The Anonymous Source (9 page)

JACK’S WAS
A SMALL BAR
in Brooklyn Heights, dark and unclean. Alex sat in a sticky booth in the back for twenty minutes before approaching the bartender.

“Are you Jack?” he asked an old man who shuffled back and forth behind the bar.

“Ain’t no Jack,” the man said. “Never was. Owner just thought it sounded homey.”

“Do you know Demarcus Downton?”

“Sure I know him. Used to be a regular here before he went upstate.”

Alex held out his hand. “Alex Vane,
New York Standard
. I’m writing a piece that might include something on Downton.”

The bartender looked skeptical. “You a sports reporter? What you writin’, a retrospective or somethin’?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m wondering if you know where I can find him. I was supposed to meet him here for an interview.”

The man frowned. “You writin’ a thing about people who did time for somethin’ they didn’t do?”

“No, not that, but what do you mean?”

“Demarcus, you know, the bit he did upstate. Everybody knows he deals. Hell, half my customers buy from him. But he ain’t do what he got sent upstate for.”

“The assault?”

“Yeah, he ain’t do that. He was here that night, but the police didn’t want to hear it. I tell ya, only upside to 9/11 is that the police have a different group to arrest without cause now. Leave us black folks alone.” He laughed and wiped the bar with a rag.

“Can you tell me where he might be? Like I said, I was supposed to meet him.”

The man stopped cleaning and studied Alex. “Yeah, he live nearby.”

Alex wrote down the address and walked out into the hot sun.

* * *

He saw the flashing lights from a few blocks away and broke into a jog up 61st Street. The worry he’d started to feel in the bar sank into his stomach and became a dense ball of dread as he approached Downton’s building. Stopping near the police tape that blocked the entrance, he scanned the faces of the police and paramedics, but didn’t see any he recognized. He didn’t see any reporters he knew either.

Off to the side, a frail-looking woman of about fifty smoked a cigarette. She was dressed in a pink polyester robe and worn slippers. Alex noticed four cigarette butts around her feet. She was shaking and blinking her eyes rapidly in the bright sun.

He walked over and stuck out his hand. “Alex Vane,
New York Standard
.” She blew smoke in his direction then turned her head away.

“Crystal Neese,” she said hoarsely. She crushed her half-smoked cigarette under her slipper, then reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled a new one from a near-empty pack.

“Can I ask you a few questions, ma’am?”

“Demarcus. Police say he got shot. Killed.”

“What happened?”

“Leave me alone,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t like reporters.”

Alex tried to catch her eye. “Ma’am, I—”

“Get outta here,” she said. “I said I don’t like reporters.”

Alex stepped toward the police tape, recalling the anecdote about a group of reporters standing outside a burning building, taking notes as others saved people from the fire. His reporter instinct had kicked in so quickly that he forgot it was Demarcus who was dead inside the building.

He turned back to Crystal Neese. “I don’t like reporters either,” he said.

At the police tape, he tried to wave down an officer and a team of paramedics as they entered the building. They ignored him. He spoke with a few neighbors gathered in front of the building, but all he could learn for sure was that Demarcus was dead.

After passing out business cards to anyone who would take one, Alex jogged to the subway on Fourth Avenue.

ALEX WEDGED
HIS HEAD
under the faucet and took a long drink of cool water. He did forty push-ups on the floor of his kitchen, drank again, then lay on the bed. He was sweating.

For the first time, he realized he might be in danger. He had never been in danger before—at least he didn’t think so. The closest he had come was when Bainbridge Island had been hit by a string of burglaries when he was ten. The paper had run sketches of two suspects and for weeks he’d worried about the two men climbing through his window at night. That was the closest he’d come to danger, and it had been imaginary.

His head buzzed. Maybe he should just drop the story and get out of town. But he couldn’t be in any
real
danger—he never even saw the video.
He pictured Downton sitting in the coffee shop and his eyes filled with tears. They felt cold rolling down his hot face. He wiped them away with his sleeve. He knew he didn’t have time for this.

His instinct was to write everything he knew—Downton’s claims about the night Martin was killed, his story about the two cops, and his murder. He would need to find out more about Downton’s murder, but he was certain that it was connected to Martin and Santiago. Putting everything out in the open felt like it would shield him from any danger. But the video—he’d need the video. Downton had mentioned that it was at his mother’s house in Queens. She couldn’t be too hard to find.

He stood and called Baxton. “Colonel, it’s Alex,” he said, pacing the small apartment as he spoke.

“On a Saturday afternoon? Have I finally instilled a work ethic in you?”

“This is serious, Colonel. You know that source I talked to you about who had something on Santiago?”

“Yeah, the criminal. I remember.”

“He got killed last night. Shot in his apartment.”

“Well, you said he was a criminal, right? What happened?”

“I’m not sure. No one at the scene would talk.”

“You were there?”

Alex stopped pacing and stared out at the traffic on Broadway. The late afternoon sun cast a golden light on the tops of the buildings and the street below was marked by long, irregular shadows. “Yeah. I was meeting him to get the video.”

“You showed up and he was dead?”

“Yes. Look, Colonel, you’ve gotta do something for me.”

“Where’s this video supposed to be?”

“I don’t know, maybe Queens. Look, I need you to call someone to find out what happened. You still have people in the department, right? Find out what sort of gun was used, who they are looking at, and whether there’s any connection to Santiago, or to drugs.”

“Your source was into drugs? What was he, a dealer or a user?”

Alex hesitated. “A dealer.”

“I’ll make some calls, but no one is going to go on record for this, you know.”

“I know. Tell them it’s for informational purposes only.”

“If I do this for you, and it turns out to be just another drug-related homicide in Brooklyn, will you drop this guy?” Baxton asked. “Trial starts again Monday morning and I need a thousand words a day on it.”

“Just call me back when you get something.”

Alex put his phone on the desk and lay on the bed. His gaze followed the tiny cracks in the ceiling paint from one corner of the room to another as he imagined Downton, bloodied and lifeless, lying on the floor. He wondered whether he liked Downton, something he had never considered about a victim. Journalists were supposed to remain neutral and many had to set part of themselves aside to achieve this. For Alex, neutrality came easy. Sometimes he thought he had no feelings, no opinions, nothing solid that needed to be set aside. He was an excellent reporter, but it had never occurred to him to care about what he was reporting on—the sources or the victims he covered. But Downton had been attempting to do something good, had taken a risk, and it had gotten him killed.

He was relieved that Baxton was going to help him, and when his phone rang he sprang across the room.

Then he looked at the caller ID:
000-0000
.

Taking a deep breath, he answered, “Hello?”

“He was not the only one who knows what happened.” The voice again. Deep and distorted. Metallic.

“Who is this?” he managed.

“We have been over that. I can’t tell you. But I can say that Downton was not the only one who knows what happened.”

Alex swallowed hard and looked at the clock on his desk. Downton’s body had been discovered only a few hours ago.

“He’s gone now,” the voice continued. “I couldn’t stop it. But you need to keep looking.”

Alex wiped sweat from his forehead and sat on the bed. “How did you know he . . . I mean, can you give me anything else to go on?”

“No. But you’re smart, Mr. Vane. Put your education to good use.”

SADIE GREEN
LEANED
over her laptop and clicked refresh. She scanned the list of the deceased, but didn’t see his name. It was 8:30 a.m. Still too early to call.

She walked in circles around her couch—reading the headlines of the five newspapers spread across it again and again—then stopped in front of a long mirror on the wall. She looked tired
.
She had slept only three hours and still wore baggy Batman pajamas over her slight frame. Using her fingers like a comb, she smoothed her short brown hair.

Each of the three TVs on the floor played a different station. On CNN, two talking heads debated when President Bush should visit Ground Zero. She switched to CNBC, where Denver Bice was being interviewed by a perky blonde woman. He wore a black suit with a USA pin attached to the lapel and his hard jaw popped under the studio lights.

“Mr. Bice, in the weeks before the attacks there were rumors in the business community about a possible merger between your company, Standard Media, and—”

Bice held up his hand. “Deborah, I’m sorry. We know that American business will continue in the face of these horrific attacks. We know there will be a time for that. Right now, America needs to focus on—”

Sadie muted the TV.
Asshole.

She threw the remote on the couch and stared at two small picture frames on the wall. The first was black and held a piece of white linen paper on which she had typed two quotes in a neat, cursive font:

Any dictator would admire the uniformity and obedience of the US Media.

-Noam Chomsky

Whoever controls the media controls the mind.

-Jim Morrison

She took down the second frame and sat on the couch. It was a letter printed on the official stationary of Hollinger Quantitative Investing. She cradled it in her small hands.

December 16, 1999

Sadie,

This morning I sat at my desk and read about stocks, baseball, and fashion. May the people of the Sudan one day have the same luxury, with your help.

Mac Hollinger

Sadie had begun corresponding with Hollinger while working as the executive director of Free Sudan, a not-for-profit whose mission was to set up the first independent TV station in the region. During her two years in Africa she had taught English, trained would-be journalists, and tried to convince wealthy donors to pay for equipment. After six months of letters to Hollinger, Free Sudan had received a $300,000 donation, which she had used it to train a crew to produce a local newscast with digital cameras.

When she returned to New York to manage the Media Protection Organization, her first call was to Hollinger. He declined to meet with her for a few months, but she called him every week.

In the summer of 2000, her persistence paid off. By October they were meeting for lunch every few weeks and, over the next ten months, Hollinger donated about $500,000—a quarter of MPO’s annual budget. Sadie found him to be naïve about the modern media, but genuine, thoughtful, and kind in a way that unnerved her. She often wondered why a billionaire investor allowed her to lecture him about the media. But each time his secretary scheduled an appointment, Sadie arrived with soup from his favorite deli and tried to chisel away at his view of the world.

She turned the frame over in her hands and looked at the clock: 9 a.m. Finally.
She walked to her desk where she carefully set down the frame. Then she sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed Hollinger’s home number. As it rang, she tugged at a tuft of her hair. The pain made her feel more awake.

A woman answered. “Hello?”

“Uh, hello,” Sadie said. “Is this Sonia? Sonia Hollinger?”

“Yes.”

“I’m calling for Mr. Hollinger, I mean to see if he’s okay. If he, you know, made it out.”

Sonia spoke quietly. “He’s missing.”

“I really need to speak with him. He promised a massive donation that will—”

Sonia gasped. “
Meu Deus
! I said he’s missing.”

“I’m sorry. So you don’t know if he—”

“We don’t know anything. No one has heard from him. Good-bye.”

The line went dead.

Sadie hung up and read his note again, remembering the day five weeks earlier when she had realized that sports would be the way into his wallet. He had been in a bad mood when she’d walked into his office in the south tower that day. He’d eaten his soup in silence as she’d paced the room, trying to explain the importance of net neutrality.

Growing uncomfortable, she pointed at the framed photo of Lou Gehrig. “Big Yankees fan?” she asked. “Be nice if they could get one of those sluggers. Sosa or McGwire. Think the Yanks will ever have a hitter like that? I mean, seventy home runs in a season?”

Hollinger frowned and dipped bread in the paper cup of soup.

“I thought that was one record that would always be held by a Yankee,” Sadie continued. “It just feels like it’s ours, you know?”

He looked up, scowling. “If you ask me, The Babe still holds the record. Neither of those guys could hit fifty playing at Yankee stadium, and Maris did it with eight extra games. These new guys . . . well, the ball must have changed or something. A record doesn’t stand for forty years then get broken by two guys in one season. I know numbers, and the odds just aren’t there.” Then he looked at his soup with disgust. “What is this,
lentil
? Whatever happened to beans? It’s always lentils these days.”

Sadie studied his face and smiled. “Different drugs. If The Babe had the drugs these guys have, he would have hit eighty.”

”What?” Hollinger asked, looking up again.

“I mean, look at the size of these guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Steroids,” she replied.

Hollinger shook his head. “No, they test for that. We’re not the East Germans.”

Sadie suppressed a laugh. “Sir, if a story is too good to be true—like two guys breaking the record in one season—that’s usually because it’s false. The East Germans, Ben Johnson, now these guys.”

He waved a hand at her. “No, if baseball players were on drugs we would hear about it.”

She chuckled. Before leaving for the Sudan, she had interned at the Chicago Tribune, often tagging along with the Cubs beat reporter. During the summer of 1998, she had asked him whether Sosa, McGwire and other recently-muscled players were on steroids. It was an innocent question, but he had laughed derisively and said, “Of course they are.” When she’d asked why he didn’t write about it, he’d replied, “First, even though a lot of us know it, we don’t have proof. Second, my editor doesn’t want proof. Seventy home runs is a story that’s gonna save baseball and keep us all employed for a few more years.”

Sadie took a step toward Hollinger’s desk. “Mr. Hollinger, sir, you know how I’ve told you that sometimes the media colludes with the government, or certain people or businesses, to keep things out of the news?”

He grimaced as he ate a spoonful of soup. “Yes.”

“Well, if you think sports reporting is any different, you might be in for a bit of a shock. I don’t just mean leaving personal business out of the news, which is fine. I mean deliberately ignoring drug use, cheating, gambling, domestic violence, and more.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To protect the players, to protect the team, to protect the journalist’s
access
. Sometimes to protect advertisers or the brand of the sport. You have to understand—the media companies and the sports companies aren’t in it for journalism or athletics. They are partners in
business.
”

“Maybe, but they wouldn’t ignore cheating in baseball.”

“Mr. Hollinger, you’re a businessman. The world of sports reporting is a big, big business pulling off one of the greatest misdirections in history. People get all worked up over one little detail that slips out here and there. Ever heard of Hemingway’s Iceberg theory?”

“Yes.”

“The idea that for every sentence he wrote there was a glacier of information left unwritten?”

“I said I’d heard of it,” Hollinger replied, frowning.

“Reporters know all sorts of things they never write. Things you can’t even imagine. All your heroes, they created them. After a while, they’ll tear them down. That’s what they do. When a character is no longer useful, they J. Jonah Jameson him.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“
The Daily Bugle
? Spiderman? Never mind.”

Hollinger walked to the window and stared out at the Hudson, shushing Sadie any time she tried to speak. Finally, he turned and smiled broadly. “I knew it,” he said. “That means The Babe is still the single season home run leader.”

For the next few months, Sadie tried to convince Hollinger that similar omissions were happening everywhere. She railed about the deregulation of the media in the eighties, the weakness and corruption of the FCC in the nineties, and how the Founders had supported not only a free press, but also a government-subsidized press. By the end of the summer, Sadie felt certain that a donation was coming. Hollinger was fanatical about investing and the Yankees,
that
she’d known, but she’d had no idea that his fanaticism would turn so quickly in her favor.

In mid-August, Hollinger called Sadie over to his office and told her that he was selling five hundred million dollars in stock, much of it invested in the Standard Media Group. He was donating it to the Media Protection Organization.

Sadie tried to remain calm, managing only to hug him and say, “Thanks, Mr. Hollinger, you’re doing the right thing.”

“You’re welcome,” Hollinger said. He was quiet for a moment, then walked in small circles around his office, stopping occasionally to stare out at the Hudson. “I’ve always hated reporters but respected the press. I know as well as anyone that the press can be lied to and manipulated. I’ve done it myself quite a few times. Businesses and politicians are supposed to lie and journalists are supposed to hunt down the truly crooked ones and expose them. That’s how it’s always been. That’s what keeps America from turning into a tyranny. But to think that the press would ignore cheating in baseball. Just ignore it? In
baseball
! I trust that, with my money, you’ll do what you can to clean things up.”

On the subway home that afternoon, Sadie had realized what the donation meant. She would become the executive director of the best-funded media organization in the world. For the first time, there would be an organization with the resources to fight the decline of the US media. And she would be running it. In particular, she planned to do everything she could to disrupt the merger that would create the largest media company in the world. That evening she had called a few friends and, between tequila shots at the White Elephant Bar, she’d left a drunken, rambling message for Denver Bice.

Sadie stood up, hung Hollinger’s note back up on the wall, then came back to her desk and sat at her computer. She clicked refresh. His name had not been added to the list of the deceased. She rested her head on the desk and fell asleep.

* * *

The intercom buzzed and Denver Bice closed his laptop. “Mr. Bice, Chairman Gathert is here to see you.” Bice stood and muted the TV, which showed members of Congress singing “God Bless America” on the steps of the Capitol.

“Send him in,” he said, striding toward the door and extending his hand as it opened. “Chairman Gathert, how are you holding up?”

Gathert wore a blue suit and small round glasses. He took small steps toward the couch in the center of the office and ran a hand across his bald head as he sat. Bice sat in a leather chair across from him.

“Not well, Denver. I have three friends still missing. One confirmed dead. What about you?”

“Just one. Mac Hollinger. He’s missing.”

Gathert shook his head. “I heard. It’s terrible.”

“He was like a father to me at Tulane.”

“I know,” Gathert said. “I assume our editors are doing what they do, but I wanted to make sure that you’re doing everything necessary to postpone the announcement.”

“Well, I was thinking it might still go forward. By next week we might—”

“Denver!’

Bice stood up and looked down at Gathert. “I’m saying I think we can still do it. Here’s the line: Despite the attack, American business will move forward. Two great American companies, Standard Media and Nation Corp., coming together in the face of terrorism.”

Gathert stood up. “Are you crazy? There are people alive in the rubble fifty blocks south of here and you don’t want to postpone the announcement of the merger?”

Bice clenched his fist. He heard the thud of Hollinger’s head on the sidewalk.
When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.
“Chairman Gathert, I . . . ”
You can choose to be in control
. “What I mean is, it’s not just another merger. This is the deal that will—”

“Denver! The president will be in New York City in two days. I’m not saying the merger won’t happen, but the announcement will be at least a couple months from now.”

“Not happen? Do you know what I’ve done to keep this merger together?” Bice walked around the couch and softened his tone. “At least there may be a silver lining to the attacks. With all the coverage they’re going to get, no one will notice when we announce the merger.”

“Denver, what the hell are you saying?”

“War is the best time to conduct otherwise controversial business. The liberals will be too busy protesting our response to the attack and the conservatives will be too busy selling it.”

Gathert stared at him for a moment, mouth open, then said, “Denver, I need to go. Just get with the people at Nation Corp. and let them know we need to put off the announcement for at least a month.” He paused and shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll agree.”

When Gathert left, Bice sat at his desk and stared at the bottom drawer. Once again, he was standing on the riverbank, twelve years old, staring at his father’s lifeless body. He felt the pain of the latest beating, his love for his father, and a rage that froze on top of it all.
When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.
He took the key out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. He took five deep breaths and looked at the drawer again. He put the key back in his pocket.