Vindicator

by Denney Clements

  Martinez emitted a nasty chuckle. “That’s all you need, is it, Emery? Screw you. If I talk to you I could lose my job and maybe go to jail.”

  “I’ll keep your name out of it, no matter what.”

  “Even if you have to go to jail for contempt of court?”

  “Yes.”

  A long silence ensued. Then Martinez asked: “Are you on your cell phone?”

  “Land line. Pay phone by the High Plains motel.”

  Another long silence. Then, Martinez whispered, vehemently, “Those three boys and their group aren’t responsible for blowing up the dam and that asshole Deal knows it.”

  Good Lord, Emery thought. “There is a terror investigation, right? The dam was blown up, right?”

  “Right.” The line clicked dead. He stared into Carol’s eyes a few seconds, then punched in the toll-free newsroom number and asked for Ellis Eckes.

  Chapter 5: Blowback

  October 13, 10 a.m.

  Dan Deal kicked Emery and Carol loose at mid-morning. He seemed to expect gratitude in return. But Emery felt only indignation that the FBI had treated them disrespectfully – and the compulsion to get even.

  The best way to do that, he decided as he and Carol rode back toward the motel in the back seat of an FBI Suburban, was to publish an account of their seizure. Sure, his story about the detention of the three environmental activists on WichitaOnline.com, the Examiner’s web site, had made a buffoon of Deal. With Carol’s help, Emery had pushed past the speculation to enter hard, ugly facts into the public record. Deal had lied to the public in deeming the collapse of the dam an act of God while also trying, in secret, to pin the crime on an organization too goofy to have committed it. Now, Emery could report that the FBI had humiliated the messengers who’d brought these excesses to the public’s attention.

  Emery shivered with indignation at the inferences Deal and his team of goons – including the dour young woman driving them – had drawn from Carol’s overnight presence in his room. Because Carol had little money and had been planning to sleep another night in her car, he had offered her half of his king-size rental bed. They had slept in their clothes, had not touched one another.

  But from the moment they burst into Emery’s motel room, a little after 8 a.m., Deal and three other agents – including the woman now driving the SUV, Agent Felicia Lorca – exhibited the leering J. Edgar Hoover salaciousness of the old FBI. They had seemed disappointed to learn that neither Emery nor Carol had a spouse on whom to cheat.

  After this ploy at leveraging their cooperation failed, the agents separated them for questioning. Lorca and another agent, whose name Emery didn’t catch, kept Carol in the sheriff’s personal office while Deal and Agent Jack Barlucci led Emery into a small, windowless interrogation room. Deal demanded to know the name of the “source close to the investigation” who’d asserted the innocence of the Keepers and confirmed the dam explosion.

  Citing a First Amendment right to protect the identity of his source, Emery refused to answer the question. Citing the powers that the Patriot Act accorded the FBI in terrorism investigations, Deal asserted his right to haul Emery before a federal judge, in secret, for jailing until such time as he disgorged his source.

  “I’ll go to jail if I have to,” Emery replied, “but it’s already too late to cloak your violation of my rights with secrecy. The newspaper knows I’m here.”

  Barlucci, a squat man with a Marine-style buzz cut, sneered. “I doubt that, considering we took you by surprise. But even if they did know, they wouldn’t defend you. We can make defending you real expensive, and the media is going broke. They won’t spend any money on you.”

  Too true, Emery thought ruefully. Two years before, the Examiner’s heavily leveraged corporate parent, Schmittlapp Media, had begun demanding massive job cuts from “local units.” The demands kept coming. Now, cutting costs was the management’s chief concern. The newsroom staff had diminished one-third, including 14 reporters and half that many editors. Emery had survived only by giving up his job as state government reporter in Topeka to become a general assignment reporter in Wichita – with a 10 percent pay cut.

  “You know I'm right,” Barlucci said. “You're working without a net.”

  The agent had a point. Time for Plan B.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Emery said. “Tom Bernier knows I’m here. I interviewed him last night in pulling together today’s story. He said if y'all pulled me in, and he'll know you did, he would defend me. My savings account is fat enough to pay his fees.”

  He had talked to Bernier the previous evening while pulling his story together, but not about defending him from the FBI. Emery surmised that Deal and Barlucci had no way of knowing that – unless they had bugged the pay phone in front of the High Plains Inn. That seemed unlikely.

  Deal held Emery’s eye for several seconds. He said, “It doesn’t matter if you cooperate. Your girlfriend had already told us that your source is someone in Sheriff Cowan’s office.”

  “You’re bluffing. She doesn’t know who my source is. And she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Well, I doubt that your source is one of my crew,” Deal said, “so it stands to reason that it was someone in Cowan’s office. Or else you made it up.”

  “I don’t make stuff up, though in this case that wouldn’t matter. What I reported is true, isn’t it? The Keepers didn’t blow up the dam. It was some other group, wasn’t it?”

  At that point, Deal, to Emery’s surprise, smiled and said, “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Emery. You can go.”

  Carol was waiting in the lobby. She started to speak as they settled into the back seat of the Suburban, but Emery seized her hand and squeezed it, shaking his head. She nodded.

  Now, as Lorca navigated the truck into the motel parking lot, Emery asked, “Have you identified the third body, Agent Lorca?”

  She shifted into park. “You’re free to go.”

  “He’s not part of the Keepers group, is he? He’s part of the group that’s really responsible for the explosion, isn’t he? What group is it?”

  “Get out,” Lorca said.

  “I’ll put that down as a no comment in my follow-up story for today,” Emery said.

  She twisted around to look him in the eye, scowling. “You’d better not. Please, exit the vehicle.”

  He held her gaze. “He was one of the real terrorists, wasn’t he?”

  He could have sworn that she flinched before looking away. “Don’t make me take you back to the sheriff’s office,” she said. “Now, get out.”

  They did. As they watched the Suburban turn onto the highway, Carol said, “Thank you for refusing to tell me who you called last night. I was so scared – they were so mean to me – that I might have told them if I'd known who it was.”

  “I don’t blame you. Those FBI pukes are a nasty bunch. Now it’s payback time.”

  Sarantos, however, didn’t think it newsworthy that the FBI had pulled Emery and his “little friend” in for questioning. What else did Emery expect, given the embarrassment that today’s story had heaped upon the bureau? The story was getting national play. CNN and MSNBC had cited it, keeping the dam-explosion story alive for another news cycle. The Daily Beast, the Drudge Report, the Huffington Post and Talking Points Memo, among many other blogs across the political spectrum, had posted links to Emery’s story and were afire with speculation about who was really responsible for this atrocious crime. A Fox News commentator, meanwhile, had condemned the Examiner as an “America-hating liberal rag with no respect for national security.”

  “All this publicity is pure gold,” Sarantos said, “but we accomplish nothing by publishing a follow-up story about your difficulties with the FBI. That would only fuel more wild speculation without advancing the story. We're better than that.”

  Realizing he was right, Emery said, “Well, I think there’s a lot more to the story that we could report if I stayed here a few more days. I got a rise out of Agent Lorca when I asked he
r about the unidentified dead man. He was one of the perps, I just know it. Someone other than crackpot environmentalists is responsible for this crime – persons whose motives lay elsewhere. I’ll bet I can advance the story.”

  “Not that long ago, I’d have given you the green light on that. You’ve put the Examiner on the national stage. That’s great work. I’m glad I sent you out there. But keeping you there does nothing for the newspaper’s bottom line, which unfortunately is all that matters right now. You really need to get back to Wichita.”

  “Just so I can work night cops or some other rookie assignment? This could be big. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Don’t argue with me Emery. Other outlets will have to advance the story. That Colorado investigative web site is still on it. Other papers out there are still trying to cover it. The FBI is under intense pressure to explain what really happened now that you've debunked the Keepers angle. It’s not a Kansas story anymore – it’s a national story We'll use wire services copy from here on out. So be back in the newsroom by 5:30, 6 at the latest.”

  “Of course it’s still a Kansas story,” Emery protested. “The Kiowa flows east, remember?” But the phone had clicked dead.

  “What’s happening?” Carol asked as Emery stared glumly at his cell phone. They were seated in his room, him on the bed, her in the desk chair. She’d gotten off her phone a few minutes earlier.

  “Nothing good,” he murmured. “I’m off the story.”

  “Well at least you cleared Ted and his friends. The FBI has agreed to release them to Bernier. They’ll remain persons of interest, according to Tom. But he says they’ll be in the clear soon. He’s taking them home. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you helped them. “

  “De nada, pretty lady,” he replied, happy to be her hero, at least.

  Chapter 6: The Kiowa Loop

  October 13, 1:30 p.m.

  A few miles past the state line, a Crown Vic, dark blue with tinted windows, lurched between Emery’s old red Eclipse and Carol’s older gray Chevy Caprice. Emery and Carol were traveling in tandem toward Garden City. Once there, according to their plan, they would have lunch. Then Carol would turn southward toward Ouimet and he would continue east into Wichita.

  The big Ford moved within a dozen feet of Emery’s bumper as they passed through Coolidge, the first Kansas town, and stayed there as he drove toward Syracuse. He passed slowly through the town but the big Ford remained at tailgating distance. Emery increased his speed slowly to 50, hoping that the other driver would lose patience and pass him.

  Driving more slowly was a good idea anyway. A cold drizzle driven by gusty north winds had supplanted the warm sunshine. The highway was wet.

  But instead of passing, the Crown Vic nudged his rear bumper, throwing Emery into a panic. Screaming curses, he downshifted into fourth and tromped the accelerator. His front tires, all-weather Michelins, spun through the wet and bit the pavement.

  The gap between the cars widened to a dozen yards before the psycho asshole driving the Ford (as Emery now thought of him) responded. Emery shifted into fifth and pushed the pedal to the floor. Soon doing 110, he jetted around a semi hauling a trailer-load of pigs, hairy pink snouts poking between the rails. He folded his car back into the south lane within a few feet of an oncoming rusty Dodge pickup at the head of a long line of vehicles; the driver honked indignantly and shot him the finger, or so it seemed in the watery blur of his windshield.

  Emery slowed to 85 as the gap between the Eclipse and the pig hauler widened. Watching his mirror, he began to hope that the Ford’s driver had decided further harassment would be unwise; there were many potential witnesses traveling the highway. He slowed to 60 and was weighing whether to pull onto the shoulder so Carol could catch up when he saw the big Ford swerve around the pig truck, rear end fishtailing, then rocket toward him. Emery tromped the gas pedal.

  He tore past the tiny town of Medway at 105, his tach just below the red line. But the Ford crept ever closer. Along this stretch, the swollen Kiowa meandered about 100 yards off the shoulder. Ahead, the river looped close to the roadway. As Emery neared the top of this arc, the Ford edged into the north lane and swerved toward the Eclipse.

  Emery hit the brakes and steered toward the shoulder. He thought for an instant that he’d avoided the Ford. But the big car, brake lights flashing, fishtailed to the right, its rear bumper brushing Emery’s front bumper.

  The impact was just enough to dislodge the front tires. The Eclipse skidded off the shoulder down the muddy bank and stopped. Emery disentangled himself from his seat belt, grabbed his tech bag and clambered out of the car, feet sinking into the mud. His car teetered for several heartbeats at the river’s edge, then slid slowly into the water. The Crown Vic sped around a curve up the road and – mercifully – disappeared.

  As he reached the concrete, minus his left shoe, Carol, her car parked on the shoulder, ran up and seized his free hand.

  “I’m so glad you’re OK. Those men were trying to kill you.”

  The pig hauler stopped as the Eclipse bobbed downstream until it sank from view. “I called the Highway Patrol,” the driver shouted over the squealing of his passengers. “You need EMS, too?”

  “Yes,” Carol yelled as Emery said, “No, I’m OK.”

  “No you’re not!” she protested. “You’re dripping wet and very likely in shock. I want the medics to look you over. You get into my car where it’s warm.”

  She led him to her car and installed him in the back seat, ordering him to lie down until help arrived. He was shivering. She removed his glasses and arranged a rough wool blanket over him and placed a pillow under his head. Oddly soothed by the porcine serenade, he slid into unconsciousness.

  “Did you say ‘men’?” he asked several hours later, as they rode toward Garden City in her car.

  “You mean in the Ford. When they passed me, I counted three men, two in front, one in the back. There was a shroud of some kind over the license tag. This situation is really weird.”

  “They obviously didn’t want anyone calling the tag number in.”

  “What struck me as weird,” she said, arching her eyebrows, “is that their car was the same kind the troopers were driving, a Crown Victoria with the big police engine.”

  “You're a good observer. I see your point. Did you mention that to the troopers?”

  “Yes, but they were indignant that I would even think the Highway Patrol to be capable of such a thing, though that’s not what I meant at all. They did say they would investigate, as it’s a crime to run someone off the road, but didn’t seem to think much would come of it. Not broad thinkers, those guys.”

  “Well, the state does buy dozens of Crown Vics every year, in five or six different colors, not just blue. The troopers love them. But most elected state officials, agency heads and top bureaucrats use them, too. And until Hodge made the Department of Administration buy her a black Town Car, governors rode around in Crown Vics, too. So the one that drove me into the river could have been a state car – or one sold by the state to the public.”

  “So my observation is useful, then?”

  “Very useful,” he replied. “I doubt I would have made that connection. It’s worth checking out.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said cheerfully. “A smart reporter like you would have figured it out sooner or later.”

  Her talent for edgy banter was a pleasant surprise. She seemed to sense that the attempt to harm him and the loss of his car had left him angry, fearful and confused, and was trying to help him regain his aplomb. It was working.

  Sarantos had done his part to help. Emery phoned him after the medics cleared him for travel and the troopers asked all of their questions. If Emery could get to the newsroom sometime tomorrow, the editor said, that would be just fine. He could rent a subcompact one way in Garden City and drive back to Wichita. The big bosses would OK reimbursement after they received the incident report, which the Highway Patrol had promised to f
ax to the newsroom. What Emery’s insurance wouldn’t pay toward the rental, they would.

  Wearing running shoes hurriedly purchased at a discount store, Emery said goodbye to Carol at the Enterprise lot in downtown Garden City. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you,” he said, offering her a handshake.

  She pulled him against her and hugged him. The contact was wonderful. “You really need to learn when it’s OK to loosen up. I'm so grateful you helped my brother and his friends, and I've come to admire you for your integrity and courage. ...”

  “Thanks, Carol,” he said, hugging her back.

  She pushed him to arm’s length and looked him in the eye. “I wasn’t finished. I wish I knew as much about you as I told you about me. You seem like an interesting guy, but I really don’t know yet whether that’s true.”

  He bristled. But after an instant of reflection, he said, “I'm just another middle-aged guy with a sad story to tell – divorce, loneliness, job problems, and, truth be told, inclined to be too circumspect.”

  She nodded. “I suspected as much. That cryptic reference to your ex-wife back at the hotel. The way the thought of her twisted your face.”

  “I'll tell you my story sometime if you really want to hear it. We have a lot in common. Like you, for example, I have a kid. My son, Jay Three, is a sophomore at KU. I'd like to know you better, too. So feel free to call me and I'll feel free to call you. OK?”

  She grinned. “Deal.”

  His cell phone beeped, signaling the arrival of a text message, as he crossed the swollen Kiowa River into north Wichita a few miles from his condo. After parking the rental car in his garage, he dug the phone out of his trouser pocket.

  The message read: “That bumper kiss was just a friendly warning Emery. If you don’t drop the story, our next meeting will be UN-friendly.” The “from:” line contained a number from the northern Kansas area code.