by Greg Iles
“I’ll take Chinks over Japs any day of the week,” Blake Donnelly pipes up. “Nissan may have brought a lot of jobs to this state, but I’d never break bread with those bastards. I lost an uncle at Guadalcanal.”
“All due respect,” says the New Jersey accent of Tommy Russo, “I’d take a billion dollars from Hitler if he was offering. I could give a shit. Money’s like pussy. You take it where you can get it.”
Twenty seconds into my playback, Jian Wu blanched. Now he looks like he might slide from his chair onto the floor.
“My point,” Buckman growls from the speaker, “is that helping China in the Senate isn’t a one-time payoff deal. The mill is just the beginning. Once we’re in bed together, they can’t say no. It’s going to pay off again and again for us. And if we can get Avery re-elected for a full six-year term, then the sky’s the limit.”
“The sky, my ass,” says Wyatt Cash. “We’re talking space. Satellites, rocket engines. The upside of this deal is infinite.”
I press stop on my iPhone app.
All nine men in my audience look like they might need paramedics.
“That recording is self-explanatory,” I observe. “But I’ll say this. If I use my D.C. contacts to break that story, the U.S. and China will effectively be on a war footing within hours, and Azure Dragon Paper will be the first casualty.”
Jian Wu swallows audibly.
“That said,” I continue, “as much as I’d like to win a second Pulitzer Prize and become the most famous journalist on planet Earth, I don’t much like the idea of killing the goose that can guarantee my hometown’s survival for the next thirty years.”
The collective sigh of relief that follows this statement alters the humidity in the conference room. While they watch me with trepidation, I take out some notes made on a torn piece of newsprint I got from Aaron Terrell this morning.
“To keep me from breaking this story, you will do the following. There is no order of priority to these demands. If any single one is not met, you will find yourselves the subjects of an FBI investigation by day’s end, and the story will start running on MSNBC and CNN by five p.m. Finally”—and here I look at Russo—“if you were to shoot me in the head while I sit in this chair, the story will still break around the world. Is that understood?”
Buckman nods with impatience. “Please state your demands.”
“First, Azure Dragon will not be moving to Alabama. No matter what happens from this point forward, they must complete the planned paper mill and put it into operation within two years. However, the company must re-site the mill no less than fifteen hundred meters south of the present site, well clear of the Indian settlement discovered by Buck Ferris.”
“Impossible,” hisses Jian Wu.
“Most important,” I go on, “all tax breaks granted to Azure Dragon to entice the mill to Bienville will be revoked. The company will pay the full ride to both the city and state throughout its years of operation.”
Jian Wu stands white-faced—with anger or fear, I can’t tell which.
“You wish to say something, sir?” I ask.
“None of this can be done! It’s far too late.”
“Is it? Think about you and your fellow corporate officers being charged for subversion, forfeiting all Azure Dragon property and holdings in the United States, and having the U.S. president demand that President Xi break up your company to prove that it’s not a part of your country’s intelligence services.”
The Azure Dragon man’s lips are quivering, but he takes his seat again.
“Please continue,” says Claude Buckman, looking grateful to me for accomplishing what he could not with the Chinese.
“Second, within sixty days, Avery Sumner will resign his seat in the U.S. Senate for family or health reasons, whichever his preference.”
Four chairs down to my left, Senator Sumner looks stricken, but he doesn’t protest. Unlike Jian Wu, he’s content to let Buckman fight his battles for him.
“Third, the Bienville Watchman will be returned to my father by noon today, for the sum of one hundred dollars. The newspaper will be unencumbered by debt. The building that houses the paper will be included in the sale. Further, the mortgage on my parents’ house will be paid in full by this club and the house titled in my mother’s name. The contracts completing these transfers should be delivered to my father’s hospital room by Arthur Pine by eleven this morning.”
“Consider that done,” says Donnelly, glaring at Pine, who looks as though he’s struggling with ulcer pain. “And I, for one, will be glad to see that happen. I didn’t support that bullshit move yesterday, and I’m glad to see it rectified. The Watchman was founded the same year as the Poker Club, and it’s only right that it should go into the future guided by the family that built it.”
Beau Holland and Tommy Russo would love to strangle Donnelly right now.
“Fourth,” I go on, “all real estate named in today’s article—the homes and land Beau Holland scammed from homeowners along the interstate corridor, et cetera—will be sold back to the original owners for one-half of what they were paid for it. This will be done within ten days.”
Holland has gone so red he looks like he fell asleep in the sun. He starts to argue, but from the corner of my eye I see Russo lay a restraining hand on his arm.
“Fifth,” I push on, “in tomorrow’s paper, I will run an interview with Claude Buckman in which he expresses the critical need for new public schools in Bienville and his intention to push forward a public referendum for a new high school. At a minimum that investment will be fifty million dollars.”
Nobody comments on this point, and since it was offered yesterday, this must have already been factored into their expectations.
“Sixth, a community development fund totaling one million dollars per year will be funded by the Sun King Casino and the Bienville Poker Club. I will initially administer that fund, and I will determine who administers it after me.”
Russo looks like a man with malignant hypertension.
“Finally, the local sheriff’s department will request the assistance of the FBI in the murder of Buck Ferris, and whoever is responsible will either plead guilty or stand trial and accept whatever verdict and sentence result from said trial.”
This demand turns out to be the bridge too far. Several mouths fall open. Then Beau Holland snaps.
“This is absurd!” he bellows. “Every damn word of it! It’s extortion!”
“Beau,” says Blake Donnelly. “Let’s wait until he’s finished.”
“Why even pretend to humor this asshole? We’re not giving in to this bullshit. You know McEwan won’t keep his word. He’s a goddamn reporter! He’ll never be able to sit on this. Look at today’s Watchman stories. He built his career blowing open scandals.” Holland looks around the room. “You’re not actually considering any of this?”
“Beau,” croaks Buckman. “Wait until the man is finished.”
Once Holland sits back in his chair, whispering angrily to Russo, I look down the table at Buckman. “In exchange for all of the above, I will withhold the contents of Sally’s cache from publication for all time. It will be as though that cache does not exist. Never existed. Bienville will get its paper mill, the new bridge, and the interstate. The Indian site will become a huge tourist attraction. Many of you will still likely profit mightily from the various side deals you’ve made related to all the new development. And you can sleep well at night knowing you’re not going to jail.”
Buckman nods grudgingly. Donnelly, Cash, and Dr. Lacey are sighing with apparent relief. But the others look far from happy.
“However,” I say, drilling Arthur Pine with the coldest stare I can muster. “If you fail to live up to any of these conditions, the FBI, the SEC, the IRS, and the Mississippi state tax authorities will be informed of every crime detailed in Sally’s cache. The list is staggering. None, however, approaches the betrayal of the United States implicit in the auctioning of Avery Sumner’s Senat
e votes.”
The Azure Dragon man stands stiffly. “I must make a telephone call.”
“Call whoever you want,” says Buckman. “But you’ve got no choice, and you know it.”
Without waiting for further comment, Jian Wu leaves the room.
“Mr. McEwan,” says Buckman, “could you give us five minutes alone?”
I pick up my phone and walk to the door. Then I look back and say, “I don’t want anybody coming out here to talk to me. Especially Russo. Make sure that whatever you decide, you’re all on the same page. There won’t be any second chances if I pull the trigger on this story. For this club, that’s the end of the world.”
I walk out into the anteroom, which is only a small alcove off the main second-floor hall. Even out here, the décor is old photographs of steamboats and cotton fields. I check my emails, then scan Twitter. Secretaries pass with brusque efficiency, and most look like they were chosen for their physical attributes.
Unless someone in that conference room has leverage I don’t know about, they have no choice but to accede to my demands. What preys on my mind is the terrible awareness that I’m betraying the most basic tenets of my profession. After today, I’ll be a traitor to every luminary of journalism whose book sits on my father’s shelf of honor. Not one of them ever made a deal like this. Today I join the ranks of the second-raters and sellouts.
Today I become a whore.
Why? I wonder. Is it because I live in a different time? No. There were always robber barons trying to use their power to pervert and exploit the political system for gain. I’m part of the army that’s supposed to stand in their way—
“We’re ready, Marshall,” announces Blake Donnelly, who has stuck his head out of the conference room door.
The oilman holds it open for me to go back inside.
Everyone is seated where he was before, including Jian Wu against the wall. Donnelly walks to his chair at Buckman’s right, and I take my seat at the near end of the table. Of all the faces around the table, it’s those of Pine, Holland, and Russo that look angriest.
“All right,” rasps Buckman. “Azure Dragon will comply in full with your conditions, Mr. McEwan. They don’t like it, but being proved guilty of espionage against the United States they like even less.”
Buckman taps the table with his clawlike fingers. “Next, the Bienville Watchman, its associated real estate, and the mortgage on your parents’ house will be returned to your father and mother forthwith by noon today, unencumbered by debt, as per your terms.”
“Again,” says Donnelly, “you have my apologies as to how that was done. No excuse for it, and I hope Duncan gets back on his feet soon.”
Buckman grimaces at this mixture of sentimental courtesy with business. “The other real estate you mentioned,” he goes on, “will be returned to the various sellers under the terms you described within ten days. Mr. Holland, give Mr. McEwan your word on that.”
Beau Holland’s jaw is set so tight he looks incapable of speech.
“Beau?” Buckman prompts him.
Through clenched teeth Holland says, “Agreed.”
“For my part,” says Buckman, “I will call for and support the public school referendum, as you requested, and I’ll make sure those schools get funded. Same for the community development fund. Mr. Russo? Your word on that?”
Tommy nods once. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since the meeting began. It’s like being watched by a tiger shark from the edge of a reef.
“As you’ve probably noticed,” Buckman says, “I’ve left two of your demands to the end. Before we discuss them, I’ll ask Beau to step outside.”
“What the hell?” Holland demands, his tanned face going red again.
“Mr. Russo,” says Buckman, “please take Mr. Holland outside for a drink or a cigarette. Keep him company.”
Holland glares at me on his way out, but Russo gives me a pass, which only makes me worry that he intends to find me later.
“Two things,” Buckman says, after they’ve gone. “Blake?”
“We’d like you to reconsider something, Marshall,” says Donnelly. “Having a U.S. senator from Bienville is just too helpful for this town to give it up. This Chinese thing is just a sideshow. We can make sure Avery votes honest on those issues. But don’t take that competitive advantage away from the town. My God, think what John Stennis and Big Jim Eastland did for this state. Trent Lott?”
“Good old pork,” I mutter.
“Damn right!” says Donnelly. “We’d appreciate you giving that deal point another look, son. Seriously.”
“What’s the second issue?”
Wyatt Cash speaks for the first time. “This matter of Buck Ferris’s murder. I’ll say right up front, I’m no fan of Beau Holland. And let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that he and Cowart turn out to be guilty. If they were arrested and charged—or, God forbid, indicted—they wouldn’t hesitate to deal whatever cards they have to stay out of prison. And Beau knows more about the business of this club than Sally Matheson ever did.”
Arthur Pine leans forward and says, “We can’t risk that becoming part of a conversation with a district attorney. Even our own district attorney. And given Beau’s temperament . . . well, you understand.”
“So where does that leave us?” I ask.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Donnelly says in a tone I’ve never heard from him before. It suddenly strikes me that, despite his genial exterior, the oilman is just as ruthless as the rest of these guys.
“Exactly what are we talking about?”
Buckman says, “It’s hard to justify putting the county to the expense of a trial if the guilty parties are known.”
Donnelly nods with apparent regret. “A waste of taxpayer money.”
“Especially considering the complexity of the case,” adds Pine.
“There’s precedent in the club,” says Buckman. “Just after the war, there were instances of collaboration with the enemy that had to be handled this way.”
He’s talking about the Civil War. At least I hope he is. The coldness with which these men discuss the execution of one of their own—or two, including Cowart—chills my blood. Of course, they probably see Dave Cowart as a mere peasant, not one of them.
I shake my head and look from Buckman to Donnelly. “Gentlemen, I’m asking for justice, not murder.”
“Justice is a tricky business,” says Wyatt Cash. “What’s the difference to you, so long as the guilty parties pay for what they did?”
“For one thing, the public needs to see justice done.”
“The public doesn’t give two shits about Buck Ferris,” growls Buckman. “Maybe his wife does, but damn few others. Why don’t you ask Quinn Ferris if she’d be satisfied with us burying her husband’s killers in a gator hole south of town?”
I’ve got a feeling I won’t win this argument. “That reminds me, the deal we made for Quinn Ferris yesterday stands. One million.”
Buckman grunts with displeasure, but he nods assent.
I’ve pushed these men about as far as they’re going to go, at least for now. “Why don’t we revisit the two outstanding deal points later today?” I suggest.
Buckman looks around the room. With a warning edge to his voice, he asks, “Is our business concluded then? But for those two points?”
In the tense silence that follows, Arthur Pine says, “Claude, I’m worried that Beau might be right. Marshall said it himself: this is potentially the biggest story of his life. No matter how pure his intentions today, it’s hard to believe that he’ll sit on this forever. We could jump through all these hoops, and in the end he could still screw us.”
Jian Wu is looking at me as he would at some dangerous criminal it would be better to execute immediately.
“That sounds like projection to me, Arthur,” I observe.
“He’ll keep his word,” says Buckman.
“Why?” asks Pine. “He told me last night that he’s going to ta
ke us down. Why believe him now?”
“Because he’s a good son of Bienville,” says Donnelly. “He’s a hometown boy, just like his daddy. Duncan always treated us right, and Marshall’s no different. Not when it counts.”
If Donnelly had let Buckman answer, the old man would have said, Because if he doesn’t, his mother and everybody else he cares about will die. But Donnelly kept everything smooth on the surface, in the Southern tradition. The subtext is always known, but never spoken.
I stand and look at each man in turn. “You guys need to understand something. Sally’s material has been digitized. Even if you tortured me to get every copy, you could never be certain you got it all. It can live on any server in the world.”
“Then what the hell are we getting for all our money?” Pine asks.
“Life outside jail. By the way, I’ve also set up what’s known as a Dead Hand switch. If anything suspicious happens to me or mine, the media won’t be your only problem. My contacts at the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA will receive full reports within thirty minutes, whether I’m dead or alive. Make sure Holland and Russo understand that. You may not like it, but this is the best deal you’re going to get.”
Blake Donnelly looks left at Buckman, who seems to wrestle with his decision, but finally gives the slightest of nods. Donnelly gets up and walks down the long table to me, switching on his iPhone as he comes.
“Tap your phone number in there for me, Marshall.”
I do. “Oh, one more thing.”
Buckman’s pained smile tells me I’m stretching his goodwill. For a moment I think of something Nadine told me before we parted this morning: They should put a fifty-foot-tall statue of Sally Matheson on the bluff. Because she’s going to be the salvation of this town. But what I say is “The cop who waterboarded me is named Farner. I want that son of a bitch fired by the end of next week. I want my arrest record from last night expunged. Also, Sheriff Iverson doesn’t run for re-election.”
“Getting awful greedy, aren’t you?” Buckman mutters.
