Silencing Sam Page 3

  “What just happened?” I asked Benny. He gathered up his papers and mumbled something about the unpredictability of the legal system.

  Sam was snickering in the back, waiting to goad me as we walked out.

  “I thought you wanted me to stay away from you,” I said. “Get lost.” I wanted to give him a little shove, but if throwing booze got me hauled into court, pushing and shoving would probably land me in jail.

  Benny stepped between us and told me the order for protection didn’t actually start until after we left the courtroom.

  Figuring I wouldn’t get another chance, I decided to throw one last verbal barb at Sam. “Staying away from you will be a relief, you rumormonger. Have I told you how much your cologne reeks?”

  Sam smiled with the confidence of a man used to getting the final word. “I just want to assure you Channel 3 will get plenty of column space in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

  I told him it just better all be true and quoted another Bible verse about men giving an account on the day of judgment for every careless word they have spoken.

  “God doesn’t scare me,” he replied.

  “Maybe he will,” I answered.

  Something about the tone of our voices, our body language, or maybe just how we were staring at each other made the court bailiff come between us and make sure we rode down on separate elevators.

  Instead of going back to work, I went home sick. By the time I got there, Sam’s “Piercing Eyes” gossip column already had the story posted online with a splashing headline: “Let the Punishment Fit the Criminal.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t complain. For once, his report was all accurate.

  The only email I had was a message from Rolf Hedberg, commiserating with me and telling me he’d like to throw a six-pack in Sam’s face himself.

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I learned the wire service had picked up the main points, sending the story to radio stations all over the Midwest. My parents, huge fans of AM radio, were sure to be listening.

  I let my clothes fall to the floor and didn’t even bother hanging up my new pink jacket. Then I curled up in bed in a fetal position with a pillow over my head. The phone rang a couple times, but I didn’t answer.

  Probably just the damn media.

  CHAPTER 6

  I dragged myself into the newsroom the next morning. Noreen hauled me into her office to wave a copy of my contract in my face and quoted certain sections involving “moral turpitude” and “public disrepute.”

  No one else knew what to say to me; I tried pretending their pity didn’t bother me, but while I’m a good reporter, I’m not a good actress. Different tools, except for the voice.

  But then Clay stood up, addressed the whole newsroom, and said I ought to be proud I took a stand against that “gossip rascal.”

  “I’ve only been here a few days, and he hasn’t written anything nasty about me, but from what I can tell, that man is wolverine mean.”

  Everyone applauded, more for Clay than me. But I started feeling better about myself and the new hire.

  “You’re right,” I shouted. “Sam Pierce got what he deserved!”

  My voice mail light was flashing on my desk. Various messages from other news organizations wanting to know how I felt being compared to garbage. A message from the front desk telling me I had a package. And a message from my parents wanting to know what they could do to help.

  That last one was tough; my folks didn’t seem to understand that I’d outgrown the kind of help they could provide. I looked at my watch and figured they were at daily Mass, like clockwork, praying for my salvation. So, knowing I wouldn’t have to be drawn into complicated explanations, I called the farm and left word telling them I was fine and not to worry.

  I ignored the media messages. No way was anyone getting quotes from me.

  Then I went to the front desk, where a spectacular wild-flower bouquet was waiting, and I found myself thinking of Nick Garnett … and how a bouquet might be a reasonable substitute for a beau. But when I opened the card accompanying the flowers, it contained no professions of love. The handwriting was feminine, the message anonymous.

  I couldn’t be sure whether it was congratulatory or caustic. “Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip.”

  I crumbled the note, dropped it in the garbage, and headed back to the front desk to ask where the flowers had come from. A woman, was all the receptionist remembered. No real details.

  Heading to the back door, I got the security guard to pull up the lobby surveillance camera. Channel 3 hadn’t upgraded the system since it was first installed more than a decade ago. The only money spent on cameras these days was for on-air cameras. Even convenience stores had better-quality security technology than the station. The black-and-white image of a woman carrying a child and my bouquet resembled those grainy shots of bank-robbery suspects that seldom get identified.

  So the mystery woman remained a mystery.

  I wasn’t even sure if she was the actual author of my note or merely handling the delivery duties. She appeared to be in her midtwenties, had a dark pageboy haircut, and was dressed in an upscale sweater and jeans. She carried the flowers in one arm, a toddler in another. I couldn’t be sure whether the child was a boy or girl.

  I made three copies of the image, leaving one at each station entrance, with instructions to call me if she returned. I pinned the last one on the bulletin board over my desk. I supposed it was possible we’d met. But she seemed a stranger, with no obvious reason to want to creep me out. Though she certainly appeared to bear a grudge against Sam.

  Retrieving the note from my wastebasket, I smoothed the paper and pinned it next to her photo. “Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip.” Clearly, she wanted to send me a message—not an overt threat, but not best wishes, either. I was certainly curious about what “disturbing information” she was referring to. She must have calculated the note would be more likely, or perhaps faster, to reach me via flowers than the post office. Or maybe she just liked creating a scene.

  I inhaled the blooms, but the fragrance was not overwhelming. Seasonal, they might have come from the remains of a home garden or backyard. Dried milkweed pods teased me with dreams of orange and black butterflies traveling south.

  I carried the vase toward Noreen’s office. My motive? Twofold: I no longer wanted to look at them, as the sender’s intention seemed dubious; and regifting fresh flowers appeared a prime boss suck-up move for a reporter with a suddenly shaky platform.

  “They’re beautiful.” Noreen stretched her hand to fondle a red-colored berry on a twig. “But I can’t imagine what either of us is celebrating. Especially not you.”

  My news director seemed to have settled down; at least the morals clause of my contract wasn’t dribbling from her lips. So while Noreen was in a semisympathetic mood, I started whining about how Sam’s order for protection was going to interfere with my life—professionally as well as socially.

  “Just stay away from the guy,” Noreen said. “Then you won’t have any problems.”

  “Look at it from my point of view,” I said. “Our newsrooms are less than a mile apart. How am I supposed to know where the jerk is going to show up? I’m going to have to give up the turkey special at Peter’s Grill. I’m not going to be able to check criminal records at the cop shop.”

  Then I thought of the worst scenario of all. “What if we both show up at the same news event? Am I supposed to leave?”

  That possibility got Noreen’s attention. I could tell by the suddenly stern management look in her eyes I’d have been better off keeping the rumination to myself.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “Benny’s going to fix this. A thousand feet is unreasonable; maybe he can change it to a hundred feet.”

  I flashed my news leader an optimistic thumbs-up and raced back to my office to call my attorney and plead for results. Benny didn
’t pick up, so I left him an urgent message saying, “We need to talk.”

  “I hate ‘Piercing Eyes,’” I muttered to myself, slamming down the phone.

  I tried thinking of an out-of-town story that would take my mind off the gossip columnist and take my body away from any chance of violating the order for protection. But all that came to mind was Mexico.

  CHAPTER 7

  Soon after, word hit the newsroom that the royal family of Saudi Arabia, including the king himself, was visiting the Mayo Clinic for medical checkups and spending money around Rochester like it was oil. Giant tips at restaurants. Women in veils buying out boutiques. A caravan of Lincolns with dark windows.

  I surprised Noreen by volunteering to cover the city’s economic boon. My phone message light was flashing with voice mails from even more news organizations wanting to interview me about my day in court. I was anxious for an excuse to leave town, even temporarily.

  On my way out the door, I stopped in the green room. Clay was staring at the mirror like he owned it. More than a decade in this business had taught me to be wary of men prettier than me. Too many could look smart on air for the necessary minute and a half, but after that, there wasn’t much there.

  The green room closet contained clothing stashed away for emergencies and props. Spill coffee on your jacket just before the newscast starts? Run to the green room for a replacement. Way in the back I found a black burka another reporter had bought last year for a story on discrimination against Islamic women.

  I held the head-to-toe covering in front of me, wondering whether it might come in handy tracking the Saudi royal family or if it would be seen as an enormous international insult.

  “Little early for Halloween, isn’t it?” Clay asked.

  “I’m considering an undercover look.” I explained the significance of hijab—dressing modestly—in Muslim culture. But I put the burka back on the hanger, deciding I couldn’t risk more trouble.

  Malik and I drove south and an hour or so later, when we reached Rochester, the Mayo Clinic wouldn’t confirm or deny the royal visit because of medical privacy rules. City officials were also mum for security reasons. But keeping the visit hush-hush was impossible because a 747 with the Saudi crest dwarfed all other aircraft at the city’s small airport.

  Malik shot some video through the fence. With only six gates, Rochester just might be the smallest international airport in the country. It speaks to the clout of Mayo that the airport has a runway long enough to land a 747, as well as its own customs office.

  We staked out Chester’s, where we heard some of the royal party were dining in a private room. I hoped to get an interview, or even ten seconds of video, with anybody in a turban or flowing robe.

  Malik waited in the van across the street, his camera by his side. I sat inside the restaurant, eating lunch very slowly, so I could call him with a heads-up when it was time to start rolling.

  But one phone call changed that plan.

  I almost didn’t answer because my parents’ number came up on the screen, and I figured they wanted to talk about my court hearing. Then I decided it was better to get it over with now rather than later with Malik listening.

  “There’s been another bombing on the wind farm,” my dad said. “A big team of investigators just got here.”

  I called the station with the news and was told to forget chasing royals and head south to the blast.

  Down at Wide Open Spaces, the scene was much the same as before. A toppled giant lay across a field of straw. But nobody was blaming a big bad wolf for huffing and puffing.

  In the distance, a K-9 unit seemed to be inspecting turbines. A chocolate Labrador and his human partner worked the fields, but I couldn’t tell if they’d found anything newsworthy.

  I tried to call the station and report the latest in the mysterious crime, but neither my cell phone nor Malik’s worked. That seemed odd because a cell tower was just up the road, and ten yards away, a sheriff’s deputy had his phone to his ear.

  “You getting cell service?” I called over to the deputy, waving my phone after he’d hung up his.

  “Yeah, but you won’t.” I couldn’t tell if he was laughing at my question or his answer.

  “What’s going on?” I walked over since he wasn’t behind any crime-scene tape.

  He shrugged. “Check with the boss. I’m not authorized to talk to newsies.”

  He pointed to where a team in uniform had gathered. As I got closer, I smiled when I saw one of them wore a sheriff’s badge. Because sheriffs are elected to office, they often like to appear on television, showing their constituents how hard they’re working.

  “Good day, Sheriff,” I said. “What’s up with my cell phone?”

  “It’s complicated,” he replied.

  “It’s none of your business,” a man wearing a dark suit said, interrupting us.

  He looked familiar to me. Then I recognized him as the FBI guy who’d investigated the theft of Minnesota’s record large-mouth bass this past spring. He’d suspected an animal-rights group of freeing the fish.

  “Nice seeing you again,” I said. I could never seem to remember his name. “Funny how news brings us together.”

  “The bureau is aiding local law enforcement in the wind turbine bombings. That’s all the information we’re prepared to release about Operation Aeolus.”

  “Operation Aeolus? What does that mean?”

  “It’s the Latin name for the god of wind,” he answered.

  I recalled he had a fondness for using Latin to sound important, but I refrained from making any remarks about windbags, no matter how appropriate. I could tell the sheriff wasn’t pleased to be cast aside and figured there was a chance he and I could do business together.

  “I think we owe it to the residents in the area to keep them updated on the status of our investigation,” the sheriff said. “I think the media, as well as the FBI, can be of some help in avoiding public panic.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do a camera interview?” I asked.

  “I think that’s reasonable under the circumstances,” he replied.

  “Just a minute.” The FBI guy motioned for the sheriff to follow him out of earshot. From the waving of his federal arms, I got the message that he wanted the media frozen out. Then when the sheriff poked a finger in his federal chest, I got the message that he was telling Mr. FBI just whose turf he was on.

  Sheriff Taber explained that the bomber had used cell phones to detonate the explosives in the turbine blasts. The FBI had brought in a device that blocked all cell calls in the area unless the phone number was part of a preapproved law enforcement list, or obviously 911.

  “That’s why I can’t call out,” I said.

  He nodded. “Have to keep our team safe from any more bombs while we’re in the post-blast investigation.”

  Currently, the K-9 team was moving from turbine to turbine, hoping to find clues to the culprit’s identity. Parts of the explosives, or perhaps even an undetonated cell phone bomb, could have been critical in developing leads. But so far they’d sniffed out nothing but a few far-flung pieces from the blast. They were collected, bagged, and their locations marked on a map.

  “Does this mean terrorists?” I hated to be the first to bring up that word, but I wanted to gauge his reaction in person.

  “No one knows what it means,” the sheriff said. “We’re asking folks to report any suspicious characters. Strangers or not. Could even be a disgruntled neighbor.”

  “Could I meet the dog and get some close-up shots?” I knew those shots would please Noreen and elevate my story in her mind.

  “Make it quick.” Sheriff Taber radioed the K-9 unit to come over. “Her name’s Scout. She’s down from the Twin Cities and is one of the best explosives-detection dogs in the country.”

  I felt a pang of loneliness for Shep, a German shepherd who’d come to my rescue more than once. He’d joined the K-9 ranks and was now a top drug-sniffing dog. I understood how drug an
d cadaver dogs operated, but I’d never seen a bomb-sniffing dog up close. Scout was all muscle, covered with sleek fur.

  Like a pro, she ignored me.

  The sheriff introduced me to her trainer, Larry Moore, who explained that Scout could detect nineteen thousand explosive combinations.

  “It would take fifteen people to cover what she can in ten minutes,” he said. Then, along the side of his pants, he showed me a pocket full of dog food. “She eats by finding explosives. Pavlov’s theory. Every time she makes an alert, she gets food.”

  He agreed to let Malik shoot some video of her in action. “Seek,” he commanded.

  Scout went to work, sweeping through a soybean field. After a couple minutes with her nose to the ground, she sat down. Larry bent over and put a small charred item in a plastic bag.

  “Notice how she’s starting to drool?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of dog food. “Good dog.” He praised her and gave her the treat.

  “Can she also find drugs?” I asked.

  “No cross-training,” he said. “Those are separate skills. For example, let’s say we’re called for a school bomb threat, and she alerts at a student’s locker. Does she smell pot or explosives? How would we know?”

  I was about to comment on the perfect sense of that when the FBI guy interrupted with an “Enough for now.” Scout and her partner resumed their sweeps. Malik grabbed the gear. I thanked the sheriff and told him I’d be in touch.

  I loved my story. I loved the video, the sound, and that it was unfolding far away from Minneapolis. Selling my boss on follow-ups would make my bumping into Sam Pierce and accidentally violating any restraining order less of a threat.

  A small band of local farmers had gathered to sing the terrorist tune. Now that a bombing pattern seemed to be forming, they needed outsiders to blame. And they were much more vocal than before. A comparable thing happened when the I-35 bridge in Minneapolis had collapsed a couple years earlier. The first reaction was that terrorists—rather than design errors and an overloaded structure—must be responsible. A similar reflex could be observed across the country in other situations of calamity.