Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  “Hey, James,” she had said. “Is there something I should know?”

  He had seemed embarrassed, discovered. “What do you mean?” She clearly remembered his attempt to disarm her questioning.

  “Does everyone know?” She was still soft in manner, for she did enjoy him, and the evening had brought a hot sweat to both their bodies. “What are all those five-dollar bills on your desk?”

  It hit her. Her voice was no longer quiet. “Was I your prize last night? Did you bet you could fuck me?”

  His silence and withdrawal answered her question.

  “Jesus, like I was just some trophy? Fuck you, James.”

  For the next week, a strained atmosphere hung in the newsroom whenever she and James were in proximity. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Both wished they hadn’t indulged their fantasies that night. Lishan swore: never again.

  But “never again” occurred much sooner than she imagined. One month after James won his bet, Lishan was assigned a temporary beat assisting Nels, a seasoned reporter, covering the county police. Rafael, a new intern, came onboard to take over Lishan’s obit role. Lishan was given the task of getting him up to speed with the intricacies of obituary writing.

  Looking back, Lishan wasn’t exactly sure what she emitted, but she ended up in bed again—a bed complete with an aspiring intern who clearly wanted her attention. She could see, or feel, it coming, since within two days of sitting next to Rafael, he began brushing his leg against hers as they sat in front of the computer screen. It seemed innocent enough, with the apparent focus still on the monitor, but she still found her breath quickening more often than not. One week after his arrival, he approached her at the end of the day with a proposal to get a bite. He was built much like James. Do all male interns fit a certain model? she thought.

  Lishan couldn’t hold herself blameless for the evening, but, later, she did feel as though she was again the prize. It wouldn’t be so bad, not bad at all, if it weren’t for the fact that, here again, he worked in the very same newsroom that she did. She did manage to maneuver out of a full overnight. At least, she thought, she had the presence of mind to hold back a little, minimizing further implications.

  The next day, Rafael was cozier than ever whenever she sat next to him. She tried to keep appearances professional, but he just wouldn’t have it. His arm was around her neck; his hand was much too personal on her thigh. He was making a statement. At twenty-two, Rafael had made his mark in the newsroom. Lishan couldn’t be absolved from her part in the affair, but she did have a strong desire to be discreet. She didn’t mind people finding out. She just wanted to keep her professional side professional.

  Her sense of doom was compounded when James walked by, lingering for effect as he touched her hair, saying “Hey, Lishan” in a sultry manner before sauntering off.

  Rafael caught the innuendo, standing abruptly, towering. “Damn, Lishan,” his voice a little too loud as he gathered his pride. “Who else?” Embarrassed in front of his peers, he stormed out. He wasn’t seen the rest of the day.

  The entire newsroom had gone quiet. Some of the women wore an expression of sorrow for their comrade, taken down in action.

  Lishan just sat there for what seemed like an hour, though it was a mere moment. And exactly what had she been thinking—or not—when she slept with him that evening? This was the very thought that continued to cross her mind. Couldn’t she rein in her hormones, at least at work? She decided this would be a good time to manage her life just a little bit better.

  One of the editors—Beth Atkinson in Lifestyles—had been watching Lishan mature in the organization, noticing her pain and how she handled herself. After Beth put in a good word, Lishan was moved to a paid assignment as a reporter in Beth’s department, with a probationary period of three months. Lishan managed to survive the three months and became a full-fledged member of the newsroom.

  Though Lishan was delighted, she knew the Lifestyles department wasn’t her game. She could see the value in the features dealing with the arts, music, literature, performances, or the human elements of the community. But Lishan felt she was geared more for the dirt and grime. She knew her passion was aimed at the corruption in Washington, in the world. A position opened as a city reporter, and Lishan made the move. Just what she was looking for.

  Within a couple of years, she had earned a reputation in the D.C. area for being a no-nonsense reporter with an eye for deceit, for finding the telling fingerprint that was often missed.

  But Lishan’s reputation came with a price. She also became a target, and she began to receive an increasing number of hate letters and warnings. “We know where your sister lives”—threats designed to get her attention. Lishan doubted her assailant knew anything of her family, but the inference was clear.

  Her first principal target-to-be arrived in the form of an article in one of the underground weeklies she read. Jack Conner—CEO of both Conner Foods and Conner Pharmaceuticals—was a blight in the world community. The more she read of Conner, the more infuriated she grew. She felt the conglomerates, especially those run by the power-hungry elite, were responsible parties in a world too often dictated to, rather than run by, the people. “Connered” was practically a verb, as when Clinton was “Lewinskied.” A verb associated with fear in certain circles.

  Lishan had heard Conner’s name often in her years in journalism. Yet the head editors had always managed to direct the feisty reporter away from this extreme capitalist.

  - - -

  Many of the articles that spurred Lishan into action early in her career were written by Janet Swenson, a seasoned reporter for the alternative paper The People’s Advocate. Swenson had peeled back the layers of the likes of Conner until the stench behind the façade was revealed. The newspaper’s relatively small circulation and Swenson’s sixty-five years allowed her to take on such dangerous territory without too much fear of retribution. The paper, and the sage reporter, were both looked upon by the conglomerate CEOs as a nuisance, but not worthy of any concrete action. Only activists and those keeping tabs on the activists read papers of this kind. Too bad, Lishan thought. Those who veered to the far right were the ones who most needed to read the liberal viewpoints, to open their eyes.

  Research on Conner left her with two distinct images of this behemoth financier. One was of a giant of a man, creating huge, pseudo-benevolent empires where only dirt and trash had existed before. The other was of a gangster who stopped at nothing to increase his profit margin and guard the turf he considered his, to do with as he wished.

  Lishan couldn’t help but note these two reputations were clearly delineated across newspaper lines: the mainstream newspapers, with their Republican, economically-based viewpoints, slanted him as a corporate Goliath worthy of the business world’s utmost respect; the more liberal papers—those advocating in favor of the people and the environment—easily found the Mafia godfather in him, a godfather bragging a trail of death and destruction.

  - - -

  It was four years ago when Lishan dug in, Conner fully in her sights. The stack of goods she had on Conner made Lishan’s normally neat desk look like the cluttered chaos of most of her colleagues. It was a stack that had grown into a tower without approval from the editor. Lishan hadn’t bothered to tell her yet.

  “What’s this? Are you a Conner fan?”

  Amy Reardon, Editor-in-Chief of the Review, made a habit of tossing feeler questions at her staff. She found it gave her insight and often advance warning of the adventuresome, if not troublesome, meanderings of the Pulitzer Prize wannabes on her staff. “Planning to lay bare the bugger, are you?”

  Lishan was younger then. It showed in her surprise at how quickly the editor had her pegged. Lishan was nervous in her presence.

  Amy Reardon was formerly of USA Today fame before she left to “explore other opportunities,” the standard public statement made when “fired” was the underlying reality. No one seemed to know just why she had left. The editor was power
ful; of that Lishan had no question. The principals of large organizations, and many a politician as well, were often seen in her office. Planned Parenthood, Teamsters, senators, AFL-CIO, the vice president. The list was long. Yes, Lishan was nervous.

  “I’ve been thinking it’s time to do a little piece on Conner. I thought….”

  “You thought? It would appear you’ve acquired enough info to choke a little piece to death.” Unceremonious and effective, Reardon continued. “And just when were you going to spring this gem on our glorious newspaper?”

  “I, uh…”

  “As I thought. I want a synopsis on the city desk editor’s desk by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. No, make it 4:00 p.m. this afternoon. Do it on your lunch break. After all, it’s not an official assignment, now is it?”

  Amy wandered off, checking other desks as a sixth-grade teacher might meander among the children to ensure proper oversight. Perhaps two desks away, Lishan could hear her mutter, “Taking on Jack Conner. The arrogance of youth.”

  Lishan knew there wasn’t much time to pull together a convincing proposal. Still, she was a journalist, often with fewer hours than this to write a late-breaking story. She wasn’t completely sure about the editor’s stance, though it had been made quite clear it wasn’t a reporter’s job to just go off on their own. She understood.

  What did she have so far? Conner was known in the courtroom, in the Fortune 100, in the press. He was not easily intimidated. Conner’s first few indictments ended in displays that made the judicial system look inexperienced and childlike. He had a fleet of attorneys, headed by the grandson of Ben Milani of worldly fame. Thomas Milani took after his grandfather in his extraordinary ability to convince judges and juries to interpret the law to his client’s benefit in over eighty-five percent of the cases he represented—an unprecedented reputation. He also had a flamboyance he loved to flaunt. Each time he won a significant case, he donned his bright gold tuxedo and flew up to the Village to take in a jazz performance at one of several venues he adored.

  There was the case in 1999 in which Conner was acquitted when the star-witness in a food safety case went quiet. The witness was a supervisor on one of Conner’s innumerable production lines who complained to the local health department and the press about sanitary problems on the line. He was never mistreated, but shortly after the indictment he received a cordial visit from one of the attorneys who thanked him for pointing out a flaw in the operation, and offered him a $250,000 check to settle out of court, along with a job offer at a small fish packing plant up on the Chesapeake. Not surprisingly, he dropped the charges, leaving the health department and the courts with nothing to substantiate a continuance. Four months later, he died in a car accident—a catastrophic failure of the steering linkage in the new car he had purchased using Conner’s settlement.

  Lishan uncovered five other cases that took place between 2000 and 2003, each similar to the 1999 case. Conner was the common denominator.

  At 4:00 p.m., she slunk into the editor’s office. To her surprise, the city editor was also in the office, notepad in hand.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Lishan. I invited Josh, since he’s responsible for you and your work.”

  “No, I...”

  “Let’s get started. Josh, do you have the document, the one that Lishan signed, stating that she’s read and understands the rules and regs for the reporters?”

  “Yes, it’s right here.”

  “Lishan, do you recall that a reporter is not to take off on their own, spending precious company resources on an article or project that hasn’t been approved? I’m not talking about writing down a few notes for a lead you have. I’m talking about a continued investigation, spending hours of company time, on a topic without approval. Worse yet, in your case, possibly days spent without a peep to the city editor. What do you have to say in your defense?”

  “I thought...”

  “Again?” Her voice elevated. A few daredevils in the newsroom looked up, but then busied themselves with non-distracting tasks while the audible pickings were ripe. “You thought. If I hear one more reporter tell me what they thought was in the best interest of this newspaper, without so much as an ounce of respect for what those of us who run this paper think...” Amy stood up. “Okay. We’re done. I’m sure you have other assignments to deal with.”

  “But, my proposal? All my hard work this afternoon?” Lishan was at a loss, deflated. Her arguments and justifications were not going to be heard.

  Amy looked her square in the face, unwavering. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been in my office for prima donna behavior. The waste of time is your doing, not mine. Give this some serious thought, Lishan. I will not have a newsroom full of runaway journalists.”

  After Lishan left, the city editor and Amy continued their conversation. An hour later, Lishan had her assignment for the next two weeks—covering the bakeries in town.

  For the next six months, Lishan played it straight, gradually earning back her credibility with the city editor, and, she hoped, with Amy. She took a backup position covering meetings at City Hall, which ultimately led her to a position as a judicial reporter.

  Then came the opportunity she dreamed about, though she was unsettled about taking the risk. Amy was out of the country—a holiday in the tropics. Jack Conner’s name came up on the agenda. Indictment. Food safety. This coming Tuesday, 9:00 a.m., courtroom C-3.

  Lishan wouldn’t let go of the thought that this was her chance. She could be impetuous to a fault where her passions were concerned. Amy will never know, Lishan thought. She’s gone for two weeks, with more than enough other issues to attend to when she returns.

  The hearing took place as scheduled, and Judge Feinsted was residing. Feinsted. The name lodged in Lishan’s mind. She knew that name. Digging through her desk, she uncovered the material she had buried nine months earlier. Sure enough. He owned stock, twenty-three percent in fact, in one of Conner’s companies. Somewhat removed, of course, so no threads would easily appear. But Lishan had done her homework. There was a clear conflict of interest. The next morning’s paper included Lishan’s summary of the first day’s proceedings, which were continuing into day two. But she managed to sneak around the copy desk editor’s final page approval and add a comment questioning the potential conflict of interest, now lay bare.

  By 11:00 a.m., Amy’s phone had begun to ring. Her assistant, fielding the calls, forwarded a few of them to the city desk editor. He was not amused. The hearing had been put on hold.

  “Lishan, got a minute? Conner? Feinsted? So?” Josh was furious.

  “Feinsted is a worm. This had to be disclosed.” Lishan was practically pleading.

  “Feinsted is a personal friend of Ms. Reardon’s. We don’t hide the truth here, Lishan. But we do consider our allegiances, our loyalties, the damage we should and shouldn’t do. All you can hope is that she’ll understand. I think you’re in deep trouble. Besides, you are making my desk look bad. How did you get this through, anyhow?” He paused. “No, don’t tell me. I heard you were at a pagination station at deadline. No, this isn’t good.”

  Within two weeks, Judge Feinsted stepped down from the case, sidestepping the conflict-of-interest issue as best he could. Within two days of Amy Reardon’s return and briefings, Lishan cleared her desk.

  That time in her life burned a path to Conner in Lishan’s brain. She had to stop him from getting away with whatever he damn well felt like.

  10

  A perpetual drizzle and dark gray clouds gave an ominous overcast, stated the television weathercasters with their hyperbolic and judging comments about nature. It was Thursday morning. Lishan began her usual task of sorting through her mail at The Mirror—an array of junk and invitations to various events seeking news coverage.

  A foot-square package caught her attention. At first, nothing appeared unusual, but the return address was peculiar:

  Socrates

  P.O. Box 399 BC

  Washington, D.C. 20008
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  With minor hesitation, she opened the box, finding six cupcakes in a bakery box she recognized from her favorite boulangerie. A printed letter was neatly folded inside a blank envelope.

  “Dear Ms. Amir. I don’t know if you remember me. I said hello to you several years ago at a county meeting you attended. I very much admire your work. You did an excellent job of exposing Conner in your most recent exposé. I was buying cupcakes for my grandchildren when I saw your newspaper in a rack. I decided it was time to send you a gift. I hope you enjoy these. Socrates is not my given name, but my close friends have called me by it for many years. Take care. Socrates.”

  This wasn’t the first time she received gifts in the form of food in the mail. However, she could always recognize the sender. She tried placing this Socrates fellow but couldn’t, chalking it up to the vast number of people she had met over the years. She hadn’t decided what to do with them when she heard a small voice behind her. Turning, Lishan saw a young girl, perhaps eight years old, standing next to Kathy, one of Lishan’s peers.

  “Can I have a cupcake?” the little voice said.

  “You have to say ‘please’, Jennifer. Hi, Lishan. Forgive my daughter. She saw the cupcakes. It’s her favorite treat.”

  “Please?”

  Lishan hesitated, only because she hadn’t decided the fate of the sugary treats.

  “Please? They’re my favorites. Especially that chocolate one with the smiley face on it.”

  “Jennifer, don’t…”

  “It’s okay, Kathy. They’re my favorite, too.” Lishan turned toward Jennifer. “Of course you can. What about you, Kathy?”

  “Oh, no thanks. My jeans are getting tight. Say ‘thank you,’ Jenn.”

  “Thank you,” the small voice said.

  After they left, Lishan set the box aside and returned to the final paragraphs of the piece she was working on.