The male voice Rob had heard near the entrance.
“The kid that told the cop about you is a trouble maker,” she continued. “The manager said he’s always throwing his weight around and causing commotion. He was supposed to be a bouncer, but ended up creating more fights than he prevented. He was fired right after the cop hauled you off.”
“You said the cop had been drinking?” Rob’s head was starting to clear again.
“Yeah, the girls said he was off-duty, working security at the club. They said all he does is sock back whiskey and Cokes and clock the time for the money. He’s always trying to pick up one of the girls. He got slapped by one of them tonight — she kept turning him down, but he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Apparently, that put him in a really bad mood. He was all but drunk and looking to let off the steam, somehow. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Another bad cop.
The next day, Rob skipped his eleven o’clock class, and lunch, and went to the station early. He wondered what kind of reaction his boss, Ben Bradford, would have to the incident. Bradford and Walker checked the police blotter several times a day and would no doubt be aware of what happened. Rob wondered if he would be suspended, or even fired. He expected the worse.
As Rob walked into the newsroom, Bradford barely took notice. He was on the phone, no doubt chasing down some last minute details on a story, while simultaneously keying in a script for the noon news update. Rob made his way to his usual post in front of the interns’ PC, safely out of the way.
A while later, Bradford passed by Rob on his way into the news booth to go on the air.
“I want to see you later.”
“Yes, sir. About last night?” Rob couldn’t stand the suspense.
“Yeah.”
Bradford kept walking and slammed the door shut to the tiny news booth. The double-paned studio was scarcely large enough to surround a small shelf built into the wall that held a large microphone, a headset, a small audio mixer and a laptop linked to the station’s programming intranet. Bradford sat at the small console and propped his script onto a copy stand, queued some audio clips into the laptop and prepared to go on the air.
Rob could only wait in anguish. He walked out of the newsroom to the Coke machine and had lunch: A Coke and a Snickers bar from the battered candy machine. A couple of KEXI deejays mumbled their greetings to Rob as they made their way to the production room and the bathroom. Even the jocks must know. They seemed cold and indifferent, but then, they always kept their distance from the news department and its staff.
Obviously, the air personalities, as they liked to be called, wanted to maintain some neutrality in the war between the Baton Rouge Police Department and the KEXI news department. Why risk the harassment of more speeding tickets and unwarranted car searches? The KEXI deejays had ample reasons to avoid contact with the law.
By the time Rob made his way back to the newsroom, Bradford was off the air and back in his office. Rob headed to his corner, as usual.
“Baldwin!” This time Bradford didn’t ignore Rob’s return.
Rob practically ran to the news director’s office.
Bradford motioned to a chair as he put his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his large, well-worn olive green vinyl chair. Even as wiry as Bradford was, the chair looked as if it would tip over at any moment.
“So, you had a little run-in with the cops last night, huh?” Bradford wasn’t smiling; his voice was flat and dry. Rob couldn’t detect his mood.
“Yes, sir.”
“As if we needed any more problems with the BRPD.”
Rob didn’t know if he should say ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’ to that one, so he just kept quiet.
“Were you drunk?”
“No, sir. I had one beer.”
“Uh-huh.”
Ben Bradford took a long drag from the cigarette that was forever dangling from his lower lip, and then rubbed his head with both hands. His hair was so short; it remained perfectly in place. Bradford stared off into the distance, as if he was deep in thought.
“Do you know what nol prossed means?” He finally asked.
“No, sir.” Rob had no idea where this was going. Maybe Bradford had an unusual way of firing people.
“It means the arrest was not processed.”
Rob stared at Bradford. His mouth was so dry; he wished he had bought two Cokes.
“When I was down at the station this morning, I did a little checking around. Seems the arresting officer had you booked, but then the arrest was nol prossed. It’s as if the whole thing had never happened.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rob uttered the words slowly, with deep reverence and awe: Thhannnnnnk you, sirrrrr. He felt as if his life had just been spared.
“Hell, don’t thank me.” Bradford’s voice was hard and irritable, though it had never really softened. “Those bastards down there didn’t do me any favors. Are you kidding? Hell! They didn’t do you any favors! The cop that arrested you has been in trouble before, and he’ll probably be in trouble again. Look, a bad cop screwed up, and this time the department realized it — for once.”
“The court date, the bail…” Rob was absorbing the details and determining the ramifications.
“It’s all done with. Look, if I were you, I’d just forget this whole thing. The cop did what he did. He won’t apologize, hell; the department won’t even admit it happened! They take care of their own.”
Bradford paused for another long drag from his cigarette.
“I wouldn’t drive too fast, or cheat a red light for a while, if I were you,” he added. Bradford took his feet off the desk, mashed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, leaned forward and huddled over some paperwork on his desk.
Obviously, the meeting was adjourned.
“Yes, sir. I won’t. Thank you.” Rob was up and backing out the door.
Bradford muttered, “Hell — don’t thank me....” under his breath as he shuffled more papers.
Three weeks later, Rob was at his usual post, skimming the afternoon ball scores. Anita was filing the past week’s newscast scripts when she answered the newsroom phone on the second ring. Since Rob’s personal encounter with the police department, it seemed as if tensions had heightened between KEXI and the BRPD. In fact, KEXI had just uncovered new allegations of misconduct in the department, linked to missing evidence and improper records in the police department’s stolen goods warehouse. Rob was driving extra carefully these days, and hadn’t had a beer in weeks.
He was checking the box scores on the Astros win over the Cardinals and hadn’t paid attention to the call, until he heard Anita’s voice harden.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I don’t determine the stories we air.”
Rob turned to see her face tighten. Her eyes were darting from left to right as she listened to the obviously irate caller.
“No, sir. I’m just an intern. Yes, sir. I go to LSU and work here part time.”
She hesitated.
“Anita.” It was an answer to a question.
Rob shook his head “no.” He mouthed to her: “You shouldn’t have told him your name!”
“No, sir. I didn’t hear the four o’clock newscast. It was recorded earlier by Andrew Walker.” Another pause. She shrugged her shoulders at Rob. Her eyes showed that she had been caught off-guard by the call. “Yes, sir. I’m aware that we’ve been doing a series of stories about the police department, but I—”
Rob walked over to where Anita was sitting and held out his hand to take the phone. Anita shook her head. She could handle it.
“Yes, sir. Our newscasts are part of the public record; anyone can see our files. The FCC mandates that.” Rob knew that she had gotten an ‘A’ in broadcast law class last semester. He reminded himself to borrow her class notes next semester, when he took the course. He decided that she could take care of herself, and headed back to his corner.
&nbs
p; “Our offices are open until five.”
Rob turned around and stared at Anita. In a moment, she hung up the phone.
“What was all that about?” He moved back to her desk.
“Oh, some nut. Apparently a former cop. Says we’re not being fair to the police department with all of our ‘trumped up’ stories. He said good people are losing their jobs and somebody’s got to pay. I think he was drunk.”
“What was that about our offices being open until five?”
“Oh, he said he wanted to see a copy of the stories we’ve been airing. He’s gonna ‘set us straight on the facts.’” She flipped her hair over her right shoulder.
“So, — what? You’re going to personally show the files to some drunk nut-case who probably lost his job because of our investigation?” Rob’s voice underscored his concern.
“Oh, come on! He’s so drunk, he probably couldn’t find his way here.”
With that, Anita walked out of the newsroom with an armload of scripts to file in the adjoining office. Rob returned to the computer to check on the Astros game.
It was nearly 5:30, when Rob was heading for the door to leave, that he thought about the call again. He turned back from the door and headed to the file room where Anita was still sorting out old newscasts.
“Did your nutcase ever show up?”
“No. I told you he was too drunk to find the station.” She pulled out an over-stuffed folder from the file cabinet and tossed it on the long table by the copier. The table was covered with files.
“Well, I’m heading out. He probably won’t show up now, since it’s after five. But, why don’t you go ahead and call it a day, and we can grab a burger?” Rob had been trying for weeks to renew their social agenda, without success. Maybe she figured that having to bail your date out of jail didn’t constitute a good time.
“No, I promised Bradford I’d have these files finished today.” She pointed to the table with an exasperated sigh.
“You want some help?”
“And let you take the credit for helping — now, when I’ve been doing this all day?” She laughed, crossed her arms and struck a combative pose. They always waged a friendly competition to impress the boss and get an early career edge.
“Oh, well — excuse me!” Rob took the hint good-naturedly. “Well, look — you gonna be OK here alone?”
“Alone? Are you kidding? I’ve got the Doctor of Rock in there to protect me!” Anita pointed into the deejay’s booth down the hall where the “Good Doctor” was shaking his bearded head wildly to the beat of a new Metallica release. The overweight, middle-aged deejay wore huge headphones constantly and often would dance around the tiny booth to his favorite rock and roll, while screaming into the microphone: “Come on! Let’s get it on! Rock and rooollllll!” He was a huge hit with the massive KEXI nighttime teen audience. Even with the double-paned studio glass and soundproofing in the control room down the hall, the “Doctor” had the speakers turned up so loud that Rob could still identify the song from the thumping bass line alone.
“Oh, well sure! Anyone would feel safe with him around.” Rob’s sarcasm was lost on Anita, who had already returned to her files. He shrugged his shoulders, said goodnight and left.
The “Doctor of Rock” never heard what happened less than two hours later. He was too busy playing his air-guitar in the thumping studio just down the hall.
EIGHTEEN
Anita had just stacked a pile of folders onto the corner of the table when she heard a low thumping. It started slow and low, then came louder and faster.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.
Someone was hammering their fists on the door that led to the parking lot at the side of the station.
Anita rolled her eyes and sighed with exasperation.
“Rob! What the heck are you doing? Use your key!” She was yelling.
Thump-thump-thump. Bam!
“Geez! What? Did you lose your key?”
She plopped the files on the table, put her hands on her hips and, really only slightly irritated, rounded the doorway to the hall. Truth was, she was tired of working and could use the break. Maybe she’d take him up on his burger offer, after all.
Bam! Bam-bam-bam!
“All right! All right! Have you been down at Referee’s the last couple hours? How many beers have you had?” She laughed as she punched open the horizontal bar that unlocked the large metal door.
The behemoth was drunk and out of his mind with rage. Rob would find out later that the man’s name was Nelson, an ex-cop who had just been relieved of duty due to the on-going internal investigation spurred by the KEXI news reports. Nelson had lost his job, his pension and his wife, and he placed full responsibility on KEXI radio.
And Anita Fannin had become the target of his wrath.
Nelson burst through the door, shoving Anita against the corridor wall.
“Let me see the files!” His voice was a growl. His breath smelled of cigarettes and cheap scotch, his face contorted and hard. Oily strands of mud brown hair fell into his eyes.
“What files?” Anita’s voice cracked with fear and bewilderment.
“The goddamned files! The shit you people’ve been putting on the goddamned radio! The crap that cost me my job!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” As he threw her to the floor, Anita heard his voice in a slow-speed replay.
“Do you people keep files of the shit you put on the air?” He had said. “The lies? Do you bastards keep a record of the lies you’re putting out over the goddamned air?”
She knew now that this was the “nut case” caller from this afternoon.
Anita scrambled from the floor and tried to grab a phone from the nearby desk. Nelson recovered quickly for a man whose reflexes were Scotch rusty. The phone was smashed into pieces with one blow from his fist.
He seized her and again threw her against the wall; she fell around the corner of the hall. Anita could see the deejay booth out of the corner of her eye, but The Doctor was on the phone, no doubt attempting to seduce a teenage groupie.
Nelson gripped her throat and shoved her to her knees. Then he reared back, kicking her face in a stumbling blow from his right foot. The backward momentum threw him to the floor as well.
Anita was bloody and semi-conscious. Nelson staggered to his feet, saw the files spread out on the table in the adjacent workroom where she had been sorting old newscast scripts. He lurched to the table, grabbed the nearest pile and attempted to focus enough to read. His body swayed and his lips silently mouthed the words in an effort to aid comprehension.
“This is it! The pile of shit lies that you bastards have been telling!” Nelson’s level of rage immediately multiplied. He threw the files to the floor, ripped the scripts to shreds, and then began pulling metal file cabinets over. He slammed his fist through the sheetrock walls of the file room — three times.
Anita was still on the floor, her jaw broken, blood dripping from her mouth, dazed and numb, cowering from his path.
Nelson’s chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, a hulk of a man exhausted from his tirade. His whole body shuddered like a wet dog shivering from cold, yet long rivers of sweat drained from his face. He retrieved a pint of scotch from his back pocket, took a long drink, then looked down at Anita.
“Need a drink, babe?” His voice was soft and mushy, saliva clinging to the top of the bottle and dribbling from his chin. He moved towards her. “Come on, doll. Have a drink with Daddy.”
She couldn’t move, her head spinning from the concussion.
“Here you go, babe.” Nelson put the spit-covered bottle to her bloody mouth and tilted it up, Scotch draining into her mouth and spilling from her lips.
“Don’t be messy, honey. You’ll waste it.” His eyes narrowed in menace. He poured more of the liquor down her throat, then drained more on her blouse.
“Let Daddy help you, sweetie.” Nelson began licking the Scotch from the front her blouse. Anita’s senses
sharpened. Her body stiffened with a supreme effort, shoving him back. Anita attempted to crawl to her knees. Nelson’s rekindled rage, now fueled with passion, made his recovery even faster than before. He snatched a large fistful of her hair, ripping roots from her bloody scalp, pulled her to her feet and slapped her broken jaw in the opposite direction of its fracture.
The pain was intense and mind dulling.
Nelson tore at her blouse, smothering her in sloppy kisses. He threw her onto the long table and raped her.
It was two weeks before Rob saw Anita again. She had quit the internship at KEXI and was rarely seen in class. He saw her on campus from a distance, outside the women’s dorm, packing her belongings into her car. Even from a block away, Rob could still see the bruises from the beating she had taken. He called out to her; she turned and upon seeing him, burst into tears, jumped into the car and drove off, trailed by a cloud of blue exhaust.
He never saw Anita again.
The next day Rob learned that Nelson, the ex-cop, had — until just over a month ago — worked part-time as a security cop.
At Referee’s.
Rob knew investigative journalism was not for him.
NINETEEN
A busload of tourists was standing outside the Tropical Treasures riverboat, a few stragglers still climbing off the bus. They were milling about in small clumps, all older men and women, most in flower-print shirts with Bermuda shorts, exposing varicose-veined, pasty-white legs. The women carried huge canvas bags, ready to stuff with souvenirs, and supposedly, the ample riches of their winnings. The men shuffled from one leg to another, taking deep drags from their cigarettes, coughing in great wheezing fits.
Shuffling, coughing. Shuffling, coughing.
A Tropical Treasures attendant approached the group, trying his best to exude enthusiasm, but his face looked more like a plaster of Paris Mardi Gras mask, the smile etched permanently in place. He began handing out coupon books to the seniors; good for Tropical Treasures merchandise discounts, free pulls on the $100,000 Instant Payoff Slot Machine, and free desserts with the purchase of all-you-care-to-eat dinner buffets.
The Kingfish Commission_A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder. Page 11
