What Feats He Did That Day Pt 03

CHAPTER FIVE

On Monday morning, in real life, I found myself in the middle of

Casablanca

. I was at the governor's press office at eight on Monday morning. They apparently would be there at nine. Fortunately, there was a Java Cava just down the street within easy "wheeling" distance so I was able to pass the time by becoming even more anxiously caffeinated.

Even more fortunate, though, was the promised presence of Miss Krissy Mackley. The poor woman took her first step onto the ice at ten o'clock. She broke through precisely at 10:01, when she conflated the middle initial and last name of her boss, the Honorable Edward S. Platte. By 10:05, when she finished reading her statement, she was floundering in freezing water. The prey was wounded. The press moved in for the kill, their tongues firmly fixed in their cheeks.

"Will Governor Splat be doing any cliff-diving on this trip, Krissy?"

"Did you really mean to suggest, Krissy, that the Governor intends to ask the legislature to increase the size of the highway 'strut' fund?'"

"Could you explain the Governor's veto of the 'right at work' bill in any more depth?"

"You guys!" Krissy stamped her foot in frustration. We roared with laughter. The staff lined up behind her all found something fascinating to look at in the back of the room.

There's always one guy who doesn't get it, of course. One guy who, no matter how far out the envelope goes, has to push it just that little bit further.

"So, I'm sorry." My raised hand attracted Krissy's attention. "Did you say he was dove-hunting or duck-hunting?"

It seemed a legitimate question to me, but the entire room suddenly went as quiet as a graveyard. I looked around, conscious of the fact that I had just popped the bubble.

"And just what is the interest of the . . .?" she asked. "Mr. . . .?

"Rick Handley?" I answered. "Uh, Charleston

Messenger

?" I had spoken in that tone of voice that suggests that I actually didn't know either my name or that of my paper, and I was beginning to hear snickers.

I had committed the cardinal sin of allowing Krissy to regain her composure. She stood at the lectern, her arms folded across her chest.

"You're obviously new," she said with as much condescension as she could. "Is there a problem? Is your editorial board against –" she paused to look at the press release from which she had started reading "– duck hunting?"

"No, ma'am," I said over the laughter. "Not in season. But my understanding is that there isn't a state in this country that allows duck hunting in May. Is he out of the country? Or perhaps I'm mistaken?"

That shut everyone up again. But this time they were all looking at Krissy. Krissy was looking down at the paper on her lectern, quite clearly the source of all her knowledge, and then back at the press office staff. They were again staring off into the distance.

"I'll have to, um, get back to you on that, Mr. Handley," she said. "If there are no further questions, thank you, ladies and gentleman of the press corpse."

We roared again at her pronunciation of "corps," and she left in a huff. With her assistant huffers right behind her.

I was instantly voted an assistant membership in the newly formed Reporters Corpse Association and given a nickname: "Skewer." I hung around for another hour, meeting the other men and women of the Association, all of them from other state newspapers.

**********

"So, buddy," I said to Inigo that evening. "We were pretty damn good yesterday, weren't we?

"We won," he said coldly.

"Won?" I threw my head back and laughed. "We kicked their asses."

"They were idiots," Inigo said. "Paper thieves. Cardboard fencers. If they were any good, you would have been on the ground, 'buddy,' and I would have had a sword in my back."

"I was great," I insisted.

"You were adequate," he said.

"Oh, fuck you. You're just jealous because you drank too much and fell asleep last night."

"Draw your sword!"

"Inigo," I protested, "come on . . ."

"Draw your sword," he growled.

I drew my sword. Three seconds later it was lying in the dust of the street and the townspeople were laughing at me. This time I didn't think I was going to be able to say anything clever to get them back on my side.

"You think six days is enough to learn fencing?" Inigo asked.

"No," I said, downcast. "I guess it's not."

"Pick it up, Handley. We have much more work to do."

**********

The press conference on Tuesday morning was uneventful. A chastened Krissy Mackley confessed that the press release from which she had read was incorrect, although she evidently had no interest in taking responsibility for that herself. Governor Platt was in fact dove-hunting at a private reserve in Texas.

The RCA gave her a pass on that mistake. There wasn't any other news and no one, other than maybe some dove lovers, really cared what kind of birds the Governor was going to be shooting. We were done after a half hour, and I decided to stop by the Java Cava on my way home. I had developed a taste for their half-caf skim milk double lattéchino, and was headed back to drop another four bucks. I sat there for a few minutes trying to think up something for Wednesday's story. My story yesterday had been about the Governor's "right to work" veto and his coddling favor with the powerful state employees' unions. It wasn't that strong and I hadn't been surprised not to see it in this morning's paper.

"Are you the reporter?"

A woman slid into the seat across the table from me, furtively looking from side to side as if she were concerned about being followed.

"I am a reporter, yes," I said. "From the

Messenger

."

She nodded.

"I saw you at the press conference this morning. Can we talk somewhere else?"

I shrugged.

"Sure. Although walking down the street with a guy in a wheelchair's going to make you pretty conspicuous."

She looked down. Apparently she hadn't realized I was chair-bound.

"Can we meet somewhere?"

I was tempted to offer a parking garage late at night. But the parking garages in Charleston weren't as numerous as those used by Woodward and Bernstein. And I wasn't all that fond of the dark.

"Lunch?" I suggested.

"Where?"

I thought for a moment.

"Do you know Tony's Deli? Two blocks down on Fourth?"

"No."

"Good. Nobody else will either. Shall we say noon?"

"Noon," she agreed with a nod. She looked around again and pushed herself away from the table as if she had suddenly discovered I was a leper

"I'll see you then," I said to her retreating back.

Somewhat to my surprise, I did see her again. Given her attitude, I half-expected her to bag the whole thing. But as I sat there with my sandwich she suddenly appeared on the sidewalk outside, once again looking around to once again make sure that she wasn't being tailed. She was older than I was, in her middle to late thirties. She was very attractive, but I sensed that a few years ago she would have been even more attractive. Her face had fine worry lines. Her smile – when she was willing to let it be seen – was forced and tight. She was dressed in a relatively simple black knit pantsuit. And she was armed with sunglasses to preserve her anonymity.

She was determined to preserve it from me as well. She entered the deli, ordered a sandwich, and joined me. I introduced myself and waited for her to do the same.

"I'm sorry," I finally said. "I can promise you that we won't use your name in the newspaper. I can promise you that we won't quote you in a way that reveals your identity. But I can also promise you that if you won't tell me your name, whatever else you tell me won't make it anywhere near the paper."

She gave me an appraising look and nodded again.

"All right, but you have to swear that this is between us."

"I will treat it in the utmost confidence. My editor may ask your name, and if she won't print anything without knowing it, I will check with you first."

"Fair enough."

She took a deep breath.

"My name is Suzanne Dalrymple. I was the Governor's scheduling assistant from 2003 through 2007. I saw you yesterday in the press room. They circulate a feed throughout the statehouse. I know why they lied to you about the dove-hunting."

"They lied?" I asked. I had thought that Krissy had just fucked up. That wasn't an unreasonable assumption; it had never occurred to me she would have been lying.

The woman nodded. She looked around again. Her paranoia was starting to bug me. Perhaps I could put a quick end to this and send her on her way.

"I was actually just sort of going for a laugh there yesterday," I told her. "Krissy was right. It really doesn't matter to our readers if he's hunting doves or ducks or starlings or flying fish."

"How about if he's on a coal company sponsored trip with his mistress?"

I stopped my tuna salad sandwich an inch away from my mouth and slowly put it back on my plate.

"That might be different," I admitted.

I could feel my heart slamming against my ribs as I took my notebook out of the briefcase that I kept hanging on the back of my chair. I clicked my pen slowly, tested the ink even more slowly, and finally looked back at her.

"Suzanne Dalrymple," I said, writing it down slowly. "Tell me more about yourself."

Suzanne Dalyrmple had been Miss West Virginia in 1993. After that she had attended the "U" and upon graduating had been recruited to work in the office of the previous governor. Along the way she had gotten married, had a kid, and gotten divorced. Shortly after Governor Platt had taken office in early 2003, she had found herself promoted to his scheduling assistant.

"That was in the spring," she explained as she toyed with her food. "The governor started taking an interest in me over the next fall and winter. It was just a fling, really. I mean, the guy was fifty years old. I was twenty-eight. He was married with two little boys. Anyway, I went on his dove-hunting trip in June of 2004."

She said 'dove-hunting' as if it were a particularly vile form of pornography. I had no idea what to ask next. The question that immediately came to mind – "so, did ya get anything?" – would end the interview immediately.

"Tell me about it," I said instead.

"Oh, God." Tears started to well up in her eyes. "It's like a fucking orgy. The whole thing is paid for by the coal companies. And it's a bunch of cowboy wannabes with their little bimbo girlfriends. It's sick, really. Just sick."

"So you just went the once?" I asked.

She stared out the window for a minute before answering.

"No," she finally said. "Twice more. '05 and '06. Then last year my mom died. She was the one who looked after Timmy, my little boy, when I went away. And I told His Highness that I couldn't go. And pretty soon I found myself as the assistant to the associate librarian."

"He demoted you?"

She nodded her head.

"Why didn't you complain?"

"You don't know those people, Mr. Handley. Everybody thinks the state government is all fair and transparent and all that shit. It's like the mob. You piss 'em off, you pay for it. And I need this job, Mr. Handley. For me and my boy. My ex is outta state now and doesn't even call Timmy, let alone send his child support."

I nodded, trying to look sage.

"Well, I certainly understand your need for confidentiality, Suzanne. Do you know who took your place last year?"

"Some coal company lobbyist," she answered. A woman who works public relations outta D.C."

"And this year?"

"I have no idea. I know his press secretary went with him this year, too. That oily little Pete Simpson. And the whole thing makes me ill. I hate to think of another girl having to go through the shit that I did. Being threatened. Having to do . . . those things down there."

I refrained from asking what things she was referencing. Maybe I would save that for a second interview. I took a bite of my sandwich as I thought about how to approach this revelation.

"Here's my problem, Suzanne. I can't write an article with you even as an anonymous source because there probably aren't that many people who would have access to this information, right?"

She nodded again.

"So I'm going to have to think up an angle to write this where they can't trace it back to you, okay? That's going to take a little time. How can I contact you if I need more questions answered?"

She scribbled a number on a piece of paper.

"That's my mother's cell phone number. She prepaid for two years so it still works. You can call me there. Not during work, though."

"No," I agreed. "If I have to call, I'll call you in the evenings. Thanks for letting me know about this."

"I hope you bring those bastards down, Mr. Handley." She stood up, put her sunglasses back on, and left the deli. I sat there for a while, trying to make some sense of the whole thing.

**********

"Follow the money, Rick."

I shared a sketchy outline of Suzanne's tip in a phone call with Allie that evening.

"I know, I know.

All the President's Men

."

"I'm serious, Rick. Start with the money. Find out about the trip, how much it cost, who paid, all that shit. Stir them up. You'll find a way into the sex. Then your source – your Deep Throat –"

"Let's give her another name," I said.

"Fine," Allie said with a giggle. "You pick a name. Anyway, she can help lead you to the rest of it. God, Rick, this is so exciting. I can't believe this just landed in your lap like this. Shawn is going to throw a holy fit when she gets back."

"Yeah." I was smiling as we talked. "And Rachel promised I could keep anything I started."

It was exciting. So exciting that I worked on my obits until late into the evening, finally falling to sleep shortly after midnight. After another fencing lesson, I awoke on Wednesday morning eager to get this story started.

First, of course, I had to put in my time at Krissy's Coffee Klatch. That proved to be the usual waste of time and I was soon on my way to the airport. Charleston had a single taxi company that was willing to accommodate wheelchairs, and I was delighted to find that my driver would be Sam Weathers, whom I had met last summer when I was on my way home to visit my parents.

"Travelin' light this time, eh, Mr. Rick?" Getting to the Charleston airport, which was basically the flattened top of a mountain just east of town, left lots of time for conversation.

"Not travelin' at all this time," I said. "Just headed for the airport to do some reporting."

"You want me to wait for ya?"

"Not with the meter running, Sam. Can I call you after I'm done, though? Could be like the middle of the afternoon or something like that."

"No problemo, Mr. Rick. Here, take a card. If I'm on a run, I'll have Shug take it. He's got plenty of room in that piece o' shit he drives."

"Thanks, Sam. I feel better already."

My first stop at the airport was the central office, where I obtained a publicly available list of all of the flight plans filed for planes that had departed the same day that Governor Platte had started his trip. Charleston was not the hub of any airline, so all of the commercial traffic out of the airport headed for either Cincinnati or Pittsburgh. There was only one plane that had been bound for Texas: a plane owned by Amalgamated Coal.

I took the next few minutes to chat with the underworked woman who ran the office. She was more than happy to give me all kinds of details about Amalgamated's plane, including the fact that it was maintained in Hangar 5 by Jerry's Charter Service. I assumed that Jerry himself would not be very forthcoming about the flights of any of his clients, but that the guys who worked for him were another matter entirely. I waited until lunchtime and found a group of them sitting around in an unsecured area of the hangar.

Shawn could have had them all blurting out every secret they had with just a smile of her full lips. It took me a little longer. I explained that I wanted to do a story on private charter flights and was hoping to interview the pilot of a number of planes, including the one owned by Amalgamated. I was told that I would have to come back. That plane had left on Saturday night and then was headed on to D.C. to pick up a passenger there tomorrow. It might be back on Friday, one guy suggested.

"I heard the Governor was on board on Saturday," I mentioned in as off-hand a manner as I could.

"No shit?" said the guy who had done most of the talking. "Norm. You was here on Sattady night. That a true fact?"

Norm had a shit-eating grin on his face as he eagerly nodded his head up and down.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Yes, sir, he was. Came over and shook my hand and told me how much he 'preciated my support."

"Your support," another guy said with a snort. "You ain't voted for a Democrat in your life."

"I plumb forgot to mention that," Norm said.

"So he was alone?" I asked.

"Ayup," Norm said.

I was trying not to let my face show my dejection.

"Course that was about five minutes after this other suit and these two babes boarded. They weren't with the governor, if you know what I mean."

His friends knew perfectly well what he meant. They all had a good chuckle.

"So anyone else ever meet him?" I asked. I looked around.

"I met him last year," another worker offered. "Just about the same time o' year."

"Billy was workin' the Sattady shift last year. How come you never said nothing, Billy?"

"Guy's an asshole," Billy said. "You want me to tell you 'bout every asshole gets on a plane, we won't have time to talk about much else."

"He goes on vacation this time every year," I said. "Shooting, I think."

Billy shook his head.

"He went to D.C. last year. Weren't no Texas trip that time."

"Man, I'd like to do some shooting this time of year," the ringleader said. "What's he after, turkey?"

"It's one of those private ranches. Doves or quail. Something like that."

"Shit, yeah."

We talked for a little longer, about this and that. Finally, I expressed my disappointment at not being able to talk to the pilot and pushed myself back toward the main hangar. The story was already starting to write itself in my mind as I pulled out my cell phone to call Sam for a ride home.

CHAPTER SIX

"You're shitting me."

"Rachel!" I said. "I don't believe that I've ever heard you swear."

"I've never read a story like this one." Her hands were trembling as she held the copy I had given her. I was taking no chances on posting this story on the intranet. It was simply too hot, and I had no confidence that everyone and his brother couldn't read it there. "We gotta take this to Bill."

She picked up the phone to call him. Yes, she knew it was almost lunchtime. Yes, she was sure that he had a hot date. It was Friday after all. But, she suggested, if he didn't get himself down here before he left he'd be kicking himself all weekend long.

Bill cancelled his date as soon as he finished reading the story.

"Where'd you get this, Rick?" he asked.

"Source at the Governor's office," I answered. "Anonymous for now."

He raised an eyebrow at me and then looked at Rachel.

"There's nothing in here sourced to the office anyway," she explained. "Except for the fact that there weren't any disbursements to Amalgamated Coal over the past two years for the use of their plane."

"Do they know what you're working on?" Bill asked me.

I shook my head.

"They think I'm doing a general story about reimbursements for the Governor's travel. I never mentioned Amalgamated or his dove-hunting trips. And I picked a two-year period so they wouldn't know that I was concentrating on last year's trip."

"And you actually confirmed that this Tricia Linney got on the plane in D.C. last year and flew with him to Texas?"

I smiled. That part had been easy. I had found Ms. Linney's picture prominently featured on the website of Amalgamated's main lobbyist. A retired airplane maintenance man in D.C. had had no trouble remembering her boarding the Amalgamated plane last spring.