Heart of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  “I had no idea.” Cole replied.

  “You wouldn’t, would you! She’s a Disney princess when she’s around you.” Hanna turned and went to her desk.

  “Is this what you do all day?” Kelly asked with a giggle.

  “Funny.” Cole shook his head. “Lindsey is not a Disney princess around me. She’s a little snot. I warned Hanna. Sometimes I feel like an old Barry Manilow record: Nobody ever listens to me.”

  “I do. Well…most of the time…sometimes.” Kelly’s mood was brightening.

  At a quarter to five, Cole stood and pronounced that the day was over. He gathered the notes strewn over his desk into a neat pile and put a brass see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil paperweight—three monkeys joined at the hips—on top of the papers.

  “What do you say we get out of here?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Kelly said, checking the clock.

  Cole knocked gently on the front of Hanna’s desk. “Tomorrow we’ll talk about what to do with “the kid,” that is, after I get all my ideas rejected by my life coach.” Cole jerked his head in Kelly’s direction.

  “I’ll pray for you. It’s going to work out the way it should. Don’t worry.” Kelly went around and gave Hanna a hug.

  “Sorry for the outburst,” Hanna said, self-consciously.

  “It could have been way worse!” Cole smiled. “We’ll hash this all out later. When do we get to hear about Lindsey’s test results? I sure hope she scored high enough to get her out of your hair.”

  “I don’t know, but they said it shouldn’t take too long. But they won’t put up with this disappearing act of hers. She could lose a scholarship.” Hanna was bristling. “If she blows it, I’m through…that is, if she even gets it. Who knows? She might have flunked it on purpose.”

  “We have got to stay positive. Either way, I’m with you all the way. You want to come with us to dinner?” Cole tried to console Hanna.

  “Thanks, but if Lindsey shows up, I need to be home. Geez, I’m beginning to feel like I’m the prisoner and she’s the warden.”

  Kelly stood quietly trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound hollow and trite. She couldn’t think of anything, but she didn’t want to just walk away. Hanna was hurting and needed support.

  “Cole Sage’s office.” Hanna raised her index finger motioning Cole not to leave. “Yes, sir, he’s right here. No sir, we all work until five. Here he is.” Far-a-day, Hanna mouthed silently.

  Cole took the phone, “Sage. Alright…alright…I’ll be right up.” Cole turned to Kelly, “Can you keep Hanna company? It seems the new editor has a thing or two to say about my column for Sunday.”

  Faraday’s secretary scowled at Cole as he approached her desk. “Don’t speak to me,” she snarled. “Just go in.”

  Cole didn’t knock. He just went directly into the editor’s office.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “To answer that, I’ll need a little more information,” Cole said flatly.

  “It’s your so-called column for Sunday.” Faraday was seething.

  “The one I gave you last week?”

  “I told you I wanted a story on Father Thomas Melo and his fight to keep San Francisco a sanctuary city. This…this is an indictment of the way the Child Protective Agency is being run.” Spit flew from Faraday’s mouth as he fought to keep from screaming.

  “And I told you, I don’t do puff pieces, especially on topics that I disagree with. I made that very clear the first time we met. I was hired to do what I did there,” Cole pointed at the papers in Faraday’s hand. “Bring to the light the wrongs, inadequacies, and failures of the government and its agencies, officials and policies. I was also hired because my reputation proceeded me as a fighter for the underdog, down trodden, and abused. This, Mr. Faraday, fits all those criteria in spades.”

  “Your holier-than-thou bullshit may work on the artsy-fartsy, know-it-all, first amendment worshippers of the journalism world, but I assure you, my only interest in you is filling column inches with what I see fit and necessary for the profitability of this newspaper.”

  “Any kid fresh out of college could, and should, write the kind of propaganda you want written. They could because it isn’t journalism. They should, because they would be afraid to lose their job. If they, the paper, and you were worth a damn they would refuse. Either way, it is a sellout to the very foundation of what a free press represents.” Suddenly the world seemed to come into focus for Cole.

  As Faraday went into a lengthy tirade about politics and power structures (and a subordinate’s place in it), Cole for a fleeting moment went back to a place and time long buried in his memory.

  He could almost feel the cold, hard, concrete bench in the Cook County jail cell the night he spent a night behind bars so many years ago. The Honorable Judge Irwin Fields Blumenthal cited the young Chicago Sentinel reporter, Cole Sage, for contempt of court for refusing to reveal the name of a source. Cole wrote a scathing piece on the influence of organized crime on—and the lack of oversight in—building permits, as well as, inspections in the Wards of the south side of the city.

  Against the advice of counsel, Cole decided to stand his ground. He feared for the safety of his source, and that of the man’s family. His decision to protect his source Cole believed, would be covered by Illinois “Shield Law” that protects journalists and their sources. The judge, so angered by Cole stance, ignored the statute, and found him in contempt.

  The holding tank he was confined to contained men of various ages, races and dispositions. Twenty-eight-year-old Cole Sage went to the far corner of the cell and waited to be processed. He felt out of place in a suit that actually fit, and a shirt that was starched and pressed.

  A small, frail looking man, with a new shave and hair-cut, looked oddly out of place in the group. He never looked above the floor. His hands trembled badly when he wasn’t holding them tight to his chest. Cole wondered what his offense could possibly be, as he watched the man bounce one foot nervously up and down.

  “Killer.” The black man sitting to Cole’s right said.

  “What’s that? Cole asked.

  “I saw you staring at ol’ Jimmy over there.”

  “It was that obvious?”

  “You never been locked up before, have you?

  “First time. So what’s the story on Jimmy?” Cole asked, wanting to change the focus away from him.

  “Got in an argument with another homeless guy. Jimmy said the guy stole his bedroll. One thing led to another and Jimmy broke a wine bottle, and gouged the guy in the throat with it. The guy bled out like a stuck pig. You want to hear the funny part? Jimmy was so drunk he didn’t know he was sittin’ on his own bed roll!” The man laughed exposing a mouthful of rotten, broken teeth.

  “So what are you in here for, if you don’t mind me asking?

  “Public drunkenness, peein’ in public, resistin’ arrest, and assault on a police officer. The usual. You?”

  “Refusing to give the name of a source on a story I wrote for the newspaper.”

  “You a writer?”

  “Yes, sir. At least I was. We’ll see how well the Sentinel likes me going to jail for contempt of court.”

  “So…they put you in here because you wouldn’t snitch?”

  “Basically, yeah, I guess so. It’s a little more complicated than that. But yeah, I wouldn’t rat on the guy who gave me the information that led to the arrest of some mobsters.”

  “Baby Jesus and Mary, you a pretty brave fella. Either that or pretty damn dumb!” The black man threw back his head and laughed loudly. “What’s your name?”

  “Cole Sage.” Cole extended his hand.

  “Tyrone Partridge,” the man said, shaking Cole’s hand.

  “How long you in for, Mr. Sage?”

  “We’ll see in the morning, Tyrone, we’ll see in the morning.”

  At nine o’clock the next morning, Cole was returned to a holding cell to wait his turn before the
judge. There was no sign of Tyrone or Jimmy. About ten-thirty Cole was escorted before Judge Blumenthal for round two.

  “Mr. Sage, have you changed your position since we last met?” the judge asked.

  “No, your honor, I have not.”

  Cole could see the judge shudder with anger.

  “And why might that be…if I may ask such a distinguished member of the press?”

  The judge smirked at his own sarcasm.

  “Section 8-901 of the Illinois code regarding Shield Law states, No court may compel any person to disclose the source of any information obtained by a reporter except as provided in provisions of the Shield Law.”

  “Are you quoting law to me in my own courtroom, Mr. Sage?” The judge’s face turned almost a burgundy as his anger grew.

  “It does appear that way, your honor. I believe I am protected, shielded if you will, from disclosing the identity of my source, by the laws of the State of Illinois.” Cole looked directly into the judge’s eyes.

  “Damn stupid law, if you ask me,” the judge mumbled. “The court recorder will strike any mention of Mr. Sage’s appearance before this court.”

  The lead defense attorney stood and loudly said, “Your honor, I must object. This is most irregular.”

  “Counselor, you picked the wrong day to try my patience. I suggest you take advantage of my willingness to let your objection go unnoticed. Sit down.”

  The lawyer sat.

  “Mr. Sage, I want you out of my courtroom, and I suggest in the future if you see my name plate on the wall outside, that you steer clear”

  “Thank you, your honor.” Cole turned and walked briskly out of the courtroom.

  “You’re not leaving just yet, Mr. Sage!”

  Cole stopped short of the door.

  “I don’t think you’re listening to me!” Faraday shouted.

  “No, your honor. I mean, yes I’m listening,” Cole stammered, caught in his memories.

  “I am writing you up for gross insubordination. I will be putting the citation in your personnel file, and I guarantee the next time you cross me I will have you removed from the employment rolls of this newspaper. Is that clear?” Little white balls of sticky white froth were collecting in the corners of Faraday’s mouth.

  “So, you are printing my article as is?” Cole said, further pressing his luck.

  “I have no choice. It is too much space to fill. Next week, by God, you will write the Sanctuary City piece or you will find yourself selling newspapers, not writing for one. Now, get the hell out of my office!”

  Cole stood and walked out the door. “Have a nice evening.”

  The sound of papers and something heavy hitting the floor came from behind him as Cole closed the door.

  “Have a wonderful evening, Beautiful. Try and get some rest. You’re looking a bit drawn.

  The secretary cursed Cole profusely as he made his way to the elevator.

  Kelly and Hanna were deep in conversation and didn’t notice Cole until he was nearly upon them.

  “It is now after five o’clock, Ms. Day, you are no longer being compensated for your presence here. I suggest you retreat and begin your evening.”

  “What did Mr. Faraday want, Cole?” Kelly asked.

  “Yeah, what did he say?” Hanna added.

  “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t listening. I believe he threatened to fire me if I didn’t write the Sanctuary City piece for next week’s column.”

  “What did you say?” Both women said at almost in unison.

  “I told him to have a nice evening. And that, my dear, is exactly what we are going to do.” Cole took Kelly by the arm and started for the elevator.

  “Good night. Hanna! Go home!”

  “Be nice,” Kelly whispered. “She is really upset about Lindsey.”

  “I wish I’d never met that kid.”

  Even with Kelly’s pep talk, Hanna left work in a foul mood. She sputtered and cursed all the way home, rehearsing what she was going to say to Lindsey. Her self-talk took the form of regret, seasoned with anger and accusation.

  “How could I be so stupid!” she shouted above the blaring radio.

  Her usual speeding bordered on suicidal as she flew down side streets and alleys she used as short cuts home. A poor homeless woman dove for cover behind a dumpster as Hanna flew by, missing her by inches.

  As she parked the car, she tried what Kelly suggested.

  “OK, God, you know I’m pretty much an unbeliever. Kelly says prayer in a time of extremity really helps: God’s opportunity. I need help. This kid is driving me crazy. She is throwing away a future I would have killed for. Sorry, not killed, would have really liked. Please, please, please help me to say the right things. And please put some sense in that brat’s head. I’m sorry, I know she’s had a rough life. But so have I, and I’ve always tried to do the right thing, and try my hardest to get ahead. That’s all.” Hanna suddenly recalled the end of prayer from Hebrew school and added, “Amein. Y’hay sh’may raba m’vorach l’olamul’ol’may ol’ma-yuh yis-buh-raych.” She then crossed herself. (Even though Kelly was a protestant and didn’t cross herself, Hanna wanted to cover all her bases.)

  As much as she hoped the prayer worked, Hanna had a sinking feeling there would be no sign of Lindsey when she got upstairs.

  Claire left her office still feeling the hurt, depression, and anger of Kelly’s rejection. Her scorn burned crimson. She fantasized about choking Kelly with one of her expensive silk scarves, or driving her off the road and over a cliff. The image Claire enjoyed the most though, was putting poison in Kelly’s water bottle and watching her convulse, and writhe on the floor during Pilates class.

  Claire’s fantasies and rage soon slipped into a silent, oppressive depression. Rejection was Claire’s greatest fear and most frequent companion. Her single, teen mother, who gave her up for adoption as an infant; her adoptive family, who returned her to social services at three, stating “She wasn’t pretty enough”; the aging couple who adopted her at six were harsh and uncaring—most of the foster families she found herself with were kinder than the Hennings. They just wanted someone to fetch things from the refrigerator, fold clothes, and vacuum the house. As she got older they demanded more and more, and as they aged, the Hennings could do less and less. Claire just cooked, cleaned, and ran errands on her bike.

  When “Father Hennings”—as he insisted Claire address him—passed away, old Mrs. Hennings became nearly chair bound. She ate, slept, and watched endless hours of television from her moth-eaten, forest green, recliner. The day she asked Claire to take her to the bathroom, and demanded she clean her when she finished, was the day Claire ran away.

  For the last two years of high school Claire stayed in the basement at the home of a friend from school. She worked at McDonald’s after school and paid two hundred dollars a month to the family for room and board. It was the best two years of her life. The night of her graduation the family threw a party for Claire and her friend. Claire finally felt like was in a place where she belonged. At the end of the evening, the mother and father came to Claire with a card. In the card was a hundred dollar bill…and a note saying she must vacate the premises by the end of the week.

  In college Claire faired a bit better. Being a ward of the state had its rewards. She could attend any state college or university she qualified for…for free. She chose California State University, Hayward.

  For the first time she could eat whatever she wanted, and the dining hall provided the infamous “freshman fifteen” weight gain. She went where she wanted, and the parties on the weekends introduced her to beer and pot. She found comfort in the arms of college boys, one after another, and even a few of the girls. For a short time they all made her feel wanted and cared for. In the end, they all rejected her because, as they said, “she was just too clingy.”

  Claire left Hayward with a degree in marketing and an “easy” reputation. Now, ten years later, there has been a string of short and long-term rela
tionships, several job changes, a great apartment, and another sexual rejection. Her life seems to have come full circle. Perhaps, she thought, she would someday, some way meet a nice guy, perhaps if she went to a gym that admitted men. Everyone would be sorry when Claire was a famous mystery writer, married to a handsome hunk.

  As Claire approached her car, a lanky figure stepped from behind a concrete pillar.

  “What do you want?” Claire snapped.

  “Do you work here?”

  “You know I do.”

  The figure moved from the shadows and closer to Claire. The parking garage was quiet. There were few cars left this time of the evening.

  “I was hoping you might give me a ride home.”

  “Why would I do that?” Claire fumbled in her purse for her keys.”

  “Because we’re friends.”

  “Is that what we are?”

  “I thought so.”

  Claire toyed with her keys, then clicked the locks open. “Well, I don’t. I’m not going that direction anyway.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “Whatever direction you’re going.” Claire turned and opened her car door.

  Faster than Claire could turn around, there was the flash of oncoming fury, an ice pick was shoved deep into the base of her skull. Her hands shot skyward, and her fingernails clawed the air desperately.

  Three quick twists of the ice pick and Claire’s body went limp. Before she could drop to the ground, her attacker gave her body a hard shove. Claire fell across the seats of her BMW, her head lying at a perverse angle in the passenger seat. This time rejection was fatal.

  “You’re right, we’re not friends.”

  The knock on the front door stopped Hanna’s pacing. She was angry, frustrated, and hurt, that all the promises Lindsey made were turning out to be meaningless.

  “Sorry I’m late,” but Lindsey’s tone and demeanor screamed, “No I’m not”.

  “Where have you been? It’s after nine o’clock. School was out at two. You are supposed to be at the paper by two-thirty. I waited for forty-five minutes at the school. My job is on the line here, Lindsey. I could be fired for disappearing in the middle of the day. It’s a good thing Cole is connected to all this.” Hanna released all her thoughts out at once. Though she tried desperately to not raise her voice, her anger was starting to get the better of her.