THURSDAY 4:10PM
“Thanks for letting me come along, Jerry.” A Canon EOS 70D camera dangled from the strap looped around Mike’s neck. His backpack bulged with the rest of his photography equipment.
Jerry raised a finger. “Remember, I need you to take some decent photos. This story has to shine if I’m going to get out of Vanessa’s doghouse.”
They exited the quad and climbed the cracked concrete steps that led to the walk to the gymnasium.
“Of course. What else would I be doing?”
Jerry rolled his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe use this opportunity to hit on some cheerleaders and find a new girlfriend?”
“Bah! The idea never occurred to me.” Mike’s lips curled into a smile. “Besides, Amanda’s coming back to me any day now.”
“And you know this how?”
“I’m stalking her Instagram. It’s obvious the poor girl can’t live without me.”
“I follow her too.” Jerry tapped his phone. “And she sure looks pretty broken up here on the miniature golf course.”
Mike grabbed the phone and glared at the photo of dark-haired Amanda. Some muscled blond dude with his arms around her waist helped her line up a putt through a clown’s mouth. “Two can play this game. Wait till Amanda sees some photos of me and the cheerleaders. Especially in their uniforms.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but we’re going to a practice. They’ll be in T-shirts and shorts.”
“Nope.” Mike’s face lit up. “I contacted the coach. Asked her to have a few girls in uniform and full makeup for photos.”
“You contacted the coach?” Jerry stopped and faced his roommate. “This is my story. You’re not even on staff with The Chronicle.”
Mike faked taking a snapshot. “Does Vanessa need a photographer?”
Jerry started up the steps. “Don’t get me started on her.”
They reached the top, turned left, and headed toward the gym entrance. Along an intersecting sidewalk, a lone girl stood and offered them a friendly wave.
Jerry waved back. “Do you know her?”
“No, why?”
“Seems like she knows us.”
The girl approached with a deliberate stride. She was short, maybe 5’1” or 5’2”, with reddish-brown hair in a wedge cut under a navy-blue beret. She wore a black T-shirt with a photo of Edward Snowden captioned in Cyrillic, black jeans, and oversized hiking boots.
“Jerry Williams from The Chronicle, right?” She offered her hand.
“Yeah.” Jerry cautiously accepted the hand and shook. This was the first time someone recognized him from the paper. “And you are?”
She ignored his question. “I really liked your piece on the no-show Board of Trustee members. Nice bit of investigative work.”
“Thanks.”
“But what’s your name?” Mike stared at her.
She gave a half-smile. “You can call me Sam.”
“Short for Samantha?”
“I don’t know. I just made it up.” Sam squinted at Mike. “You must be Noah Chen.”
“No, I’m not Noah. Astonishingly, all Asians don’t look alike.” Mike folded his arms.
Sam looked contrite. “Honest mistake. I thought you were with The Chronicle.” She turned to Jerry. “Can we talk in private?”
“No need for the cloak-and-dagger routine.” Mike hefted his camera bag onto his shoulder. “I’ve got better places to be.” He stormed off toward the gymnasium.
Sam watched Mike disappear through the glass double doors. “Your friend needs to lighten up.”
“His name is Mike.”
“Mike? Wait, Mike Kwon? The guy with the cell jammer?”
Jerry glared at her. “How do you even know about that? Or who I am? Are you some kind of fangirl?”
“Fangirl? Like a groupie?” She laughed. “Far from it.”
“So, what’s your deal then?”
A few scattered raindrops fell.
“Let’s sit down under that tree, okay? It's been a long day.” Sam started for the bench, but Jerry remained where he was. She took a few steps, realized he wasn’t following. “Trust me, this will be worth your while.”
Jerry glanced at the gymnasium and checked his watch. “Okay, but this can’t take too long.” He took a seat on the bench. “I have a story to write on this che—”
“A story on the injured cheerleader, I know.”
“You want to stop showing off how much you know and tell me what’s going on, Sam?”
She blew out her breath. “I understand that it’s rude to not reveal my name. But I’m not only protecting myself, but you too.”
“Protecting me from what?”
Sam didn’t answer; her gaze distracted by a squirrel dashing across the grass. She reached into her pocket, retrieved a peanut, and tossed it to the animal. He picked it up with his front paws and cracked the shell with his teeth.
Sam looked back at Jerry. “How’s that parking meter story coming along?”
“Are you with the NSA?”
“Vanessa killed it, didn’t she?”
Jerry spread his arms wide in exasperation. “Yes.”
“What reason did she give?”
“She claimed the anonymous source is weak. Which is bull. Plus, something about lawyers. I stopped listening at that point.”
“The real reason she’s spiking it is because the chancellor’s office came down on her hard.”
“The chancellor? Why?”
“The administration is behind in fundraising, and they can’t afford another scandal.”
Jerry narrowed his eyes. “And how do you know all this?”
Her mouth twisted into an amused smile. “It’s the twenty-first century. There are no more secrets.”
The squirrel finished eating the peanut. He stood on his hind legs, six feet away, looking hopefully at Sam.
She threw another peanut. “Do you want to get your story out?”
“How? You just said the administration killed it. The town paper won’t have any interest in it. Are you suggesting that I start a Substack? While I’m at it, I could include some photos of my cat.”
“You don’t have a cat.”
Jerry stood. “This is way too creepy. You’re way too creepy. I’m out of here.”
“Wait.” Sam grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry. And that’s not something I say often. And even when I do, I usually don’t mean it.”
Jerry removed his hand from her grip. “You’re not helping yourself.”
“Come on, sit back down.” She patted the bench. “I thought you’d figure it out on your own.”
Jerry frowned and reluctantly sat. “Well, obviously I’m dense, so just tell me what’s going on.”
Sam looked around. No one nearby. She leaned close, with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, and whispered, “I’m with The Underground.”
“The Underground!”
“Shush!” Sam put a finger to his lips. “Part of the secret of our success is our anonymity. Don’t go shouting it all over campus.”
“The Underground?” Jerry whispered.
“Are you just going to keep repeating that?”
“The Underground.” Jerry shook his head in disbelief.
Sam kicked him in the shin with the toe of her hiking boot.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“You were beginning to sound like you were stuck in an infinite loop. Now that I’ve solved that problem, I am authorized to inform you that we’re interested in having you write for us.”
“Who’s us?”
The Underground.” She gave a sharp exhale of annoyance. “We just went over that.”
“I meant specifically. Who runs The Underground?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“What’s your name?”
Sam sighed again. “Can’t tell you that either.”
“What can you tell me?”
“We want you to join our team. There’s some technical stuff about encryption that I’ll have to school you on, but basically, we like your work and want you to report for us.”
“I don’t know.” Jerry was still trying to process the offer. “I like the idea of writing for a publication that people hold in their hands. I have fond memories of my family swapping sections of the newspaper over breakfast.”
“Print is dead. In a couple of years, The Chronicle will transition to a completely online publication. All papers will.”
“I guess. But there’s no byline, right? In all the stories on The Underground I’ve ever read, the reporters’ names were aliases.”
Sam reached up and rapped her knuckles on his head. “Hello, McFly? Anybody home? Anonymity is your friend.”
”Don’t do that!” Jerry smoothed his hair. “Yeah, but if I write for you guys, I’ll never get any credit.”
“You want to feel good about yourself? You want people to stare and point as you walk by and say that’s Jerry Williams, the great reporter, or you do you want to write stories that matter?”
“Can’t I do both?”
“On this campus? Apparently not.” Sam gave a ‘what can you do?’ shrug. “It’s your choice. Have your good work buried by the administration while your name is attached to puff pieces on cheerleaders, or get your story and make a difference, even if no one knows you broke it.”
“And then there’s the other thing?”
“What other thing?”
“You know. The Underground’s got a reputation for stories that might not be entirely accurate.”
Sam crossed her arms. “Can you provide me with an example?”
“What about that one about the CIA contracting with Van Buren psychology profs to develop enhanced interrogation techniques?”
“What about it? That’s a solid bit of reporting.”
“But the university denied it.”
“Of course they did.”
“And so did the government.”
“Are you really that naïve, Jerry? Maybe you aren’t cut out to write for us.”
“Can I at least think about it?”
“Sure, take your time. We’re not going anywhere.” Sam stood. The rain was falling harder now.
“Okay, how can I contact you?”
Sam smirked. “You’re really not getting this whole anonymity thing, are you? We’ll be in touch.”
As Sam walked away, Jerry wondered if Vanessa was really killing his stories at the behest of the university administration. Sam’s claim possessed the air of plausibility. But it was just that: a claim. Like any good reporter, he’d have to dig to learn it was the truth. He picked up his backpack and jogged toward the gym entrance, trying to dodge the raindrops.