The Anonymous Source (13 page)

“HE JUST
STOOD THERE
, watching,” Alex said, looking down at his plate.

By just after midnight, they were sitting in the Apollo Diner a couple of blocks from the newsroom. The restaurant was empty except for a table of drunk twenty-somethings and a few people reading in booths. They had watched the video four times and scanned the thirty minutes on either side of it, but found nothing else of interest.

Camila looked at Alex’s plate. “I watched a show about bodybuilders once and they eat just like you—five-egg omelet with triple spinach and coffee.” She stirred cheese into a bowl of onion soup. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I’m trying to figure out what to do. I could write a story or call the cops, but part of me wants to just disappear.”

“First of all, you’re not giving the video to the cops, at least not yet.” She swallowed a spoonful of soup. “Those guys can lose a video like this even faster than a newspaper can.”

“And if my boss lied to me about who killed Downton, I don’t even want to tell him I have the video. But I have to, I can’t just . . . ” He trailed off and took a sip of his coffee. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, and there’s no conspiracy. Just a bunch of reporters and editors and owners, doing their best to handle pressure exerted from every direction while making a living. It only looks like a conspiracy from the outside because the final product is so often shitty. There is no ‘media.’ There are just thousands of people making millions of independent decisions, many out of fear, or just stupidity.”

“Yeah but—”

“All you academics who write books about ‘liberal bias this’ or ‘Fox news that,’ have no idea what actually goes on.”

Camila put her spoon down and raised her voice. “But doesn’t the stuff that gets left out bother you? I’m not especially political, but I think it’s better to have more voices, more stories, more perspectives.”

“People are lying to us and using us all day, every day, from every angle. Most of us are just doing our best to make a living and, if we’re lucky, get some truth out.”

“That’s not exactly inspiring. You know, the fourth estate safeguarding democracy and all that.”

She smiled but Alex went quiet and pushed eggs around on his plate. After a moment, he said, “It’s a chicken and egg thing. Do people get stupid by listening to us or do they listen to us because they’re stupid? A well-informed public has never existed. We just give the people what they want.” He paused. “Too many people are making a living bashing journalists.”

“I don’t bash journalists. It’s not
your
fault.” She sighed. “None of this matters now. This is a real thing. Can you live with the way Santiago got executed in the press? The way your boss is sidestepping this story?”

Alex sipped his coffee. “I don’t know . . . no. I can’t live with that.”

“So what do you want to do?”

Alex took a bite of omelet, chewed slowly, swallowed, and looked up at her. “I’m confused as hell, but I know that video directly contradicts the version we’ve been hearing from police and prosecutors for a year.”

“And?”

“Despite what you said in the taxi—which I appreciated, by the way—I
am
an asshole.” He paused. “I have to do
something
.”

“What about your boss? If he lied to you about Downton . . . ”

Alex finished his coffee and waved to the waitress, who came over and refilled his cup. “What’s your name?” Alex asked her with a broad smile.

Short and stocky, she wore a brown Apollo Diner uniform and black rectangular glasses. “Mary,” she replied.

“And, Mary, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you consider yourself well informed?”

“Pretty well informed, I guess.”

“Do you believe what you read in the paper?”

“Uh, well, I guess so,” she said.

“And do you trust reporters?”

“Hell no. Buncha lyin’ bastards, if you ask me.”

Alex smirked at Camila, then looked back at Mary. “So reporters are lying bastards, but you trust what you read in the paper?”

“Hmmm. Guess I never really thought about it,” she said, turning and walking away.

“Touché,” Camila said. “So what are you gonna do?”

“I’ll do what I do. I’ll write it.”

“What about your boss?”

“I have to believe he’s not in on it. And once he knows the video is real, he’ll have to run it.”

THE NEWSROOM
WAS DARK
and quiet. The first staff wouldn’t arrive until 5 a.m. and James had fallen asleep with his head on his desk. Camila watched over Alex’s shoulder as he stared at the blinking cursor on the blank screen.

He knew he could approach the story from one of two angles. The first was to present only the content of the video, leaving out how it was obtained. The second was to connect the video to Downton, his story about the two young cops, and his murder. But this would mean trying to track down the two cops—days of work that might prove fruitless.

He got out of his chair and paced. “I’m gonna leave Downton out of it,” he said, looking at Camila but speaking to himself. He sat down. “For now, the video is the story. I can track down the rest of it later.”

“What about the weird calls you’ve been getting?”

“Can’t run anything on those. Too vague at this point. If I can convince the caller to go on the record, or find out how he knows what he knows, that would change things.”

“Do you know it’s a him?”

“No, but that reminds me.” Alex reached for the manila folder James had given him and scanned the list. He recognized only a few of the names. He could cold-call them but doubted it would yield any results, especially at 1 a.m. He set the list aside, turned back to the computer, and started typing. Camila lay on her back on the floor and stared at the ceiling.

After twenty minutes, Alex got up and did fifty pushups.

Camila rolled over on her elbows to watch him. “Why do you do that?” she asked, laughing.

“Clears my mind. You know, you might try moving your body at some point. It’s that thing just below your head.” He smiled at her. “Hey, can you go back to James’s desk, watch the video again, and find out exactly how long Santiago stood and stared at Martin?”

“The details, huh?”

“Yup.”

* * *

Alex finished writing at 2 a.m. He printed two copies of the story, folded one and put it in his pocket, and put the other in a folder with a sticky note.

Colonel-

I’ll call around for police and attorney denials after 8. Do we have any partnerships with TV stations we can leak the video to? —AV

He put the folder on Baxton’s desk, then led Camila to a ragged couch in the corner of the newsroom. “You can have it,” he said. She lay down on the worn upholstery and Alex lay on the carpet.

“You write well, and quickly,” she said, yawning.

His whole body was tired and he felt it melt into the floor as he stretched his legs. “That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me.”

Camila yawned again and rolled over, burying her head in the cushions. “Unless we count when I said you’re not an asshole.”

“Yeah, unless we count that. Good night.”

After a minute, Alex said, “Camila, what do you think my boss will do with my story? Camila?”

She was already asleep.

ALEX WOKE
WITH A START
to find Baxton hovering over him.

“I didn’t know you existed before 0800,” Baxton said.

“Colonel? What time is it?”

“Five.”

Alex rubbed his eyes as he stood up. “Check your desk.”

“Who’s that?” Baxton pointed at Camila, asleep on the couch.

“Camila Gray, ex-girlfriend of Professor Martin. She helped me track down the video.”

“The video? You have it?”

“Check your desk.”

“Okay, my office in ten.”

* * *

Alex watched Baxton through the large window that looked into his office from the newsroom. As Baxton read his story, Alex pulled the copy from his pocket and read it again.

A video recording exists that casts doubt on the series of events that led to the death of NYU Professor John Martin on New Year’s Eve, 2001.

According to police statements and opening arguments in the trial, Eric Santiago—the NYU student accused of murdering Martin—administered a lethal dose of the opiate fentanyl in Washington Square Park at around 1 a.m. on January 1, 2002.

But the video, which was obtained by
The Standard
from a confidential source, shows a different version of the events of that night. In the video, Santiago enters the park from the east as Martin stands under the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, where police found his body at 2 a.m. For one minute and 21 seconds, Santiago can be seen staring at Martin, but it is clear that the two never came into contact.

The video does not show any other figures and does not give any indication as to the cause of Martin’s death. It does, however, call into question police and prosecutor statements regarding Martin’s death.

[B-Matter]

[Police denial or no comment]

[Attorney’s denial or no comment]

Santiago is currently being tried in the Manhattan Criminal Court and has maintained his innocence since his arrest last January.

Alex took a few steps toward Baxton’s office, but stopped when he saw Baxton pick up the phone. A knot formed in his stomach as he watched him speak, then listen. Baxton hung up and straightened papers on his desk, then waved Alex into his office.

“Helluva piece of work.” He held up Alex’s story. “But we can’t run it.”

“Why not?” Alex asked. The knot in his stomach tightened.

“You know how the Santiago case has gripped the city. Biggest story since 9/11. If we’re gonna blow it up now, we need something more than a video, which we don’t even know is authentic.”

“It’s authentic, Colonel. Watch it yourself.”

“It’s not enough.”

“What if I write about the source? I can write about how Downton got the video. I can find the two cops who gave him the recorder. I can talk to Santiago.”

“That could take weeks, and it still might not be enough. You’ve got daily reports due on the trial and I can’t have you running around the city on this. Alex, your desire to get yourself on TV is clouding your judgment.”

Alex looked at the phone on Baxton’s desk. “You know, Colonel, I’m starting to feel like Josef K. here. Can’t you tell me what’s
really
going on?”

“Who’s that?”

Alex pointed at the phone. “Who did you call earlier?”

Baxton stood up. “Alex, I know we’re informal around here, but spying on me during calls crosses a line. What I need from you is a story a day on the Santiago trial. Can you handle that?”

“Colonel, if we don’t run this, someone else is going to get the story.”

“Not without the video. It’s property of
The Standard
and we need it to stay here.”

“We?”

“
I
need it to stay here,” Baxton said.

Alex raised his voice. “Please tell me you’re at least going to give a copy to the police. At the very least, it complicates the trial.” He was surprised by his own anger. “Santiago may be
innocent
.”

“I’ll watch the video and look into the matter,” Baxton said loudly. “Where is it?”

“But I received it—”

“On company time. Your notebooks and stories—everything is the property of
The Standard
. Have you made any copies of it?” Baxton looked over Alex’s shoulder. Alex turned and saw that a handful of staff members were listening to their argument.

“Shut the door,” Baxton said.

Alex shut the door and turned to Baxton, who was sitting down. “Colonel,” he said, “If Santiago is innocent, that
has
to mean more than anything else.”

“Look, Alex. This will blow over. You’ll see.” His tone was final.

Alex felt his chest fold in on itself. “Just tell me one thing. When you said that a witness had seen a large black man fleeing the scene after Demarcus was killed, were you lying or had the police lied to you?”

Baxton adjusted pencils in a coffee mug. “Did you make any copies of the video?”

Alex dropped his head and turned to leave. “No. No copies,” he said weakly. “I’ll keep working the daily Santiago developments. James has the video. He hasn’t seen it.” He walked out without saying good-bye. He saw Camila from across the room and waved her toward the elevator.

* * *

Alex gave the driver his address, then stared out the window as the taxi drove north along Broadway.

Camila watched him. “What did your boss say?” she asked. “Alex, talk to me.”

“I’m such a coward.”

“What? Why?”

“The video. I barely even put up a fight.”

She put a hand on his knee. “You had no choice. It’s
The Standard’s
property if you got it while reporting for them.”

“That doesn’t help. The only piece of evidence that could get Santiago off and I barely put up a fight.”

The taxi turned onto Eighth Avenue. Alex stared at passing shops and restaurants, cursing himself in his mind. His cell phone broke the silence as they rounded Columbus Circle. He looked down at the caller ID and froze.

“It’s the guy again.” Alex flipped open his phone and tapped the speakerphone button. “Hello?” He braced himself in anticipation of the voice.

“Martin is the end, not the beginning. Go back in time.”

The voice echoed in the taxi and Alex slid the plastic divider so the driver couldn’t hear. He looked at Camila and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged.

“Okay,” Alex said, “I know you’re going out on a limb here, but can you be more specific? Two people are dead and an innocent man is about to go to prison for the rest of his life. Is there any way we can meet?”

“We might meet at some point, but not yet.”

“Are you an officer?” Alex asked.

“I won’t answer that.”

“A lawyer? A witness?”

“I won’t answer that.”

Alex looked at Camila, who just stared at the phone. The voice said, “You must find out why Professor Martin was killed. You must go back in time.”

“How do I do that?” Alex asked.

“You said two people are dead, right?”

“Yes.”

“There are three.”