Grant Park

by Leonard Pitts, Jr.

  Doug’s eyes widened and Bob was thankful to know he didn’t have to. “You’re serious? Come on,” said Doug. “Let’s go upstairs and sort this out.”

  Bob could have collapsed from sheer relief.

  A minute later, they stormed off the elevator into the newsroom. The newsroom stopped. Reporters stopped reporting, editors stopped editing, people on the phone said, “Hold on just a minute.” Bob was distantly aware of all the eyes following him, people staring the way you would if someone you knew to be dead walked up to you in the food court at the shopping mall. Let them stare.

  I will shoot this bitch right in the back of her fucking head.

  Let them stare.

  Doug led him in long, urgent strides down the hall toward the executive suite. Halfway there, Denis Lassiter intercepted them. He got right in Doug’s face, pointing at Bob. “What’s he doing here?” he hissed.

  “We’ve got a situation,” said Doug, calmly. “Come on. You need to hear this, too.”

  Denis’ eyebrow arched in suspicion. Doug didn’t wait. He pushed past his boss and Bob followed. Denis was left to bring up the rear. Doug led them through the glass doors of the executive suite into a broad hallway lined with glass-enclosed offices. He paused at the secretary’s desk just outside his own. “I need Hector Mendoza up here right away,” he said.

  Peggy Toyama took the unlikely procession in with a glance, nodded, and picked up her phone. Bob followed Doug and Denis followed them both to the end of the hall, around a corner, and into a waiting area with plush leather couches and decorative plants. On the far side of the lobby stood the glass-enclosed conference room where Bob’s career had come to an abrupt end what seemed like a year ago. On the near side was Lydia’s corner office, outside of which her secretary sat sentinel. Between them was a wall done up in blonde woods, with the Chicago Post masthead at the top. Embedded beneath that were medallions representing the six Pulitzer Prizes—two of them due to Malcolm Toussaint—the paper had won since its founding in 1901.

  Lydia Barnett was standing against that wall using the Pulitzers as a none-too-subtle backdrop, speaking into a microphone held by a local TV news bunny as a cameraman recorded it all. “…and I think,” Lydia was saying, “that our commitment to putting this unfortunate episode behind us can be seen in the fact that we have held the responsible parties accountable and have reprinted today’s newspaper at significant cost.”

  “Speaking of the responsible parties,” said the reporter, “where is Mr. Toussaint? Is there any truth to the reports that he has turned up missing?”

  But Lydia was no longer listening. She was looking over the reporter’s shoulder at the three men who had just entered the foyer. Her gaze fixed on Bob, and there was, he felt, an almost physical malice to her stare. “Denis?” she asked, gritting her teeth in an ice-cold smile, “What is going on here?”

  Behind him, Bob was almost certain he heard Denis Lassiter’s sphincter slam like a door. But Doug Perry, bless his heart, did not flinch. “Get rid of them,” he told his publisher, nodding toward the news bunny and her cameraman. “We have a situation.”

  First, there was surprise. Then, slowly, like an iceberg that wanders into tropical seas, the malice in Lydia’s eyes melted. She gave Doug a look that suggested they had never been properly introduced. Then she nodded toward the news crew.

  “We’ll have to pick this up at a later date,” she said. “It appears something has come up.”

  Ten minutes later, they were all in the conference room, all sitting in the same seats they had occupied just that morning, including Mindy Chen at the far end of the table and Mendoza standing as he had stood that morning, against the wall with arms folded. To Bob, it felt surreal.

  Mendoza popped in the DVD. The lights came down. An image of the file structure on the disk appeared on screen. There were two files, the first marked MMPR, the second marked WRA. Mendoza clicked the first. Seconds later, the conference room of the Chicago Post rang with a sound never before heard in those august confines, the battle cry of a 1990s children’s TV show: “It’s morphin’ time!” And the screen was filled with young actors in bright costumes doing spin kicks and backflips, fighting against stunt men dressed as rock creatures.

  Lydia glared at Bob with an expression that could have killed plant life. Bob felt his testicles crawl up inside him. He thought he might be sick. “The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers?” she said. “Really?”

  “That can’t be what he wants us to see,” said Doug in an even voice.

  Mendoza was ahead of him. He had already closed out the first file and opened the second. And there it was.

  The lighting was harsh, but the image was unmistakable. It had been shot in some warehouse. Malcolm was chained to a chair. He seemed dazed and bruised. Towering over him was a massive white man in a shapeless T-shirt. He stared at the camera wide-eyed and spoke in a strangely toneless voice.

  “Those who have ears, let them hear. We are the White Resistance Army. I am Sergeant Clarence Pym, under the command of Captain Dwayne McLarty.”

  “They’re giving us their names?” whispered Lassiter. “I can’t believe they’re giving us their names.”

  “Maybe they don’t expect it to matter,” said Doug.

  “We have captured this nigger,” said Pym, “the so-called journalist that calls himself Malcolm Toussaint, who for many years has spewed his white-hating, anti-Christian poison in jewspapers all over this once-great nation, including this morning’s vicious diatribe against the white men who built this nation.”

  “Oh, my sweet Jesus,” said Lydia.

  “Although the actions we take today were planned long ago, the nigger’s diatribe this morning explains better than we ever could why we have felt it necessary to go to this extreme. To put it plainly: at some point, as white men, we have to call a halt, we have to say that we’ve had enough—or we can no longer regard ourselves as white men.”

  On the screen, the big man—Clarence Pym—cleared his throat. “Tonight, there is a good chance this nation will elect a socialist Muslim nigger as its president. The nigger has been clear in his intentions. He has said he wishes to redistribute the wealth. He has said he will pay reparations to his fellow blacks. He has said this country will bow down before the false religion of Islam. The fact that a foreign-born interloper with such radical extreme leftist views might be elected president tells you how sick this country is. This tells us in no uncertain terms that the hour is late and that it is upon our heads to stand and be counted.

  “We are not kidnappers. We demand no ransom. We are soldiers and this is an enemy we have captured. We are patriots who are convinced this nation cannot be cleansed except with blood. So let there be blood.”

  Mindy Chen’s hand flew to her mouth. Doug’s jaw had turned to stone.

  “Dear, God, please don’t tell me they’re going to kill him on camera,” said Bob. He was horrified and transfixed.

  “We leave this document,” said Pym, “as an inspiration to others so that in case we fall, they will know why we did what we did and they will pick up where we left off. Those who have ears, let them hear. We are the White Resistance Army and this is our declaration of war.”

  They waited, expecting to see Malcolm beheaded or shot. It was a long moment before, mercifully, the screen went black.

  “Jesucristo,” breathed Mendoza softly.

  “‘Why we did what we did?’” repeated Bob. “What in God’s name are they planning to do?”

  “We can’t post this on our site,” said Denis. He looked at Lydia for confirmation. “We can’t,” he said again.

  Lydia pursed her lips. She did not speak. The room waited for her. Finally, she looked at Mendoza. “Run it again,” she said.

  Mendoza ran it again. Again, the big man spoke stiffly, delivering his manifesto against the backdrop of a warehouse. Again, Malcolm sat chained to the chair looking dazed.

  When it was over, Lydia said. “Thoughts?”

 
Hector said, “We need to call the police.”

  Lydia nodded. “As soon as we’re done here. And we’ll be done here very quickly. Mindy,” she said to the director of newsroom systems, “we’re going to give them the original. There may be some fingerprint or DNA evidence on it they can use. But I want you to make copies.”

  “Okay,” said Mindy.

  “You already know what I think,” said Denis. “We cannot allow ourselves to be blackmailed. You put this online, essentially at the point of a gun, and you are telling every lunatic and crank out there that we’ll do whatever they want if they threaten us. Do we really want to open that door? These people are terrorists. I say we cannot negotiate with terrorists.”

  Doug banged a fist on the table. “For God’s sake, Denis, there are two lives at stake here. They’ve got Malcolm and they’ve also got Bob’s friend. It’s all well and good to worry about what could happen in the future—and that does scare me, I’ll admit—but let’s also consider what’s right in front of us. These people’s lives may depend on what we decide right here, right now. You remember the Unabomber’s manifesto? You remember how he demanded the New York Times and the Washington Post publish the damn thing or he would send more of his damn bombs? I’m sure they had the same concerns we do. But in the end, they did the right thing. Hell, they did the only thing they could with lives at stake.”

  Denis shook his head. “We have to stand firm,” he said.

  “Easy to do,” said Doug, “when you’re not the one whose ass is on the line.”

  Bob watched this exchange with a kind of sickened fascination, almost fearing to breathe. Then, like everyone else in the room, he turned toward Lydia for her verdict.

  She looked at Denis. She looked at Doug. But her eyes were on Bob when she spoke. “We’re posting it,” she said softly.

  Bob released a breath he had not realized he was holding. He was almost dizzy with relief. “Shouldn’t we wait to see what the police suggest?” said Denis.

  “No,” she said. “This is our call. These are our people.”

  “Respectfully,” said Denis, “you’re making a mistake, Lydia.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first,” she told him. “Would anyone like to hear the reasons?”

  “I would,” said Bob in a soft voice.

  Again, she looked at him. “In the first place,” she said, “I agree with Doug. If you have a chance to save someone’s life, that’s what you do. But there’s another reason, and I am surprised no one in this room has mentioned it.”

  “It’s news,” said Bob, still speaking softly.

  Lydia nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “It’s news. And damn it, news is still what we do.”

  It was an old thought that somehow hung there like a new one for a long moment. Then Lydia clapped her hands together once, as if breaking a spell. “All right, everybody, let’s go. Doug, you call Chicago PD. Mindy, get those duplicates ready and post the video online.”

  Denis said, “Doug, you’re going to want to assign a new reporter to this story, with Amy out. Maybe more than one—one to tell the main story, but also one to give readers a little context. I, for one, would like to know more about this so-called ‘White Resistance Army.’ Has anyone heard of them before this? Does the FBI know the name? Or the Southern Poverty Law Center?”

  “I’m on it,” said Doug.

  “It’s going to be a busy front page,” mused Denis, “with election results and this. Not to mention Malcolm getting fired.”

  “Yeah,” said Doug, “but the boss is right. This is what we do.”

  “Keep me apprised,” said Lydia. And the meeting broke.

  The next hours were insane.

  The video was online within minutes. Within minutes after that, the counter onscreen showed that it had been viewed more than 20,000 times. Police detectives arrived. They questioned Bob. They questioned Doug. They drove down the street, saying they wanted to question the maître d’ at Stymie’s and the valet at the hotel. They came back to the paper and questioned Bob some more.

  Agents from the FBI and Homeland Security showed up in the building. This was purely, they said, to observe in an advisory capacity. The local cops did not appreciate this. “Let ’em observe this,” grumbled one of them to his partner, grabbing his crotch as they stormed down the hallway past Doug’s office.

  Doug was in the afternoon news meeting. He had allowed Bob to take refuge in his office while they all waited for the call from the kidnappers. Doug and Bob both knew Bob could have waited in what had, until this morning, been his own office. The desk was still there, the computer was still there, the phone still worked. He could have waited there, except that he couldn’t wait there. So he waited here instead.

  A police detective waited with him. Det. Cecil Raintree was a study in calm. He sat on Doug’s couch, a tall, bronze man in a natty black suit, his long legs crossed as he silently perused that day’s paper. Bob envied him his serenity. But then, he wasn’t the one whose once-girlfriend had been taken by some maniac.

  Bob’s cellphone sat on the desk, hooked to a digital recording device. Sitting there behind Doug’s desk, Bob checked the batteries in the recorder. Then he checked the volume on his ringer. Then he set the phone so that it would vibrate as well as ring. He looked at the phone, willing it to do something. It didn’t.

  Raintree looked at him. “I know it’s easier said than done,” he said, “but try to calm down. Everything that can be done is being done. He’ll call when he calls.”

  “If,” said Bob. And when Raintree gave him a quizzical look, he repeated it. “‘If’ he calls.” Bob had begun to have a very bad feeling.

  “He’ll call,” said Raintree, going back to his paper. Bob heard no conviction in the cop’s voice.

  He turned on the little television on the corner of Doug’s desk and flipped between the cable news channels. On the conservative channel, a guy who hosted a radio show slammed a table and said angrily, “What if—and I’m not saying this is the case, but what if—this whole kidnapping story is actually some shameless ploy by the Obama campaign to energize the black vote? I’m just saying, I for one would not be surprised if that turns out to be the case.”

  On the liberal channel, a famous black civil rights activist spoke with labored solemnity. “While we certainly should not blame Mr. McCain for what has happened, we cannot, given the sort of hateful racial vitriol that has marked the Republican campaign, be surprised that people such as the young man on this video believe themselves to be under attack, and respond accordingly.”

  On the other channel, four talking heads in boxes argued over what the kidnappings meant and whose political ideology was at fault and whether the whole thing was a hoax or not. They talked over one another and insulted one another for a few minutes. Then the host stopped the segment and interviewed a hologram of Taylor Swift to get her thoughts. Or its thoughts. Whatever.

  Bob muted the television. “Thank you,” said the detective without looking up from his paper. “That crap gives me a headache.”

  “Yeah,” said Bob. “Me, too.” He picked up his phone and checked the volume setting again. He willed it to ring. It rang while he was holding it.

  Raintree looked up sharply. Bob touched the green button on the screen. “Hello? Hello?”

  Silence. Bob steeled himself to hear that jittery little punk on the other end. Raintree had come out of his chair, folded his paper. He watched Bob with expectant eyes. Then Bob heard a woman’s voice, brimming with July sunshine and Christmas morning cheer, say, “Hello! We just wanted to let you know this is your last chance to take advantage of great sale prices on—”

  Bob ended the call and somehow resisted the urge to slam the phone to the floor.

  “I take it this was not him?”

  “No.”

  Raintree sat and unfolded his paper.

  A few minutes later, the door opened. A preppy-looking black kid wearing oval-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses and a banana-co
lored sweater vest poked his head in. He nodded at Raintree, then said to Bob, “This a bad time, sir?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Sam Jones, sir. Doug Perry asked me to interview you for the story.”

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you, 14?”

  His smile was indulgent. “I’m 28, sir.”

  Twenty-eight. It was getting so everybody in the building was 28. The newspaper business was slowly going over to children who could barely even remember there had once been another President Bush. Financially, Bob knew, it made sense. These Jimmy Olsens, as he had come to think of them, cost less. You could hire two of them for what it cost to hire one reporter with gray in his hair and a little experience under his belt. In this industry, which was diminishing with ever-increasing speed, this was not an unimportant consideration. So the business was getting younger. And all it cost was institutional memory and knowledge of how things worked.

  “Sir? The interview?”

  Bob looked up to where this…teenager was still waiting. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. But please, stop calling me sir.”

  “Yes, sir,” the teenager said.

  The interview lasted half an hour before Sam Jones declared he had enough and thanked Bob for his time. As he walked out, Bob checked his phone again to make sure he hadn’t somehow missed the call. Then he looked at his watch and sighed. It was after 3:30. It had been more than two hours now since McLarty drove off with Janeka. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Hadn’t he seen the video online?

  It will be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.

  It had been a stupid promise. He had known this even as he made it. Because how could he keep anything from happening to her once she disappeared with McLarty in that old red Ford?

  A stupid promise. And yet, somehow, he had meant it. Every word.

  “I won’t let you down,” he told her now. He whispered this to himself in the silence of Doug’s office. These words, too, were impotent. Yet he could not stop himself from saying them.

  “You say something?” Raintree looked up from the sports page. Bob had forgotten the detective was there.