The First 48

by Tim Green

  Jane pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. He sighed and reached over to pat her leg, his eyes fixed in the distance. Jane filled her mouth with beer, letting it fizz out before she swallowed it.

  “Now you gonna tell me?” he asked.

  “When I was a little girl,” she said, “everything you said, I soaked it up. Little things and big things. You read books. I read books. You didn’t like golf, so I thought it was stupid to chase a little white ball around on a nice day. You always tip twenty percent. So do I. I even tried to learn that self-defense stuff.”

  “Jujitsu.”

  “Yeah, that. And you always fought against corruption, Dad, and I wanted to fight too.”

  “And you’re doing good,” he said.

  “Thanks. And there was always one thing you railed against nonstop, and I guess I have too. You always zeroed in on one particular politician. Every news article about a backroom deal. Every press conference. Every fund-raiser. Every election. I picked up on that. How could I not? But I want to know why, Dad. What happened with Senator Gleason?”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “Kind of.”

  “You heard about Friendly’s.”

  “I don’t care about Friendly’s.”

  Her father finished his beer and fished out another one.

  “Gleason is just a bad man who owned this town,” he said. “And now he owns a lot more than that. The whole state.”

  “And us?”

  “What?”

  “Does he own us?” she asked. Her hands were shaking, and she took a gulp of beer from her can.

  “No one owns me,” he said, glaring at her.

  Jane looked away and said, “What happened, Dad? I know something happened. It has something to do with a story I’m working on and I don’t want to have to find out on my own. I want you to tell me.”

  He slowly dropped his face into his meaty hands and massaged his temples for a minute. His fingertips moved to his eyes, then he sat up and tipped back the new can of beer until it too was gone. The empty can made a quiet tinny noise when he set it down on the cocktail table next to the others.

  He got up and shut off the grill.

  “Who told you?” he asked before he started.

  “A man I met but don’t trust.”

  “Is he with Gleason?”

  “No,” she said. “I know that much.”

  Her father wiped his hands on his apron and pulled it away from him. He cracked open a beer and looked out into the lake as if it held all the answers.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” he said, rolling into the story.

  Her father told her about a college girl named Sook Min who was beaten and raped. Of a young assistant district attorney named Tom Redmon. A former cop who worked his way through law school. A year in property crimes. Another trying assaults. Then sex crimes. The precursor to homicide, a young lawyer’s dream.

  The girl, a math student from China with broken English, was a baby-sitter. She said her assailant was the father of the children she watched on a regular basis. A young state senator. Michael Gleason of the Gleason Truck Lines empire.

  “Then I got a call from Walt Tipcraft,” he said. “He was the DA and a good man. I have no idea why he did it. He’s in a nursing home down in Binghamton. Anyway, he told me the case was to be dropped. The girl wasn’t credible. She was credible to me, though, and I said I wasn’t going to just drop it . . .

  “They took the case from me. I tried to raise the roof, but it came down on me instead.

  “They trumped up some sexual harassment charges against me with one of the secretaries in the office,” he said, staring at the lake. “God, that hurt your mother. It was all lies. I think she finally believed me, but you know, I never really knew. I tried to go to the papers, but he bought them, too. Anyway, I was finished and I knew it. They not only canned me—they blackballed me at every firm in town. But they couldn’t take my license. They tried, but that I kept.

  “I know he did it,” her father said. “So did a lot of people. I tried to fight, but some things . . . I just watched him keep going, keep doing things. There were other people along the way. A girl who worked on his campaign who disappeared. Some people said he was involved with her. They kept it quiet. There was an opponent who suddenly dropped out of a race when his kid got arrested with some cocaine. The kid swore it was a setup, but the damage was done. That’s how Gleason operates. No rules but his.”

  “I remember the girl,” Jane said, “but no one ever accused Gleason . . .”

  “People who get in his way are either crushed or ruined,” her father said. “It ate at my gut to know that no one could stop him. So I . . . railed.”

  He reached into the cooler, fishing around noisily in the ice until he came up with another can. He flipped the top. It hissed and he sat back. Neither of them spoke. Crickets played their nighttime serenade. Fireflies blinked across the back lawn. Jane sighed.

  “I’m going to stop him,” she said.

  Her father’s face sagged from the alcohol.

  “You can’t,” he said.

  “Why? Because you didn’t?”

  She was sorry before the words even left her mouth, but she couldn’t stop them.

  “Because. I. Couldn’t. No one can.”

  “I can,” she said, raising her chin.

  His massive frame was slumped down in his chair, his face sagging again. At the sight of him, she felt herself come uncorked. She stood up and looked down at him. Her knees shook. She could barely breathe.

  “You ran after all these crazy dreams,” she said. “And we stood by you, Dad. We stood there and watched you throw yourself away on—on injunctions against the government and lawsuits against billionaires, fighting noisy battles against giants who swatted you down like a gnat.”

  “I want you protected from all that,” he said. “That’s the ugly world.” He smiled at her and winked. “You’re too pretty for that.”

  “I don’t need your protection,” she said. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Well you goddamn well better be,” he said.

  He walked back inside the house and she heard him add another can to his castle with a clink.

  CHAPTER 8

  Jane woke in a sweat in the sheets of her own bed. She looked at her watch and sat up. It was nearly ten. She’d driven the whole way back last night.

  She got out of the twisted sheets and into a cool shower. Refreshed, she made strong Starbucks coffee, filled her mug, and went for some cream. On the fridge was a picture of her on spring break from five years ago. One hundred twenty-eight pounds and looking not bad. That’s what she should be. She shut the door and drank it black.

  She looked at her watch. Don Herman would be rolling out of his morning editorial meeting any minute. She stuffed her leather satchel and went out the front door.

  By the time she arrived, she was breathing hard. Her upper lip was damp, and she tugged at her linen pants, adjusting her underwear as she hurried up the steps. Don Herman was at his desk, on the phone. His coat was slung over the back of his chair, and he displayed the coffee stain next to his tie without apparent concern.

  Jane stood waiting for him to finish the call. When he hung up she said, “Can I talk to you?”

  “Talk.”

  “Can we talk in a conference room?” she asked.

  “This is a newspaper,” he said, getting up from his desk anyway and leading her toward the small glass conference room, “not a GD monastery.” Don Herman never swore. He just used the initials for whatever curse he wanted to express. His wife was a devout Catholic.

  Don sat down at the table while Jane closed the door. When she turned to him, he was looking into her.

  “I have a story,” she said.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You’ve got something that’s gonna change the balance of power on the Senate Appropriations Committee with shocking implications for our nation’s morality.”


  “I . . . ,” Jane said, her mind tumbling, “you . . . How did you know?”

  A smile crept onto Don Herman’s face. His eyes twinkled briefly and the furrows thinned out, but just for a moment.

  “You’re slightly obsessed,” he said. “You think you’re GD Carl Bernstein and Senator Gleason is Nixon.”

  “You believe that?” she said. She pursed her lips and felt her eyes straining at him. “Gleason couldn’t wipe Nixon’s ass.”

  “Please watch your language,” he said, still smiling. “This would make the fourth article you’ve written on Gleason blasting the guy since joining the paper.”

  Jane slid the file across the table to him and watched while the furrows of his brow grew deeper and deeper. When he was finished, a low whistle slipped out of his puckered lips.

  “Where’d you get these credit card statements?” he asked, holding one up in the air.

  “I have a source who wants to remain anonymous,” she said.

  “How credible?”

  “Very,” she said. “My boyfriend—uh, a guy I know—went to Princeton with the CFO of the Bank of Bermuda and I verified the account.”

  The credit card bills were the linchpin of her story. Everything else could be explained away, but not the charges to Gleason’s foundation credit card. She had a strip club owner in Tampa who was drooling over the chance to pin a U.S. senator. Gleason had been disruptive and rude in his club. And there was a woman who ran an escort service in Las Vegas who shared the strip club owner’s sentiments. Those were the things that gave life to the story, the things that would destroy the senator.

  “I mean, this doesn’t make sense,” Don said, shaking his head. “Some people are talking about him running in ’08. His family’s got money.”

  “Yeah, and how do you think they got that way?”

  After a pause, Don said, “You know Simon’s sure as F not going to want to let you do this.”

  Simon Wahl was the managing editor of the paper.

  “Are you kidding?” she said with an incredulous laugh. “This is front page. This man chairs the Senate committee that oversees the expenditures for health and human services and he’s committing tax fraud. He’ll go to jail.”

  Don waved his hand in the air.

  “I don’t mean it’s not going to be written,” he said. “I mean he’s not going to want you to be the one to do it.”

  “It’s mine,” she said, gathering up the papers.

  Don stared at her for a moment, then said, “Jane, you work for this F-ing paper. Nothing is yours . . .”

  Jane felt the floor shifting beneath her.

  “I’ve already got most of this thing written,” she said. “I don’t give—excuse me—a fuck. I’m writing this. You lose my byline and I’ll quit.”

  “Written?” he said.

  “I’ve verified everything. I went to the offices. They don’t exist. I’ve got his tax returns, the corporate records, the credit card bills. I’ve got comments from his constituents. All I need are comments from Gleason and some other members of the Senate, and I can get those today . . .”

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m not promising anything. I’ll try. I just know Simon. He’s going to want Bob Woodward or someone like that to do this thing. This is GD big. Maybe you can work together. We’ll see.”

  “Don,” she said. “Please.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” he said, rising from the table. “Don’t get your hopes up, but I’ll go talk to him right now.”

  “That means yes.”

  He shrugged.

  “I’ll be at my desk. Writing.”

  He clenched his jaw. “Shit.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Jane watched the show from the corner of her eye. Don Herman and the invisible Simon Wahl. Herman’s arms moving wildly around behind the glass in the corner office. His frizzy brown hair protruding from the sides of his head, changing shape. Then he pursed his lips, nodded, and reached for the door.

  Jane turned quickly to her computer. She began to type. She could feel Don Herman standing there behind her. Finally, he cleared his throat. Jane turned and looked up.

  “Don?” she said.

  Then his eyes were back on hers, locked and probing.

  “All I can say to you is, you better not fuck it up.”

  Don Herman turned and marched right back to his desk without another word. Jane looked around her at the other writers staring. Gina grinned. Jane sucked in her lower lip and bit down, not wanting to smile, not wanting to appear smug. It was an effort, but she did her best and spun back around to her computer, where she tilted her head down and began to type.

  When Jane settled down enough that she could think, she picked up the phone and dialed Gleason’s office. Her hands trembled.

  “Senator Gleason’s office.”

  “Hello, my name is Jane Redmon,” she said. “I’m with the Washington Post and I’d like to talk with Senator Gleason.”

  “Oh, you again. I can give you to his press secretary, Mr. Canter.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t want to speak to anyone but the senator.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting right now anyway, but Mr. Canter would be the person you’re going to want to talk with. He handles all the senator’s media relations.”

  “Tell him I’m writing a story that involves funneling money from Good Samaritan Foundation into the G-strings of hookers and prostitutes. Tell him I’ll make sure I spell his name right and I’ll use the standard family photo he likes with the family and dog.”

  “The senator can’t speak to you right now.”

  “Fine,” Jane said. “Tell him he can read about it then. It’s your job.”

  Jane made nearly two dozen more calls to different senators, hoping to get at least two return calls so she could get quotes from Gleason’s colleagues. Chuck Schumer, the other senator from New York, actually called her back and gave her a noncommittal quote before she realized the newsroom had gone quiet around her for a second time. When she turned in her seat, there was Don Herman.

  “We just got a call from Senator Gleason,” he said, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “He’s very unhappy. I told him we’d certainly include whatever he had to say to you as part of our story. He didn’t say he’d talk to you, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t, so . . . go get him.”

  She was on her feet. She loaded her satchel, glanced at the clock, and wondered which would be faster, a cab or her feet.

  She took a cab. At Columbus Circle, they got hung up in traffic. She hopped out and ran down First Street. The dome of the U.S. Capitol loomed over the tree-lined street, the bronze Statue of Freedom at its crest, nearly three hundred feet from the ground. Her right hand rested upon the hilt of a sheathed sword. In her left was a laurel wreath of victory. Beneath her gaze was the Senate Office Building. Jane’s destination.

  She cleared security and went up to Gleason’s office. The secretary directed her to have a seat, a spindly wooden chair with no cushion. After that, the woman sniffed sharply and paid her no attention whatsoever. Jane took some papers from her satchel and pretended to be busy. After nearly an hour of eavesdropping, she gathered that Gleason wasn’t even there, but getting a workout in the fitness center downstairs. Jane politely inquired where the rest room was, left the office, and hurried down the fire stairs to the basement.

  Down the hall and through a door of frosted glass was a reception desk. Behind it sat a woman Jane’s age with a blond ponytail. She wore a white nylon sweat suit.

  “Senator Gleason’s office sent me down here,” Jane said, making eye contact, but continuing right on past.

  Rich blue carpet covered the floors, and the machines were widely spaced. The air was crisp and cool and smelled not of sweat, but of new carpet, with just a hint of fresh paint and grease. She saw a handful of people working out, talking among themselves to the accompaniment of classical music, the slick whisper of well-oiled chains, and the light tap of weight
stacks.

  Gleason stood in the corner facing a mirror, a dumbbell in each hand. A dark blue towel draped around his neck. He was a short man in his early fifties, but the muscles in his arms were clearly defined beneath the tight short-sleeved shirt. His waist trim and even beneath the dark blue sweatpants.

  Seeing him this way, out of his custom-made dark suits and silk ties, was somehow embarrassing, as if he were naked. Jane stole a quick glance around. The woman at the desk had her eyes glued to Jane. She was on her feet. Jane swallowed and waited for Gleason to lower his arms. With a huff and a thump, he returned the weights to their rack. His tan face was flush, and Jane could clearly see the plugs of dark yellow hair that sprouted from above his brow.

  As if he sensed the target of her attention, Gleason flipped his part down and over and raised his small nose, its nostrils flaring.

  “Can I help you?” he said. His eyes were dark and round like a beetle’s. Even so, the cleft of his jutting chin and his full cherubic lips made most people describe him as handsome.

  “I’m Jane Redmon from the Washington Post,” she said. She set her satchel down on a padded bench and removed a notebook and pen. “I’d like a comment from you about your personal spending with credit cards from the Good Samaritan Foundation.”

  A porcelain smile slowly revealed itself. Crow’s-feet appeared at the corners of Gleason’s eyes, and Jane noticed the liver spots normally camouflaged by the orange tan.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “But I do know that this is a private club. You have no business being here.”

  He signaled past her to the girl at the desk.

  “You don’t remember charging twenty-five hundred dollars with the Paradise Escort Service in Las Vegas on December thirty-first? Or one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five dollars at Mons Venus Men’s Club in Tampa in mid-March?”

  Gleason’s dark eyebrows pinched together above his nose and rose precipitously up and out toward his sharp ears. His small mouth was pulled into a tight flat line and his lips puffed out. The color of his face began to change. Orange. Pink. Red. Scarlet. His hands gripped the towel on either side of his neck, the beds of his sharp manicured nails fire engine red, the knuckles white.