White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  • • •

  After work that day, I went back to my parents’ house to try to locate Eliot’s notes on the horsemeat scandal.

  My father was in his office, working, and my mother was visiting with the poet Delmore Schwartz, who happened to be in town. My mother was sitting with her legs crossed, the top one swinging back and forth. She was laughing, smiling and chatting. I hadn’t seen her like that in so long. She knew how to shine, truly sparkle. When she was like that, you could see what it was about her that had captivated men like Hemingway and possibly Schwartz.

  I said a quick hello, slipped upstairs and went into Eliot’s room. I sat down at his desk, running my hands over the curve of the wood, the cigarette and water ring scars along the top. The typewriter I’d once wanted so badly was right there, ominous and forbidding, like a flashing red don’t touch button. How could I resist? I placed my fingertips over the keys and thought about the horsemeat article. I can do this, I told myself. I can do this. I pulled open the desk drawers, leafing through his folders and notebooks, the pages yellowing, the smell of aging paper and ink breaking down.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jumped at the sound of my father’s voice and sheepishly tried to hide the papers in my hand. I felt like I’d just been caught stealing candy. “I—I was just looking through some of his notes. I—I was thinking of picking up one of his stories.”

  I expected my father to explode, but he only leaned against the doorjamb and spoke in a soft, calm voice. “Which story?”

  “Huh? What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

  “Which story do you want to pick up?”

  “Um, I was thinking about the last one he was working on. You know, about the horsemeat scandal and . . .”

  My father began nodding as if he understood, fully on board, and yet the expression on his face was bewildering. I couldn’t read him at all. “Well, then, by all means, you need to dig right in and do that, don’t you? Here.” He quickly stepped inside the room. “Let me help you. Let me give you a hand. Let me—” He reached over and yanked out the top drawer, flinging the contents about the room.

  For a second I thought the drawer had slipped by accident, but then I realized he’d done it intentionally.

  “Let me help you, Jordan.” He threw the drawer halfway across the room and reached for another.

  “Dad, calm down. Why are you doing this?”

  “Couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, could you? Couldn’t just let it be.” With a sweep of his arm, he cleared a bookshelf and hurled another drawer of papers onto the floor. “That was your brother’s story. You leave it alone, goddammit.” He had started for another drawer when my mother and Delmore appeared in the doorway.

  “Hank, stop it. Just stop it. What are you doing?”

  Delmore grabbed my father in a straitjacket hold, tightening his grip the more my father twisted and turned, trying to get free. The only other time I’d seen anyone so out of control was the day Marty Sinclair had his breakdown. Seeing my father like that—and knowing that I’d set him off—shook me hard. My father was growling and cursing. If he ended up in the hospital like Marty, I didn’t know what I’d do.

  I’d started to panic, thinking we should call for a doctor, when at last all the rage burned itself out of him and my father calmed down. Delmore loosened his grip, and my father composed himself, shrugging out of his hold. He was breathing heavily, and sweat had collected on his brow.

  “All right. All right.” My father held his arms out to his sides, presenting himself in full surrender. “Everybody just relax.” He muttered something else and walked out of the room, his shoulders sloped, broken, his head hung low.

  After my mother and Delmore went back downstairs, I did my best to straighten up Eliot’s room, put his papers back inside his desk and straighten the lampshade. Before I left the house that day, I drew a deep breath and went to see my father. He was in my parents’ bedroom down the hall, sitting on the bed in the dark. I found him staring out the window, the only source of light in the room. His back was turned toward me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hanging in the doorway, not daring to step inside. I wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

  He raised one arm, letting it drop to his side, slapping the mattress. “That’s an angry-looking sky,” he said, still focused on the window. “Looks like snow. Freezing rain. You should go home now. Go on, before the weather turns bad.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

  He nodded. “Okay, then.”

  That was all he had to say. I stood there waiting and willing him to turn around, to say something else. Anything. Didn’t he know that I held on to his every word? Was it so goddamn wrong to expect that little bit from him?

  Chapter 28

  • • •

  Despite my father’s orders to leave it alone, I was more motivated than ever to investigate the horsemeat scandal. I was ready to dive in full force when I got pulled onto more urgent matters. Chicago got hit with two big news items, one right after the other. On December 1, 1957, a TWA jet crashed just moments after takeoff from O’Hare and less than an hour later, the FBI started releasing names in Operation K.

  It soon became apparent that the corruption was working its way up the judiciary food chain. It started with a prominent lawyer who was accused of paying off an even more prominent Cook County circuit judge to fix a drunk-driving ticket. That one captured people’s attention, and day by day the story began moving closer to the front page. The leads came in faster than Henry could keep up with them, and I went to Mr. Ellsworth, begging him to let me on the story.

  “Sorry, Walsh. I’ve already got Walter working on it with him.”

  “Walter?”

  “Yes, Walter. Do you have a problem with that? Besides, don’t you have your hands full with the TWA crash?”

  It was true, I did. I’d been doing the follow-up reporting on the engine failure that resulted in 119 fatalities. It was the ultimate story of human tragedy that Mr. Ellsworth thought I handled so well. Even though I was technically still on society news, still stuck on the women’s pages and only given a real news story here and there, I desperately wanted in on Operation K.

  In the days that followed, page one was splattered with more names and more courts were added to the list. There were police chiefs, lawyers, assistant judges and judges in nearly every court—traffic court, narcotics court, prostitution court. It was the story everyone was talking about, speculating about.

  We all spent many a night over at Riccardo’s and Boul Mich debating, guessing about who was the mole. So far there were seven cops, nine lawyers and twelve judges all accused of taking bribes, fixing cases. Something of this magnitude was hard to get one’s head wrapped around. It suggested that the entire Cook County judicial system could be rigged.

  I asked Scott about it one night over drinks at the Scotch Mist on Rush Street.

  “C’mon,” I said. “You’re in the thick of things. Tell me the truth, what do you really think about Operation K?”

  He took a pull from his beer and rapped his knuckles on the bar. “This is the same shit I was complaining about years ago. It’s a mess. A real nightmare.”

  “Do you have any idea who the mole is?”

  “Honestly, it could be anyone.”

  Scott got up and went to the jukebox. I followed him.

  “Doesn’t this whole thing make you mad?” I leaned against the wall while he scanned through the selections. “I mean, you’re one of the good guys, just trying to do your job, but how can you when the whole system is corrupt? And what about all the legitimate cops and judges out there? How does it make them look?” I thought about Danny Finn and Jack’s father. Judge Casey was a man who had worked his way up from a clerk, put himself through law school and made it all the way to the bench. He believed in the system. I couldn’t imagine what this was doing to him. “The whole thing has to infuriate you.”

  “I got m
ad years ago.” He slipped a few coins in the slot and made his picks. Tennessee Ernie Ford’s Sixteen Candles. “The sad part,” he said, “is that none of this really comes as a shock to me anymore. The whole system is dirty. Even dirtier than I ever suspected.” He jangled a few coins in his pocket and headed back toward the table. I followed close behind. “As soon as I can swing it,” he said, “I’m getting out of it. I’m going to move away and start over.”

  “You’re going to leave Chicago?” I was stunned by how panicked this made me.

  “I don’t want to practice law in this city anymore.”

  “But . . .” I didn’t know what to say other than Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.

  “I’m not even sure I want to practice law anymore at all. Oh, c’mon,” he said. “Don’t look so surprised. Don’t you ever feel that way about reporting? Don’t you ever go home at the end of the day and feel like you’re covered in nothing but shit? Don’t you ever feel like you want to wash your hands of the whole mess?”

  “I don’t know . . .” I shrugged. “I guess some stories have been harder to shake than others. Like the el car derailment. That got to me. But at the same time, I feel like I have an obligation to tell the truth—to get the word out.”

  His lips parted ever so slightly before he burst out with a laugh. “Oh, listen to you. Still so idealistic about it all.” His laughter subsided to a smile. “I guess I was, too, once upon a time, wasn’t I?”

  “That’s the Scott I always knew.”

  “I kinda miss that guy. And you know what I really miss? I miss feeling like what we did made a difference. Now I don’t know how I feel. Tired, I guess. Tired and dirty.”

  • • •

  About a week later I was still thinking about the horsemeat scandal and wondering when I was going to find the time to get back to it. Lately I’d been getting all kinds of other assignments. This was on my mind one night as I was heading home from work. Making my way down the subway stairs, I noticed a tall, slender figure following me, his face partially illuminated by the streetlamp. A warning signal traveled down my spine and I picked up my pace. When I reached the bottom step, he called to me.

  “Jordan. Come here.”

  “Ahern? Ahern, what are you doing?”

  “Is there someplace quiet we can go to? I need to talk to you. Off the record.”

  My blood began pumping a little faster. “What’s this about?”

  “Let’s go somewhere private first. Then we’ll talk.”

  There was a diner a few doors down from the el stop, so we went there. It smelled like burned onions inside. The waitress was putting up Christmas decorations and stopped long enough to come by with a pot of coffee and a platter of day-old doughnuts. “Two for a nickel,” she said as she filled our cups.

  I shook my head and waved her off. My pulse was hammering, anticipating what Ahern had to see me about. “So what’s going on?” I asked, after the waitress drifted back behind the counter.

  “Your ex-fiancé—his father’s a judge, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Judge Casey? Patrick J. Casey?”

  “What’s happened to him? Is he okay?” A sinking feeling settled in my gut. I lifted my coffee cup and set it back down as if it weighed too much.

  “His name just came up in the Operation K investigation.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I hate to be the one to—”

  “No, no. It’s not true. I know him. They got it wrong this time.” I shook my head and reached for my cigarettes. “Judge Casey is one of the good guys. Really, he is.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not looking that way.” He leaned in closer and said, “I’m telling you this off the record because I consider us friends now. I don’t want you to be blindsided when this hits.”

  “Oh, c’mon.” I fumbled with the pack of cigarettes. My hands were shaking so I couldn’t get one out.

  Ahern fished out a cigarette for me and lit a match. “I’m only telling you what I know. What I’ve heard.”

  “Well, you’ve heard wrong.” I leaned in toward the flame. “You know, this whole investigation is starting to turn into a witch hunt.”

  “There’s a lot of corruption in the court system. And I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Casey’s on the chopping block.”

  “I don’t believe it. Judge Casey’s not like that. I know him, and that man would never take a bribe.” I glowered at Ahern as if this were his fault.

  “Okay, I wasn’t going to say anything, but”—Ahern lowered his voice and leaned in closer—“the mole got him on tape.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I heard it myself, Jordan. It’s Judge Casey saying he could fix any case in Cook County that came his way.” He looked at me and reached for my hand, but I pulled it away. “I’m sorry. I listened to the tape myself.”

  I dropped my head to my hands. My fingertips were pressing into my skull to keep me from exploding.

  “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. “And you’re sure about this?” I asked, raising my eyes. “Absolutely sure it’s him?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I left Ahern and fled the diner with my mind spinning. I was trying to decide what to do. Should I call Jack? Should I call Judge Casey? Would it be a kindness to warn them?

  I walked three city blocks, but in the end, with my fingers trembling, I ducked into a phone booth and dialed Jack’s apartment. The line was ringing and I didn’t know if I’d be able to get the words out or where to start.

  When Jack answered his telephone, he sounded surprised to hear from me.

  “I need to see you,” I said. “We need to talk tonight. It’s important.”

  There was a bar called Dayton’s halfway between his place and mine. We met there fifteen minutes later. He was waiting for me near a shabby-looking Christmas tree. He seemed more annoyed than anything, as if I’d dragged him out in the middle of the night for no good reason.

  “So what’s wrong?” he asked after we’d settled in at the bar and ordered a couple Canadian Clubs on the rocks. “Is everything okay? Are you in trouble?”

  “What? No, no. I’m fine. This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Really, it’s about your father.”

  “My father? Did something happen? Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he’s okay.” I didn’t want him to think he’d been in an accident or was hurt, but then I caught myself. “I mean no. Not really. Oh, Jack.” I reached over and squeezed his hand. “I just found out that your father’s going to be named in Operation K.”

  “What? What do you mean, named?” He pulled his hand away like a reflex.

  “They’re saying he’s accepted bribes and—”

  “That’s ridiculous. My father’s as straight as an arrow.”

  “I didn’t want you to find out about it in the papers. I felt I owed it to you to let you know that they’re going to be investigating him. I just found out—just tonight. Right before I called you.”

  “And what? You expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with this? You—who thinks my family’s so perfect and thinks nothing bad ever happens to the Caseys—you’ve just been waiting for something like this, haven’t you?”

  “What?” I was shocked, and then I almost laughed. “Jack, I’m not even working on this story.”

  “Then how do you know so much about this? You might not be covering this, but your buddies sure as hell are.”

  “Every paper in the city’s covering this. The Sun-Times has Operation K all over the front page.”

  “The Tribune broke this story. I’m sure it would have been very easy for you to say, Hey, why don’t you tell your pals at the FBI to run a check on Judge Casey.”

  “Jack, you know I wouldn’t have done a thing like that. I love your father. I was devastated when they told me.”

  “Who’s they? Who told you?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “What does that mat
ter?”

  “You’re not gonna tell me that part, are you?” He stood up, and the legs of his barstool screeched against the floor. “Whoever they are, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  “Jack, they have him on tape. The mole’s been wearing a wire, and he got your father on tape saying he was fixing cases.”

  Jack gulped his drink and set the glass down hard.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but I wanted to let you know what I found out—and technically, I shouldn’t even be doing this. But—”

  “But we all know you’ll do anything to get a story. You’ve already proved that.”

  His words clobbered me. “I’m trying to do you a favor.”

  “I don’t need any favors from you. And tell your buddies they got this one wrong.” He stood up and reached for his coat.

  I sat there numb after he’d stormed out of the bar, pushing the door with such force that the bottom caught on the sidewalk and it stayed open. The bartender finally stepped outside and lifted the door so it would close again. I stayed and finished my drink, wanting each swallow to wash away what I knew. My mind pushed against it. I ordered another Canadian Club and went over to the vending machine in the corner for a pack of cigarettes. I pulled the knob on the Lucky Strikes. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I tugged and tugged and tugged on it and pounded my fist to the side before I caught ahold of myself and tried another brand with success.

  I sat back at the bar and smoked and drank until closing. I didn’t want to go home. I felt horrible. And about so many things: for shattering Jack’s world, for having been the one to tell him. And I was also disappointed in Jack’s father. I expected better from Judge Casey. He’d let me down, and I couldn’t have been more upset if it had been my own father.