"In any case, I’m going to let you off as long as you tell me who gave you the photo."
Alex’s first instinct was to leap up and tell Butcher everything. "My source, your honor, was Josephine Bonner," he’d say, but the moment he imagined himself doing this, two different alarms went off in his head. The first was self-protection. If he told Butcher that Bonner was his source, the hammer would fall on Bonner next. And the Judge would not be so gentle with her. Alex still didn’t know if she’d known the photos were staged—she wasn’t calling him back—but even if she didn’t, it could derail her career. And if Bonner fell, people would start looking into her relationship with Alex. The whole story could spin out of control. He could see the headlines now: Prissy Prosecutor Beds Naive Reporter, Manipulates Him Into Derailing Trial.
The second alarm, to Alex’s surprise, was ethical. Even if he and Bonner could weather the storm, journalists don’t reveal their confidential sources. Ever. He’d known that when he was a high school reporter back on Bainbridge Island and he knew it now. Despite missing half of the sessions of his journalism ethics class, and despite the fact that he was happy to bend the rules when necessary, he’d never revealed a source when pressured. And even if Joey had set him up, he never would cave.
"Judge Butcher, first of all, let me say, I appreciate that you’re trying to go easy on me."
"I am going easy on you, trust me. And trust me when I tell you that you do not want me to bring you into court and force you to tell me while I have my robe on. I won’t be able to be nearly as nice when the cameras are rolling."
"And I appreciate that. I take full responsibility for the photo. I imagine that Mr. Baxton took full responsibility as well because that’s his way. He told me I had to wait but I snuck in after hours and added it. It’s all on me and I expect to be fired in the next twenty-four hours. I had no idea the photo was staged. Really. I would have nothing to gain and everything to lose from publishing a fake photo. I’m not yet sure if my source manipulated me, or if my source was being manipulated by someone else, or…well I’m not sure what happened." Alex paused, pissed at himself for what he was about to say. "But I can’t tell you where I got the photo."
"Let’s not do this, Alex. You know how this ends. It ends with you in jail until you name the source."
Alex did know that.
Butcher continued, "You have a reputation, Alex. You’re talented, smart, going places. As much of a bastard as Baxton is, even he recognizes it. You go down this path, you become the poster boy for a First Amendment fight that’s already been lost. Judges win this one every time. Here is your best case scenario: you spend a couple hundred days in jail, The Standard spends millions on your defense, which they might do on principle but, trust me, they don’t want to. Ultimately, when you can no longer stand the food, you end up telling me the source’s name anyway."
He sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. "You’d make a crappy First Amendment martyr, Alex. Play ball on this one. Live to fight another day."
Alex stood up. "Sir, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I think you understand that I can’t do that."
Butcher stared up at Alex with a smirk. "You’ve got guts, and I respect that. But you’re going to lose this one, Alex. We’re still in our continuance period until tomorrow at eight in the morning. I’ll give you until then. When the trial reconvenes we’re going to be addressing the issue of the photo before the jury comes in. You give me the name, you and I stay on good terms. You don’t…well, write your lawyer’s phone number on your arm and bring a picture of your mother to court with you. Because you won’t be home for a while."
Chapter 10
Alex thanked Butcher and assured him he’d strongly consider naming his source. He had no intention of outing a source, but he had twenty-four hours to figure something out.
He took a lap around the courthouse, looking for Bearon, but was told by another security guard that he was off that day. He called his cell but there was no answer. He sat on the courthouse steps and tried Joey’s cellphone twice. Six calls over the last day and a half and nothing. It wasn’t going straight to voicemail anymore, so Alex was pretty sure she was ignoring him. He tried her office number next but was told she was in meetings all day and unavailable. Next he tried the office of District Attorney Max Feinberg, where he was also told that she was unavailable.
He ran a hand across his forehead. He was tired and confused. He was about to head back to the office when his phone rang. Baxton.
"Colonel, I was just on my way into the office. I met with Butcher."
"I know."
"Thanks for sticking up for me. Wait, you know? How’d you know?"
"I just spoke with him. Look, Alex, I’m trying to look out for you here. I really was going to fire your ass yesterday, but not because you got the story wrong. At the time I didn’t even know that. It was just the goddam insubordination. I don’t hold you back just to hold you back. I do it to help you avoid making mistakes like this, which embarrass the hell out of you and—more importantly to me—The Standard."
Alex watched a couple TV crews set up on the sidewalk at the bottom of the courthouse steps. "I get it. I really do. I screwed up badly and all I want to do is fix it."
"Butcher wanted your source, huh?"
"Yup."
"Think of it from his angle. He has a job to do, which is to ensure the fairness of his trial. If there’s a mistrial in this case, millions of dollars of taxpayer money will have been wasted. And if Mendoza walks free because the trial was corrupted by the press? As much as he has to be impartial, he knows Mendoza is a son-of-a-bitch and wants him locked up as badly as anyone. Wait, hold on."
Alex heard Baxton talking to someone else in the room.
A CNN van had parked out front and a stunning reporter, getting her hair brushed on the sidewalk, was about to go live. While he was in with Butcher, the sky had darkened and a light rain had started to fall, so three assistants stood around her holding umbrellas. For a moment, he wondered whether they had any news, or if they were just doing a check-in or summary, anticipating the reconvening of the trial the next day. Then he realized he didn’t really care. He wanted nothing to do with this trial or this story. He just wanted it to go away.
"Alex, I’m back."
"I’m still stuck on why you talked with Butcher."
"Told him to call me when you got out. Told him I’d do everything I could to convince you to give up the source."
"What?"
"Said I’d push you hard."
"Colonel, as bad as I screwed up—and I know I did—I can’t give Butcher my source. I’m 99% sure the source played me, and I don’t owe the source anything. But still, I can’t. If I did, no source would trust me again. I’d be finished. Not to mention the fact that, even though I’m pissed as hell, I just couldn’t sleep at night if I outed—"
"Her? Him? You’re doing an excellent job of avoiding gendered pronouns."
"I know you want me to tell—"
"I want the opposite, Alex. I wouldn’t give Butcher a source if he had a gun to my head."
"But you said—"
"Journalists don’t give up sources, Alex."
"What are you saying?"
"You can’t give up the source, and if you don’t you’ll end up in jail tomorrow at around 8:03 a.m. Right?"
"Unless he’s bluffing."
Alex could hear Baxton tapping on his desk in a steady rhythm. "He’s not bluffing. But he might be overreaching. Technically he’s supposed to try to get the information elsewhere before compelling a reporter to testify."
"Is that something we can argue, I mean—"
"We could try. The Times got a four-week delay once when a legal team was trying to get one of their reporters to testify. Appeals courts have ruled in the past that journalists get the benefit of the doubt and the burden is on the lawyers or the judge to show why only the journalist can provide the information."
"But Butcher could show th
at. Plus, I don’t think he really cares right now. I mean, we could appeal but in the meantime my ass would be in jail."
"I agree."
Alex walked down the stairs and stepped under the plastic covering of a bus stop to get out of the rain. "So what do I do?"
"Did I ever tell you about Captain Wally?"
"No. But I don’t—"
"Captain Wally was my commander in Nam. Died from friendly fire in 1968. Helluva guy and a helluva tragedy. We used to play cards for hours, just waiting for something to happen in the evenings. No women, five thousand miles from home. All we had was cards. Anyway he taught us this game called Omaha High-Low. Four cards in your hand, five communal cards on the table. Fun as hell. And you have to use two of your hole cards combined with three from the board to make your highest possible hand and your lowest possible hand. Highest hand and lowest hand split the pot."
"Colonel, it’s not that I don’t love your Nam stories, but do I need to know all the rules?"
"I’m getting to the point. In Omaha High-Low, you’re always thinking about hands that can win low and hands that can win high. But the players who actually understand the game are always trying to scoop the pot. Winning high or low while everyone else folds. For example, when you’ve got a high hand, you have extra incentive to bet the river card because, if you can get the low hand to fold, you keep the whole pot. That’s what Captain Wally would do. Wally just used it as a way to win cigarettes and money from us so he could…well...I don’t want to speak ill of the man but let’s just say he had a fondness for Asian women. Us grunts tended to over-bet on high hands just because we were more familiar with the combinations. Like everyone knows that three kings is a good hand. But in Omaha High-Low, ace-two-three-five-seven, for example, is even better."
Alex had a hunch where this was going. "Colonel, please don’t tell me this is an elaborate metaphor."
"Oh but it is, Alex. And it’s my favorite one, too."
Alex sighed. "I’m listening."
"Journalism is one of the highest pursuits on earth. Speaking truth to power, shining light on dark places, representing those without a voice. I came back from Nam—and I’d fought like hell over there and was proud of my service—but I was also proud of the press that had hammered Nixon into submission. Anyway, it’s a noble pursuit. It’s the Royal Flush of jobs."
"But it’s also the lowest, dirtiest game there is. It’s the ace-two-three-five-seven of professions."
"That’s right, Alex."
"I know there’s a lesson here somewhere, but I’m not seeing it. Are you telling me to scoop the pot?"
"No. Your hand is shit, Alex. You’re the grunt who bets the hell out of a mediocre high hand without understanding the rules."
"That part I get."
"It’s a new hand, Alex. And if I were you, I’d go low."
"How do I do that?”
"I can’t advise you to do anything illegal, but I will say this: you can’t out a source, right? But if someone else does, you will no longer be on the hook to testify."
Alex had an idea. "Colonel, can you transfer me over to that new tech intern? What was his name again?"
"James Stacy."
"Yeah, lemme talk to James."
Chapter 11
Joey’s office was on the fourth floor of the Louis J. Lefkowitz State Office Building, about ten blocks north of the courthouse. Alex jogged the whole way, slowing to a walk just a block away so he could catch his breath. He was soaking wet and took a seat on a bench in the park across the street.
James arrived a few minutes later. He shuffled over to the bench, shivering under a large umbrella. "I don’t feel g-good about this.”
"You can’t get in any trouble," Alex said.
"And you’re not going to tell me what it’s for?"
"You don’t want to know. Is it waterproof?"
James pulled a tiny digital recorder out of his pocket. "It is, and it has four hours of recording t-time on it."
"I won’t need a quarter of that," Alex said. "Start it up."
James pressed record and Alex slid it into the pocket of his button-down. "How close do I need to be?"
"It’ll pick up everything within five feet or so, assuming there’s not too much background noise."
“Thanks.”
“You know it’s illegal to r-r-record conversations without t-telling someone, right?”
“I’ll be careful,” Alex said. “And if I do this right, the recording will never see the light of day.”
* * *
The lobby of the Lefkowitz Building was decorated with Egyptian-themed art deco tiling and fixtures. Alex strolled up to the security guard at the front desk while reading the sign near the elevators that listed the tenants of the building.
"Alex Vane, New York Standard," he said. "I’m here for an interview with Assistant District Attorney Miller. Fourth floor."
The security guard was young, with a pudgy, confused face. Alex was pretty sure he had him.
"Mr. Miller is away this week. Are you sure you have the right time?"
"Hmm," Alex was thinking on his feet. "Maybe I’m supposed to meet with his assistant? My editor set this up."
"Whole staff is away."
"Can I see the DA then? Maybe he can answer my questions."
"I’m sorry about the mix-up, sir, but I can only let approved guests in the elevator. Who did you say you’re with? I can call up and ask if they will see you."
Alex had blown it by leading with a concrete name, and he knew it. "The New York Standard. But don’t bother. It’s really Miller I need to speak with. I’ll just call his office next week."
Alex returned to the bench, then called Bearon. The phone rang five times and went to voicemail, but Alex called right back.
Bearon finally answered with a groggy, "I’m asleep, Alex."
"Then wake up!”
“Okay, okay. What is it?”
“Do you think Prosecutor Bonner would take a call from you?"
* * *
Joey emerged from the revolving door about ten minutes later wearing her usual red heels and carrying a wide umbrella. Alex jogged across the street and called from behind her, "Joey."
She didn’t hear him. The rain was coming down harder now and the passing traffic was speeding by causing a loud whooshing sound. Alex slicked his hair back to keep water from dripping in his eyes.
A taxi stopped and he stepped toward her as she opened the door. "JOEY!"
She turned. "Oh, it’s you." She appeared surprised for a moment, then smiled broadly. "It’s soooo good to see you."
"Don’t mess around with me. You’ve been ignoring my calls, and we need to talk."
Joey glanced around her, swung open the door and said, "I got a call from a source at the courthouse. Judge is meeting with Dos Santos for some reason and I need to get down there. Get in."
Alex did, and Joey followed him. "Lower Manhattan District Courthouse," she told the driver. She turned to Alex. "Sweet of you to visit me at work."
"I called. Many times."
She didn’t say anything. Alex wanted to believe that she hadn’t been ignoring his calls, that she hadn’t known the photos were fake. But he couldn’t. "Joey, the photos. You set me up, right?"
"I don’t know what you’re talking about. You were the one who snooped in my apartment and found them."
"You wanted me to find them.” Alex ran a hand through his hair, brushing water onto his shirt. “Tell me, was getting those photos out there the plan all along or just an added bonus?"
She put her phone in her purse and turned to him. "You’re sweet. And naive. It’s not an either or."
"You’re the second person who’s called me naive in the last twenty-four hours.”
She just smiled.
Alex said, “Would you have taken me home that night if you hadn’t known you could get me to run that story?"
She put her hand on his knee. "Does it matter now? You’re trying to fit this in
to black and white, right and wrong. Those things aren’t real."
"But you used me."
"We used each other, Alex. I had a great time with you that night. I know you did, too. Trust me I could tell." She gave him a sideways look. "And you must’ve known there was at least a chance those photos weren’t real. I can’t be the first source who’s taken advantage of you."
He probably should have known. The faked photos wouldn’t have made a top-ten list of the worst things lawyers had done to each other to try to affect a case outside the courtroom. As dirty a business as journalism could be, law could be much worse. But it hadn't even occurred to him.
“Did you hire Gloria Ruiz yourself?” he asked.
She laughed. “Of course not. I had nothing to do with that.”
“But you told your oppo-research team to dig up dirt on Dos Santos. Did you tell them to create dirt if they couldn’t find enough?”
She smoothed her hair and smiled. “Don’t tell me I’ve shaken your faith in the legal system?”
"How’d you know I wouldn’t tell anyone you gave me the photos?"
"It would ruin your career. You can recover when you get something wrong through an honest mistake. But not from outing a source." She thought for a moment "Plus, you’re a good guy."
Alex brushed her hand off his leg. "But you knew it would screw me over."
"You had no knowledge that the photos were fake. You’re on safe ground in terms of libel and actual malice. No way Dos Santos sues you."
"But that doesn’t—"
"You’re not going to get me to feel bad about this, Alex. We had a great time and this will all blow over in a couple days. I’d love to see you again, actually."
"Are you serious?"
"Alex, look. This was a fourth-quarter Hail Mary for me. Once Brittney Deerborn showed up, we knew we’d probably lost. Mendoza rejected our deal and tomorrow morning we’re going to get our asses handed to us when Deerborn testifies. We think that Mendoza’s people threatened her, or paid her. Possibly both. We thought maybe we could get Dos Santos thrown off the case, throw the defense into turmoil. It didn’t work. You took a loss, I’m taking a loss. We’re even."
The Cutline (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 0) Page 7
