Adam Canfield of the Slash

by Michael Winerip

  Adam froze, too surprised to say a word. He didn’t even remember to nod.

  “I think the source-person’s precise words were, ‘They got the goods on that witch this time.’ Well, what I’m trying to say,” Mr. Brooks continued, “is that if I can be of assistance, I’d be delighted.”

  Had someone cut the wires between Adam’s central nervous system and his neck? He was trying to nod, but his muscles weren’t working.

  “And this source-person,” Mr. Brooks went on, “explained to me about not being in a position to be quoted by name. I think he said he was off the cuff. Well, what I want you to know is, you can use my name. It’s all right. Of course, I can only help with what I know, and I don’t know much, but if I understand the situation, you don’t need much from me.”

  Suddenly Adam’s synapses must have thawed or reconnected or done whatever synapses do to get back to business, because he was nodding at a ferocious clip, like one of those bobble-head dolls given out for prizes at the video arcade.

  “You, of course, will have to explain the whole story to me,” said Mr. Brooks. “I must be sure what I am telling you is placed in a fair context. . . . Adam, are you OK? . . . If you’re not careful, you’re going to nod your head right off your neck.”

  Was Adam OK? He had never been more OK. He was dying to ask Mr. Brooks why he’d decided to help them. Maybe Jennifer did have it right. But Adam caught himself. He didn’t want to say anything that might spook Mr. Brooks.

  This much Adam was sure of: A good reporter needs to know what questions NOT to ask.

  It took a long time to lay out the whole story for Mr. Brooks. Adam loved telling it. He felt like he was in one of those extra-credit handouts Mr. Brooks had given them from a Plato dialogue. To Adam, Mr. Brooks sounded like Socrates: “Is it not true . . . ?” “Can we not assume . . . ?” “Do I understand you to say . . . ?” And Adam was the star pupil at the Academy.

  It was after five when they finished. They decided that the story needed just one quote from Mr. Brooks. Adam had taken down a comment Mr. Brooks made, and then, together, they worked on getting it as clear and concise as possible. They agreed the finished sentence in the Slash would say:

  According to Prescott Brooks, a teacher at Harris, “When I asked about the work being done in her office, Mrs. Marris said it was all made possible with a gift from a woman who had recently died.”

  Adam kept thanking Mr. Brooks, but the teacher waved him off.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You know, I fear we’ve gone on so long, you’ve missed voluntary/mandatory.”

  “That’s OK,” said Adam. “I feel pretty confident about sharpening number-two pencils.” He started to go, then turned back. “Mr. Brooks, I wanted to ask. A friend told me, there was a reporter who made a president resign?”

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Brooks. “Two reporters. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein of the Washington Post. Their stories back in the 1970s on political corruption forced President Nixon from office.”

  Adam paused. “They didn’t wind up in chains or die in poverty and neglect or anything like that, did they?”

  “Oh no,” said Mr. Brooks. “On the contrary. There was a movie about them — did quite well at the box office, as I remember.”

  Adam slapped the startled Mr. Brooks five and ran out the door, shouting, “Ave atque vale!”

  “Animosus atque fortis appare!” Mr. Brooks called after him.

  Several seconds passed and Adam’s head appeared back in the door. “What was that?” Adam asked. “Don’t think I know that one.”

  “Animosus atque fortis appare,” Mr. Brooks repeated. “Be bold!”

  The phone rang at the Slash. “Adam Canfield there?” asked the caller. It was a man.

  “He’s out on assignment,” said Jennifer. “Can I help you?”

  The man said he had some information about the basketball hoop crackdown that Mr. Canfield might find interesting.

  Jennifer explained that she had worked on the story with Adam.

  “Oh, you’re the Jennifer byline,” said the man. “Great job. Listen, are you guys planning a follow-up? Because I think I may have something for you.”

  The man explained that he was a zoning lawyer with a firm that had offices downtown, on top of the bank. He said he represented several people trying to stop Code Enforcement from tearing down the hoops.

  “We went into court today to get a TRO,” said the lawyer. “I think we have an excellent chance. The judge seemed sympathetic. If we can get the TRO, I don’t think they’ll be able to get it lifted.”

  Jennifer’s mind was racing. What was a tiaroh? It must be really heavy if they couldn’t lift it. She tried thinking of legal stuff she’d heard her dad say at home. She remembered something about squishing subpoenas and vacationing in junctions, but lifting a tiaroh? Rang no bells. She hated sounding stupid to a grownup. Maybe he’d lose confidence and change his mind about helping. The only thing that kept popping into her head was beauty queens wearing tiaras. She considered bluffing her way through and trying to figure it out, but then decided to take a chance and admit her ignorance. Their minister always said ignorance is no shame if you’re willing to learn your way out of it. “I’m sorry,” Jennifer said. “I feel stupid, but what’s a tiaroh?”

  It worked like a charm. The lawyer told her there’s nothing he respects more than reporters who know what they don’t know. “It’s the ones who know everything who do all the harm,” he said. “Like that idiot Peter Friendly, on News 12. The man’s a ticking time bomb.”

  The lawyer told Jennifer a TRO was a temporary restraining order. The lawyer said that if someone is about to do something to you — like tear down your hoop — and you believe it is unfair, you can go to court and try to convince a judge that tearing down the hoop would cause serious harm. The judge has the power to issue a temporary restraining order — a TRO — to stop Code Enforcement from tearing down any hoops in Tremble until a full-blown trial can be held.

  “I think we’re going to win,” said the lawyer. “I’ll let you know. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  He told Jennifer that the hearing before the judge that morning was the most bizarre legal proceeding he had ever witnessed. “You met these Herbs, right?” said the lawyer. “Are those guys the whacko brothers?”

  The lawyer said the Herbs had made all kinds of incredible statements and that Jennifer might want to use some of it in her next story. “I have a copy of the hearing I can send you,” the lawyer continued. “I won’t send the whole thing — it went on for three hours. I’ll just e-mail a few pages of the transcript. Any questions, call me.”

  When Jennifer got home, she went right to her computer and opened the attachment from the lawyer.

  It was part of his courtroom interview of Herb Black, and it must have been from the middle of the hearing — the first page the lawyer e-mailed was 108.

  LAWYER: Now, Mr. Black, are basketball hoops ever actually mentioned in local law 200-52.7A?

  HERB BLACK: Not per se.

  L: Does that mean “no?”

  HB: Yes.

  L: Yes, it means no?

  HB: That’s right, yes, it means no.

  L: So, if basketball hoops are not actually mentioned, it’s a matter of interpretation when deciding what an accessory structure is?

  HB: That’s right — decided by experts based on years of rigorous Code Enforcement experience.

  L: And those experts, would that be you and Herb Green?

  HB: The very ones. Herb and Herb.

  L: So, for example, would a lamppost out front of a house be considered an accessory structure? Should all the lampposts be torn down?

  HB: Oh, come on. Lampposts are no accessory. They’re essential. They provide light.

  L: What about those little jockey statues that decorate the front drives of some of our large mansions here in Tremble?

  HB: You mean the ones with black faces, big lips, and big white eyeballs?


  L: That’s right.

  HB: Hmmm. You’re asking if they’re accessory structures. Hmmm. This is one of those trick lawyer questions, isn’t it?

  L: And how about flagpoles, Mr. Black? Do you consider them to be accessory structures? Should they be torn down?

  HB: Hmmm. That would be something Herb and I would have to do further research to . . .

  L: Mr. Black. Let me ask you this. Are you familiar with the plywood cow on Breckenridge, in the front yard of the big white house? It’s sort of a landmark in the community.

  HB: Of course. Herb and I must’ve passed it a hundred times while we were out red-tagging hoops.

  L: And by any chance, did you hear someone had stolen the cow? And that it was returned?

  HB: Oh sure. There was a nice story about it on Channel 12. Very fine piece of journalism, may I add. Had a happy ending, unlike most of the crap you see in the papers.

  L: You were pleased to hear the cow was back, Mr. Black?

  HB: Look, I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to show me and Herb are heartless zoning robots taking away the poor little children’s basketball hoops. I know your schemey lawyer tricks. You’re trying to make yourself out like you’re some hero zoning lawyer — big Z on your chest — number one for the people. Well, I guarantee you, sir, a large heart beats beneath this chest, and the same goes for Herb Green sitting over there. You better believe, we Herbs, we were just as happy as the next guy when we heard the cow was back. Herb and I were jumping for joy; we were screaming, “Thank God the cow is back! Welcome back, cow!”

  L: Mr. Black, you were cheering that someone was putting up an accessory structure in the front half of a housing lot? Shouldn’t you have been out there red-tagging that cow? Shouldn’t you have fined the owner five hundred dollars a day? After seven days, under local law 200-52.7A, wasn’t it your duty to rip down that cow?

  HB: Whoa, Mr. Smarty-Pants Lawyer. You think you have the Herbs painted into a corner? You think you’re some hotshot making us look like hypocrites, right? Well, you’re the hypocrite, Mr. Big-Z-on-Your-Chest. You know darned well that the zoning law can be twisted to mean anything you want it to!

  The Tuesday evening before Thanksgiving was Eddie the Janitor Appreciation Night. It was a huge success. More than seven hundred parents, teachers, and friends crowded into the Harris auditorium. Perhaps most amazing, Eddie claimed to be surprised. For weeks the lower grades had secretly been practicing for the assembly. The second graders had prepared “When the Saints Go Marching In,” but it wasn’t until the big night that they stopped singing “the saints” and sang, “When Eddie James goes marching in . . .” The first graders were ready with “Thank Heavens for Eddie James,” but it was the kindergarteners who stole the show, belting out those classic Paul McCartney lyrics, “Eddie, we’re amazed at the way we love you all the time; Eddie, we’re amazed at the way we really love you. . . .” There were “Thank You, Eddie” balloons and an eighty-stanza poem written by Marsha Tiffany Glickman, the editor of Sketches, the Harris literary magazine, entitled “Ode to Eddie James.”

  The Slash staff had blown up the front-page photo of Eddie and the two mourning doves into a five-foot poster along with a laminated copy of Phoebe’s article.

  The Tremble Janitors’ Association gave him an engraved gold key holder that he could attach to his belt, and the PTA had a potted plant for him with one thousand dollars in cash taped to the branches.

  They were tricky about getting Eddie onstage. The PTA tri-presidents started to welcome everybody but then pretended the microphone wasn’t working. Eddie was standing at the rear of the auditorium. At the first hint of trouble, he rushed up to help. As he would later tell Phoebe for her story in the Slash, “I saw some black folks onstage, and coming up the aisle, I realized they was my family.”

  Eddie was not exactly the perfect honoree. He had trouble standing in one place and being praised. When the microphone squealed during a speech enumerating his virtues, Eddie ran behind the curtain and adjusted the treble. During refreshments, he insisted on manning the coffee table. Each time they tried to get him to sit with his family, he said, “You know I’m not much at sitting; I’m a service person.”

  The most asked question was, “Were you really surprised?” And each time Eddie answered, “Totally,” although people couldn’t be sure since Eddie was a service person and pleasing others was his primary service.

  So many people made speeches, the celebration lasted over two hours.

  There was just one sour note. Miss Esther had called the tri-presidents that afternoon to say that Mrs. Marris was feeling sick to her stomach and would not be attending.

  Mrs. Marris must have had a twenty-four-hour flu — or maybe even a shorter twelve-hour economy version — because when they arrived at school next morning, there she was, standing in the hallway by the main office, a smile plastered in place, saying good morning to everybody and hurrying them along to home base.

  There was excitement in the air; this was the last day of school before the long Thanksgiving weekend.

  Adam spied Marris and put his head down, trying to blend into the crowd and flow on by, but it didn’t work.

  “Adam Canfield,” she called out. Was that menace in her voice or was Adam imagining it? “Adam,” she repeated. “Am I going to see my copy of the Slash this morning?”

  Adam figured it was good they were in a public place, so Marris probably would not shoot him or bludgeon him to death with so many witnesses around.

  “It’s nearly done,” he lied. “You’ll have it first thing Monday.”

  “I better,” she said. “November’s almost gone.” The crowd of kids was thinning out. Fewer witnesses. “I know it’s going to have that story on Miss Bloch, am I right?” She was smiling, but her eyes reminded Adam of an owl he had seen on a Discovery Channel special, right before it swooped down, grabbed a mouse by the tail, and flew off for supper. Adam identified with that mouse, its pitiful butt shaking in terror high above the forest floor. At this moment, Adam needed all his powers of concentration to keep from busting out in the shakes himself.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “It will have the Miss Bloch story. That will definitely be in there, Mrs. Marris. If there’s one thing that’s absolutely certain, it’s the Miss Bloch story for page 1.”

  Marris leaned toward him, smiling hard, and in a voice that only he could hear, whispered, “It damn well better be.”

  That long weekend was a blur of work for Adam, Jennifer, and most of the Slash staff. It wasn’t just the Miss Bloch story. Phoebe was writing up Eddie Appreciation Night. Sammy and the Spotlight Team were finishing their articles on the cafeteria food.

  Jennifer was handling the follow-up to the hoop story, and there were plenty of fresh developments on that front. On Wednesday afternoon Jennifer got another e-mail from the zoning lawyer. The judge had granted the restraining order. The county was prohibited from tearing down “all basketball structures red-tagged in the last thirty days under local law 200-52.7A.”

  The hoops were saved! At least for the time being. The zoning lawyer said he had more news, but it was too much for an e-mail, and asked that Jennifer call him. Because of the holiday, he even gave her his home number.

  She reached him that night. His daughter answered. When the little girl heard it was the Slash, she got excited.

  “Is this about the basketball hoop stowy?” she said. “Have we got gweat news! The little childwen have been saved! Victowy is at hand! Hold on, I’ll get Daddy.”

  The lawyer explained that the county zoning board could still appeal the judge’s ruling, but he didn’t think that would happen, based on a conversation he had with the Tremble County attorney. It was the county attorney who represented the Herbs and the zoning board. It was the county attorney who was supposed to fight for Tremble’s right to tear down the hoops. But halfway through the hearing, it was the county attorney who started sinking lower and lower in his chair. “By the time
the hearing was over,” the zoning lawyer told Jennifer, “you could barely see the county attorney’s head. Afterward, I made a wisecrack about what great witnesses the Herbs were. And the county attorney says, ‘If you added the Herbs together, their combined IQ would not reach three digits.’”

  There was more. At the hearing, the people who organized the petition drive presented the judge all the signatures they’d collected. “Thousands of names,” said the zoning lawyer. “I stopped counting at three thousand. I thought the county attorney would be furious, but he just winked at me and whispered, ‘Thank God for democracy.’”

  “The way I figure it,” the zoning lawyer said, “thousands of signatures represent thousands of votes. If there’s one thing the top politicians in Tremble stand for, if there’s just one principle they hold dearer than all others, it is getting themselves reelected. I’m pretty sure we’ve heard the last of the basketball hoop crackdown.”

  Jennifer was thrilled, but overwhelmed by all the work still to do. After hanging up, she e-mailed Adam a brief summary, then collapsed into bed, exhausted.

  Thanksgiving morning Adam usually went with his father and Danny to the Turkey Classic, the annual football matchup between Tremble High and North Tremble High, but this year he skipped the game to work on the Miss Bloch story. He had to finish a rough draft so he and Jennifer could go over it together. Even more important, they needed to figure out how to deal with Marris on Monday morning. It was a cardinal rule of journalism, they knew, that you had to get a comment — or at least try to — from the person you were writing about.