A Confidential Source

by Jan Brogan

  “What’s going on? Why are you selling the house?” I asked.

  “Hallie, please, I’m going to be late for my meeting.” With obvious agitation, she crushed the cloth belt into a ball, stuffed it into a pocket, and put her coat on. She yanked her purse off the hook by the door, and heaved it over her shoulder.

  I thought suddenly of that night at Foxwoods, how all those slot-machine coins had weighed down her handbag. “Oh my God, Mom. You haven’t gotten yourself into trouble gambling, have you?”

  She stopped, clearly stunned. But when she turned, it was not with the expression of someone who’d been found out. It was with the expression of someone who couldn’t believe her own daughter could be so stupid. “How could you possibly suggest I’d be so irresponsible? Didn’t I show you the cosmetic bags?”

  “Then what? What on earth would make you want to move?”

  My mother had something hard and tight inside her that rarely yielded to interrogation. But now, she sighed. “It’s very expensive maintaining a house like this, Hallie.”

  This wasn’t it, and we both knew it. My mother and my father had paid off the mortgage years ago. And it was clear from the chronically slow drain in the upstairs shower and the aging stairway carpeting that my mother didn’t lavish a lot of money on home maintenance.

  She met my eyes, challenging my disbelief. My mother was fierce about her independence, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d turned on her heel and stormed out the door. But she didn’t. An expression of futility crossed her face and she sighed again. “You have no idea how many medical bills I still have to pay from your father’s illness.”

  She gestured toward the metal file cabinet she kept in the kitchen. “Sixty-five thousand dollars for treatments insurance wouldn’t cover. The accountant suggested I take out a mortgage.” She added, “You know how I hate mortgages.” A wisp of hair escaped from a bun she wore at her neck and she swiped at it. “I’m too old for these kinds of problems. So I thought, why not just sell the house? Get out from under?”

  She said this in an apologetic tone, as if she were letting me down. I wanted to cover my face with my hands in shame. How long had she been struggling with this burden? How clueless and self-centered had I been? But I couldn’t make it worse by letting her see how guilty I felt. So instead, I hugged her and told her that any decision she made was fine with me. “Just don’t rush into anything, okay?”

  “I never rush,” she said, pulling away and recovering a bit of her fierceness. She lifted herself into her shoulders and headed to the door. And then, as if our conversation had never taken place, she turned and pointed to the frying pan of scrambled eggs she’d left on the stove, letting it be known that it would be a personal insult if I didn’t finish them.

  When she was gone, I stood staring out the picture window at the gardens, lovingly mulched with a thick layer of straw to protect root systems from frost. My mother needed money to pay my father’s medical bills and I couldn’t help her. I was thirty-five years old and still nothing but a drain.

  After quickly wolfing down the eggs and thoroughly washing the pan so my mother wouldn’t rewash it when she got home, I told myself that the only thing to do was to head to the newsroom. This was not the time to cower in fear, but to capitalize. I’d just broken an important story; I’d been on the front page, above the fold, and a guest on talk radio. I needed that job on the investigative team and that step-raise. In deliberate mimicry, I lifted myself into my shoulders the way my mother had and headed upstairs to change.

  Midmorning, the newsroom was always a hive of high energy, desks full, phones ringing, keyboards clicking. But something special was going on, I could feel it as soon as I got off the elevator.

  It was like going from an air-conditioned room into the heat. A story of some sort was fueling the room. About a dozen reporters gathered around the city desk, attention riveted on the three televisions that were hung on a shelf suspended from the ceiling. I saw Evan standing, arms folded, in the outermost part of the ring.

  “What’s going on?”

  Evan looked at me twice. I’d gone home first to shower, and since I had almost no clean clothes left in my closet, I’d been forced to put on a cotton oxford shirt with a button missing at the wrist and a wool skirt I wore only for sober events like funerals. It was a bit more formal than my usual reporter attire, but it seemed better than asking for a promotion in yesterday’s blue jeans.

  “A bunch of people are at city hall protesting the mayor’s support of the referendum.”

  “How many?”

  “They’re saying a couple hundred.” The way everyone was looking at me, there was only one implication.

  “Because of my story?”

  “And the radio show,” he said and gestured to the televisions. “Didn’t you see the press conference this morning?”

  “The mayor?”

  “And Providence police.”

  There was no way I could have anticipated a rebuttal press conference only twenty-four hours after the story first hit the street. Still, I wished to God I hadn’t let my fear run me out of town. “I slept at my mom’s last night, in Worcester,” I explained.

  “Nathan’s looking for you.” Evan gestured to the front of the newsroom, toward the Fishbowl, which was standing room only with editors and assistants. “You’ve created quite a stir,” he said, in a dry way that could have been either a compliment or a criticism.

  I glanced one last time at the television. The camera had shifted to three women carrying placards.

  NO MORE VICTIMS

  NO MORE BARRY MAZURSKYS

  VOTE NO ON PROPOSITION #3

  Creating a protest had to be a good thing, right? Galvanizing the public, wasn’t that what journalism was about? Still, I wished to God I’d seen that press conference.

  Marcy Kittner stuck her head out of the Fishbowl, looking for someone. I waved to her, and by the way she started waving back, I knew she’d been looking for me. Everyone seemed to be watching me make my way up the newsroom. As I approached the Fishbowl, Marcy practically grabbed me by the arm and pulled me inside. She glanced briefly at my blue skirt. “Apparently, you were on Late Night with Leonard last night?”

  There was no missing her tone, but I refused to cower.

  “I tried to call you,” I said to Dorothy, who was sitting directly across from Nathan.

  “I know,” she said sadly.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you to stay away from that lunatic?” Marcy said. “He tries to lure in new reporters.”

  Lure in new reporters? What did that mean? “Roger told me it was okay to do the show. That it sold papers.”

  “Oh Christ,” Nathan said, without looking at me. He wrote something down on a piece of paper.

  “It’s true, the publicity can be good,” Dorothy said. “But you’ve got to be able to hold your own.”

  I was ragged from lack of sleep, but what had I missed? Leonard might have extrapolated a bit, but I hadn’t said anything that was so horribly wrong. “I held my own.”

  There was another exchange of looks. Now I was starting to get mad. “Did any of you actually listen to the whole show?”

  “I listened to most of it,” Marcy said.

  “Anybody else?” Were they relying on Marcy’s interpretation?

  “I didn’t listen to the radio show,” Nathan said. “But I got the call from the mayor’s office this morning, and I saw the press conference this morning in which they denounced the Chronicle for ’shoddy reporting.”

  “I didn’t expect the mayor to be happy with my story,” I said quietly. “Providence police either.”

  “We didn’t expect them to be happy with the story,” Nathan said, “but we didn’t expect them to be able to refute every single thing in it.”

  In fact, the police did not refute every single thing I wrote in my story. But it didn’t matter. They refuted enough of it to make me look like a complete incompetent.

  The basic re
velation was this: Because of Barry Mazursky’s gambling history, police detectives had investigated that angle as a motive, but it had proved false. Not only was there “no concrete evidence” that his murder was a sanctioned hit, informants concurred that Barry Mazursky had paid off all his illegal loans.

  Nadine Mazursky had even made a public appearance at the mayor’s press conference this morning to say that her husband had successfully overcome his problems through Gamblers Anonymous. “I can’t believe the Chronicle is dragging this up and making an issue of it.” Marcy said she’d even wept.

  Billy had taken the microphone to explain that his internal memo “leaked by some malcontent” had nothing to do with the upcoming referendum. He claimed city attorneys had urged caution about releasing information because of the potential liability of the high-speed police chase. Neither the mayor, the police chief, nor the Fraternal Order of Police wanted any details released to the press until an internal report, due November 6, could rule out “reckless driving” by the pursuing police officers.

  Instinctively, I knew this was a lie. “If that was the real reason, why didn’t police just explain that from the start? Say that no information would be released until after the investigation into the high-speed chase?”

  “Did you even ask about it?” Marcy asked.

  “In fact, I did,” I replied. Holstrom had brushed off the issue of internal investigation the very first day. “Sergeant Holstrom said the pursuing police officers would be cleared easily because they had witnesses and because of Delria’s blood-alcohol level.”

  “Apparently, the chief had a different idea,” Nathan said.

  “And the internal report just happens to be due November sixth, the date of the referendum election? Isn’t that kind of a coincidence?”

  No one answered.

  “And if the report was due on that date, why didn’t the mayor tell me that last night?”

  “He says he did.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Blood rushed to my face. “I asked him at least twice to give me another explanation for that date. He blew me off both times.” I could tell by Nathan’s expression that he didn’t believe me.

  The injustice of this was staggering. “I’m telling you, they’re lying. Mazursky’s own son says he was threatened by loan sharks as late as September. He’s certain his father was killed because of his gambling.”

  “Yes.” Nathan and Dorothy exchanged a glance.

  “What?”

  “Apparently, his mother claims he has stability issues,” Dorothy said.

  Stability issues? What was that supposed to mean? He was a paranoid schizophrenic? “He’s not hallucinating this one. I saw Barry myself with a broken arm just four months ago. And I have another source, too, who says Barry couldn’t get out from under the loan sharks.”

  “Is that the same source who told you about the embezzlement?” Nathan asked. He wasn’t looking at me, but reading from the Sunday newspaper, where my story had gone on to detail how Barry had first turned to loan sharks to cover the missing $75,000. “At the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter in Providence.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  Dorothy was shaking her head. “Did you check that out with anyone else on the board?”

  “I had a photocopy of the minutes,” I said, but I got a cold feeling, an iced shell around my stomach. I’d. spent a week checking and confirming that Barry Mazursky was a compulsive gambler, I’d called police three or four times, double-checked all the statistics on crime and legalized casino gambling, and given the mayor a chance to refute. But I hadn’t gotten anyone else from the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter to talk about the embezzlement. Leonard was a board member, for Christ’s sake. For confirmation, I’d relied on the photocopies, the meshing of the dates, the fact that news stories reported Barry Mazursky’s unexplained resignation from the board a month after the embezzlement. A bad tingling started to move upward into my throat as I tried to formulate my answer. I couldn’t explain that Leonard was a board member without giving his identity away. And I couldn’t say that I’d been so focused on confirming the gambling and the police delays that I’d thought of the embezzlement, the alleged embezzlement, as only a minor detail of the story.

  Even before I saw Dorothy’s brow knot up in my extended silence, before I read the supreme disappointment in her expression, I knew I’d screwed up. It was always the lesser details of a story that tripped you up.

  “I trust my source on this,” I finally said.

  They all looked at Nathan. As editor, he could demand that I reveal my source to my supervisor. My breathing stopped. What would I do? I’d promised Leonard. Besides, it was obvious that they all thought Leonard was some kind of huckster, a showman never to be trusted. If I said Leonard’s name out loud to anyone, my career would be over. For the first time, it occurred to me that I could even be fired.

  Nathan glanced at my story again, as if trying to decide something. Then he looked across the table at Dorothy, who lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were steady, certain, a hint of morality in them. You have to trust your reporters, her expression said. He looked at Marcy, who shrugged. Marcy would turn on anyone. That was clear to me. Maybe it was clear to Nathan. Maybe it was the deciding factor. He glanced back down at the notepad, and I breathed again. I knew he wouldn’t ask.

  Another minute of painful silence passed. Finally, Nathan said, “Lawyers for the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter called the publisher first thing this morning. They say that there was never any embezzlement from the fund. That Barry Mazursky resigned because of his own private financial problems, and they didn’t want to embarrass him by making it public.”

  The agitation raised the combined body heat in the Fishbowl to near suffocating. I wanted to run out of the room, open a window and breathe. But I knew it was important not to sound rattled. “I’ll find another source to corroborate my information,” I proposed.

  “I’ll need it by deadline today,” Nathan said. “Because the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter has threatened that if we don’t run a retraction in tomorrow’s paper, they’re going to sue the Chronicle for libel.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  I HAD TO give myself credit, I sounded convincing. Nathan didn’t say anything, but he met my eyes, which was a feat in itself. I took this as an acknowledgment that there was a possibility I could pull this off. Marcy was mercifully speechless and Dorothy, clearly relieved. But as soon as I retreated to an empty table in the library and hid myself behind stacks of Providence Veterans’ Homeless Shelter annual reports, the rat-a-tat of fear and doubt began to throb in my heart and head.

  The shelter’s motive for denying the embezzlement was clear; they didn’t want donors thinking board members regularly pilfered from the till. So what were the chances of finding another renegade board member? Someone who would contradict the party line?

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I flipped open an annual report, but stared at the page unseeing. The throbbing in my head was so intense that I felt the veins at work through my hair. Whatever made me think it was a good idea to do a story using a confidential source? Whatever made me think it was okay to go on that confidential source’s radio show?

  I became aware that my face was pressed into my hands and immediately withdrew them. I forced myself to sit upright, look confident, to see the actual words written on the page. The news librarian walked by with newspapers for the counter files, which were still bound in print form even though you could get them electronically: the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Boston Ledger —prestigious publications that would never want to hire me. I made myself smile at the librarian and say hello.

  Breathing helped. In, out, in again. The implications of this size screwup were too big to contemplate, and I had to think in small steps. I had to tell myself that this was nothing like the Tejian story. My judgment hadn’t been clouded by either love or grief.

  Leonard might be manipulative on the air, but he’d been sincere ab
out Barry Mazursky. I was sure of it. And Drew hadn’t come to me with the stuff about the loan sharks; I’d forced it out of him. Besides, I’d seen Barry in that arm cast when I’d first moved to Providence, and that was only four months ago.

  Tell that bitch at the Chronicle, she’s next.

  Irrationally, hope surged. Maybe it wasn’t some nut. Maybe it wasn’t some crank call. If that threat was real, it meant my story had been right. It meant the mayor and the police and even Nadine Mazursky were lying and that I would be vindicated.

  With some effort, the words on the annual report came into focus. “The Veterans’ Homeless Shelter in Providence, founded in 1973 to serve Vietnam War soldiers suffering from war experiences, seeks to provide food, shelter, and mental health services to all Veterans in need.” I turned the page. There were pictures of volunteers with long, smudged aprons and netted hair, looking noble as they served food from tubs to men who sat together at tables, drinking coffee and warily eyeing the camera.

  Flipping the report to a back page, I found the listing of the twelve board members, which I compared to the current annual report. I was looking to determine which board members had left since the embezzlement. They were the only ones who might not have been coached to hang up on me.

  There were three. The first was Peter E. Halkias, senior vice president of the Compass Rose Bank and Trust. Bankers were not known for their openness with members of the press, but I tried him anyway. His secretary said he was at a conference in New York.

  The second was a man named Clifton L. Snickers. Looking him up in the database, I learned that he was a lawyer and a state representative, which meant I’d never get the truth out of him. I moved on to the third board member, Laura Ann Mocek, who was the CEO of one of the largest costume jewelry companies in Rhode Island. Maybe that meant she was the creative type, a freethinker, a tells-it-like-she-sees-it kind of person. The vein in my head was still throbbing. I dialed her number and sat there, practically twisting my earring off as I waited.