The Anonymous Source (4 page)

WHEN ALEX
PUSHED
the door open, his boss looked up from his desk, which he’d been polishing with a rag, and asked, “Anything new since you called?”

“You’ve got a speck of dust there, Colonel, about thirty degrees south-southwest of the stapler.”

Samuel Baxton was not really a colonel, but had been an Air Force lieutenant in the Vietnam War. He wasn’t much of a writer, but he had discipline and organization—qualities Alex admired, knowing he lacked them himself.

Baxton looked at his desk, which was gleaming, then smiled at Alex. “Like I said, anything new?”

“Usual motions for this and that. Evidence stuff mostly. Seems like he probably did it, but it’s surprising they don’t have anything more solid on the kid.”

Baxton ran his hands through his thin, brown hair. “Everyone knows he did it. But can the lawyers get him off? That’s the story now.”

“I don’t think they can. Sharp is a pretty good prosecutor.”

“A lot of people love that kid. Want to make him a martyr for idiots everywhere. The ACLU even said New Yorkers are using him to take their minds off 9/11. Assholes.
Dallas Morning News
ran a thing saying it’s New York’s elitism on trial. Can you believe that? I’m from Abilene! They must be talking about people like you.”

Alex laughed. “Not me, Colonel Baxton, sir. I grew up in the mossy forests of western Washington.”

“Yeah, but you were
born
here.”

“Six months, sir. I only lived here for six months before we moved.”

“That’s all you need, Vane. Upper West Side, I’ll bet. Parents probably hung out with Yoko and all the other beatniks snorting hash.”

Alex looked at the carpet.

“Sorry,” Baxton said. “I didn’t mean to bring your parents into it.”

Alex returned his gaze to eye level. “It’s all right.”

“But anyway, I never thought I’d be the boss of an aspiring TV model.” He paused, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, I heard about
that
. Why do you want to get into TV when you can write a news story in the time it takes most people to wipe their ass? You know how many people would kill to have what you have?”

Alex’s face reddened. He fingered a piece of lint in the pocket of his jeans, struck by a familiar sense of pride tinged with guilt. He was talented. He knew and he appreciated this fact, but he also knew he‘d been born on third base. He felt uncomfortable when people treated him like he‘d hit a triple.

“You get the job?” Baxton asked.

“Don’t know yet.”

Baxton smiled. “Guess that’s why you scarf down all those salads and sashimi platters. Staying pretty for the cameras.”

Relieved that Baxton seemed to have moved on, Alex smiled broadly. “I’ll have you know, Colonel, last week I ate food out of a carton. A
carton
! It hurt me to do it, too. I mean, what would my Aunt Winifred up at the Vineyard say? There I was, sitting on a sofa—not a chair at a table, but a
couch
—watching men in helmets run around with a ball made of pigskin, eating with—and this is the worst of it—sticks. I was eating with sticks!” He acted out the motion of shoveling food into his mouth.

Baxton laughed hard, smacking his thigh.

As Alex turned to leave, he added, “I don’t even think the chopsticks were monogrammed.” Before he left Baxton’s office, he stopped in the doorway and glanced back. “By the way, I saw a woman in court today I didn’t recognize.”

“Who is she?”

“Dunno, but she must be connected to the case,” Alex said. “I’ll track her down.”

“The professor’s ex-girlfriend no one’s been able to find?”

“Maybe. Just an FYI, I’ll be in and out the next couple days.” Before Baxton could respond, Alex was out the door.

* * *

Back at his desk, Alex dialed the courthouse. “Bearon, I need the name and address of a woman who was there today. Brown hair. Mid-thirties. She looked South American. Beautiful but not fancy.”

“You mean the one who looked like Evita with a better butt and cheaper clothes?”

“And darker hair. Yeah, that’s her.” Alex paused. “She was stunning somehow.” He heard papers shuffling.

“Last name Gray, first name Camila, with one
l
,” Bearon whispered. “Two-hundred West 98th. 4A.”

“She’s practically my neighbor. Thanks, Bearon.”

When he hung up, Alex opened his browser and searched “Camila Gray, NYC.” After a few clicks, he found her bio on the NYU Journalism faculty page. He scanned her last few years of classes, including Media Law, Digital Communications, and Communications Theory. He saw that she had presented at various NYU events, such as the Women in the Digital Age Forum and the Millennium Writers Symposium.

He read her official bio:

Camila Gray is a tenured Professor of Communications at NYU and has been on the faculty since 1999. Her articles have appeared in magazines such as
Wired
,
Digital Woman
, and
The Columbia Journalism Review
, as well as Web sites such as Salon and Media Review.

She was a featured speaker at the Future of Media Conference in 2001, where she presented a paper entitled “Stories in the Digital Age.” (link)

A native of Des Moines, Iowa, Professor Gray had a brief career at
The Des Moines Register
before beginning her graduate work. She holds a BA from Iowa State (1988) and a PhD in media studies from Case Western (1993).

Alex clicked the link to the paper and scanned it, then opened a video at the bottom of the page. In the video, Camila sat on a small stage as the president of Barnard College introduced her. Alex fast-forwarded to the middle and saw Camila standing at an oak podium, looking nothing like the distracted woman he had seen in court. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she addressed the crowd with confidence and a quiet passion.

“Humans love information. We love connection. But most of all, we love stories. From oral traditions to stone tablets, from papyrus to the printing press, from radio to TV, and now the Internet, the medium that delivers our stories is always changing. But our need to connect by sharing stories has been the same for millennia.

“By sharing information, we have built societies and mastered the physical world. By sharing stories, we have slowly taught ourselves what it is to be human.

“We are living at the edge of the greatest storm the media world has ever seen. Before the printing press, all our stories came from the small group of people in our town or village. That’s how we learned what it meant to be a person. Soon, every story humans have ever told will be available digitally. As individuals, we are often so mesmerized by the onslaught of new content that we don’t see that what matters is the new structure—and what the new structure is doing to us. The printing press was important because it created the possibility of widespread literacy. Television mattered because it ushered in a global culture, for better or worse.

“With each new medium, we have more access to stories, a wider network of connections, a larger village teaching us what it is to be human. So, as we enter an era in which we can easily connect with everyone on earth, we must ask: what will be the impact of The Digital Age on human consciousness?”

A man in the front row of the auditorium turned his head to cough. Alex paused the video and stared into the stiff, wrinkled face of Professor John Martin.

CAMILA LIVED
IN
a small, fourth-story walkup in one of the cheapest buildings on the Upper West Side. As she walked into her barren kitchen, she imagined a thick chopping block in the center, copper pans and dried herbs hanging from hooks, and the rich scents of roasted fish, garlic, and cilantro. She was not much of a cook, but thought she could be some day.

She took a small carton of coconut water from the mostly-empty fridge and went to sit on her maroon couch. She closed her eyes, lifted her head, and relaxed her shoulders. Her memory of the tree and the sky were still present and the feeling of that day moved through her body. She thought of her father, his hair black that day but thin and white now. After a minute, her father faded and her mind buzzed with random thoughts and images, mostly food related. She watched her mind take on a life of its own, desperately moving from subject to subject as though trying to maintain its existence. After a few minutes, she noticed herself composing a shopping list in her head. She thought about slow cooking a leg of lamb with prunes and apricots and saffron. Maybe Persian food would be the next big thing
.

She opened her eyes and stared at a seventeenth century Japanese woodblock print on her wall—a woman in a flowered orange and black kimono, struggling against a diagonal rain under a paper umbrella. A single, angry-looking cloud hovered over her. Camila scanned the print, wondering why she had hung it in her dorm room when she was eighteen and then carried it from apartment to apartment for the last sixteen years. Her eyes landed on the woman—sad, determined, graceful. Camila felt a bond with this woman, and as she stared she began to feel like she was staring at herself. After a minute, she saw the print not as a print but as an idea of herself that lived inside her: the one who struggles. As soon as she saw it, the identification dissolved and she found herself staring only at a piece of paper with patches of color.

She closed her eyes again and slowed her breath. Her butt sank into the couch. Her mind went black. After a few minutes, thoughts started coming more slowly. What would she teach the next day? Possibly dissolution of identity in the digital age. But she was hungry and her thoughts quickly switched back to food. Sweet potato
guiso
with cumin and raisins. Suddenly, thoughts of her father took over.
Papa
. She wondered why he was so cruel. Just as fast, the
guiso
popped back into focus—she’d need copper pans. And pork shoulder—very tender. And onions
.

Her belly rumbled and she laughed out loud at herself.
She knew she’d never actually cook
guiso
. She just wasn’t the kind of person who would spend four hours braising a pork shoulder. Who would she cook for, anyway?

Her thoughts stopped and her mind was black again. Images moved slowly through the black. Steaming enamel pots and smashed cloves of garlic. Her father and uncle, throwing a mini Kansas City Chiefs football on a small rectangle of grass.
The images passed through the black, then disappeared. For a moment, her attention shifted to the black space itself and she was gone.
Where am I?
She wiggled her toes and felt her butt on the couch.
I am here, but where is my mind?
A stream of thoughts came, this time about her lack of thoughts.

Her father appeared again—scowling and floating slowly through the black—then disappeared. Her conscious mind drifted in and out until she was aware of only an endless, luxurious blackness.

After a few minutes, she smelled bleach and smoky meat. “Cam, what are you
doing
?” Her father’s growl from the kitchen window. She opened her eyes and a shudder ran through her body. Her chest tightened. She was salivating. Her mind returned.

She looked over at her phone, which was ringing.
Mom.
She watched the screen until it read “1 missed call.” An overwhelming sadness spread through her body.

Then she began to cry.

ALEX STOPPED
BY
his studio apartment at 105th and Broadway to shower, shave, and change into a black button-down shirt and dark jeans. A king-size bed took up most of the floor space and from it he could reach his mini-kitchen with one large step across the center of the room. He thought that the owners of his building must have divided the apartments many times—adding kitchens in closets, converting living rooms to bedrooms—until they ended up with his one-window cell.

After changing, he walked to the door, then turned back and opened his laptop. He had a new e-mail.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Application for Junior Reporter Position

Date: September 5, 2002 5:32:15 PM EST

Dear Mr. Vane,

Thank you for your recent application to join our team at WNYW New York News. Regretfully, we are unable to offer you a position. We feel that you need a few more years of experience and perhaps some on-air practice before making the transition to television.

We encourage you to try us again in the future.

Sincerely,

Maria Magdalena

Co-Producer, WNYW News at 5

Alex read the e-mail twice, then flopped down on his bed. He stared at a black speck on the ceiling and tried to picture his parents in their vegetable garden back on Bainbridge Island. All he saw was their blue Camry swerving off the road, crashing into a cedar tree. For the first few years after their deaths, seeing his name in print had given him a feeling of existing when nothing else did, but he no longer got that rush. His job had become routine, easy. In his boredom, unpleasant images were arising. He hadn’t actually been there when his parents died, but he was seeing the crash almost every day now.

He had heard that live TV is like a newspaper on speed. Fast paced and dangerous. A lot of attractive people working hard. He wanted to feel that, to be busy and productive. Most of all, he wanted to fill the blank space in his mind that images of the crash were occupying.

He stood up and read the e-mail again. “Damn,” he said to himself, slamming his laptop and heading out the door.

* * *

The Dive Bar on 92nd street was full of New York sports memorabilia and poorly lit by dusty, colored lights. Alex saw Lance stooped over a glass of something brown. He thought of the e-mail again, then collected himself and flashed a smile. “How does it feel to live in a town where even the names of bars are ironic and self-referential?” He sat on an empty barstool next to Lance.

“Go to hell with all that,” Lance said. “One glass of booze is as good as another.”

Alex ordered a vodka and soda with lime.

Lance smiled. “Wouldn’t want to accidentally ingest a carbohydrate, would you?”

“Wouldn’t exactly hurt you to cut the carbs a bit,” Alex replied, reaching over to pat Lance’s belly. Lance swatted Alex’s hand away.

“How’d that story go over?” Alex asked.

“Fine. Looks like I’m safe for one more day.”

When the bartender brought his drink, Alex squeezed the lime into it.

Lance shook his head. “This whole food obsession is getting out of control. Half the country is killing themselves with food and the rest treat food the way we treated the Holy Spirit at Trinity Baptist on Sundays.”

“Huh?”

“With
reverence.
Man, what the hell happened to just eating?”

Alex sipped his drink. “Why didn’t you go into radio? You preach like a radio guy.”

“Didn’t have the looks for it.”

They both laughed as the bartender refilled Lance’s cognac.

“Speakin’ of different careers . . .” Lance said, taking a long sip.

“I didn’t get it.”

“No?”

“She said I need on-air practice. I don’t wanna talk about it. You got anything good on opening week in football?”

“Got a thing about some guy in the Giants locker room being Muslim. Couple teammates went on record saying they don’t trust him. It’s a bullshit story, but they said it so we’re gonna print it. What have you got?”

“Santiago. The Washington Square Park murder.”

“That’s a career-maker, if you play it right. Depending on how the trial plays out, you could be doing segments on CNN before you know it. But pray for something dramatic at the trial—sexual abuse, some dirt about the professor. Maybe it’ll turn out the kid’s innocent. If the trial goes national you could ride it . . . hell, who knows where?” He turned to the bartender. “Ma’am, another for me and get this young man one, too. He needs to learn how to drink the good stuff.”

Lance emptied his glass and turned to Alex. “Why do you want to leave for local TV anyway? This merger goes through and we might
be
a TV station.”

“I’ve heard they’re gonna keep the paper if the deal goes final,” Alex said.

The bartender set down a curved glass and poured the liquor.

“When the guys from Nation Corp. move in,
The Standard
will be a one-page flyer,” Lance said. “And you’ll be doing two-minute segments on Court TV.”

Alex ran his finger around the rim of the cognac glass. He turned to Lance. “You think Santiago did it?”

“Doesn’t matter if he did it, matters how big the story gets. Not that it could get much bigger.”

“But do you
think
he did it?”

“You’re askin’ the wrong question.”

Alex picked up the glass and smelled. “I don’t drink brown liquor.”

Lance shook his head. “You got a lot to learn, son.”

“So school me.”

“First of all, journalists don’t drink vodka.”

“Why not?”

“Who knows, but I heard Edward R. Murrow say it when he gave a talk at Syracuse in 1963, so it must be true.” Lance was slurring his words now. “Second, you’re screwed unless you go for it when you get your chance, which is now. I started at
The Standard
ten years before ESPN was born, when the sports section was all people had. I knew athletes were gonna run the world soon. That job was my shot and by the time I was thirty we had the best sports section in the city. I did coke with half the pro-athletes in New York in the eighties. We were kings back then. Now? For a kid like you there’s nowhere to go in this business but down. Or, if you’re lucky, sideways.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Don’t screw up this story. Do what the Colonel says, get your pretty face on CNN, and use
that
to get a TV job, if that’s what you want.”

Alex emptied the glass and grimaced. Lance shook his head. “You just shot a twenty dollar glass of champagne cognac.”

“Was I not supposed to?”

Lance smacked him on the back of his head. At the same time, someone touched Alex’s shoulder. He turned.

Greta Mori stood before him at about five foot six, with long, black braids hanging in front of her shoulders. Alex was surprised but stood up and gave her a brief hug. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I’m always late.”

“Greta,” he said. “Oh, uh, late? Um, this is Lance. We work together. Lance, this is Greta. She’s a . . . yoga teacher.”

Lance smiled into his drink.

“I’m a body worker,” she said, holding one hand out to Lance while smacking Alex on the shoulder with the other. “Wait, you don’t even remember that you invited me to meet you here tonight.” She smoothed her white linen dress under her as she sat on a barstool next to Alex.

Alex flushed. “What had happened was . . . I had been
planning
to meet you here . . . and then Lance called and I . . . and
then
what happened was . . . Never mind. I’m an asshole. But enough about me. What do
you
think of me?”

Greta turned to Lance. “Asshole pretty much sums it up.”

Lance laughed. “But at least he knows he’s an asshole. That’s a start.”

Alex leaned forward between them. “You guys know I’m still sitting here, right?”

* * *

An hour later, Alex and Greta walked out of the bar, arm in arm. “My apartment is ten blocks north,” Alex said.

“Then let’s hurry.”

The streets were mostly deserted and they walked in silence. At 88th street, Alex glanced back and saw a tall, rail-thin man walking about half a block behind them. Alex stopped and the man stopped.

“What?” Greta asked.

The man stepped into the shadow of a streetlight as a panic rose in Alex’s chest.