Archer Mayor - Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

I was thanking all those around me for their help when the pager on my belt erupted with its familiar chirping. As the rest of the people in the room began gathering their things and filing out the door, I used a nearby wall phone to call my office.

Brandt answered immediately. “You finished there?”

“Just now.”

“You better get over to the Reformer . We just heard through the grapevine that Gail’s name is hitting the headlines tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t answer at first. Tony had predicted this would happen, and I’d even made a certain feeble mental effort to prepare for it. But now that it was becoming reality, I felt caught totally off guard.

“That information’s from the paper itself,” he added. “One of our friendlier contacts. Sorry.”

I smiled bitterly at that. “Does she know yet?”

“I have no idea.”

I weighed my options-to see Katz at the paper, to try to see Gail, or to do nothing-and tried not to let my feelings get the better of me.

I thanked Brandt for letting me know, gathered up the files, and gave them to Todd Lefevre. I told him I’d meet him at the office-that I wanted to quickly swing by the newspaper first. Whether it was a lack of concern, or a perceived look in my eye, he asked me no questions and didn’t insist on joining me.

I drove over to the Reformer offices in a simmering rage. The Brattleboro Reformer , once a reputable small-town blend of global and community news, had been going through rough times. Purchased a year ago by a Midwest news conglomerate, it had been reduced to a USA Today -style tabloid, its front-page banner changed from traditional black to sensationalist red, all its articles reduced to one-page news bites, and its old editor and much of his staff either encouraged to leave or downright fired.

One of the few holdovers, just barely, had been Stanley Katz, who’d actually already begun working for the Rutland Herald , in the western part of the state, before he was lured back. In the old days, as a writer, Stanley had delighted in making the police department miserable, motivated by a conviction that his efforts kept us honest. Now, rehired as editor-in-chief, he had loftier-and we thought more realistic-goals in mind, such as saving his paper from bankruptcy. Its brief and trendy foray into nouveau journalism-an unappealing package in a politically hard-nosed town-had been costing its owners a bundle, and everyone knew that Katz had his hands full.

Knowing all this convinced me that, in an effort to stem the tide, he’d reverted to the take-no-prisoners journalism of yore.

But there, it turned out, I was wrong. The first person I met at the Reformer building, exiting the front door, was Susan Raffner.

Of course, the sexual assault of a prominent citizen had taken place-name or no name-and Women for Women was a logical place for a paper to seek background and quotes. But there was something in Susan’s eyes as we approached one another, an odd look of challenge that made me stop in my tracks and rethink my notions about Katz.

My reaction startled her slightly and saved me from repeating the gaffe I’d just committed with Al Santos. “She knows what she’s doing, Joe.”

There was only one her between us, and only one thing she could have done that would have brought Susan and me together at the Reformer .

“You’re just the messenger.”

She flared at that. “She’s done an amazingly courageous thing, entirely on her own. She’s a strong woman-you know damned well the only reason I’m here is because she’s in too much pain to do this in person. I’m proud to have carried her message here. If every abused woman had her guts, and everybody else stopped tiptoeing around this issue, we might start putting an end to it. Day after day, I listen to women who’ve been beaten or raped or mentally tortured, and I try to give them support and counsel, and all the time I wish I could say, ‘Stand up for yourself-plaster the walls with this bastard’s name. Tell his boss and his co-workers and his drinking buddies and everybody else what he does in his spare time.’ But I can only murmur that kind of advice, and then be understanding when it’s ignored. Who gains the most through an abused woman’s silence? It sure isn’t other women.”

I was stunned at my own thick-headedness. I should have known Gail would honor her own philosophy with action, especially at this worst of times. It was testament to my own lack of balance that I’d totally overlooked the obvious.

But my speechlessness stood me in good stead. Susan Raffner, her face still pink from her impassioned outburst, gave me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry-I’m taking all this a little personally. You’re probably the only cop who doesn’t need that lecture.”

I smiled back weakly. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Do you know how Katz is going to handle it?”

“Front page, with a head shot of Gail. They’re going to run a statement from her, an interview with me, and an updated story-I guess about what your people are doing.” She suddenly looked embarrassed and passed her hand across her forehead. “Is that why you’re here? When I saw you, I just assumed you were going in to try to stop it.”

I shrugged, not wanting to justify her stereotype, and happy to leave her slightly off balance. “Don’t worry about it. Give my love to Gail.”

She called after me as I moved toward the building’s front door, “Do you have anything new to tell Katz?”

I stopped and faced her. “It sounds like a cliché, but we’re doing everything we can. I’ll tell him we’re following a variety of leads-some quite promising-just to make whoever is out there sweat a little. But I’ll tell you privately we don’t have squat yet. We will, though. We’ll find the guy.”

She merely nodded, accepting it at face value. I half turned away again and then paused. “Could you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Tell Gail I’m proud of what she did.”

I didn't hunt down Stan Katz immediately. I borrowed a phone at the receptionist’s desk to call Brandt. I’d let Raffner assume why I was at the Reformer , but I knew better than to stick my neck out much farther. This was the last place Brandt wanted me visiting, especially alone.

I confirmed to him that Gail’s name was being released and gave him what details Raffner had told me about Katz’s plans.

“So how do you want to play it?” he asked once I was through, acting much cooler than I would have in his shoes.

“If we let them quote us now, it sounds more like we’re part of the overall plan-backing Gail up. It might help pacify the Mary Wallises of the world.”

“Does Katz know you’re there yet?”

“No. Want me to wait for you?”

There was a long pause-Tony weighing the options before him-before he surprised me with his answer. “No. Do it alone.”

I waited for him to explain his reasoning, but that was all he said. I finally filled in the void by muttering, “Okay-I’ll let you know how it goes.”

The Reformer ’s home was a new, informally laid-out building, with a large central room filled with clusters of computer-equipped desks. People came and went largely unchallenged, pausing at the receptionist’s counter only if they needed directions. I therefore made my way to Katz’s small, windowless office without being announced, and was settling myself into his guest chair before he even noticed my arrival.

He looked up abruptly from the paperwork he’d been studying. “Joe-Jesus Christ. Small world.”

I smiled and nodded at the typed sheet still in his hand, hoping to impress on him that my visit and Raffner’s were coordinated. “That Gail’s statement?”