Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Eleven

Day five, and the heat has ramped up considerably.

I've no sooner turned on my computer and dropped my backpack onto my desk than Fleischmann summons me.

I figure it's because he's uncomfortable with my latest story about the inexplicable shooting death the night before of yet another teenager, just a few blocks from where the triple shooting took place. The bodies are stacking up.

Fleischmann was traveling overnight and didn't get final say on the article, which quotes two pompous city council members and two anonymous City Hall sources, including one ambitious deputy mayor.

All insist in authoritative tones that it must be a brewing, run-of-the-mill gang war, while simultaneously contradicting themselves by admitting worry that the motive behind these homicides remains unclear. Again, usually, even when there's no suspect, the why is pretty apparent.

The story essentially says the powers that be fear that without a fall guy or fall group, the streets will take it out on the city at large. And that's not good for anything or anyone.

Tourist season? New corporate regional offices or headquarters? New skyscrapers being developed? Nonprofit investment in affordable housing? All toast if their backers get spooked away from the city. And the streets will only hurt worse as authorities use canceled deals as their latest excuse to invest fewer tax dollars in fixing neglected and victimized communities.

The newsroom gets quiet for a moment because no one can help being nosey when they see a colleague called to the principal's office.

I enter the grand, oak-walled space, lined floor to ceiling with books, and see that Fleischmann's not alone. Limpett, the metro editor, and Calibretti, his deputy, are there, along with the newest member of senior management, Sadie Donohoe.

Fleischmann, who insists the younger and young-ish newsroom staffers call him "Fleisch," has always considered himself a man of the people, as long as the people don't extend beyond the walls of the newsroom. So he immediately offers me a fist to bump to remind me of his cool credentials.

"Blake," he starts, "I got a call from Deputy Mayor Spitz and Chief Watson. And that was just this morning - and the second call from Watson, today, by the way. But the city council president has called too. They're really invested in finding out what happened to those young men in Garfield and finding a way to stop the violence."

If I didn't like our top editor, I might vomit. It's insulting that he won't just say what he wants to say. And I'm not going to say it for him.

"Well, they've got a capable police department and, I'm sure, the full force of the sheriff's office to help them figure it out," I deadpan. "They'll investigate to catch the bad guys. I'll keep investigating to punctuate the 'why'. How's the saying go, 'They set 'em up, we knock 'em down?'"

Fleischmann smiles uncomfortably and nods.

"Yes," he begins to reply, but Donohoe interrupts him and snaps, "Listen, Wilson!"

She sounds annoyed. But she should tread lightly. Not because I'm so influential but because editors who aren't endorsed by a single reporter don't last. And the room is wary enough of her already because, unlike most senior managers, Donohoe did not rise through the ranks of reporting.

After college, she worked as a copy editor, proofreading and fact-checking articles and eventually graduating to more substantive copyediting, with the authority to alter the tone and style of a reporter's writing, as she saw fit.

And that's the lane she remained in - never once reporting or writing a story herself, and never expressing the desire to. Never leaving her desk for work, unless you count walking to the stacks to retrieve a book or an old newspaper for reference. That was until the Midway's publisher, Randall Smock, announced a few weeks ago that Donohoe would be joining the newsroom's senior management team.

There were grumblings of protest - not of Donohoe's gender or anything like that, but rather because she has no street chops. She's never had to get in the trenches and chase down the facts. Kathy Fitzimmons, on the other hand, has done it all in her career - reporting, investigating, opinion-writing, editing, and more, and after thirty years in the business has only risen to the rank of assistant metro editor...because she's outspoken about the rights and wrongs of how we do things.

Ain't office politics grand!

All of this flashes through my mind, and I bite my tongue as Donohoe comes ridiculously close to berating me for my solid coverage of a story whose layers we're still peeling back.

"The authorities believe you're in a unique position to help the community on this one. And we are all about public service, after all. So, the police are going to do their job. But you really need to step up your game. An explanation from you will carry a lot of weight and keep the city calm. I would just caution you, however, that this story is not necessarily a black —an African American— thing. It's about figuring out what went wrong so our community can get along. It really is true what they say, Wilson. All lives do matter!"

She punctuates that last part with a ghoulish, dimpled smile and takes a step back.

No one else speaks. And even Calibretti, always eager to be my buddy, turns his head, feigning distraction.

"So," I ask. "Is this how you all feel - all lives matter, and it's my job to save 'em? You all do realize that when the fire department shows up to put out a burning house and drag the occupants out of it, their attention doesn't mean they don't care about other people in other houses that aren't burning, right? Just means that other folks are safe, so it's reasonable the fire department focuses on the burning place. I mean, is that where we're going? All fires matter? What about cars? They all matter too, or are towtruck drivers allowed to just hook up the busted ones?"

Finally, Calibretti chimes in.

"Blake, it's weird. We know that. But you can do a lot of good with this one. I mean, you always try. But this is bigger than usual. It doesn't have to be twenty-four/seven, but it has to be urgent. Now, get out there and be you, do you. You have all the resources in the world. Just say if you need 'em."

And with that, I walk out. What more is there to say?

My phone buzzes as I grab my car keys, and I see that my Twitter feed is blowing up. Not sure why, since I haven't Tweeted today. But it soon becomes apparent.

@WilsonBlakeScribe has a hot piece on @DailyMidway today! The city's in trouble. It's proof we don't need hugs and singalongs. We need law and order! Rules! Rules! Rules! - @AmericasSharpeSheriff

Sheriff Sharpe. Should've known he would find a way to politicize the issue further. But we'll see if he's still laughing and stirring things up when he finds out that the source may be right under his nose.

"Nothing happens under my purview that I don't know about," he likes to say.

We shall see. Also, I doubt he even knows what "purview" means.