CHAPTER 16

CAL SHUFFLED INTO THE OFFICE in time to make The Times’ sports department’s daily 3:30 PM budget meeting. The meeting consisted of an unscientific approach to culling out all the day’s news that wouldn’t be of interest to the majority of the Seattle area readers. Unlike some areas of the country where Cal had lived, Seattle sports fans were far more passionate about their teams than they were about the national perspective of a particular sport. If fans cared about the NFL, they only cared about the news coming out of the league office if it had anything to do with their beloved Seahawks. Major League Soccer fans wanted to know about Seattle FC, but nothing more. Baseball was the same way: If there was no Mariners’ news, the majority of fans didn’t care.

But everyone cared about local celebrities and socialites. It’s why Cal’s story from the night before found its way not to the front of the sports section but to the front page of the entire paper.

FBI Tracks PED Ring to Seattle; Eyes Late Soccer Star’s Wife read the headline emblazoned across the top of the paper.

Cal adroitly wrote the piece based off the information given him in a way that cast suspicion on Rebecca Westin but protected the paper from any frivolous lawsuits. His article revealed that the FBI was investigating a performance-enhancing drug connection between Dr. Bill Lancaster, a doctor located in St. Louis, and Rebecca Westin. Cal’s FBI agent contact went on the record as a source and revealed that Rebecca was being investigated for being a distributor for Dr. Lancaster’s illegal activities. Reluctantly, Cal wrote the story. He’d expressed hesitation to involve himself in the reporting to Buckman fearing that he might compromise his current assignment. Buckman shrugged it off by saying that if any of his reporters were going to be digging around on this case, he wanted his star reporter doing it—even if there were two fantastic stories happening simultaneously.

Cal couldn’t help but feel like perhaps the two were connected in some strange way, but he didn’t possess a shred of proof.

Shifting in his seat, he looked at Josh Moore, who’d just slumped into his chair. Cal tried to get a read on his colleague and friend. “How was the funeral this morning?”

Moore sighed. “It was a funeral. Lots of people talking about how awesome Sid was. I always hate going to funerals for people I didn’t know very well because it makes me wish I had gotten to know them.”

“It still beats going to funerals of people you do know.”

“Not if they’re people I never liked.”

“Good point.”

“Listen, I wish you’d give me a heads up about these stories,” Moore said.

Cal tapped his pen on his pad and stared out the window of the conference room. “I didn’t want to write it at all, but Buckman insisted upon it.”

“Either way, it makes my life more difficult.”

Standing at the doorway, fellow sports writer Eddie Ramsey sighed loudly, drawing both Cal’s and Moore’s attention. “Cal is always making everyone’s life difficult,” Ramsey said as he sauntered into the room. “But he’s going to get his comeuppance soon enough. You can only live for so long on a reputation built ages ago. At some point, people are going to ask, ‘What have you done for me lately?’ And then they’ll look at Cal and realize the answer is nothing.”

“Somebody’s off his meds this morning,” Cal quipped.

Ramsey pulled out the chair next to Cal and sat down. “Cal, Cal, Cal—the guy who doesn’t realize that everybody else hates him because he’s a fraud.”

Cal clenched his fists and prepared a witty comeback before deciding against it. Ramsey liked to get under his skin, which Cal assumed to be little more than professional jealousy. He hated that Ramsey’s comments bothered him more than they should have. Cal knew he should have ignored the petty quips and caustic cut downs, but he couldn’t. Instead, Cal spent time brooding over them.

Other staff reporters wandered into the room, filling up the chairs until Buckman finally walked in five minutes past the hour. He hated to wait for anyone and had made a practice out of being late so as to be the final person to show up at a meeting.

“Are we ready to begin?” Buckman asked as he collected a stack of papers on the conference room table.

A few half-hearted nods signaled to Buckman that he was in control of the room and could begin whenever he pleased.

“Very well then,” he began. “I want to talk about today’s paper before we get into what’s on tap for tomorrow.”

Cal pushed his chair back a couple of feet and sighed. “Here we go again,” he muttered under his breath to Moore.

“Nice of you to join us today, Cal,” Buckman said. “But I want to start with you.”

“What did I do now?”

“It’s what you didn’t do that has me pretty upset right now.”

Cal scrunched up his face and stared at Buckman. “Okay. Would you mind elaborating?”

“Perfect,” Buckman said. “That face you made right there. Don’t move. I want everyone to look at you.”

Cal tried to hold the awkward expression so the rest of the people around the table could observe the big mistake he was apparently making—though he wasn’t sure what Buckman was talking about.

Buckman snapped his fingers. “Exactly. Don’t you move, Cal.” He turned toward everyone else. “That look right there—it shows contempt.”

“Contempt?” Cal said. “Annoyance maybe, but not—”

Buckman wagged his finger at Cal. “No, no, no. Keep your mouth shut. We don’t need you to interject any comments. We just need that expression on your face.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Cal protested.

“Yet, you did—with one look.” Buckman looked at everyone else in the room. “Do you see what he’s doing? Do you see how his mouth is turned down and his brow is furrowed? It’s apparent that he’s not aligned with me here.”

“Come on, I—”

“And that’s why you lost your press credentials at Seattle FC today.”

“What?” Cal said, pushing his chair back from the table. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I wish I was, Cal. But you are done.” Buckman turned and looked at the rest of the reporters. “You see, it doesn’t matter how many awards you’ve won, if you continue to skirt the rules, eventually it will catch up with you.”

“That’s not fair.”.

“Fair or not, it’s accurate—and it’s the truth. You know good and well that you’ve been toeing a fine line over the past few days. Now it all caught up with you.”

“This is absurd.”

Buckman narrowed his eyes. “You’re the reporter I most wanted on this story, but Seattle FC scuttled that when they revoked your credentials.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I just reported the news.”

“But you didn’t abide by their policies. You thumbed your nose at them and did what you wanted.”

“Are you listening to me? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you out in the cold, blacklisted by the club? Answer me that. Besides, it’s too late now. Ramsey is taking over the story. I’ve got some other assignments for you that we’ll discuss later.”

Cal furrowed his brow and leaned on the table. “I wrote the story that you insisted I write.”

Buckman glared at him. “Why don’t you leave the room so we can finish our meeting? You don’t have anything for tomorrow’s paper anyway.”

“I hear there’s a big high school swim meet downtown this weekend, Cal,” Ramsey said with a wink. “It’s got your name all over it.”

“Shut up, Ramsey,” Buckman growled.

Cal collected his papers and left. He didn’t mind getting chewed out by Buckman, most of the time it made him a better reporter, but he hated being treated unfairly. Despite his protests, Cal was forced to write the story about Rebecca Westin—and he knew that was ultimately why Seattle FC brass was upset. It had nothing to do with him finding creative ways to get interviews out of players. And Buckman knew it too, no matter what he said in the conference room in front of all the other reporters.

Cal sat down and opened his Twitter account on his desktop. He knew it was against his better judgment—as well as against his personal policy of never reading the comments. But there was no other assignment he had looming over him. Once the web page opened, he started to scan the comments. They were cruel—and terrifying. Death threats, unfounded accusations. It was an all-out assault on his integrity as a journalist as well as his manhood. While he contemplated replying, he concluded there was nothing he could say that would assuage the attackers. They were out for blood and gleefully circled him in the digital waters.

Without an outlet to write about what he’d learned, Cal slumped in his chair. He threw a pen at his monitor and sighed. Instead of fighting for Cal, Buckman had caved to the pressures of an organization that had grown more powerful in recent months—at least that was Cal’s assessment. He adored Buckman, but he had a distinct difference of opinion in this situation. Yet Cal wondered if he’d be able to re-establish his reputation before it was too late.