9

“COME ON IN, JENNA. Shut the door.”

Jenna Richardson returned to the newsroom at four o’clock to file a story before her deadline. Getting the facts kept her on the road overnight at Charlestown Beach in the southernmost part of the State. The four inches of snow that fell that morning on the towns facing Block Island Sound made the driving difficult on her way back to Providence. She was tired and grumpy. She was also disgusted with the fact that the heater in her Toyota Corolla couldn’t stand up to a twenty-eight degree day.

The message Richardson found stuck to her telephone was from Dan McMurphy, the Herald’s News Editor. “See me ASAP,” it said. She intended to drop in on her Toyota dealer and complain like crazy about the eighty-five dollars she paid them a week earlier to make sure she had heat when she needed it. On reflection, Jenna figured it was probably better to go in the morning. The service manager, not yet mentally fatigued by the problems of a new day, might be easier to deal with. McMurphy’s summons settled the matter.

“Sit down,” Dan told her. “You look pooped. Go stretch out on the couch if you want.”

McMurphy’s office was enormous. Three chairs faced his desk. Behind it, four large bookcases were filled to overflowing. Books on every shelf lay horizontally on top of those already standing squeezed together. A table on one side of the room comfortably accommodated eight people for a conference. On the opposite wall, two leather sofas sat end to end. An oriental rug, worn in several spots, sat on top of the room’s green wall-to-wall carpeting in the area encompassed by McMurphy’s desk and the chairs in front of it.

Colleagues sometimes found it difficult to describe Jenna Richardson. Although not beautiful, she was more than simply attractive. Her face usually appeared pale, a fact accentuated by her dyed blonde hair and reluctance to wear lipstick. It seemed too thin when you looked directly at her, but from an angle her high cheekbones gave it an unusual character. It was often said that she reminded them of a certain European movie actress whose name they couldn’t quite recall. She wore her hair long, always unfettered by ribbons or barrettes, with no apology for the dark roots that were visible.

Jenna chose the chair directly opposite McMurphy. She noticed that there were only a handful of cigarette butts in his ashtray. She knew he would never quit smoking, but felt better about the fact that he was cutting down. He must be pretty close to sixty, she thought. Did that make it time to listen to the doctor’s orders, or was it already too late for help?

Richardson had a deep regard for this man who had been her boss for four years. He knew the news business from top to bottom and needed only seconds to zero in on the most a story had to offer. Best of all, he always found a way for a young reporter to hone her skills when sent to investigate a story and write up what she found. Although the word never passed between them, she considered McMurphy her mentor.

“Pooped doesn’t quite do it,” she said. “It’s some combination of being fatigued, frustrated, exhausted, enervated, weary and worn out. How’s that for being a wordsmith?”

McMurphy smiled at her. He had a round, handsome face, with a lot of pink color on his nose and cheeks. His hair was white, rather thin, and brushed straight back without a part on either side. He longed to light up a cigarette at that moment but knew that Jenna would be all over him if he did.

“For me, pooped was always as far as you could go,” he answered. “Did you finish the story?”

“Yes, I left it with Milt,” she said. “What’s cooking?”

McMurphy preferred to have more small talk before getting to the reason for the meeting. He suspected he’d have a fight on his hands and was reluctant to start it so soon. As if anticipating a verbal tug-of-war, he pushed his chair back and set both palms firmly against the front of his desk.

“Jenna, after a good deal of thought, and I don’t mean that facetiously, I’ve decided to change your assignment.” He watched her eyes narrow, her face tighten up a little, and waited for any kind of a response.

“Am I going to have to stop and get drunk on the way home today?” she asked, “or is this so bad I’ll have to tell the publisher you’ve been grabbing at my body.”

McMurphy chuckled at the question but wasn’t surprised by it. He knew and often said that Jenna had the best sense of humor in the newsroom.

“Before you ask,” he said, “let me make it clear that I don’t have a single complaint about your work. You’ve been turning out great stuff. Hell, if you weren’t, you’d have heard from me about it. But I want you to switch gears and do something else.”

Jenna cut him off. “Maybe I never told you, but I’ve sworn an oath against going into mens’ locker rooms. I know I’d never be able to control myself. So no sports beat for me, Dan, no way.” She spoke the words with a straight face, not even the hint of a smile. That told him she was concerned and was trying to deflect the blow without yet knowing what it was.

McMurphy wanted the conversation to be akin to a father-daughter discussion. With three grown-up daughters of his own, he had a lot of experience. “It’s time for you to sit back and listen, young lady.” He talked softly and gave the words a few seconds to do their job. “I’ll go right to the bottom line,” he said, rocking his chair slightly behind the desk. “This is a political year coming up in Rhode Island and I want you to cover it. Between now and November there could be some big stories happening, a lot of surprises. We need a good investigative reporter out there. Jim Callum’s going on a sabbatical as of March first. That means he won’t be around for the primaries or the election. I considered everyone in the newsroom for this assignment, I really did. But I decided you’re the best person to handle it.”

“Why me?” she interrupted loudly, throwing her arms out to the side.

McMurphy remained calm. “I’m getting to that,” he said. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath but kept eye contact with Jenna. “I want Jim to show you the ropes for three or four weeks or however long it takes. Then you’ll be on your own, but you can pick his brains as long as he’s here.” Dan paused. “I chose you because I know you’re the persistent type. That’s what it takes to find out what’s really going on in the Statehouse before our revered leaders are ready to go public with the news. You’re the best there is at not taking ‘No’ for an answer. If there’s a story, I know you’ll find it.”

When Jenna didn’t immediately respond, he continued. “But it’s like a maze up there, and you’ve got to learn the territory. Callum’s a good teacher. He knows all the players and all the cat and mouse games that go on. Spending some time with him will help you figure out the best way to skin each cat. When you get into it, you may even get to like it.” He stopped talking and continued to watch her. After several seconds he added, “In fact, I’ll bet you will.”

Richardson was stunned. She never once, in four years at the Herald, even thought about reporting the political scene. It was distasteful to her, a “Yuk” in her vocabulary. Her dislike for politics had deep roots. She was nine years old when Nixon resigned and would never forget her father watching the drama on television. She readily pictured him raising his voice above the President’s as he leaned toward the screen. “That son of a bitch, they ought to shoot the dirty son of a bitch.”

Jenna was raised in Brockton, a blue collar town in Massachusetts that consistently gave the Democratic candidate the vast majority of its support. The Bay State was the only state in the country in which Nixon couldn’t claim victory when his reelection campaign rolled over George McGovern in 1972. She was the youngest of Bill and Deborah Richardson’s three children, the apple of her father’s eye. He spent two years in baseball’s lower minor leagues before throwing in the towel, but his athletic genes all went to Jenna, who starred in softball, basketball and tennis in high school and college. Her love for the Red Sox matched his, and she accompanied him to Fenway Park on occasional Sundays during the baseball season.

Jenna’s bond with her father was strong, and many of his opinions became hers. Listening to him, she grew up distrustful of politicians. Although she followed their comings and goings in the news, she never worked in a political campaign, wore any candidate’s button or put an election-inspired bumper sticker on her car. In her view, politicians were just a necessary evil. They were willing to sell their souls with the promises they made. If they never delivered on those promises, so what? Getting elected was all that mattered, and then putting themselves first on whatever agenda they drew up. She certainly didn’t want to get to know any of them.

McMurphy’s words and his look made Jenna realize that avoiding the assignment was probably impossible. But she felt she still had to fight back, test him, make every effort she could to get out of it. She had folded her arms in front of her after her initial outburst. She kept them that way and leaned forward slightly in her chair when she answered.

“There aren’t going to be any big stories in this election, Dan. You know that as well as I do. Spence Hardiman had a good first term. He’s going back to the Senate for another six years. The Democrats don’t have anyone who could get thirty-five percent of the votes against him. That means John Sacco stays right where he is and goes for another term in the governor’s office. Everyone’s in love with ‘Big John.’ Who’s going to want to run for his job? Do you think you’ll see another car dealer like Ed McGurty step out of the wings? Do the Democrats have someone else willing to throw a pile of money into another futile campaign just to advertise his business? Great! I’m sure no one will want to miss a word he has to say. Especially if he talks about pre-owned cars.”

Richardson paused long enough to let the sarcasm sink in. “It’s a dead scene, and you know it. The challengers don’t have a chance. There won’t even be a contest for the two House seats. From everything I’ve read, Williston has impressed the voters in her first two years in Congress. Besides, this is another year of the woman. She’ll win easier than last time. And Droney’s got too much influence in Washington now to get beat. He’ll promise more jobs and less taxes in every speech he makes, just like he always does. Before the election, he’ll bring in Ted Kennedy and a few others to tell us how much he’s done for Rhode Island. It’s ridiculous. We’re sitting here today, in January, and we already know everyone who’ll be making a victory speech in November.” She paused again, but just for a moment this time. “I know I left out lieutenant governor. If we’re not sure who’s going to win that race, Dan, no one out there gives a good goddam anyhow.”

Jenna was pleased with the argument she made. But she felt it was time to bolster it with another line of attack. The fact that McMurphy hadn’t tried to interrupt her was encouraging.

“I’ve done some pretty good reporting in the last year. The Herald’s going to win one or two major awards with my story on the nursing home industry. Now everyone knows what that business is all about and who’s been minting money in it. Half a dozen different committees are working on legislation for it at the Statehouse. That’s the result of the weeks I spent putting the puzzle together.”

She was picking up steam. “Plus there’s the story Hank and I turned in on the whole credit union mess. The rest of the media called it a ‘bombshell,’ Dan, remember? Those are the things that get our investigative team respect from the people who buy the Herald every day. That stuff affects their lives. It’s real. It’s not the phony promises that come out of the mouths of every politician. They’re ready to forget or ignore everything they said as soon as the election results are official. I’ll tell you what I think, Dan. I think giving me this new assignment is the same as asking me to write off the whole year.”

Her last words drove McMurphy out of his chair. He walked over to the conference table, crossed his arms in front of him and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking guidance from above. After half a minute or so he returned to his desk and sat down before saying a word. “Listen to me, Jenna. If I agreed with how you see this election year, I wouldn’t be telling you to do this. I wouldn’t waste your talent. You’ve done terrific work and you’ve sold plenty of papers. But everything in this fat gut of mine tells me you’re wrong.

“There’s a calm before the storm out there, and I can feel it. Don’t ask me how. Twenty years from now you’ll be sitting in an editor’s chair and you’ll know what I mean. It grows on you. Call it experience, call it intuition or anything you want. I’m in my sailboat on a calm sea and there’s blue sky all around me. But there’s a wind I can feel beginning to pick up from the northeast and it’s making me nervous. It’s warning me that trouble’s on the way. So now I’ve got to react, know what I mean? I have to make sure I’m on top of things if there’s going to be a storm. It’s the same thing with this political scene. Things are going to happen in the next ten months—I can feel it in my bones—that you’ll regret not covering if you’re doing something else. I really believe that.”

He went over to where she was sitting and offered his hand. She reached out and let him pull her up. “So I’m glad you’ve agreed,” he said. “You’re going to thank me for this before it’s over. But if I’m wrong, you’ll never have to listen to this speech again, I promise.”

Jenna let him see her frustration. “I don’t believe this is happening to me. What did I do to disturb the great newspaper gods in the sky?” She turned and headed for the door.

“Jenna,” Dan called, still standing by the chair.

She stopped and looked at him.

“If you do a real good job on this, I’ll speak to Al Silvano and see if he’ll let you cover the Bruins. They’ve got the healthiest looking locker room in the city.” He gave her an exaggerated wink.