Dead Line

by JJ Gould

  The second point went to him as well. A Sioux Falls police detective and a district head of the Federal Communication Commission were on hand as a favor to him. Certainly, laws had been broken at the municipal level. Meyer had some building codes researched. There was a chance he could raise a stink about the placement of KCAH offices, which wasn’t in the purview of the detective, of course, but having him at the table would make Martin and his cronies nervous. As far as the FCC was concerned, Meyer was on more solid ground. Using a front like Emilio Gonzales to start what was purported to be a Spanish religious station, thereby sneaking around the FCC guidelines, was shady at best, and having the FCC representative at the table offered a third point, a moral high ground that would give Meyer an even greater advantage at the meeting.

  The meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning. Meyer had Martin’s group wait outside until 10:35. Finally, a frosty receptionist Meyer used to make visitors feel inferior showed the guests in. Along with Martin came a big shuffling kid named Matt Bradley. Meyer vaguely recognized him from a report on all of the employees of KCAH, and he remembered that Bradley had once worked for Hall Media. The third person was a kid named Ray Crew. Meyer knew only a little bit about him. He was a farm kid with a law degree from the University of South Dakota, who worked for Charlie Hofer. Hofer hired him because he was cheap, and Crew took the job because it was the only one he could find out of law school.

  There were six chairs on his side and three across from them. Meyer made sure the three were a little lower, making his guests look like grade schoolers invited to the adult table. Easy peasy.

  Meyer’s stock in trade was a smooth delivery with sharp unexpected jabs, and while the three across the table were getting themselves comfortable, he laid out his first punch. “Slander.” He tossed three heavy files across the table like hand grenades. “Untrue accusations made on your radio station, by you, Mr. Martin, inflicting irreparable damage to my client.”

  He tossed another three salvos. “Libel. Continued lies, distributed through email, that once printed meet the definition of libel. You, Mr. Bradley, have fallen in with a bad crowd and now must pay the price for your foolish decision. You personally will be sued, and by the time I am done with you, you won’t be able to get a job delivering pizzas. And you, Mr. Martin…”

  Meyer leveled his gaze on the smaller man next to Bradley, a fairly anonymous-looking guy with a spare frame and startlingly intense eyes. “You are in…”

  “Stop.” Martin said the word with command, and Meyer found himself momentarily speechless. Martin rose and leaned on the table. “You, Mr. Meyer, are a well-paid attorney, well worth the money you make.” He nodded to the other five. “And you all may or may not be privy to Mr. Meyer’s strategies.” He pointed to the door. “Making us wait for thirty-five minutes. Having us sit in chairs three inches lower than yours. Simple little games that are designed to make us feel small—intimidation that I have felt before as a member of the press. So let us stop the games and put our cards on the table.” Martin motioned to Bradley, who took a tape recorder out of a box. “We altered the voices, but here is an excerpt of the interview given.”

  Five minutes later, Martin stopped the tape. Meyer tried bluster. “That is a fabrication… taken out of context.”

  “No doubt vetted completely when you decide to take us to trial, Mr. Meyer. A trial we will cover, of course,” Martin said.

  “If you expect the fine people of this city to believe the likes of that sleaze monger, Charlie Hofer, and your staff of boozers, strippers, and misfits…”

  “Be careful, Mr. Meyer,” the erstwhile quiet Crew said. “Charlie Hofer is the owner of KCAH, and he owns a chain of strip clubs, which are legal businesses in the state of South Dakota. Mr. Martin is a recovering alcoholic, also common knowledge, also not illegal, and also the reality of, no doubt, many other employees all over the state, probably even at Hall Media. No laws have been broken by my clients. None.”

  The detective from the police department looked at Meyer, waiting for a response.

  Meyer fished out a document. “If Mr. Hofer is the owner of the station, why does this application refer to Emilio Gonzales as the owner?”

  Crew held his hands out and shrugged. “It is common for owners to use holding companies as a way to separate themselves from various business practices. It’s legal, especially when it pertains to the intent of the federal regulations—allowing a diverse and differing opinion in the local community. KCAH may not be Spanish speaking or religious, but it does offer a different voice in this community, one that many have applauded and many listen to.” Crew gave a disarming smile. “Adding to the numbers of reporters and news gatherers in a community is a good thing.”

  The FCC official looked at Meyer, also waiting. Meyer’s mind raced, thinking of a suitable retort. In the gap, Stan motioned for Matt Bradley to reach into the box and pull out a small TV. “Speaking of illegal, I thought I might show this to you. It comes from a series of cameras around my house.”

  Alarm bells sounded in Meyer’s mind.

  “My wife was going to report it this morning, but I asked if I could borrow the tape. The original tape is much longer and in a safe place.” He looked at Meyer pointedly. “But Matt was able to edit it down. By the time stamp in the corner of the recording, you can see this took place late last night while I was covering a city council meeting.”

  Stan plugged in the TV, slid a videocassette into the base, and hit Play. There was no sound, but the pictures were damning. An exterior shot showed a van pulling up, the words Hall Cable clearly visible on its side. A tall, muscular figure in coveralls got out of the van and walked toward a doorway.

  “This is a house my wife is remodeling and we are living in. There has been some suspicious activity, so she installed these cameras.”

  Now the figure in the coveralls could be seen tiptoeing through the interior of the house. It looked almost ludicrous, like a black-and-white silent movie, but the gun in the hand of the figure was anything but funny. Coming into a room, the figure was visible through a distorted fish-eye lens. A crib was in a corner. Then in a flashing blur of movement, a woman wielding what looked like a golf club swung and hit a wall just above the ducking figure. There was a flash of light from the muzzle of the gun then another blow—this time, the woman jabbing the handle of the golf club into the stomach of the intruder. Then, through various camera shots, the figure could be seen running, staggering to the van, and driving off.

  Stan stopped the tape. “My wife said he was wearing pantyhose over his head and gloves. He dropped his gun. She thinks it’s the same person who tried to attack her before.”

  The detective was now fully alert. “I’ll need to file a report on this. Can I talk to your wife?”

  The room was abuzz with irrefutable evidence of a felony involving Hall Media property. Everyone ignored Meyer. In the past, he’d been a shield for anyone who needed legal council. For the first time in his life, Meyer found himself running through a mental list of colleagues he knew, calculating his own exposure.

  Time for a scapegoat.

  Chapter 68 - Harrison Hall

  Harrison Hall was livid. “You incompetent fool!” He lashed out at Lester LaFave. “How could you be caught on tape, breaking into Stan Martin’s home?”

  “Pipe down, pal.” LaFave was in the remote furnace room in the basement of the hospital, meeting with Hall and his son, Benjamin, a hasty gathering based on the evidence that Hall’s lawyer Meyer had given.

  It was after hours. The cinder-block room was dimly lit, the noise of the furnace almost deafening. Hall was at his wits’ end, and Benjy looked scarcely better, but LaFave was sitting on the edge of a janitor’s desk, calmly lighting a cigarette, cupping the flame with his hands and squinting like he was in a film noir.

  “It was a setup.” LaFave snapped the silver Zippo closed and pocketed it. “Martin or Hofer must have someone with eyes in this dump, someone feeding them i
nformation. I’da capped that Martin chick, one-two, but they’da had it on tape, and I’d be stamping plates at the Hill Hilton, waiting for my turn at the needle.” LaFave jerked his head, motioning in the general direction of the state prison that sat on a bluff on the north side of Sioux Falls. He blew a jet of smoke out of the side of his mouth.

  Hall opened his mouth and closed it. He’d seen the video. It looked like a Keystone Cops movie, the figure of LaFave running for his life, chased by a golf-club-wielding woman in a nightie. Yet here was LaFave, cracking wise like Robert De Niro or Jimmy Cagney.

  “Now, you listen to me.” Hall pointed a finger. “I have paid you good money on retainer for results, and nothing has happened. I told you to handle a loose end.” Hall raised an eyebrow, hinting at the earlier conversation about getting rid of Deidre. “And all I’m getting in return is more of your excuses.”

  “Excuses.” LaFave inhaled deeply then exhaled, flicking the cigarette off to the side. He looked at Benjamin. “And you? What do you think?”

  Benjamin twitched awkwardly. Hall had been watching him over the past few weeks and had seen the obvious decline toward a breakdown. Yet the smugness that came with his childhood and the arrogance that came with his intelligence were still evident.

  “You are a two-bit hoodlum hired to do a job and doing it badly,” Benjamin said.

  LaFave shrugged, resigned. “All right, lemme explain a couple things. First is, I’ve had to wait on capping this wife of yours until you’re out of town so you’re in the clear, right?”

  Hall’s mouth dropped open, aghast that LaFave would blab this confidence.

  Benjy’s mouth was open, too, and turned to his father. “You… what?”

  LaFave then pulled the 22-caliber pistol from his pocket. “And the second is that while I’ve been down here, I’ve been trying to decide which of you snobby assholes annoys me the most, and, junior, it’s you.”

  With that, LaFave fired twice into Benjamin, the sound of the shots as shocking as the blossoms of red that splashed across the younger man’s chest. The horrified look on both Halls’ faces remained as the younger slipped to the floor. The roar of the furnace continued, the ringing in Harrison Hall’s ears, the smell of cordite, and the body of his son a ghastly abnormality in such a dull and drab place.

  “There.” LaFave heaved a sigh of satisfaction. “I never did like that prick. And,” he added, pointing the gun at Hall, “I don’t like you either, but this little deal makes us partners, see?”

  He gestured to Benjamin’s body on the floor. “This little murder will make for a real messy look for you and the schmancy hospital you run, huh? So I’m gonna leave, and you’re gonna clean this up.”

  LaFave stood erect, adjusting his suit jacket and pocketing the gun. “Dump the stiff. Call me tomorrow. Tell me when and how you are leaving town, where you are staying, and when you will be back. And, buddy boy?” LaFave stepped close to Hall, looked down at him, and patted him on the cheek, leaning in. “Don’t ever call me a fool.”

  Chapter 69 - Lester LaFave

  It had taken a while to nail down, but now that he had, he felt like a million bucks. He was Robert Mitchum. Tall and tough, no-nonsense. He swaggered to Deidre’s house, world-wise and confident.

  “Hey, doll.” He shrugged out of his jacket and into her arms.

  Her kiss was hot and her eyes cool. “Well?”

  “I had a little meeting with your lovely hubby and son.”

  “And?”

  “There was a little talk about the conversation I wanted to have with the reporter Stan Martin’s wife.”

  Deidre sighed. “You mean when you got run off by a woman with a golf club?”

  LaFave was hurt. “The cops were wise to it—had to have been. Musta been a fink who ratted me out.”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head disdainfully. “Did you actually just say that? You sound like one of those cheesy black-and-white movies.”

  Wounded, he couldn’t think of something clever and settled for “I do not.”

  “Listen, Lester.” She moved in and grabbed him by the jaw, digging her nails in. “What did you do?”

  “Nothin’.” He almost added “honest” to the sentence but bit the word off short. “I was supposed to meet with Harrison and his son, but the kid never showed.”

  “Why not?”

  “How should I know?”

  Her eyes narrowed, studying him. “What we have is an inconvenient crime, an accident really. No one wants to talk about this accident except for a small group of people. If you take care of the witnesses to the accident, assure them of the mistake of appearing in court, I can take care of the nosy few reporting on it.” She stepped in closer. “And if at the same time, we solve the problem of an abusive husband, we can all have a Merry Christmas.”

  She grabbed the crotch of his pants and twisted, leading him to the bedroom.

  Chapter 70 - Jim Fletcher

  After a long week at the radio station, ag reporter Jim Fletcher was grabbing a beer and a basket of chislic at the Holiday Inn downtown. The hotel bar was perfect for Fletcher—quiet enough for him to catch some Nebraska hoops on the bar screen, cheap enough with a special on-tap beer and a waitress who was obviously flirting for tips. He sat at a table near the screen. A booth would have been more comfortable but awkward for eating by himself.

  The game was a bust. The Huskers were down by twenty at the half. Damn Sooners.

  Fletcher looked at the last inch of beer and was lifting the glass to drain it when he saw her in the mirror over the bar. Blue blazer and matching skirt with cream-colored blouse. She’d kicked off one heel and was massaging her foot. There was a bag of camera equipment on the floor next to her, and she was rummaging through it, packing a cord and mic inside. TV reporter.

  “Anyone know the score of the game?” she asked.

  Fletcher knew. “Huskers down by twenty at the half.”

  “Damn Sooners.” She shook her head and smiled wryly. “Better stick with football.”

  Fletcher nodded. She had blond hair, green eyes, and a dazzling smile. She was way out of his league, but what the heck. “You a reporter?”

  “Yep. KARE 11. My flight from Denver had trouble, so they routed me through here.”

  Fletcher nodded. KARE was out of Minneapolis. “You gonna miss a deadline?”

  She shrugged. “Not too bad. It’s an ag piece. Fluff for the metro audience.”

  “What’s the piece?”

  She looked at him appraisingly. “You a reporter?”

  He raised his hands. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Where at?”

  “Formerly NAX farm reporter, now for a local news station.”

  “Wait a minute… are you Jim Fletcher?”

  “Same.”

  “Gosh, my dad used to listen to you do the markets every morning! I thought I recognized your voice.” She actually looked a little starstruck.

  The waitress stopped by. “Ready to settle up?”

  Jim decided he was terribly thirsty. “Get me another beer and some more chislic.”

  The reporter extended her hand. “Kendra Donnelly, KARE weekends. It’s a real honor.”

  “Jim… well you know me, I guess.” He blushed.

  “So what do you do now, Jim?”

  “Oh, I was hired away to do some investigative work for a local radio station, KCAH.” He tried to sound important.

  “Oh hoo! So you work there!” She scooted her chair close and started whispering. “That station is ripping it up! Our news director talks about you guys all the time.” Her eyes were shining with excitement.

  Jim resisted the urge to smooth his hair back. He wondered if he still had a mint in his pocket.

  “So—what’s the secret sauce, huh?” She poked him playfully.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, who’s behind finding all those stories? I have an uncle who lives in Valley Springs. He says there’s a story almost ever
y day that’s juicy.”

  Most of the time, Fletcher hunkered down and kept quiet when the station was talked about. There was a lot of jeering over the weak signal of a station owned by a strip-club owner and broadcast from a strip mall. But not that night. Those who appreciated journalism had to stick together.

  He leaned back in his chair and shrugged a shoulder. “My opinion? Stan Martin. He came looking for me, said he wanted a solid ag department focusing on the consumer and investor, then signed me up for more than I ever made at NAX—triple my old salary. But that’s just the beginning. He took a lot of us who were kind of bored with what we were doing, got us in a room, and just started challenging us to find news.”

  He looked at her, wondering if he would be laughed at for what he said next. “It’s… exciting. Something about the group of us, it’s competitive, but it’s also more than that.” He lowered his voice. “That kid who broke the Hall-Hauptmann story—the botched surgery that implicates a member of the Hall family?” Fletcher shook his head. “I mean, a kid broke it. Matt Bradley is his name. But it was like we all broke it. We were all gathered around the radio monitor, listening to the story as it aired. You should have seen the phones lighting up.

  “And then, about seven thirty that morning, when Stan came in, I can’t describe it. We just automatically stood up—traffic, sales, all of us. Stan looked around at each one of us and then said, ‘I’m very proud of you, all of you.’” Fletcher looked to see if she was smirking. “I know, cheesy, right? Sure, we bicker and fight a bit. Who doesn’t? But when Stan comes in, it’s all business. Never ever had a job like that before.”

  The girl looked thoughtful, her smile gone. “So Stan Martin is the reason you have so much success?”

  “Definitely. His vision, his leadership, his encouragement. Charlie Hofer has the money, but without Stan Martin, the whole thing would fall apart—trust me.”