Vendetta Stone (6 page)

Time is a precious commodity in the newspaper business, where every second counts. These are words we live by, and deadlines are treated dead-serious.

You know what a deadline is? You think you
do, but it may be the one single word applied to the newspaper industry which is most misunderstood by the general public. The dog-eared New College Dictionary sitting atop my desk offers two definitions, the first of which appears written for editors and the second for reporters. I’ll give the second one first: A specific time or date by which something must be accomplished, i.e. the cut-off time for copy to be accepted for publication. That’s clear enough. The first definition, at least it’s how I sometimes think my editors think, says a deadline is a point either inside or outside a prison that if crossed, a prisoner risks being shot.

I’ve lived more than thirty years
under the thumb of deadlines. I’ve missed my share of deadlines, I’m sorry to say, and the next-morning explanations of why I missed my deadline are the closest I’ll ever come to facing a firing squad. Editors want to know why I missed the deadline, what I would have done different to avoid missing that particular deadline, what steps I can take in the future to prevent missing a deadline. Sheesh.

U
ltimately, the only deadline we’re truly obligated to meet is whatever time it is that you wake up each morning, slip on your robe and house shoes, and stagger half-asleep out to the driveway to pick up the paper before that first morning cup of coffee.

That’s our contract with you, the reader.
If the paper’s not there, man, it’s a lousy way to start your day.

You might call to complain, get an automated response instead of a live person, and leave a message threatening to cancel your subscription i
f it happens again tomorrow.

There’s a third, more con
cise definition of deadline that anyone who has ever worked for a newspaper understands—hellish! In a nutshell, here’s how the newspaper that arrives at your door comes together. We all operate on different deadlines, and each one deadline affects the next person’s down the line. The advertising department must finish early enough so that the amount of editorial space can be determined for the national and local news sections, business, sports, and entertainment. Section editors meet at nine a.m., noon, and three p.m., to weigh the day’s news and decide what gets covered and what doesn’t. Reporters and photographers are assigned to stories and must file with their editors by a pre-set time. The editor reads each story for factual and stylistic accuracy by a specific time in order to get it to the copy desk. There, various editors pull the text and art onto the pages, write headlines and cutlines and other breakout information, edit copy down to an assigned length, again check facts for style and accuracy, and then proofread copy a final time before releasing pages so that the paper can be printed, loaded onto trucks, and delivered to carriers by a certain time so that they get the paper to your doorstep before you awaken.

I
n theory if I’m a minute late in getting my story to my editor, that means I’ve given my editor Carrie Sullivan less time to fact-check/edit/rewrite my “prose” if she’s to make her deadline to get it to the copy desk. And if the copy desk goes in late because five stories come to them late, it means the paper won’t be printed on time, won’t be loaded onto the trucks by the assigned time, and won’t be delivered to your house on time.

Every reporter and editor deals with deadline pressures in different ways. We get stressed out, bummed out
, and burnt out from the never-ending deadlines—and love every minute of it, even if we never admit it. I do some of my best work on deadline.

Carrie always loved a challenge and recognized the breaking news about the startling new twist to the Angela Stone murder case would be a major challenge for all of us. I mentioned stress a while back. Carrie always operates in a crisis mode and when it overwhelms her, she can get snappy with even her favorite, most trusted reporter. That explained her mood as she waited to hear back from me and start receiving the digital photographs from our photographer, Casey Leiber. Off to a fast start, getting the story online before the six o’clock television news, she didn’t want us to lose momentum.

Carrie checked
her computer for a fourth time before she saw the first of Casey’s photographs pop into the system. Almost six-fifteen, she needed any photo for my story on the website’s home page. Carrie felt the first photo lacked the raw emotion to match the forcefulness of what I’d dictated. Just good enough to post, she hoped Casey snapped something stronger for print. She downloaded it to her desktop, then called up my story and attached the first photograph, writing a cutline to describe what readers were seeing:

Nashville businessman Jackson Stone, second from left, addresses (delete) . . . Nashville’s Jackson Stone, second from left, held a press conference on Friday at the East Pricint (delete) Precinct, where he vowed revenge for the recent death (delete) murder of his wife, Angela.
CASEY LEIBER/TENNESCENE TODAY
.

She saved the changes, closed the document, and recached the article. It looked good, with the
BREAKING NEWS
caption in bright red to the left of the headline. That would do for now. She checked back to see if Casey filed any more photos—all right!

The third shot
, taken moments before the conference began, captured the emotion she sought—a single tear trickling from the corner of Jackson’s left eye. The fourth shot, even better, showed a look of seething hatred on his face, dry-eyed, and smoldering with anger. An outstretched hand stuck out like a pistol, his index finger cocked at the camera like a gun barrel aimed at some unknown killer lurking out there. Photo number five captured the look of surprise—and horror, maybe—on the face of his lawyer as Jackson issued his personal declaration of war. The online department would post these photos as a slideshow package.

Impatiently, she tried my cell
phone number, hoping to find out how close I was to filing a website update and then my print story for first edition. But her telephone rang busy because I’d set my cell phone on speaker, and it rang and rang the number Stone’s brother gave me. I listened to my tape of Officer Mendez to ensure the accuracy of my transcription. “Can’t take the law into his own hands,” Mendez said as I read over what I’d typed into my laptop. I went to the top of the page and scanned for typos, making one change before I saved and sent it into the system. Carrie answered on the first ring.

“The update ought to be there.”

“Yeah, it’s
about twelve to fourteen inches. Get me a write-through within the hour.”

“
No problem. I still haven’t reached Stone. I’d like to find him tonight if I can.”

“I think we’re okay if you don’t.
Besides his dynamite comments, you quoted three other sources. Maybe he’ll talk tomorrow after the funeral. I assume you’re going.”

“W
ouldn’t miss it. This is one story I want to see through to the end.”

“C
an you hold it to about twenty-five inches for in the morning? Then for Sunday, we’ll come back with a mainbar from the funeral and an inside piece with reaction.”

“The reaction might be the better mainbar. Darrin Jensen is setting up a news conference for the police chief a couple of hours after the funeral. And there are others I’d like to talk to
, and maybe chase down some sidewalk reaction. Can you put out some photo orders for me?”

“That sounds good. And look at the website when you get a chance. The photo up now isn’t anything special, but
Casey got some great shots, and we’ll sub it out when I re-post. You were right about this story. It already has over two hundred hits. Gotta go.”

Next, I
re-dialed Jackson’s cell phone as he drove from the city.

“Hello?”

“Mister Stone. This is Gerry Hilliard at
TenneScene Today
. I’d—”

Click.

Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . .

“
Where’d you get this number?”

“From your brother. He
—”

Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . .

“I think I’ve said all there is to say.”

“But did you mean it, or just say
that out of anger and frustration?”

Jackson
’s resolve came through loud and clear.

“I. MEANT. EVERY
. WORD!”

Click. I smile
d, then set to writing for the daily, which was basically an updated version of the online story rather than a complete rewrite. I sprinkled in a few more quotes and added a little more background. Unlike the online version, this one leaned more sympathetic toward Jackson, evoking the emotions of the past few hours. Furious as he was, Jackson still needed a news outlet to tell his side of the story. And I intended to be that outlet. I also remember thinking for the very first time there might be a book deal out of it.

I copied the online story and started a new file i
n case I needed to resend the original version for any number of reasons. I pressed the [F2] button, which automatically inserted my byline, then hit the “enter” key three or four times and pasted the old story before writing a new lead:

“
In the two weeks since the tragic East Nashville murder of his wife, Jackson Stone’s life has spiraled out of control. On Friday afternoon, three days after her body was found by searchers on the other side of town, Stone reclaimed the direction in which his fate will now take him, though the path he has chosen is fraught with peril and uncertainty.

“
At an emotion-charged press conference, the 45-year-old Nashville advertising executive launched a personal campaign of vengeance for the gruesome death of Angela Stone, 35, by vowing to spend the rest of his days hunting for his wife’s killer. His extraordinary promise of retribution, described in vivid detail, seemed to shock friends and family members who rallied at the East Precinct to offer their support.”

I reread the paragraphs, changed “fate” to “life,” then went back to “fate.” I then deleted copy in the earlier version until I picked up the first quote:

“I don’t want justice. I want revenge,” Stone said.

Jackson Stone’s car sped down Interstate 24 East headed toward Murfreesboro. His family farm in the Lascassas community had served as a retreat to which he and his brother escaped after their parents’ tragic deaths in the 1998 Nashville tornado. Some neighbors rented out the farmland now, but the brothers still hunted on the property. They fixed up the small cabin and got a well dug. Sentiment kept them from considering offers, including two for a very nice price.

After hanging up on me,
Jackson speed-dialed his brother.

“Why
did you give my number to that reporter?”

“You didn’t say not to. Hell, y
ou didn’t say anything after that stupid press conference. Have you lost your mind?”

The concern in
Patrick’s voice made Jackson ease off the gas.

“I don’t
know. Maybe.” The words choked in his throat. “I just had to do something.”

“Where are you, Jack
y? Just come home. The funeral’s tomorrow. You need to be with your family.”

“I’ll be at your place by eight
in the morning. Don’t worry, I’m okay. I just need some time to myself tonight. I guess you found your car.”

“You should know something
, Jack. That stunt you pulled is all over the news.”

“Good,”
Jackson said, the harsh tone returning.

“
Oh yeah? Not so good for us. The police came looking for you, and so did at least two TV stations. We turned off the phones, and Sheila sent the kids to her sister’s house. I want to talk to you tonight.”

“I
’ll explain tomorrow.”

Jackson
closed his cell phone and settled back as he continued down the interstate, pleased with his brother’s report. It sounded like he stirred up the public reaction he wanted, but he failed to realize just how big a media bonfire he started or how fast it would burn out of his control. As the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, Jackson looked forward to getting to the cabin and settling in to see reaction on the ten o’clock news.

As Jackson’s day wound down, with the toughest part of the scheme behind him, it hit high gear for me and other media outlets.

Over a
t Channel 11, officials mapped out the ten o’clock news to air in two hours, and producer Ellie Bligh directed traffic, expecting Clarkston and Pittard any minute.

“
Nice effort at six, people, but we’ve got to stay on top of this story. So let’s do a little brainstorming,” she said, as Pittard and Clarkston walked in the door. The reporter sat between newscast co-anchors Karen O’Day and Cameron Knight, as Pittard headed for his editing bay.

“Glad you mad
e it, Dan,” Bligh said. Fellow staffers hooted. “So what’s the latest?”

“
We drove all over East Nashville, and nobody’s seen or heard from him. Well, except for his neighbor, Herb Fletcher. He said Stone made a short stop at his house and left without saying a word. His brother wouldn’t talk to us; neither would anybody down at this dive. I figured we’d been out there long enough. End of story.”

“Wrong,” Bligh snapped. “This story’s just starting. How will we cover it?”

“We start with the funeral tomorrow,” Cameron Knight said. Bligh nodded.

“And
the police just sent out a release stating that Chief King will hold a press conference tomorrow afternoon,” O’Day added. “That might be interesting.”

“I thought I might try to profile the type of
person Stone is chasing. And I want to delve deeper into Stone’s background,” Clarkston said.

“Everybody’s going to be doing those pieces over the next few days,” Bligh said. “I want something different, people. This story’s got legs
, and we’re not going to trip over them.”

Back at the paper, Carrie Sullivan downed her fifth cup of coffee since coming to work that day. She met first with Casey and photo editor Brad Moore to select the shots they wanted to run in the daily. The fourth photo—the one where a visibly enraged Stone cocked his finger like a gun at the camera—won everybody over, although Casey argued that it cast Stone in a less-than-sympathetic light. They decided to use the third shot, with Stone’s eyes watering just before the media event, as either secondary art for the front cover or to run inside with the jump. Then they moved on to the design desk, where Carrie and Managing Editor Ken McGuire met with Janice Munro and her staff. They suggested several different scenarios for the front-page layout—whether to run the main photo over three columns or four. They considered page placement as either a centerpiece or a strip across the top. Should they go with a straightforward headline or a label head to convey the emotions of the story? Could they come up with any “breakouts”—informational or statistical data that are better as a chart—or “refers”—blurbs to tell readers on which pages to find related articles—to run with the story? How much space should be allotted inside for the story jump? Finally, everybody agreed, and it boiled down to making all the jigsaw puzzle pieces fit.

Stil
l waiting for my rewrite at eight fifteen, Carrie again went to the website and noted with satisfaction the slideshow attached to our updated story had already drawn over three hundred hits with ten pages of comments comprised of sixty-four replies. She printed the most recent posts for me to check later.

At 7:59 p.m.,
MARYLOU
wrote: “I don’t know Jackson Stone, didn’t know his wife Angela, but some mutual friends told me what great people they truly are. My heart goes out to Jack. I hope he won’t mind my coming to Angela’s funeral on Saturday at noon at Belle Valley Cemetery. My husband and I will be there to show our support for him, even though we disagree on whether he should pursue a course of vengeance. I think he should let the police find his wife’s killer.”

At 8:04 p.m.,
EARLYTOBED
wrote: “I can’t agree with
WILDWEST
. Violence is never the solution. It is A solution but it will surely land Jackson Stone in the pokey for the rest of his days.”

At 8:11 p.m.,
JIMBOB78
wrote: “It’s a bad idea. My solution would be to get”—

T
he telephone ring startled Sullivan. She clicked off the website, and checked the system.

“Y
our story’s here, Gerry. Ken wanted me to ask what your plans are for tomorrow and what kind of help you need.”

“I tho
ught a little about that. Visitation starts at ten a.m., and the funeral is at noon. I just talked to Darrin Jensen. He set up a news conference for the police chief at about two or two-thirty. There’s no way I can be at both if I’m writing for online after the funeral. Can somebody handle that? Then I’ll wrap up both events for print with a sidebar reaction from folks after the funeral.”

“Shelley Finklestein is on duty for the weekend. I’ll call and get her out there. David Hill’s your weekend editor. He’ll be in about four.”

The newspaper put to bed the state edition and then got to work on the final wrap-up. I wound up making a couple of changes in my story after all and re-filed, then drove by a couple of East Nashville bars to see if anyone had talked to Jackson. The gruff, old bartender at Eddie Paul’s feigned ignorance, so I headed home, fixed a drink to go with a light dinner that Jill had put in the refrigerator for me, jotted down some story ideas, and waited for the ten o’clock news.

Jackson Stone got off at the busy Murfreesboro exit, pulled into the Golden Gallon mini-mart, and filled his gas tank. He went inside and bought eggs, bacon, milk, and coffee for breakfast, one of those heat-and-eat Hungry Man chicken dinners, plus a six-pack of light beer. He then drove past Middle Tennessee State University and out Lascassas Highway to the farm. About fifteen minutes later, he turned onto the gravel driveway and aimed the car lights toward the small cabin’s front door so he could see to unlock. Crickets chirped their night song as the moon shone bright above. An owl screeched somewhere in the woods, and a bullfrog croaked. Jackson went inside and turned on lights everywhere. He put the food in the fridge and popped open the first beer of the night. The Hungry Man dinner went in the microwave.

While the mashed potatoes bubbled,
Jackson took care of the main reason why he made the trek to Murfreesboro instead of returning to his brother’s West Nashville residence. He needed a good hiding place for his small metallic case, and his safe house provided such. He shoved the heavy, honey-stained oak farm table across the kitchen floor, pulled up a loose board, stuck the case below, slid a weave rug over it and moved the table back to sit atop it. The microwave beeped, and Jackson got a towel to remove the steaming hot tray. He scraped the food onto a plate and took it into his bedroom. He set the alarm for six a.m., then sat up on the comfortable double bed, nibbling while he waited for the ten o’clock news.