Madman's Thirst (30 page)

CHAPTER 37 – NORTH CAROLINA

“Some of you may already be
journalists.”

There were yawns aplenty among the
24 students in the “Media in Crisis” class, especially among the footballers,
who were not used to getting up for a 9 A.M. course. With afternoon practice
often running into dusk, the exhausted athletes tried to schedule as many of
their classes as possible for after lunch.   

“How many have kept a diary or a
journal at one time or another? Maybe on your iPad? Come on, fess up.”

 Several of the girls raised their
hands, as did one of the boys, with apparent reluctance. He was the quarterback
on the team. Division II-A to be sure, but still a jock. His admission got
disbelieving looks from the 10 other males in the classroom, especially five
beefy linemen. In the back of the room, one nerdy-looking boy, now emboldened,
meekly lifted his arm.

Sitting on a corner of his desk at
the front of the room, Robert Pearsall smiled. He knew the Bracken College players
signed up for his “crack of dawn” course (as they termed it) on the assumption
that the “gut” elective would pad their grade point averages. They were right
about the GPA’s. Pearsall, although new to the small North Carolina mountain school,
had followed its hardscrabble football tribulations for years. He had no
intention of derailing what promised to be the team of the decade. A rabid
football fan, he recognized serious offensive-line beef. There was more than a
thousand pounds of it squeezed in seats in front of him. But that would be the
only “gut” in this room. They’d work for their grades. But he wondered how they
would react to finding out they had a “sensitive” quarterback. They will
undoubtedly bust his balls unmercifully. But if they were smart, they’d realize
that the kid
had
the balls to risk derision, never a bad trait in a
quarterback.

Pearsall also noticed that a
couple of the girls had turned to look at the strapping athlete in their midst.
Maybe the boy counted on that. Pearsall stood, took off his sports jacket and
placed it around the chair behind the desk. He was the only teacher in the
school who wore jacket and tie every day. He hoped they didn’t notice his mismatched
socks.

“Journalism is often wrong and
misleading, occasionally dangerous, but necessary to life as we know it. For as
long as humans could think, they have felt a need to communicate with each
other. First, of course, they were limited to the spoken word, or grunt, if you
will. But once man developed the tools needed to etch, or draw in charcoal, his
ability to influence other humans, and events, expanded exponentially. The cave
drawing in France, which date back some 35,000 years, astound anthropologists
today with their sophistication. Picasso said those ancient artists created
everything there is to know about art, including perspective and animation. I
like to think they invented journalism as well, with their depictions of
hunters and bison and horses. The words you write on the printed page or on a
computer screen are immortal.”

Pearsall had their attention now.
At their age they all thought they were immortal, and liked hearing it.

 “Your words, and the phrases they
form, can be traced directly back to the first words ever written, in whatever
language. Since nothing is ever really destroyed on Earth, merely recycled,
some scientists argue that every breath that we take contains at least a few
molecules that were breathed by Aristotle, Da Vinci, Lincoln – and by Adam and
Eve. And Moses, and even Jesus Christ. And the molecules you are exhaling this
very moment will be breathed in by someone 10,000 years from now.”

“Hey, Kowalski, you’d better
spring for some breath mints,” a linebacker named Phelps said, to laughter.
They were having fun, which Pearsall relished.

“Written words are like those
molecules. Every word written today had its genesis in something written by an
ancient. Cicero, the prophets, the apostles, Caesar etc. And every word written
today – every word you will write – will influence future generations. Whether
you believe that intelligent life is limited to our blue planet, or is common
in the universe, man’s ability to write – on the printed page or electronically
– is one of the marvels of creation. Imagine how many billions, trillions of
words have been written or uttered since language was developed. Some say
writing is an art. I would argue that it is the ONLY art, from which all else
developed. And journalism, done right, is one of the noblest professions of
mankind. We will all be journalists of one kind or another, and pass down our
thoughts to the future, but those of you who may someday make a living as
working journalists have a special responsibility to tell the truth, to show
courage and to serve the greater good. 

“Those who criticize the media –
rightly, in many instances – could not live without it. People needed to hear
about Pearl Harbor, didn’t they? The attack on 9/11? The stock market crash?
They want to know who is stealing from the city coffers, if a tornado or
hurricane is heading their way. They might also like to know if someone is
knocking over convenience stores, or if there is a murderer on the loose.”

 Pearsall’s voice thickened
slightly and he cleared his throat. None of the kids appeared to notice. The
moment passed. He walked over to his desk and sat down again, looked at the
quarterback and smiled.

“On a local level, they like to
read about how their favorite teams do. They want to see their kid’s name in
the paper, or on TV, when he hits a home run or scores a touchdown. Who is
getting married. And let’s not forget obituaries. The last kind words we can
say about family, friends and neighbors. Does anyone want to leave this vale of
tears without being noticed by the communities we live in? Journalists make
sure that doesn’t happen.”

Pearsall decided that he had done
enough proselytizing. Any more and he might lose them.

“By the end of this semester, I
hope to give you some practical grounding in the ‘art’ of journalism – which at
the very least will help you in whatever careers you carve out for yourselves
in the future. After all, being aware of your surroundings and having the
ability to put thoughts down succinctly, whether on a page or computer screen,
is a powerful competitive asset. I also hope to impart some sense as to why
journalism is in ‘crisis,’ and where it may be headed in the 21
^st
Century. You will be asked to read examples of what I consider execrable
journalism.”

“What kind of journalism?”

It was one of the lineman.

“Shitty,” Pearsall said, and
everyone laughed. “To earn your three credits you will also be required to
write articles.” He saw several of the linemen roll their eyes. “Don’t worry,
it will be a collaborative effort. I will break you up in teams, so that you
can brainstorm, and combine your strengths. Some of you may be writers, others
editors. You will soon find out the difference.”

Pearsall went behind his desk and
sat down. He picked up the class roster.

“Now, let’s get to know one
another. I suggest you take notes. You may be writing about each other by the
end of the semester.”

***

It was a 20-mile drive from the
campus to Pearsall’s two-bedroom log cabin on Bracken Lake. It was isolated;
the nearest neighbors a quarter of a mile away on either side, or across the
lake. He had purchased it 12 years earlier and cherished the vacations he spent
there with Ronnie and Elizabeth. They had walked the spectacular woods, fished and
swam off the small dock. At night they read or played Trivial Pursuit or gin
rummy. The nearest movie, supermarket and restaurant were 10 miles away.

Pearsall was surprised to see a
car parked in his driveway. It was empty.  He walked to the rear of the cabin
and saw a man standing on his deck looking out at the lake. The man turned at
his approach and walked to meet him. .

“Jake Scarne?”

 “Yes.”

“Everett called and said you might
be coming by.”

“I hope it’s no trouble.”

The two men shook hands.

“No trouble. But why didn’t you
just call?”

“I have something to tell you. Not
the kind of thing I’d use a phone for. I hope you don’t mind me coming back
here by the lake. It’s so beautiful.”

“Not at all. The view belongs to
everybody.”

A fish swirled in the water next
to the dock.

“Bass?”

“Pickerel,” Pearsall said. “You
must be thirsty. How about I throw a few bottles of beer in a bucket.” He
pointed to a pair of Adirondack chairs on the grass by the water’s edge. “We
can sit and talk until it gets too cold.”

***

  By the time Scarne finished his
tale, they had each consumed three bottles of Duck-Rabbit Amber Ale, an
excellent local brew. Pearsall heard Scarne straight through, without comment.
The only signs of distress were a few heavy sighs and a brief turning of his
head while he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and blew his nose.

 “I debated whether to tell you at
all, Bob. It finally came down to one thing. If it was me, I’d want to know.”

Scarne could see people on their
lawns across the lake from them. A faint smoke smell and the scent of broiling
meat drifted their way and competed with the bracing odor of pine and moss.

“I owe you and Mack a debt I can
never repay,” Pearsall said. “Why did you get involved? Dudley I understand. He
was sweet on Ronnie. But we hardly knew one another. This has caused you a lot
of trouble.”

“I was at a point in my life when
I needed to do something right. I had a bad experience on a case that made me
feel sorry for myself. I was coasting, afraid to get involved in anything that
might involve me emotionally. I was letting myself go physically, and mentally.
Not anymore. So, you don’t owe me a damn thing.”

***

The sun had set and the sky was
clear and rife with stars. Neither man wanted to go in. So Pearsall brought out
sweaters and set out a small wooden table, on which he placed a bottle of Jack
Daniels, some glasses, ice and a platter of thick ham sandwiches. They were
both soon slightly drunk.

“You know, Jake, after Elizabeth
was murdered, I considered the possibility there might be a connection to my
job.”

Scarne was startled and said so.

“I don’t mean right away. At
first, I went off the deep end. I guess you know that. Just had to get out of
there. But after I came down here I had time to think. It was by no means a
certainty. But I didn’t rule it out.” He was quiet for several moments. “We had
a great life on Staten Island as kids. Like living in the Midwest, in the midst
of the biggest city on Earth. Even later, when I got married, it was pretty
decent. When you have kids, you reconnect with old friends because their kids
are going to school with yours. Parties, barbecues where three, four
generations knew each other. A lost world. Never happen again.” He was silent
longer this time. “Those bastards are trying to turn the Island into a sewer.
Barbarians. Greedy fucking barbarians.”

EPILOGUE
– ONE MONTH LATER

Evelyn Warr walked into Scarne’s
office folding back the Metro Section of 
The New York Times
to one of
its inside pages. She placed the paper on his desk and tapped a story. Scarne
stopped opening some mail he had collected from his apartment mailbox on the
way to work. He picked up the paper and saw the small two-column headline that
Evelyn had helpfully circled in red:

Staten
Island Editor

Resumes
Position

By
Robert Huber

(New York) - The Richmond
Register announced today that Robert Pearsall is returning as City Editor. Mr.
Pearsall, a Pulitzer Prize winner, is currently an adjunct professor at Bracken
College, a small liberal arts institution in North Carolina. He will finish the
semester and take up his duties in January, according to a statement released
by Beldon Popp, the Register’s Managing Editor.

“We are delighted that Bob
Pearsall has agreed to come back to the Register,” Popp said. “No one cares
more about Staten Island, its people and its history than Bob. During his watch
as city editor, the paper reached new heights of professionalism and
relevance.”

That was an apparent reference
to a series of articles on nursing home abuses that were commissioned by Mr.
Pearsall and reinforced by opinion pieces and editorials he wrote himself. The
coverage, which started out as a local borough story, exploded nationally when
Mr. Pearsall dispatched reporters who uncovered similar abuses in the nursing
home’s operations in other states. Mr. Pearsall and the Register won a
Pulitzer, the only one in the 108-year-old daily’s history.

Mr. Pearsall left the Register
shortly after the death of his only child, Elizabeth, a high school honors
student who was  murdered during a botched daytime burglary of their home. Mr.
Pearsall, who had recently lost his wife to cancer, received news of his
daughter’s death while at work.

Prior to that, Mr. Pearsall
spent his entire career at the Register, starting as a young reporter on the
night staff. A graduate of Wagner College in the Grymes Hill section of Staten
Island ….”

 Scarne put the paper down and Evelyn
surprised him with a very undignified high-five. He went back to his mail as
she went about tidying up his office, a task that he didn’t deem necessary and
often found annoying. But he wasn’t going to let anything bother him today.

 There was a letter from his co-op
board. What now? Good humor gone, he slit the letter open angrily and began to
read. Suddenly he laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

He handed her the letter, which
she read aloud:

“Dear Mr. Scarne:

The board would just like to
thank you for your quick response to our previous missive regarding your
portion of the assessment for the building reconstruction project. Your funds
have been placed in an interest-bearing account. Please be assured that should
the project come in under budget, any remaining principal, plus interest, of
course, will be refunded to you.”

 She looked at him.

“Dudley?”

Scarne grinned.

“How do you think Pearsall will
do?”

“There’s more
Pulitzers
out
there,” Scarne replied. “The barbarians who run Staten Island will find it
tougher sledding now.” He put his feet on his desk and clasped his hands behind
his neck. “You know, I’ve got a sudden craving for a jelly donut. How about
calling down to the coffee shop for a couple?”