The conference room, with a window looking out at the newsroom, was also used for walk-in interviews and employee conferences. That was where Myron took me, closing the door behind him after we entered. We took seats across an oval table from each other. Myron had a printout of what I assumed was my “King of Con Artists” story that he put down on the table. He was old school. He edited with a red pen on paper, then he had our office assistant, Tally Galvin, enter the changes digitally in the story.
“So, you didn’t like my headline,” I said.
“No, the headline has to be about what the story means to the consumer, not the personality—good or bad, tragic or inspirational—that you tell the story through,” Myron said. “But that’s not what I want to talk about here.”
“Then what, you didn’t like the story either?”
“The story’s fine. It’s more than fine. Some of your best work. But what I want to talk about is an email I got last night. A complaint.”
I laughed uneasily. I instinctively knew what this was about but I played innocent.
“A complaint about what?”
“This woman—Lisa Hill—says you misrepresented yourself in an interview about a murder that you are a suspect in. Now normally I would have deleted this or put it up on the wall with the rest of the crazies.”
There was a corkboard in the break room where people posted printouts of the most outrageous and bizarre responses to stories we publish. Often they came from the companies and people who were behind the consumer dangers in our stories. We called the board the wall of shame.
“But then,” Myron said, “I got a call first thing this morning from the LAPD that backs this woman’s email and now we have an LAPD complaint as well.”
“That’s complete bullshit,” I said.
“Well, tell me what’s going on because the cop who called wasn’t friendly.”
“Was his name Mattson?”
Myron looked down at the printout and some of the notations he had made by hand on it. He nodded.
“That’s him.”
“Okay, this whole thing started last night when I drove home from work.”
I proceeded to walk Myron step-by-step through what happened the night before, from Mattson and Sakai following me into the garage at my apartment complex to Lisa Hill’s call in response to my messages and her angry misunderstanding and hang-up. Myron, always the old-school reporter, took notes while I told the story. When I was finished, he reviewed his notes before speaking.
“Okay,” he finally said. “But what I don’t get is why you thought a story about a murder would be something we would put on FairWarning. So—”
“But don’t you—”
“Let me finish. So it makes me think you were using FairWarning and your legitimate standing here as a reporter to investigate something else, the death of this woman you knew. You see what I’m getting at? It doesn’t feel right.”
“Okay, look, whether or not Lisa Hill emailed you or the cops called you, I was going to come in here today and tell you this is my next story.”
“It can’t be your story. You have a conflict of interest.”
“What, because I knew a woman who was murdered a year later?”
“No, because you’re a person of interest in the case.”
“That’s bullshit. It’s pretty clear from what Lisa Hill told me before she hung up and my review of the victim’s social media that she dated a lot of guys. No judgment there, but all of them, including me, are persons of interest. That’s just the cops throwing out a big net. They have DNA from the crime scene because they took a sample from me and—”
“You conveniently left that out of your story just now.”
“I didn’t think it was important because it’s not. The point is I voluntarily gave it because I know that once it gets analyzed I will be in the clear. And free to write this story.”
“What story, Jack? We are a consumer watchdog, not the L.A. Times murder blog.”
“The story is not the murder. I mean, it is, but the real story is the cyberstalking and that gets us into the arena of consumer protection. Everybody has social media. This is a story about how vulnerable we are to cyber predators. How privacy is a thing of the past.”
Myron shook his head.
“That’s an old story,” he said. “It’s been done by every paper in the country. That’s not a story we can partner on and I can’t let you go off chasing it. We need stories that break new ground and draw a lot of eyes.”
“I guarantee it will be one of those stories.”
Myron shook his head. This was going sideways.
“What could you possibly bring to this that’s new?” he said.
“Well, I have to spend some time on it before I can fully answer that but—”
“Look, you are a great reporter who has a history with this kind of story. But it’s not what we do here, Jack. We have certain objectives in our reporting that need to be followed and fulfilled.”
I could tell Myron was extremely uncomfortable because we were peers. He wasn’t dressing down a kid fresh out of J-school.
“We have followers and we have a base,” he continued. “Our readers come to our site looking for what it says on our mission statement: tough watchdog reporting.”
“You’re saying that our readers and financial supporters determine what stories we pursue?” I asked.
“Look, don’t even go there. I didn’t mention our donors and you know that isn’t true. We are completely independent.”
“I’m not trying to start a fight. But you can’t go into every story knowing what the end result is. The best reporting starts out with a question. From who would break into the Democrats’ national headquarters to who killed my brother. Did cyberstalking get Christina Portrero killed? That’s my question. If the answer is yes, then that is a FairWarning story.”
Myron looked at his notes before answering.
“That’s a big ‘if,’” he finally said.
“I know,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t try to answer the question.”
“I still don’t like that you are knee-deep in this story. The cops took your DNA, for Chrissake!”
“Yeah, I gave it to them. I volunteered it. And do you think if I had anything to do with this I would say, Sure, guys, take my DNA. I don’t need a lawyer. I don’t need to hesitate. No, Myron, I wouldn’t. And I didn’t. I will be cleared of this, but if we wait for the police lab on it, we lose the momentum and we lose the story.”
Myron kept his eyes on his notes. I knew I was close.
“Look, let me just run with this for a few days. I’ll either find something or I won’t. If I don’t I’ll come back and work on whatever you put me on. Killer cribs, dangerous car seats—I’ll take over the whole baby beat, if you want.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. The baby-beat stuff gets more eyes than almost anything else we do.”
“I know. Because babies need protection.”
“All right, what are the next steps … if I let you run with this?”
I felt I had won the battle. Myron was going to give in.
“Her parents,” I said. “I want to see what she told them about being stalked. She also posted something on Instagram about finding her half sister. I don’t know what that means and want to find out.”
“Where are the parents?” Myron asked.
“Not sure yet. She told me she was from Chicago.”
“You’re not going to Chicago. We don’t have the funds for—”
“I know. I wasn’t asking to go to Chicago. There’s a thing, they call it the phone, Myron. I’m asking you for time. I’m not asking to spend money.”
Before Myron could respond, the door opened and Tally Galvin stuck her head in.
“Myron,” she said. “The police are here.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked out the window into the newsroom. I saw Mattson and Sakai standing at Tally’s desk at the public entrance to t
he office.
“Well,” Myron said. “Send them back.”
Tally went to get the two detectives and Myron looked across the table at me. He spoke in a low voice.
“Let me handle this,” he said. “You don’t say anything.”
Before I could protest, the conference-room door opened and Mattson and Sakai entered.
“Detectives,” Myron said. “I’m Myron Levin, founder and executive director of FairWarning. I believe I spoke to one of you this morning.”
“That was me,” Mattson said. “I’m Mattson and this is Detective Sakai.”
“Have a seat. What can we do for you?”
Sakai started to pull one of the chairs away from the table.
“We don’t need to sit down,” Mattson said.
Sakai froze, his hand still on the chair.
“What we need is for you to stand down,” Mattson continued. “We are conducting a murder investigation and the last thing we need is a couple of half-assed reporters poking around and screwing things up. Stand. Down.”
“Half-assed reporters, Detective?” Myron said. “What does that mean?”
“It means you aren’t even the real thing and you’ve got this guy running around, talking to our witnesses and intimidating them.”
He gestured to me. I was ‘this guy.’
“That’s bullshit,” I said. “All I—”
Myron put his hand out to cut me off.
“Detective, my reporter was pursuing a story. And as far as you thinking we are half-assed anything, you should know we are a fully recognized and legitimate member of the media and enjoy all the freedoms of the press. We are not going to be intimidated while pursuing a valid news story.”
I was amazed by Myron’s calm demeanor and strong words. Five minutes earlier he was questioning my motives and the story I wanted to pursue. But now we had closed ranks and were standing strong. This was why I went to work for Myron in the first place.
“You won’t have much of a story if your reporter ends up in jail,” Mattson said. “How will that look to all your media brethren out there?”
“You are saying that if we continue to look into this story, you will jail our reporter?” Myron asked.
“I’m saying he could go from reporter to prime suspect pretty quick and then freedom of the press won’t matter much, will it?”
“Detective, if you arrest my reporter, I guarantee you it will be a story of widespread interest. It will make news across the country. Just as it will do when you are forced to release him and admit publicly that you and your department were wrong and trumped up a case against a reporter because you were afraid he might find the answers you could not.”
Mattson seemed to hesitate in responding. Finally he spoke, looking directly at me since he now understood that Myron was a solid wall. But he no longer had the hard edge in his words.
“I’m telling you for the last time to stay away from this,” he said. “Stay away from Lisa Hill and stay away from the case.”
“You don’t have anything, do you?” I said.
I expected Myron’s hand to come up to signal me to silence again. But this time he did nothing. He looked intently at Mattson, awaiting a reply.
“I have your DNA, buddy boy,” Mattson said. “And you better hope it comes back clean.”
“Then that confirms it,” I said. “You’ve got nothing and you’re wasting time trying to intimidate people and make sure nobody finds out.”
Mattson snickered like I was a fool who didn’t know what I was talking about. He then reached out and hit Silent Sakai on the arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Mattson turned and led Sakai out. Myron and I watched through the window as they swaggered through the newsroom toward the door. I felt good. I felt supported and protected. It was not a good time to be a journalist. It was the era of fake news and reporters being labeled by those in power as enemies of the people. Newspapers were folding right and left and some said the industry was in a death spiral. Meanwhile, there was a rise in biased and unchecked reporting and media sites, the line increasingly blurring between impartial and agenda-based journalism. But in the way Myron had handled Mattson I saw a throwback to the days when the media was undaunted, unprejudiced, and therefore could not be intimidated. I suddenly knew for the first time in a long time that I was in the right place.
Myron Levin had to raise money and run the website. Those were his priorities and he didn’t get to be a reporter as much as he wanted to be. But when he put on that hat he was as relentless as any I had ever known. There was a famous story about Myron from his days as a consumer reporter at the Los Angeles Times. This was before he took a buyout, left the paper, and used the money to initially fund FairWarning. In reporting circles there is no better feeling than to expose a scoundrel, to write the story that reveals the con man and shuts him down. Most often the charlatan claims innocence and damage. He sues for millions and then quietly slips out of town to start over somewhere else. The legend about Myron is that he exposed a grifter who was running an earthquake-repair con after the Northridge quake in ’94. Once outed on the front page of the Times, the grifter claimed innocence and filed a defamation-and-slander suit seeking $10 million in damages. In the filing documents, the grifter stated that Myron’s story had caused him so much humiliation and anguish that the damages went beyond reputation and earnings to his health. He said that Myron’s article had caused him bleeding from the rectum. And that was what cemented Myron’s legendary status as a reporter. He had written a story that allegedly made a man bleed from the ass. No reporter would ever be able to best that, no matter how many millions they were sued for.
“Thanks, Myron,” I said. “You had my back.”
“Of course,” Myron said. “Now go get the story.”
I nodded as we watched the two detectives go through the office door.
“And you better watch yourself on this,” Myron said. “Those assholes don’t like you.”
“I know,” I replied.
5
With my editor and publisher’s approval I was officially on the story. And on my very first official move, I got lucky. I went back on Tina Portrero’s social media, used her Facebook tagging history to identify her mother, Regina Portrero, and reached out to her through her own Facebook page. I assumed that if Regina reached back from her home in Chicago we would set up a phone call. Phone calls with the bereaved were safest—I still have a scar on my face from asking the wrong question of a woman grieving the sudden death of her fiancé. But things can get lost or missed in a phone call: nuances of conversation, expressions, emotion.
But that is where the luck came in. Within an hour of sending my private message, Regina contacted me and said she was in town to make arrangements to take her daughter home. She said she was staying at a hotel called the London West Hollywood and expected to leave Los Angeles the next morning, Tina’s body in the cargo hold of the jet. She invited me to come to the hotel to talk about Tina.
I couldn’t make an invitation like that wait, especially when I knew that Mattson and Sakai might take it upon themselves to warn Regina about me. I told her I would be in the lobby of the hotel in an hour. I told Myron where I was going and headed off in the Jeep, taking Coldwater Canyon south over the Santa Monica Mountains and down into Beverly Hills. I then went east on Sunset Boulevard toward the Sunset Strip. The London West Hollywood was located right in the middle of it.
Regina Portrero was a small woman in her mid-sixties, which indicated she had Tina early in her life. I could see the resemblance most in the same dark brown eyes and hair. She met me in the lobby of the hotel, which was just a half block south of Sunset on San Vicente. It was her daughter’s neighborhood. She had lived just a few blocks away.
We sat in an alcove that was probably meant for people waiting for their rooms to be ready. But there was no one there at the moment and we had privacy. I took out my notebook and put it on my thigh so I could write notes
and be as inconspicuous about it as possible.
“What is your interest in Tina?” she asked.
Regina’s first question threw me because she had not asked it during the initial communication. Now she wanted to know what I was doing and I knew that if I answered it fully and honestly it would probably end the interview before it got started.
“Well, first of all, I am very sorry for your loss,” I said. “I can’t imagine what you are going through and I hate so much to be an intruder. But what the police on this case told me makes it different and makes what happened to Tina something that the public should possibly know about.”
“I don’t understand. Are you talking about what happened to her neck?”
“Oh, no.”
I was mortified that my clumsy answer to her first question had conjured in her mind the horrible manner in which her daughter had been killed. In many ways I would have preferred a backhand across the face, the diamond of an engagement ring raking across my skin and leaving another scar.
“Uh … ,” I stammered. “What I meant was … the police, they told me that she might have been the victim of cyberstalking, and so far, as far as I know, there is no evidence that the two are connected but …”
“They didn’t tell me that,” Regina said. “They said they didn’t have any leads.”
“Well, I don’t want to speak for them and maybe they don’t want to tell you anything until they’re sure. But I understand that she told friends—like Lisa Hill—that she felt she was being stalked. And to be honest, that is what is of interest to me. That is a consumer thing—it’s about privacy—and if there is a … problem then that’s what I’m going to write about.”
Fair Warning - Jack McEvoy Series 03 (2020) Page 4