team might be involved in the wind blasts?”
Garnett advised me to drop it.
“That’s all? Drop it? What happened to your sense of curiosity?”
Then he gave me a lesson in foreign relations while I watched a clerk bring my Saudi sister nearly a dozen boxes of heels.
“The Saudi entourage is able to travel with diplomatic immunity,” he said. “Completely exempt from criminal prosecution. Neither they nor their families can be arrested or detained, nor their residences entered or searched by authorities.”
He waited to let that settle in my brain. “So what are you saying, Nick? There’s no point in investigating them because if they did it, they’ll just get away with it anyway?”
“I’m saying they aren’t even on the hook for parking tickets. Let me repeat myself. They have diplomatic immunity. So drop it. This is not a direction the federal government wants to explore. Or that you’re capable of exploring.”
“What if this is all about discouraging farmers from leasing land to energy companies? What if the bombings are part of a plan to keep America dependent on foreign oil?”
“Just drop it.”
I don’t know who hung up first, me or Nick. It might have been a tie.
Malik and I shot our wind follow-up story, but without much enthusiasm. On the way home, I swung into Rochester again, this time driving by the Kahler Hotel, where Saudi Arabia’s monarch was staying on the lavish eleventh floor across from the Mayo Clinic.
Malik
nudged me and pointed down the block. A handful of demonstrators plagued our international guests. Their signs read “Wind Instead of Oil” and “Blow Sand at Them.”
When we got back to the station, our own protesters were still on the march. Channel 3 had moved all the newscasts to the inside studio away from the set that looked onto the mall. This way the crowd couldn’t wave signs in the background at our viewers.
Noreen considered all this negative attention too high a price for any exclusive, especially one that wasn’t moving the people meters in our direction. She told me to tone down the wind coverage unless national security was at stake.
I didn’t mention the business about the royal entourage because I didn’t know what to say.
CHAPTER 32
I went into my office, shut the door, and laid my head on my desk for a few minutes. When I opened my eyes, I noticed the gun-carry permit disc stuck in between some papers. So far, my Sam revenge theory was a bust, but that didn’t mean the disc might not contain other news.
I loaded it in my computer and started scanning for gold amid the data. All I needed was a handful of interesting people viewers might not expect to be armed; then I’d have a story. And my boss would be off my back.
After a couple minutes, I realized I’d never get through the tens of thousands of names. Especially since so many were named Anderson and Johnson, typical of Minnesota’s Scandinavian roots.
I headed to Xiong’s desk. He still had the data downloaded on his computer and agreed to try a search.
“Scrolling will be a time waste,” he declared.
I didn’t argue because I’d already wasted enough time coming to that conclusion on my own. That Xiong knew that, and other clandestine computer stuff, instantly confirmed him as an alpha geek.
He suggested trying to match the carry-permit database to others the station owned. The sexiest—convicted felons—might have been a long shot because county sheriffs were already supposed to be screening out those applications. But any hits there would be pay dirt.
“Obviously we do them,” I said. “What other computerized files do we have names for?”
“State employees and campaign contributors are promising,” he said. “And we have your local-celebrity file still on hold.”