Jason Pinter - The Fury

Paulina Cole had actually been my coworker at the

Gazette, but soon left for the more lucrative pastures of the Dispatch. There she became the paper's chief print antagonist, penning articles that were as loved as they were reviled, and always stirred up controversy. She'd slimed me in print numerous times, and had made it clear that her mission was to bring our paper down. Last year she'd penned an expose on my mentor, Jack

O'Donell, exposing his rampant alcoholism, shaming the man to the point where he'd left the paper and dis appeared. I heard several rumors testifying to his where abouts. They usually ran the spectrum of "he's in rehab in Colorado" to "he threw himself off the Verrazano

Bridge."

I missed Jack deeply, the newsroom felt as if it were missing its most important gear with him gone. Yet I knew the man needed time to heal. I only hoped he would, and that the Jack O'Donnell who'd single handedly brought the Gazette to journalistic promi nence would return to his old, worn desk.

In my heart, I knew what I had to do. The cops had my father. They had physical evidence he was not only at the scene of the crime, but had actually handled the murder weapon. They had proof of his travel; no doubt airline bookings and credit-card receipts would show his travel plans.

And the most damaging piece of all, they had a motive.

Odds were my father would be made to stand trial by the grand jury, and he certainly wouldn't be able to afford a lawyer worth a damn. His freedom-maybe his life-would be in the hands of whatever public defender happened to have a clear docket. I'd like to say my contacts in the press might get my father someone with a little more experience, a little more court savvy, someone who would maybe even take a pro bono case or two. Unfortunately that wasn't so. Law-enforcement officials-except for a scant few-weren't big fans of mine. They still harbored a grudge for one of their own who died, and right or not, they blamed me for his death.

James Parker didn't just face an uphill climb, he faced a sheer cliff slick with ice.

When we landed, I called Wallace Langston at the

Gazette and told him I'd be there within the hour.

Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 04

The Fury (2009)

Amanda and I stepped into the taxi line.

"What are you going to do?" Amanda asked. I pocketed the phone as a cab pulled up.

"Only thing I can do," I said. "I need to prove he's innocent. And then find at who killed Stephen Gaines."

The newsroom of the New York Gazette felt like home.

And after leaving Bend, a place I never truly thought of as one, I needed a new home. Many of the reporters I considered friends, and even those I clashed with, like

Frank Rourke, had started to attain a certain grudging respect for me. I'd started here under the worst circum stances imaginable. Fresh out of college, anointed the golden boy right off the bat, and immediately embroiled in a scandal that threatened not only the integrity of the paper but my life. It's no secret which of those things most reporters considered of predominant importance.

I exited the elevator and made my way down the hall.

Evelyn Waterstone saw me rounding the corner. I gave a halfhearted wave, and she snorted like I'd just pulled my pants down in the middle of the cafeteria. Evelyn was never one for endearing gestures.

Making my way to Wallace's office through the sea of dropped pens, smells of ink, paper and clothing still fresh from its wearer's most recent smoke break, I looked up to see Tony Valentine approaching.

Tony's face erupted in a toothy smile as he sped up to meet me. I took a breath, prepared for whatever verbal bath I was about to get. Tony was wearing a blue pin-striped suit with a yellow tie. His face looked extra orange today. Either he'd fallen asleep in the tanning bed, or his mother had mated with a pumpkin.

That wolf's mouth open in a wide smile, perfect, gleaming teeth. Nobody in their life had ever been so happy to see me.

It was impossible to avoid him, so I sucked it up and prepared myself.

"Henry!" Tony shouted with the glee of a man who found a rolled-up hundred in his pocket. "Listen, my man, it's good to see you back here. I've heard some bad things about you and your pops, and you always assume the worst. So I'm glad to see you're okay, my man."

"Wait," I said, holding my hand up. "What did you hear about 'me and my pops'?"

"Oh, this and that," he said cryptically.

"Oh yeah? And who are these sources of yours?"

"Please," Tony said. "You have your channels of in formation and I have mine. Let's leave it at that. But listen, my man, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a lawyer who reps all the celebrities when they, shall we say, stray on the wrong side of the law.

Remember how Paris Hilton got released from prison after serving an hour for her DUI? That was my bud."

"Didn't she have to spend a month in there after the judge sent her back?"

"Wasn't my friend's fault. Judge was an idiot. Can't luck out every time, but you can pay for the best luck possible. Hey, and keep your head up, because they're salivating for scandal over at the Dispatch. "

"That surprises me about as much as the sun rising."

This didn't come as a shock to me, since Paulina

Cole had all but made it her duty to end my career. So far the only surprise was that it hadn't been plastered over the front page. Since my only use for Tony Valen tine was as a font of information, I decided to play along.

"Out of curiosity, my man, why haven't they moved on the story?"

"Oh, they've moved on it all right," he said, running his hand flat along the air like a traveling car. "Right now it's buried on page nine. Word is Ted Allen is still basking in their Jack O'Donnell scoop. He thinks pouncing on you too hard will make them look vindic tive and undercut their efforts to shut us down. So they're waiting until the trial gets under way, and based on how the evidence looks, they'll report accordingly."

I felt a knot rise in my stomach. Ted Allen ran the

Dispatch, and since Paulina Cole worked for him, I was never far off their radar. The evidence looked pretty bad. Hopefully Tony didn't have sources at the police department that would spill details. I trusted the man as far as I could throw his veneer, but it was always good to be prepared for whatever came next. I had no doubt my father would get beaten in the press, but knowing what was coming could soften the blow.

I thanked Tony and continued on. I knew his direct line, just in case.

Waving hi to Rita, Wallace Langston's secretary, I walked into his office. We both likely knew what was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. At least I could be thankful that this would probably hurt us both equally. Wallace was wearing a brown sport jacket. I recognized the coat. A few months ago he'd chewed his pen too deep during a meeting and the blue ink spilled all over the breast. He'd gotten it cleaned the next day, but the stain didn't wash out fully. Now a small, quartersize blue circle remained.

He didn't seem to care, and nobody else did. We all knew Wallace had much bigger things to worry about, and Lord knew how many other stains and abrasions existed where we couldn't see. Oddly enough, we re spected him for that. To Wallace, the work was more im portant than the gloss, the ink more important than anything. So we didn't mention it.

Other than the occasional chewed-to-death pen we left on his desk as a friendly reminder.

Wallace looked up when he saw me come in. His lips were tight beneath the closely shaved beard. His eyes were bloodshot, as usual. He was hardly a peppy man, unless he was excited about a story. And bad news seemed to take him over like a death shroud. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and unfortunately I'd had far too many experiences piercing that heart.