by R. G. Belsky
But I had done neither of these things.
Instead, I had lied to her.
There were also two logical scenarios for me to pursue professionally as a journalist here. 1) Abandon the Lucy story once and for all, because I could never tell it publicly without revealing the secrets I had hidden along the way, which would compromise my journalistic reputation and probably destroy my career; or 2) come clean and tell the whole story—the real story, the true story—of Lucy Devlin on air. It would be the biggest story of my life, even if it turned out to be my last. At least I’d go out in a blaze of glory.
But I was caught up in this deadly trap that I had created for myself with my own lies.
Sooner or later, I was going to have to make a decision on what to do about Lucy.
On both fronts.
But right now, I had a big story to do.
I tried to concentrate completely on that for the rest of the trip home.
Yep, a big story was all I needed to pull me out of this funk I was in right now.
A big story always made everything better.
CHAPTER 23
I INTRODUCED GARY Weddle to everyone at the Channel 10 morning news meeting.
I started off by repeating the same line about consultants I’d used with Faron: “Gary is a consultant who’s been hired by management to help us with our newscasts. And, you know what they say about consultants. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. And those who can’t do either become consultants.” Then I followed it up with a few new jokes: “A consultant is a person you pay to borrow your watch and tell you what time it is.” And finally: “Why is a consultant like a prostitute? They both screw their clients for money.”
Everyone laughed, including Weddle.
Then I told them a bit about Weddle’s qualifications and why he was here. I also ran through some of the ideas he had told me about improving our newscast. And that I liked a lot of his proposals. My hope was that showing I was onboard with the consultant idea might temper some of the opposition to Weddle that I knew was coming. But it did not.
“You want us to throw our material up immediately on the web for everyone to see?” someone asked. “Why would they tune in to our newscast then? That would kill our ratings.”
“How would we even do it?” another editor asked. “Work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week in here putting up news on the website all day and night. That’s crazy.”
And, as I expected, Brett Wolff and Dani Blaine—our two co-anchors—wanted to know how it would impact them as the stars of the newscast, the ones people wanted to see and advertisers paid big bucks to have on the screen delivering the news in their living rooms each night.
“We’re the face of Channel 10 News,” they both said in different ways, but pretty much with the same message. “Not some dopey website.”
Gary Weddle patiently went through it all with them. He talked about how more and more people—especially young people, the target of our advertisers—were not watching traditional newscasts, but instead, got most of their news in real time on smartphones and their tablets.
He explained that his “The News Never Stops” concept would help the ratings, not hurt them, by promoting the station’s newscast and its newscasters—most prominently Brett and Dani—throughout the day.
He also said that a series of procedures could be established so that any big breaking news story we would be covering anyway that day could transition easily to the station’s website as part of the normal news coverage process, without involving a great deal of extra work for anyone.
“If you’re at a fire that happens at 11 a.m., you’re going to shoot video of that fire then, while its occurring. All we do then is put that video up on our website quickly, rather than holding onto it for the 6 p.m. newscast. Then, for the newscast itself, we do it all the better, with the star power of our two anchors and all the rest of our resources.
“Nobody’s going to be working all day on it. And it’s not like we’d put up every bit of news that goes on during the day. We’d only do it for a big breaking story that we’re covering anyway—and giving that news to people as it happens, without being locked into the constraints of a specific newscast time like in the past.
“Look, here’s the bottom line for ‘The News Never Stops.’ It’s a promotional gimmick. The idea that we’re out there doing this 24/7 is all bullshit. We don’t have to actually do that, just make viewers feel like that’s what they’re getting from us. It will give us a brand—a promotional sizzle—that no other station in town has. And that will translate into even higher ratings for us.”
Sizzle.
Brand promotion.
Bigger ratings.
Now those were concepts TV people could relate to.
Weddle was winning the room over now, getting them all to buy in for “The News Never Stops.”
Even Brett and Dani.
Weddle wrapped his talk up by saying that he would be talking individually to more people in the newsroom over the coming days; I told another joke or two; and then I said how much I looked forward to working with Gary Weddle to implement all this for our Channel 10 coverage.
I gave him a big smile when I was done.
He smiled back at me.
It was a nice smile.
“What was that all about in there?” Maggie asked me when we were back in my office after Weddle left.
“Do you mean the ‘The News Never Stops’ stuff?”
“No, I mean what’s going on between you and this Weddle guy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were so nice to him.”
“I’m always nice.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m trying to develop a good working relationship with him—the way Jack Faron asked me to do.”
But Maggie wasn’t buying it. I’ve never been able to BS Maggie.
“Are you hot for this guy, Clare?”
“What makes you think that?”
“I could pick up the vibes between you two. You’re pretty obvious when you’re attracted to a man. Not to mention that smile-athon thing you two had going at the end. That looked like more than just a good working relationship with Gary Weddle.”
“Okay, maybe I do find him attractive. So what?”
“He’s not your type, Clare.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that.”
“Maybe you should start listening.”
CHAPTER 24
BEFORE I WENT on the air about the eight mob-related buildings and the rest, I wanted to make sure I’d exhausted every possible way to get more information for this story.
That’s what I was doing with Maggie. I’d asked her to do more research on the three key people who appeared to be involved: Victor Morelli, Terri Hartwell, and Chad Enright.
Morelli was the most obvious target because I now knew he was the silent owner of the buildings. I wasn’t sure exactly what roles Hartwell or Enright might have in this—but there was certainly enough to suspect Morelli could be paying off powerful politicians, under the guise of campaign contributions, to look the other way when it came to buildings owned by Morelli and others.
I also didn’t know how Thomas Wincott fit into the whole payoff picture, but I put Wincott aside for now. He was not the owner of the eight buildings we were looking at. Although he did seem to be part of the bigger problem of wealthy landlords who could be getting special favors for paying off powerful political figures in the city.
For now, though, I was going to focus on the eight Morelli-owned buildings that I had visited.
Maggie started by telling me what she’d found out about Morelli.
“Victor Morelli has been the head of one of New York City’s biggest crime families since the nineties. He began moving up in the ranks soon after John Gotti got convicted of murder and sent to prison for life. That’s the thing about mob bosses. You get rid of one, another comes along to take his place.
; “Morelli is smart and tough and brutal. He’s lasted a long time because of that. He ostensibly runs a sanitation company, a construction business, and manages real estate interests as a legitimate businessman. But he makes his real money from loansharking, extortion, and other illegal activities run by his men.
“He’s been compared to Gotti because of the Teflon Don thing. Like Gotti was for a long time, Morelli never seems to get convicted of any crime. The charges always go away or he beats the rap in court. One of the reasons for that might be because Morelli plays the role of the legitimate businessman so well. Goes to social events and art galleries and Broadway openings. Raises money for charities and helps people in his Brooklyn neighborhood, where’s he’s beloved by many people.
“But the bottom line is he’s a stone-cold killer. And reputed to have a terrible temper. Especially if he believes anyone has betrayed him or double-crossed him in any possible manner.
“There’s a lot of stories about this. One of his top mob capos was found dead in the East River with—well, his genitals—missing. At first, authorities thought it was a rival mob hit. But now they believe Morelli did it himself because the guy had been showing an interest in Morelli’s wife. There was a neighbor in Brooklyn who complained to the police that the fireworks in Morelli’s backyard were too loud one Fourth of July. That neighbor mysteriously disappeared afterward. And a few years ago, a cop was found dead in his car in the Bronx, shot in the mouth with his own gun. It was ruled a suicide, but there are people who think that the cop was taking payoffs from Morelli—and he tried to renege on the deal or squeeze more money out of him. No question about it, Morelli is a violent man if anyone crosses him.”
“Nice guy,” I muttered.
“Morelli’s top henchman is a mobster named Michael Grasso. Or Michael—The Enforcer—Grasso, as he’s known in underworld circles. He’s supposed to carry out most of the heavy-duty violent work for Morelli.”
She showed me a picture of Grasso on her laptop computer screen. I recognized him right away. He was the same man with the gravelly voice that I’d met the first night outside the Manhattan building where the kinky BDSM dungeon was being operated. The same man who’d given me the warning to forget about this story. And the same man who I was pretty sure gave me the follow-up warning in the gravelly voice on the phone.
Should I be worried about him and the Morelli temper if I named Morelli on the air as the owner of the buildings? Not really, I decided. I knew the mob didn’t normally come after journalists. Besides, what was I going to do? Drop the story because I was afraid of Victor Morelli. That wasn’t going to happen.
“Speaking of bad guys, we come now to Chad Olsen Enright,” Maggie was saying. “Everyone I talked to agrees with you he’s a prick. But an extremely successful one so far. He started out as a producer on Terri Hartwell’s radio show, helped make her a star there, and got promoted to a top aide since she ran for and won the district attorney’s job. He is supposed to be insufferable, but he’s gotten away with it by staying so close to Hartwell. At least for now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The word in political circles is there’s going to be a shakeup in Hartwell’s office soon. She’s gearing up for a run at the mayor’s office, as you know. Rumor is she will bring in a big political operative to run her mayor campaign—instead of giving Enright the job. He could even be out in the shakeup. So maybe she isn’t quite as much of a big Chad Enright fan as everyone has always thought.”
I thought about the conversation between Hartwell and myself that day in her office. The way she overruled Enright and agreed to see me after he said no. The way she made fun of him and his pomposity a bit during our conversation. I remembered, too, the pictures in Enright’s office of him with the celebrities and the fancy cars and the beautiful women on his arm. Chad Enright had been living the good life because of his relationship with Terri Hartwell. Maybe that was going to end soon.
“Does Enright know about the shakeup coming in Hartwell’s office for the campaign?” I asked.
“If I heard about it, Enright must have some inkling, too.”
“He can’t be very happy about that.”
“You think?” Maggie laughed.
As for Hartwell herself, pretty much everything Maggie found out was what I already knew about her. Happily married, mother of two teenagers, former crusading lawyer, former popular radio show host, now a successful political figure running the Manhattan DA’s office with her eye on the mayor’s job. She’d spent her life waging war one way or another against crime, special interests, and corruption without a hint of any scandal.
“There’s got to be something more going on,” I said.
“With who?”
“Morelli. Enright. Hartwell. All of them.”
“Well, if there is, I sure don’t know what it is.”
“Maybe I’ll try one more thing. Some old-school journalism.”
“Old-school journalism?”
“A stakeout,” I said.
CHAPTER 25
I BOUGHT TWO hot dogs with sauerkraut and a Coke from a sidewalk vendor, then settled down on the steps of a church outside Terri Hartwell’s office and waited.
I wasn’t waiting for Hartwell though.
I was waiting for Chad Enright.
I had the feeling that he was the key to whatever was going on here.
Maybe it was just my reporter’s instinct.
Or maybe it was because I didn’t like Chad Enright.
But Enright was the one I wanted to learn more about before going on air with this story.
It had been a long time since I’d done a stakeout. I’d done my share as a young reporter though, enough to remember how difficult they were.
There was the food and drink thing. Which eventually led to the bathroom issue. Sooner or later, you had to heed nature’s call. Which meant you had to leave your watching spot, even if just for a few minutes. But that few minutes could be enough to blow the whole story.
When I’d worked at the New York Tribune newspaper, we had a reporter who staked out a key witness in a murder trial for three days without the person emerging. Then, on the third day, the reporter left for less than five minutes to take a leak and the witness walked out the door. A New York Post reporter who had happened by at the right time got the exclusive Page One interview.
From that moment on, our guy at the Tribune had to live with the ignominy of being the reporter who “pissed away” the biggest story of his career.
But probably the worst part of a stakeout was the boredom.
Absolutely nothing happened for long stretches of time.
Which is what I was dealing with right now.
Lots of people went in and came out of the building. But no Chad Enright. No Terri Hartwell, either. Or anyone else I cared about—or at least knew enough about them to care.
I tried to pass the time by making lists of my favorite things. Favorite foods. Favorite movies. Favorite actors. That was a tough one, and I had to make some real decisions in my rankings. I finally gave up when I couldn’t break a tie between Bradley Cooper and Ryan Gosling.
At some point, I got around to a Top 10 list of my favorite female newscasters of all time. Barbara Walters was on the list. The early Barbara Walters, who did news and interviews—not the host of The View. So was Connie Chung, one of the first women anchors at a major network when she did the CBS Evening News back in the early nineties.
Others on my list included Diane Sawyer, Katie Couric, Leslie Stahl, and Andrea Mitchell—all for obvious reasons. I did not include Julie Chen or Megyn Kelly, also for obvious reasons. And I threw in Maria Bartiromo’s name on the list, too, mostly because she was the only female newscaster to ever have a song about her sung by Joey Ramone. How cool is that?
I looked over at the building. Still no sign of Enright or anyone else I cared about. I bought another hot dog from the vendor and ate it. Then a big salted pretzel with mustard. I was starting to get h
eartburn. I wondered if Katie Couric or Diane Sawyer or Barbara Walters ever had to deal with that problem.
I also knew that Jack Faron wasn’t happy about me doing this. He’d given another speech about needing me to focus more on being news director when I told him about my stakeout plan. He said that’s the job he was paying me a big salary for—not to chase around on the street after stories that my reporters were supposed to do.
Sooner or later, I was going to have to listen to him if I wanted to keep my job at Channel 10. I was getting too old to start over again at some new place. Would anyone even hire me again at my age if I lost this job? So, in addition to the heartburn and boredom, I was also having a bit of a career anxiety attack.
Gotta love these stakeouts.
Finally, a little after six p.m., Enright came out of the building, got in a cab, and rode home to a high-rise on Fifth Avenue just below 14th Street. I followed him in another cab until he went in the door, waited to make sure he didn’t go out again—and then went home.
The next morning, I was back outside his office again, armed with a thermos of coffee and a supply of bagels. I was starting to think about what I was going to do for lunch when something happened. Enright came out of the building, hailed a cab, and headed up-town. I followed him again.
It took a while.
When he got to Third Avenue and 59th Street, he got out and stood on the corner like he was waiting for someone. Five minutes later, a steel-gray Cadillac pulled up and Enright got in. The Caddy inched its way through midtown traffic, across 59th, up First Avenue, and then disappeared into an underground garage of a high-rise building at 79th and First.
I walked into the lobby and was met by a doorman.
