Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  Harris seemed affected by Tina’s words, and perhaps by her emotion. “I would tend to agree with that.”

  Ben countered, “So we’re just going to look the other way and let the governor lie, is that it?”

  Tina found fresh rage. “We are not here to judge the governor’s character! We are here to report what has happened—”

  Ben jumped all over that. “What’s happened, Tina? What’s happened? So all right! Let’s run the story.”

  Harris offered, “Ben, now wait a minute. Don’t you think the governor’s met us halfway on this? He’s come out in public and revealed some very sensitive information on his daughter. He’s essentially opened the bedroom doors of his home for public viewing—pardon me, but isn’t that about it? In all honesty, people, isn’t that enough? Hasn’t the governor opened himself up enough and borne enough pain? It seems to me he’s answered every reason you want to run this story. He’s revealed how his daughter really died, and he’s promised to look into the safety of abortion clinics.”

  Leslie reiterated, “He’s running. I’m convinced of it. He’s trying to cover his tracks by getting the jump on us.”

  “Which in itself is another reason not to run this story,” said Tina. “This is still another way in which the story is after the fact. It’ll be old before it gets on the air, and . . . really, after everything the governor has already done to make the whole matter public, we’re going to sound like we’re eating sour grapes, like we’re flinging mud at his backside now that he’s passed us in doing the right thing.” She appealed to Harris. “Really, I think the dignity and credibility of Channel 6 are at stake here.”

  John insisted, “But we’re overlooking the whole matter of the Truth, Mr. Harris. The Truth is at stake here! To be silent is tantamount to maintaining the lie. I agree with Ben—if we help Slater cover his tracks, we’ll be just as bad as he is. He covered it all up for political reasons, and won’t we be doing the same thing? It wouldn’t be right.”

  Harris leaned toward him. “John, you can moralize about the proper path for this station to take, but you need to remember, it’s part of my job to be sure this station survives. And in that light, the governor’s public confession may have to be adequate for us.”

  “Yes,” Tina almost whispered, just barely pounding the table with her fist. “Yes, yes!”

  “He’s confessed nothing!” John argued. “He’s taken a shameful and regrettable situation and turned it into a symbol, a rallying point for his political agenda! There’s no remorse, no regret, no confession of wrong. He’s not being truthful, sir, and if we let this go we won’t be truthful either! We have an obligation to the Truth, whether we like it or not, whether it hurts us or not, whether it benefits our own pocketbooks or not.” John drew a breath and delivered his next words with extra punch. “We have to do the right thing.”

  Leslie agreed, repeating the phrase, “Yeah, the right thing.”

  Harris unbuttoned his suitcoat. It was getting a bit stuffy in the room, and he was definitely getting hot under the collar. “Mr. Barrett, freedom of the press means we have just as much freedom to remain silent as we have freedom to speak.”

  John had the strange sensation he was mimicking his father as he replied, “Sir . . . I don’t have that freedom.” He could sense he was saying too much, pushing his bounds, but the words seemed to jump out of him. “It’s . . . it’s hard to explain, sir, but . . . I’ve been through a lot this past month or so, and . . . if you can accept this, sir, I feel an obligation toward God to be as honest as I can. I’m human, sir, and I’ll admit the Truth can be painful at times, and even a little elusive, but . . . as best as I can, I must speak the Truth and address things as they are. I don’t feel I have any right to take the Truth and cut it up, rearrange it, select what I want and delete what I want just so it’ll align with my politics or my Accounting Department.”

  “Mr. Barrett . . .” Harris had heard enough, and now he was leaning with his hands on the table, casting the shadow of disfavor over John as only the Boss could do. “In the interests of bringing this meeting to a conclusion, I think it’s time you remembered who you really are. You may think you’re a celebrity—a household name—a famous face. But you’d better remember, you are only those things because this station, this business entity, made you those things, and not for your benefit, but for ours. Our benefit, our ratings, our advertising dollars, our profit margin. Mr. Barrett, regardless of your obligations to God, you need to keep in mind that first and foremost you are an employee of this organization. An employee. And I expect all employees to have not their own nor God’s but this station’s best interests in mind at all times.”

  He stepped back from John to address them all. “We all have our convictions and our ideals. We all have our feelings about what journalists have a right to print and say. We all like to spout about the First Amendment and freedom of the press. But let me introduce you to the real world. Freedom of the press belongs to him who owns the press, and Mr. Barrett—and the rest of you—that’s me. I run this press. As long as you work for this press, freedom of the press stops . . .” He pointed at his nose. “. . . right here. It stops with your boss, your paycheck. In the final analysis the Truth doesn’t call the shots here. The Truth doesn’t matter. I call the shots, and what I want matters. Right now, that’s the only truth you need to deal with.”

  Ben cut in before anyone else could. “Loren, Mr. Harris, sir, perhaps we’ve heard John and Leslie’s positions clearly enough, and the afternoon’s getting on. Why don’t we let them go back to their work while the three of us finish this?”

  Harris looked at John and Leslie with an expression that indicated he was quite tired of their company. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

  The doors to the viewing room closed behind John and Leslie as they went out to return to their work—and to wait.

  CHAPTER 31

  JOHN AND LESLIE gave at least token service to their work, going through the mechanics of editing their materials for the evening newscasts. Leslie was doing a story on a battle between loggers and environmentalists and a night-long hearing that brought no firm results. It was almost a “same old, same old” story, and the copy was sounding “same old, same old.” As for John . . . well, the Five O’clock looked good, the script felt tight and well paced, there were no big problems with it. In other words, compared to the story now being chewed on, poked at, dissected, pushed, pulled, and ultimately decided upon upstairs, this stuff on their computer screens was not that engaging.

  Oh-oh. There was Tina Lewis, walking briskly into the newsroom, not making eye contact with anyone, not even allowing her face to turn in his direction. When she went by Leslie’s desk she picked up some extra speed and kept her eyes straight forward.

  Leslie shot a glance at him, her eyebrows soaring in surprise. Could this be a good sign?

  Tina disappeared into her office and closed the door with a loud slam. One would think that was a good indicator that she had not prevailed in her desire to kill the story. And yet . . .

  John felt trouble in his spirit. He knew—and he felt it was from the Lord—that the decision was in some ways favorable and in some ways not.

  He turned back to his computer, took a deep breath, and prayed for just a moment, silently, not even closing his eyes. It didn’t really matter, he told the Lord. Whatever God wanted was fine with him. Whether the story actually ran on the air was secondary. What was truly important was that John remain sensitive to what God was doing and saying, and that the Truth prevail.

  “Lord God,” he whispered, “I just want to be obedient for once.”

  There was Ben, just now coming into the newsroom. He stopped briefly at the assignment desk to grab a fresh copy of the Outlook Sheet from George Hayami, the assignment editor. They talked a moment, and then Ben went over to Leslie’s desk.

  “Leslie . . .”

  She looked up. Oh-oh. Now would come the verdict. “Okay. Break it to
me gently.”

  He leaned close, his back toward the room, and particularly toward John’s desk. “It isn’t all good news, okay? But I want you to listen carefully and do what I tell you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First of all, the story’s gonna run, probably tomorrow.”

  She didn’t allow herself any joy at that news, knowing the bad news was still coming. “And?”

  “And . . .” He looked toward Tina’s office and then back at Leslie. “And I want you to take a few days off, starting right now.”

  That hit Leslie in the stomach. “What . . . I don’t understand.”

  “I’m giving it to you straight. Tina did not want this story to go on the air, but I prevailed, after a fashion, and right now she is one hot-under-the-collar lady. It’s gonna be an interesting next few days around here. I think all Hell is gonna break loose, and . . . with all due respect to you, I don’t want you in the middle of it, or possibly being a part of it. I think you need to lay low for a while.”

  Of course, Leslie had to argue with him. “But, Ben, that’s . . . that’s ridiculous . . .”

  He smiled, knowing better. “Oh, is it now? No matter what Tina says or does, you’re just going to sit quietly and take it, aren’t you? You’re going to be a good little girl and let Tina call all the shots and not say a word?”

  Leslie could see his point. She tried to justify herself. “Ben, I never wanted any trouble . . .”

  “Well, neither do I. The problem is, you’re like uranium, and Tina’s like plutonium, and when the two of you get together you achieve critical mass. I don’t need that in my newsroom, and considering what’s coming up, it’s unavoidable unless I get one of you out of the picture. So let the story air first, and I’ll give you a call when the coast is clear and it’s safe to come back.”

  “But, Ben . . . who’s going to do the story?”

  “I’m gonna let John do it.”

  Leslie could sense something coming. “By himself?”

  “Yeah. All by himself.”

  “And then what?”

  He hesitated, then answered, “It’s too early to say. But go on—pack up your stuff and clear out right now. I don’t want to see you around here until this is over, and then I’ll call you.” He reassured her, “You’re not fired, you understand. I just want you far, far away for a while.”

  She got brave enough to protest, “Ben, that story was both of ours. I worked on it too.”

  “I haven’t forgotten that.”

  “So . . . whatever happens to John . . .”

  He stopped her. “Hey, nothing’s happened yet! Just wait and see—elsewhere. That’s an order.”

  JOHN COULD SEE Leslie turn off her computer and start clearing her desk. Now Ben was coming his way. John reached and grabbed an available chair, pulling it close to his desk just in time for Ben to sit down.

  Ben stole a quick glance back toward Leslie, who looked right back at him with resistance in her eyes even as she continued packing. Then Ben told John, “Leslie’s getting clear of the situation for a few days.”

  John watched Leslie throw some items into her carry bag and then grab her coat. “I think that’s a good idea, Ben. I appreciate it.”

  “So . . . you ready to hear the final word?”

  “It looks like the story’s going to run.”

  Ben did not appear to be sharing good news. “Tomorrow, if you can get it together.”

  “I suppose I can. It’ll be tough without Leslie, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  “You’ll have to get over to see the governor tomorrow morning. Loren Harris is already setting that up.” Ben paused, preparing to be up-front and honest with his anchorman. “He’s hoping the governor will be able to talk you out of it—or scare you out of it, I don’t know which. But you’ll take a cameraman with you and get the governor’s comments, if he has any. Then . . . you put the story together and we’ll run it on the Five O’clock and the Seven O’clock. You’ll have two minutes maximum and will do your own lead-in and voice-over. It’ll be all yours, from start to finish. Nobody else’s name on it.” Ben gave an apologetic shrug. “Part of the deal with Loren.”

  John understood. He knew. “That’s why you sent Leslie home, isn’t it? The story’s going to be buried.”

  Ben looked away as he said, “And probably you with it.” He looked back at John. “I don’t know that for sure, but . . . let’s face it, you’re not making friends around here. You’re violating the unwritten rules—that is, if you still want to go through with it.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to. I just know I have to.”

  “Why, John? You still think you owe something to the Brewers?”

  “That’s part of it. But at the risk of generalizing, I feel I owe something to everyone. I owe them the Truth.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair, somewhat forlorn. “Well . . . we’ll see how much of it they get. I swung a deal for you, but I’m not that impressed with it.”

  “Yeah, I know.” John began to recount the meeting as if he’d been there. “Tina was against running the story, you were for it, Harris was caught in the middle and concerned for the station and his standing with his peers. You came up with the idea, Hey, as big as the story is, we can’t honestly ignore it. But why not let Barrett carry the whole thing on his own shoulders, give him a fair shot at it, then tuck it away in the middle if you want, make a lot of noise on either side. If the story dies, people will forget and we’re off the hook; if it turns out to be hot, we can always say we broke the story here first. In any case Barrett and Albright will get it out of their system. All very pragmatic.”

  Ben laughed. “You have been paying attention all these years.”

  John knew he was right on the money, but he wasn’t happy about it. “Kind of like a picture I saw in the mall a while ago. It would be too hard to explain, but . . . it made me consider the fact that the media being what it is, you don’t have to withhold information. You don’t even have to lie that much. Just pour on enough distraction and people won’t know which way to look.”

  Ben thought that over grimly. “And in that area, the gov’s got a big head start on you.”

  “And I suppose he always will.”

  “But you still want to go ahead with this?”

  John smiled at the peace he felt about it. “I can do it. Like you all agreed in the meeting, I’ll have it out of my system. I’ll have done what I need to do.”

  Ben probed, “And . . . what do you think, John? Is this your concept of a sharp, in-control kind of guy, the man the public can trust to bring them the news with sobriety, integrity, and grit . . . all that stuff we talked about?”

  “A man like that would tell the Truth, wouldn’t he?”

  Ben nodded. “That’s what I told Loren Harris.”

  This time they both laughed, if only to relieve the pressure.

  Then Ben got serious again. “But, John, I get the feeling you know a lot more than you’re telling. This is no one-shot story, is it? It’s leading somewhere.”

  John sorted what he could say from what he could not. “Well, Ben, to be honest . . .”

  “Of course.”

  John nodded. “It’s leading somewhere. It’s going to get bigger, a lot bigger, and it’ll be interesting to see how big it has to get before it can’t be swept under the carpet anymore.” He chuckled. “Well, I suppose you could sweep an elephant under the carpet and get away with it—as long as you keep everyone looking the other way.”

  “An elephant? Now you’ve got me curious.”

  “I’m sorry to do that, Ben. But right now I’ve got a promise going with certain parties that I won’t talk about it until they’ve completed their work on this.”

  HOWIE METZGER, SMALL-TIME hood and thug-for-hire, sat calmly at the little table in the interrogation room, dragging on a loaned cigarette and trying to maintain a cool, unshakable image while Detective Henderson’s partner, Clay Oakley, read Howie his rights.
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br />   “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or sign can be used as evidence against you in a court of law. . . .” Henderson had chosen Room 1027 on the top floor of the Country Courthouse, a six by eight foot cubicle just down the hall from the jail, and known for its gloominess, with no windows except for the two-way glass in the door, its walls painted a dingy, graying yellow. He wanted the mood to be just right when they talked to Howie.

  Oakley finished. “You have the right to exercise any of these rights at any time before or during questioning or the making of any statement. Now . . . do you understand these rights?”

  “Sure,” said Howie.

  “Keeping these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”

  “Maybe.”

  Henderson knew Howie was probing. “Howie, I saw you and your old buddy Ted on television, busting heads at the governor’s rally last month. You remember that?”

  “Yeah, I remember that.”

  “We’re about to extradite Ted back here on a murder rap, and he’s put the finger on you. He says you were there, that you killed the old man.”

  Howie was skeptical. “Oh, did he now?”

  Henderson came close to the table. “So . . . hey, we’ve played this game so many times, you know the rules. You help the prosecutor, and the prosecutor helps you. Ted’s given us his side of it. We’d like to hear yours. You want to talk to us?”

  Howie laughed and took another drag on the cigarette. “Let’s hear his side of it.”

  Henderson flipped open his notebook and consulted some notes he’d written. “You went together to Barrett Plumbing and Fixtures looking for a tape cassette. You roughed up the proprietor, John Barrett Sr., trying to get him to tell you where the tape was. Ted says he wouldn’t talk, so you, Howie, got really rough with him and finally beat him so hard you killed him.”