John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

By the time Harry was done with Enrique Zamora, the producer could hardly speak, he was so befuddled. Now, as he sat on hold, Harry found himself regretting some of the things he’d said. In the spirit of the moment, Harry had led Enrique to believe that there was imminent danger of jail if he didn’t cooperate. Harry had no such power, of course, but he supposed that really didn’t matter. What the American public didn’t know about their rights was amazing. Even more amazing was how willing people were to surrender those rights if you just gave them half a chance.

As he sat on hold, listening to some inane car commercial, Harry decided that if challenged on his representation of fact, he would simply tell whomever that the producer must have been mistaken.

On her side of the glass, The Bitch sipped at her Diet Coke and took another caller. The message on her screen said that Joanne from New York City didn’t believe that Nathan did anything wrong.

“This is The Bitch. Joanne from New York, what’s your problem?”

The Brooklyn accent from the other end of the phone was as thick as syrup. “My problem is that I don’t think that sweet voice could do any of the things that the police are claiming he did. He sounds like he could have been my son when he was that age.”

“What’s not to believe, Joanne? The kid says he stole a car to get into jail, and that he killed the guard—supervisor—to get out.

Granted, he claims it was an accident rooted in self-defense, but you have to believe the basic facts.”

Joanne explained her position, but Denise was distracted by Enrique’s voice in her headphones telling her to go to a commercial. She shook her head and scowled, pointing to her watch. They had another six minutes before the next set of spots. Enrique scowled back and mouthed something unintelligible through the glass. Then he held up the telephone.

When Joanne from New York paused to take a breath, Denise dumped her call. “Well, I guess everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” she said. “Some folks just want to make them up on the fly. We’ve got to do a couple more spots, and we’ll be right back.”

As soon as the commercial started, she wheeled back around to Enrique. “What the hell’s the matter with you? I don’t take hotline calls during the show. You know that.”

“Lighten up, Denise,” Enrique shot back. “I’ve got a cop on the phone who wants to use our telephone records to trace down Nathan’s call.”

Denise evaluated the options in an. Instant. If word got out that the police could trace calls through a radio talk show—her radio talk show—that would spell the end of controversial discussion. Government and military officials would stop calling to complain about their bosses for fear of being fired. Citizens would stop calling to complain about the president for fear of being audited. Every well-placed source she’d established over the years would instantly evaporate. Without controversy, and without callers, The Bitch would be just another disc jockey.

“Hell no,” she responded quickly. “You tell him that our telephone records are off limits. We’re talking a serious First Amendment issue here.”

“Well, I already told him that—at least the ‘hell no’ part—and he says he’s going to bring us up on obstruction of justice charges if we don’t cooperate.”

Denise recoiled at the thought. “Oh really? Well, patch him through to my board. We’ll put him on the air when we come out of commercials. What’s his name?”

“Thompkins.”

The current commercial ended fifteen seconds later, with Crazy Somebody-or-other screaming about thousands of dollars in savings at a local car dealership. At her cue from Enrique, Denise opened her microphone.

“Welcome back, America, to this most unusual show this morning. The interest spawned by my conversation with Nathan Bailey just continues to grow. On the line with us now is a police officer from Braddock County, Virginia, who’s threatening to send my staff and me to prison over all of this. Officer Thompkins, this is The Bitch, and you are on the air.” She stabbed his blinking light with her forefinger.

For a long moment, there was no sound from the other end. Finally, a tentative voice said, “Hello?”

“Officer Thompkins?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Denise cackled into the microphone. “Ma’am? Did you just call me ma’am? You must not listen to this show very often, or you’d know better than to call me ma’am. That word’s got the same letters as mama, and honey, I ain’t your mama. Now, I understand you want to throw me in jail. What gives?”

The voice stammered badly on the other end. Denise loved it. “Am… am I on the radio?”

“You called a radio station, mister. That generally gets you on the radio. So, why do you want to toss me in the hoosegow?”

“I’m sorry, but I think we need to discuss this in private. I didn’t call to get put on the air.”

Denise’s voice was suddenly devoid of all playfulness. “I’m sure you didn’t. According to my producer, you want to use this program’s telephone records to find out where Nathan Bailey was calling from this morning. Is this correct?”

“Look, ma’am, I don’t want…”

“Yes or no, Officer Thompkins. Is that why you called?”

“Well… uh… I suppose so.” He sounded deliciously evasive.

“You suppose so. I’ll interpret that as a yes. And now I’ll give you an answer that needs no interpretation. You can have those records when hell freezes over. Or when you have a court order. If I were to allow you access to our records, the effect would be to inhibit free speech. And free speech is protected by our Constitution. You’ve heard of the Constitution, right?”

Annoyance was beginning to show in Thompkins’s voice. “There’s really no need to be so—”

“Angry?” Denise interrupted again. She had no intention of letting Thompkins complete a thought. “Do you also suppose that you told my producer that if we didn’t let you rummage through our records you’d charge us with obstruction of justice?”

Thompkins sounded suddenly dejected, like he’d been caught in the act of doing something wrong. “I think I might have mentioned—”

“Oops, sorry to interrupt again, but that sounded like another yes. Let me get this straight, Officer Thompkins. You’re going to charge me with a crime for exercising my First Amendment rights. Does that seem reasonable to you? Or maybe you were just bluffing, using scare tactics to get what you want, so you don’t have to go through the proper channels mandated by law.”

Boy, they didn’t call her The Bitch for nothing. Without even completing a sentence, Thompkins had made a fool not only of himself, but of his entire department. In front of millions of people. A minute ago, this had seemed like a good plan. Now he wished he could just dissolve. He thought of two or three different angles to extricate himself, but none of them would work. He could see his career unraveling. before his eyes. With no options remaining, he abruptly hung up.

Denise heard the click and smiled slyly to Enrique. “He hung up.” She laughed into the mike. “Well, hanging up’s not really an answer, I guess. But I certainly think there’s a message there, don’t you?”

Lyle Pointer liked to think of himself as the Hit Man. At five-eleven, 180 pounds, his appearance was anything but intimidating; not the brutish lout that Hollywood had cast as the stereotypical thumb-breaker. Good-looking, smart, and possessed of a sense of humor uncommon among people in his business, he had to struggle for the respect that his work deserved.

No one was more loyal to Mr. Slater, no one more efficient in carrying out his orders, yet people still assumed because of his size that he could be pushed around. Few made the assumption more than once. Boldly decisive and seemingly fearless, Pointer had slowly but surely earned the respect of the one person who mattered. And he had done that through sheer brutality.