A newsroom can be an eerie place at night. After the constant din of thirty typewriters going during the day, the silence of an empty newsroom can be deafening.
But I was grateful for it.
I thanked my lucky stars that I worked at a weekly. If the Chronicle had been a daily, those typewriters would’ve been clacking twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. As it was, the Chronicle was put to bed every Wednesday night to appear bright and fresh on newsstands every Thursday morning. Staff could afford to go home in the evenings.
Except for those like me. Who couldn’t sleep. Who had work to be done.
With the icy weather outside and the lack of busy human bodies inside, the newsroom had grown cold. I made myself a cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar, then sat at my desk and took out the draft column I’d written earlier. I reread it, and laid it aside. This soft version would not do. I meant to pin Whitfield to the wall, but faced the same issues as earlier. Just what did I have in terms of information and evidence? And, most importantly, how far could I go with it?
My hands absorbed the soothing warmth of the cup. I took a deep breath. Good writing, effective writing required a passionate heart and a rational head.
Mabel Dean’s account was a strong point, but it could not be used in its entirety or even in detail. Her name could not be used at all. Without her, I had only Hilda Coleman’s assertion of Whitfield's cruelty—but that was basically rumor—and Beth’s statement about his affair with Esther—again, secondhand information, hearsay.
I set my cup aside, took out the typed notes I’d made that afternoon and reread them. Then I selected a fresh sheet of typing paper, rolled it into the machine and set to work. I wrote about the night Esther disappeared, how she started the evening with so much anticipation, only to end it absorbed by the darkness. I wrote about the boyfriend and how my investigation had turned up information that Esther was indeed involved with a man who had a reputation for violence. I put down everything I knew about him, but did not give him a name. Whitfield would certainly recognize himself, as would those who knew him. But even those in his intimate circle might hesitate to acknowledge that he fit the picture of the monster portrayed. I needed to flush him out, to provoke him into striking out at me again and making a mistake—one that would cost him.
After I finished writing, I felt emptied. I read through the column one last time and made my last changes. I put the copy in the middle of my desk and was about to put the dust cover on my Underwood when the door opened. Sam walked in, looking puzzled and concerned. Seeing me, his expression changed to one of surprise.
“Weren’t you going home?” he asked.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I only live about a block away. I went out for cigarettes and saw the light. What’re you doing here?”
I couldn’t tell him what had happened. He might blame himself and it wasn’t his fault. Worse, he might give me an I-told-you-so. He’d warned me that I was treading on dangerous water, although I thought he had no idea the danger would turn physical. If he found out that I’d been attacked, he might fully block me.
“Lanie, are you okay?”
“Sure? Why?”
“Because you’re sitting here working when you should be at home asleep. And you’re whiter than one of my grandmother’s bleached sheets. Now what’s going on?”
For one moment, I was strongly tempted to tell him. I wanted to, but then I wondered, What good will it bring? And, to be honest, I wasn’t sure what Sam’s reaction might be. After all, Whitfield was another one of those people who could call up Canfield and bring down a ton of trouble, not just on me, but on Same and the paper as well. I’d already seen how Sam reacted after my visit to Katherine Goodfellowe. If I told him that Whitfield had sent Echo after me, would Sam actually stand up for me? Or would he basically blame me for having poked the dragon?
I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Decided to come back and write my column. Want to see it?”
“Of course.”
I handed it to him. He sat at a neighboring desk and started to read it. After about a minute, he looked up with a worried frown.
“Are you talking about Sexton Whitfield? The Sexton Whitfield?”
“Yup,” I said, tensing for his reaction.
He took a deep breath, held it for a moment and let it out slowly.
“You sure about this, Lanie?”
“More than you’ll ever know.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m sure. That’s all. I’m sure.”
Sam read further, the furrow between his brows deepening. “Do you have any idea how big this man is?”
I nodded.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“He denied everything.” I tapped the pages. “It’s all in there.”
Sam finished reading the draft. He reflected. “You’ve done a lot. No doubt about it. You’ve covered more ground in a couple of days than the cops did in weeks. But you’re heading into deep water. And you don’t have the evidence to back it up, do you?”
I bit my lip. “I don’t name him.”
“Thank God for small favors.” He heaved another deep sigh. “I’d like you to choose another topic.”
“Sam—”
“We need something upbeat.”
“We’ve been through all that.”
“For goodness’ sakes, it’s Christmastime. Nobody wants to read about a kidnapping case that’s three years old. And, if we write about this one, then we’ll have a stream of people standing at the door, wondering why we don’t write about their lost relatives, too.”
“It’s a good question.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” I said. “Why aren’t we writing about the things that matter?”
Sam blinked as if he hadn’t heard right. I wanted to reach out and smooth his worry lines away. But I couldn’t. I was the cause of them. He laid my copy aside and drew his chair close to mine, very close.
“Look,” he said in an intimate voice of puzzled concern. “You’ve told me how you fought for this social column. Now, tell me why you’re willing to throw it all away.”
“I’m not.”
“Remember what you said. You told me you told the paper that too much attention was being paid to the bad things happening in our community, that more should be written about the dignity of our people.”
“And I still believe that. Esther Todd was a dignified and talented woman. If crime hadn’t intervened, she might’ve well developed into one of those professionals I write about. Her story could be the story of any one of our people. But Sam, we’ve already been over this. If we’re going to disagree, let it be over how I write the topic—not the topic itself. You gave me the go-ahead. Twice.”
“God help me, I sure did. But I also said I’d reserve final approval upon review of your copy.” He gestured to the typewritten sheets of paper. “This could get us into some deep shit.”
“Exactly. But since when have you been afraid of stepping in shit? Good reporters don’t mind getting covered in it.”
“That’s fine when you’re a foot soldier in the trenches.”
“Oh, but when you’re the general, you want to stay clean—”
“You don’t waste ammunition—and you don’t send in troops without hard proof.”
“What troops? It’s just me.”
He paused, then said in a soft voice, “If this baby misfires, it’s the whole battalion.” He gazed at me. “On something this big, we stand or die together.”
I thought about it. I did. I gave it a good hard thinking about, but then I shook my head. “Sam, I’m sorry. But I can’t just let this go. It wouldn’t be right. He killed Esther — or had her killed — and so far, he’s gotten away with it.”
He was quiet.
“Sam?” I whispered, “it’s a good story and you know it.”
He took a deep breath, then took up the copy and slowly read it through again. By the time he was finished, he was shaking his head. “You can’t back this stuff up.”
“I have sources—”
“But none of them would climb out on a limb for you, right? Not a single one of them would speak up if necessary.”
“No,” I conceded. “They wouldn’t.”
He sighed and tossed the sheets down. Leaning back, he rubbed his eyes. The circles under his eyes were pronounced. He was about to spike this story, all because he didn’t want to rock the boat. In a flash of skepticism, I spoke quickly.
“Look at it this way: If nothing else, the story will increase sales.”
He straightened up and gave me a look that said I’d gone too far. “Is that all you think I care about?”
“I think it’s one of your concerns. Yes.”
He looked frustrated, perhaps even bitter.
I started to apologize. “Sam, I—”
“It’s okay, Lanie. I know where you’re coming from. I’ve been there myself.”
His eyes reflected an old pain. I felt a twinge of guilt. My comment about him, while containing some truth, had been unfair. Worse, it had tapped a wound, one that apparently went deep. I knew so little about him. At that moment, it struck me how little.
He studied me, but after a while, it seemed as though his thoughts had moved elsewhere. His expression became distant, as though he was remembering something, something bad maybe, an experience that went well beyond the facile description of his life he’d given at the Bamboo Inn.
“Lanie, I want you to know something.” His gaze refocused on me. “I love working at this paper, so don’t take me wrong, but the fact is … I took this job because it was all I could get.” His eyes searched mine. “Do you understand?”
“I …” No, I didn’t understand. In fact, I was stunned. A man of Sam’s talents taking a position because it was the only thing offered? At the same time, his job at the Chronicle wasn’t all that bad. What other jobs or opportunities had he lost that would seem so much better?
“I’m attracted to you,” he continued, “because I understand you. Believe it or not, I used to be just like you—impulsive, determined to uncover the truth at all costs, indifferent to the power of those who could hurt me—but I paid a high price for it.”
I started to ask how, but he raised a hand to ward off a question.
“I won’t go into the details. Now’s not the time. But this much I can tell you. You don’t want to go where I’ve been. You don’t want to crawl so far out on a limb that you make it easy—easy, do you hear?—for your enemies to cut it out from under you. Understand?”
I nodded.
He tapped my printed pages. “If we print this, we’re in for a rough ride. Are you ready for it?”
My gaze flicked to the papers, then went back to him. “Without a doubt.”
Another moment of consideration, then he blew out his breath and gave me a grim smile.
“Well, okay then. Let’s do it.”