1995
Service with a Smile
MAX IS FEELING “goodish” as he pulls into the parking lot at the Paper. At home the previous night, he got a call from Montreal saying that he would keep his job despite the Cobra’s latest allegations of insolence.
“The Owner thinks you’re an aggressive prick, but your boss is an asshole,” the Montreal Daily’s new Editor-in-Chief says. “If he keeps it up, you could be the publisher in six months.”
“Really? But I thought the Mother Ship would never turn back for me.”
“This isn’t turning back,” he says. “You’ll always be in the minors. But listen, there’s one thing the Cobra does right: he knows how to get along. We want you to work on that.”
“We?”
“Yeah. Me and the Owner.”
As Max strolls into the lobby at the Paper, the receptionist nods toward a nondescript man in a London Fog raincoat.
“You have a visitor,” she says.
It doesn’t feel right. Max’s stomach begins churning. Usually these morning visitors bring banker boxes of paper documenting Workers’ Compensation abuses, certain that Max is duty-bound to set it all right with a series of blockbuster stories. This guy is travelling light, though, and seems sensible.
“Are you Max?” says the guy says as he stands up, his voice friendly and free of guile.
Max realizes the guy is a bailiff, but greets him with a friendly handshake. There’s no point in antagonizing people who are just doing their jobs. The bailiff recognizes the gesture and smiles with relief.
“I just need you to sign here, acknowledging you have received this Notice of Intent,” he says.
Max doesn’t have to look to know he’s being sued for libel. He doesn’t care who. He signs the notice and slides it into a jacket pocket.
“Listen,” the guy says. “There’s something going on with you at Bentley & Steele. There was a kind of excitement when I picked this up, like there’s more to come.”
“Thanks,” he says, not feeling especially grateful.
Max heads for the newsroom without reading the document. Bentley & Steele is the Party’s law firm, which tells him all he needs to know for now.
• • •
The City Editor is styled in punk today, complete with black army boots and fishnet stockings with big ragged holes in them.
“Anything going on?” Max asks.
“Nah. We need a murder,” she says. “You know we’re being sued, eh? The liquor board chair.”
Max closes his eyes. He hasn’t even looked at the document yet, but the City Editor knows who the plaintiff is.
She answers his question before he can ask it: “I know because I dated that process server for a while.”
“I wouldn’t have thought he was your type,” Max says.
“That’s how you find out what your type is — you try them on for a while,” she says.
The law requires a plaintiff to give newspapers seven days’ notice before he can sue for libel. That’s the Paper’s opportunity to apologize, which usually kills the suit.
The chair of the liquor board is one of the province’s many “fine men”, men who have been steered to wealth or influence by a grateful political party. They are presumed to be above reproach but, when caught, are judged to have “suffered enough” merely by virtue of their arrest and are usually given suspended sentences.
Max gets the Lawyer on the phone. She, of course, already knows about the notice.
“He’s claiming that your editorial said he’s unqualified to be the chair,” she explains.
“He’s not qualified, but we didn’t say that,” Max says. “We just said the board needs new leadership. I could have said he’s still working on his high school diploma. Anyway, it’s opinion.
The right to express an opinion is the standard defence for claims like this.”
“You’re right,” the Lawyer says, “and eventually we’ll win.”
“Eventually.”
“Yeah. But our legal bill will be $60K or higher before it’s over.”
Max knows this is chump change for the Board Chair, but serious money to the Cobra, who, in the first place, never sees any point in defending a libel suit. His motto is “apologize, apologize, apologize.”
“You mean your legal bill,” Max says sourly.
“That’s not fair, Max.”
“Sorry. Bad day. What do you recommend?”
“Our best strategy is to stall until election day and hope he loses interest,” she says. “But rest assured that meanwhile he’ll be doing everything he can to goose up your costs.”
“OK. I’ll go tell the Cobra.”
“He already knows.”
Good news travels fast.
Half an hour later, the Cobra’s assistant hand-delivers a memo.
Max:
“Regretfully, I have no choice but to document the libel suit you have attracted from the chair of the liquor board.
“This is typical of what has become of your carelessness about defamatory content and an apparent disregard for our legal budget. Our insurer has already inquired about our ability to manage this liability.
“Please do your best to ensure this does not happen again.”
It is copied to the Owner and the message is clear: The Cobra thinks he’s got Max in his crosshairs.
• • •
The Wife agrees.
They have just finished dinner and the Son is upstairs doing his homework and/or trying to download dirty pictures. Max knows because he heard the modem squawking when he picked up the extension.
Max and the Wife are in their loveseat, feet resting on the coffee table, something that is normally verboten. A spare bottle of French Merlot stands at the ready, even though it won’t help Max’s stomach.
The Wife has placed a pillow over her midriff to hide yet another imaginary fat dome. Even in a terrycloth robe, she looks good. She is old enough to be maternal and young enough to be sexy. Her fingers continue to be the longest and most delicate Max has ever seen. Her wine glass seems more like an accessory than a drinking vessel until she drains the last ounce and holds it out to Max for a refill.
The university administration, and therefore the Wife, knew about the lawsuit almost before Max did. Max is puzzled until she reminds him that her board, except for the Archbishop, is composed almost entirely of Party members. The other parties “have” university boards of their own.
“The vibe was strange,” she says. “Finally the president called me into her office for a private briefing. The Archbishop is making noises about the so-called abortion issue.”
“I can’t stand this — these partisan pissants beating up on me.”
“Hang in there,” the Wife says. “The threat’s almost always worse than the reality.”
Max opens the backup Merlot and they sip in silence for a while.
“Okay,” the Wife says. “I think I can get you something on Bentley & Steele if that helps, but it won’t come from me.”
“Hmm, my own Deep Throat,” Max says, sidling closer.
The Wife cuddles up. “I mean it literally. Like Watergate. We will never discuss this again. But you’ll recognize it when it shows up.”
Max, of course, is focused on the carnal meaning of Deep Throat.