The Anonymous Source

by A. C. Fuller

  Alex pointed at the screens. “What are you doing on those computers?” he asked.

  “Making sure that anytime someone types Eric Santiago, John Martin, Denver Bice, Standard Media, 9/11, Macintosh Hollinger, media conglomeration, the merger, or pretty much anything else you can think of into a search engine, our story c-comes up.”

  “When will it go live?” Alex asked.

  “Late tonight or early in the m-morning.”

  “I guess we’ll run it without anything from my source,” Alex said. “Called him two more times and nothing.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  ALEX RODE THE SUBWAY sixty-five blocks south and walked into Sweet Marie’s. Camila sat at the counter, sipping what looked like a bowl of whipped cream. He approached her from behind and touched her shoulder as she took a sip.

  Her hand gave a start and a bit of whipped cream dotted her nose. “Hey,” she said, wiping away the cream.

  “On a diet?” he asked.

  “It’s hot chocolate. And, yes, I’m limiting myself to six servings of whipped cream a day.” She reached down and handed him his pole from the floor. “It was still in my apartment.”

  Alex took it and smiled. “Thanks.”

  The waitress came out of the kitchen and handed them menus. They read in silence, then put their menus down at the same time.

  “Did you get the story?” Camila asked.

  “Yeah, I got it. It’s gonna run tomorrow on a new Web site that James Stacy started. Thinks he can sell ads and ‘drive traffic’ and all that.”

  “He’s probably right. And you are now officially a digital journalist. Did you find out if it was Sharp who’s been calling you?”

  “I thought it was, but now I’m not sure. The story is good, though, and the video will be too much to ignore. It should get Santiago off. But we didn’t really get Bice. We implied a lot but no real proof.”

  The waitress came back and Alex ordered a vegetable omelet. Camila ordered a steak sandwich and another hot chocolate.

  “Are you afraid of Bice?” she asked. “He did try to have us both killed.”

  “A little, but I think he will want to lay low now that the police have Rak. And when this article comes out, even if most people don’t believe the part about him, it will still be a major inconvenience. My guess is that he will never be caught. He’ll find a way to wriggle out of this, but he’s not gonna come after me again. There will be too many eyes on him. Plus, I still can’t shake the feeling that he never wanted me dead in the first place.”

  “You think they’ll come after you in the press?”

  “They’ll hammer me. Hammer James and Lance. Maybe even you. The story won’t just mess with Bice, it will cast Standard Media in a bad light. Even if people don’t believe it, it’s not the kind of thing investors and board members want to see.”

  “Especially just a few weeks away from their merger closing.”

  The food came and Alex took a moment to watch Camila as she ate. Then he took a bite of his omelet and swallowed hard. “I meant to say before, I’m sorry about your dad.”

  “Don’t be.” She smiled and looked up at him. “I mean, thanks. It’s okay, though. I feel okay to miss him now.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?”

  “Something’s happened to you. It was happening the whole time, but now you seem different. It’s why I fell in love with you. I know I am only seeing the surface, but I do see the surface.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re right,” she said. She sipped her water and was quiet for a moment. “Remember that bad feeling I told you about on the plane?”

  Alex nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t really understand it.”

  “Have you ever done that thing where you get to work and think you left the coffee pot on at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You imagine that the coffee will slowly burn away. The pot will start smoking, then the fire alarm will go off and the neighbors will have to call the police. You keep thinking about it all day, but you think you probably turned it off so you don’t go home to check it. And you’re too embarrassed to call your neighbor to ask him to check it. So you just worry. And it nags at you, this low-level anxiety, all day. It’s mostly in the background but occasionally it smashes into the foreground and you feel terror or dread. Then you dismiss it and work for a while, but it comes back. You might even stay extra busy just so you don’t have to think about it.” She paused and sipped her hot chocolate. “It’s the feeling that something is fundamentally wrong with our lives, with us.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling. I have that even if I don’t think I’ve left the coffee pot on.”

  “So what happens when you get home and you realize the coffee pot was off the whole time?”

  He took a big bite and she laughed at him.

  “That must have been a whole egg,” she said.

  He chewed vigorously and sipped his coffee.

  “What happens?” she asked again.

  “Relief, I guess.”

  “Relief that this big problem turns out not to have existed in the first place. And you can see the silliness of the whole thing—the anxiety, the dread, the scrunched up forehead.”

  “Yeah, but then I just find another problem, another thing to be concerned about.”

  “The problem is never the coffee pot. If it were, you’d just deal with it, head home and check it. But, like you said, then you find another thing to worry about. Well, imagine that relief, that ‘ahhhhhh’ you feel when you realize that the coffee pot was never on. Your body relaxes, your mind is clear and, somehow, you realize that the guy who was anxious all day was just a tightened up version of you.”

  “Okay.”

  “So imagine if that feeling swept over everything, your whole life. Every mean thing you have done. Every cruel thing that has been done to you. Every moment, every interaction, every bit of worry and alienation. It’s like an iceberg melting inside you that you didn’t know was there. You only become aware of its existence by the feeling of space and freedom that’s left when it’s gone.” She took another sip of hot chocolate as he finished his omelet.

  He studied her face but said nothing.

  “What happened to me is kinda like that,” she said.

  “So, what are you gonna do next?”

  “Finish my dinner. Go home. I have a class to teach tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Monday, September 23, 2002

  JAMES SAT ON HIS swivel chair with Alex on his left and Lance on his right. At 5 a.m., he clicked “upload” to make the story live on news-scoop.com. The final draft was accompanied by the video of Santiago, photos of Demarcus Downton, Denver Bice, Sadie Green, Mac and Sonia Hollinger, and Professor John Martin. It also included a photo of Rak that James had found online.

  Next, James sent out a press release to over a hundred news outlets, both traditional and digital.

  At 8 a.m., Lance pulled out his single sheet of sources and started making calls to his most famous contacts.

  “If the right person sees the site, and mentions it, it could really help us,” James said.

  Every few minutes, Alex looked at his phone. He wasn’t sure who he was expecting to call, but he knew that it would start ringing soon if James had done what he’d said he was going to do.

  At 9 a.m., he walked up behind James, who was refreshing a web page over and over. “So, wait a minute,” Alex said. “You can tell exactly how many people are reading the story, in real time.”

  “Yes, and how many are watching the video and how long each user stays on the s-site.”

  “How many so far?” Alex asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “Hundred? Thousand?”

  “No, eleven people total.”

  “What? I thought the Internet was supposed to be fast.”

  “Don’t w-worry. A link is about to hit the inbox of every reporter in the five boroughs. Plus, everyone is ju
st getting to work. Better make your calls.”

  Alex called Bearon and asked him to gossip about the story with anyone who came into the courthouse that morning. “Take a victory lap,” Alex said. “You started leaking this thing a week ago. You’re gonna be an oracle in the courthouse from now on.” Next, he called a few reporters he knew from national papers. Finally, he called two former classmates with low-level TV jobs and asked them to show the story to their producers, promising them the video would make great TV.

  * * *

  By noon, Alex and Lance were watching over James’s shoulder as he hit refresh again and again. The number of unique visitors to the site had hit one thousand and was climbing steadily.

  “Your dreams have come true,” Lance said, laughing. “You get to see in real-time how much everyone loves you.”

  Alex laughed. “I know, but it’s not quite the same as print.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” James said.

  Alex sat next to James, who looked at him uncomfortably.

  “Alex, I’ve been meaning to ask, do you think there’s any chance that C-C-. I mean that C-. That C-C-C-. That Camila would—”

  “Nah,” Alex said.

  “I mean I felt like back at the office a few weeks ago she—”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Well, then, once we’re all rich and f-famous from this, I’m hoping that you guys can help me in that d-department.” James looked back at the screen and refreshed the site traffic. “Do you two know what an exponential increase is? It’s when you go from five readers an hour, to twenty-five an hour, to one hundred twenty-five an hour, and so on.”

  “Yeah, we know what it is,” Alex said.

  “Well, we’re there. Turn on the TV. I’m expecting it soon. We got a thousand views in the last twenty m-m-minutes. If the rate keeps climbing throughout the day, we’ll be at a hundred thousand views by dinnertime. And that’s if TV doesn’t pick it up.”

  Lance and Alex looked at each other. “But how do we get paid?” Lance asked.

  “See the ads at the top and bottom of the page? One cent per page view, thirty cents per ad click,” James said.

  “What does that mean?” Lance asked.

  Alex looked at Lance. “It means that if millions of people watch the video and read the story, and if some of them click on the ads, we don’t have to go out and beg for jobs tomorrow.”

  * * *

  That afternoon Alex clicked back and forth between CNN, Court TV, and the local news, waiting for the coverage. He imagined the frantic calls that must be taking place between Sharp and the NYPD and between TV producers and their sources. He smiled as he thought of the voice mail of the Standard Media spokesman filling up with requests for comments.

  At 2 p.m., he got a call from a Post reporter, asking if he would be interviewed for a story about his story. He declined to comment and reminded him of the press release James had sent out earlier. After that, he got a text message from Sadie Green: Saw the story. Wow! I take back all the nasty stuff I said to you and about you behind your back. Looks like Bice was more like Two-Face than Lex Luther or Doctor Doom.

  By 3 p.m., Alex was receiving a call every fifteen minutes—first from local reporters, then national reporters, then TV producers asking if he would appear on a segment. He declined all of them.

  * * *

  At 4:45 p.m., WNYW did a teaser for the five o’clock news and mentioned the story for the first time on TV.

  “A startup Web site has published startling accusations that could complicate the sensational murder trial of Eric Santiago and disrupt the proposed merger between Standard Media and Nation Corp. Details at five.”

  “Well,” Lance said, patting Alex on the back, “you’re gonna be on TV after all.”

  James plugged wires into the back of his computer, then walked to the TV and connected them.

  “What’s that for?” Alex asked.

  “Capturing our coverage so we can use it to promote the site,” James said. “Never too early to start thinking about our n-n-next story.”

  The news led with a summary of Alex’s article and showed a still shot of the video next to the photo Alex had submitted when he applied for a job. The segment ran for five minutes and included a denial of the entire story from a Standard Media spokesman and a “no comment” from Daniel Sharp. By the time it ended, all three had muted their ringing phones.

  “I guess the Internet is fast,” Lance said.

  James muted the TV. “Alex, I say you do The Times, and maybe in a day or two, Larry King. Just the classy old media stuff.” James took a long drink of soda. “We want a sense of scarcity. Get the word out as wide as possible but push people toward the s-site. We’ve got to think long term.” He leaned back in his chair. “And Oprah. If Oprah calls, we’ll go.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Monday, September 30, 2002

  A WEEK LATER, Alex walked out of his apartment building and was glad there were only three reporters and one TV crew waiting for him. He squinted in the morning light and put on a pair of black sunglasses as he walked past them. They followed him down Broadway, shouting questions.

  “No comment,” he said, his head down. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

  “Mr. Vane,” one reporter yelled. “Is it true you’re an alcoholic?”

  “No comment.”

  “Then is it true that you used to drink on the job at The Standard?”

  Alex bit his lower lip. “No comment.”

  “Mr. Vane, where are you headed?”

  “For a walk!”

  His phone beeped. As he walked, he read a text from Sadie Green: Half of London turns out to protest a made-up war over the weekend, and what do the NY papers lead with Monday morning? Your sorry ass! But seriously, nice job on the story.

  A small man edged up next to Alex, jogging to keep up with his brisk pace. “Sources inside Standard Media say you have a personal grudge against the company, and that you fabricated the story to become famous. Do you have a comment?”

  Alex ignored him. As he crossed 95th Street, the reporters turned back.

  Oprah had not called, but in the last few days Alex had appeared in a feature in The New York Times and had done an hour on Larry King Live. He had turned down job offers from every local TV station, as well as CNN. The story had received over four million hits and generated eighty thousand click-throughs. Downton’s video had been watched a million times and message boards had sprung up to debate the video, Santiago’s reaction, and what it said about humanity. Altogether, news-scoop.com had made $145,000 from the story.

  As he crossed 85th Street, Alex’s phone rang and he flipped it open. “Bearon, what’s up?”

  “It’s over,” Bearon said. He was talking fast and breathing hard.

  “What’s over?”

  “The trial. Santiago. He’s gonna be released today. Can you get down here?”

  “What happened?”

  “Sharp is gonna drop the case. He’s gonna make a huge show of it, too. Courthouse steps. Justice being served. All that shit. I’m hearing that they’re working a case against Rak for killing Martin. You gotta get down here.”

  Alex stopped walking and stared at the cars going by. “I’ll head down there now, but can you get a note to Santiago for me?”

  * * *

  That night, Alex and Camila stood outside Santiago’s dorm on Carmine Street along with a handful of reporters and a local TV crew. “I guess the national press goes home after dinner,” Alex said. Camila shivered in the cold night air.

  Santiago emerged a few minutes later wearing jeans and a black pea coat, his face partially covered by a black scarf. Alex noticed the deep pockmarks on his forehead as he held out his hand. A photographer clicked away.

  They shook hands and Alex said, “Thanks for meeting us. I thought we’d walk a bit to get away from all these reporters.” He turned to the group. “Head home guys. We’re not making any news tonight.”

>   Camila held out her hand to Santiago. “Camila Gray. You’re back to looking like a regular NYU student.”

  “I saw you in court,” Santiago said. “I thought you were pretty.”

  They walked in silence to Sixth Avenue, trailed by a photographer and a reporter who dropped away when they turned onto West Fourth toward Washington Square Park.

  “What are you going to do now?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know,” Santiago said. He spoke in a flat monotone and didn’t look at Alex as he answered.

  “Are you going to enroll in classes this semester?” Camila asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Alex looked at Camila, then back at Santiago. “I was wondering if you’d like to do an interview about the whole ordeal,” he said. “You know, what happened that night, what jail was like, how it feels to be free. You probably know this was a pretty big story.”

  “I know,” Santiago said. “I was more entertaining than the terrorists. That’s what I read, anyway. I don’t really know what it means.”

  “So, what do you think about being interviewed?” Alex asked.

  “No, I’m not going to do that.”

  “But this is your chance to tell your side of the story, to get your version of—”

  Camila broke in, “Oh, please, Alex, don’t give him that line.”

  Santiago stopped in front of a pizza shop and inhaled. “The only bad thing about jail was the food. It was no good.”

  Alex led them in and bought Santiago a slice of pepperoni. They walked slowly toward the park as Santiago ate.

  At the edge of the park, Santiago finished his slice and stopped to look at Alex. “Why’d you release that video?” he asked. His face was blank but his eyes flashed. “Why did you have to release it?”

  Alex caught Santiago’s eye. “What? What do you mean? We released it to get you out of jail, to show that you didn’t kill him.”

  Santiago looked across the park, lit only by a few streetlights. “Maybe I was better off in there. They gave me food and a bed and some company at least. Like I said, though, the food was no good.”