Джеффри Дивер - Buried (Hush collection)

Amen, Fitz.

The president had continued, “Because if you’re not confident this story will withstand scrutiny, then there’s...” He turned to the chief general counsel. “What’s the legal term?”

“We call it the fan and the shit rule.”

She’d said firmly, “It’s solid. I want to run with it. And now.”

The president looked at Bradford, who said, “I’ll stake my job on it.”

The man had debated a moment longer, looking her over carefully. Still no interest in the studs or ink. She held his eyes as easily as she’d held her boss’s.

Then, abruptly: “Okay. Publish.” A glance toward his general counsel, a nod and the two men had disappeared as silently as they’d arrived.

Now, Dottie heard the chime of her computer, signifying another incoming email. She was getting a lot of requests for statements. The bulk were asking if she would comment on the National Committee’s removal, for cause, of John Heller from the ballot, as it had the power to do, under the rules.

This amused her. Why would she comment to another publication when she was covering the story herself? She had a series of appointments lined up: cops and witnesses and lawyers to interview.

First, though, she had a stop to make: St. Michael’s cemetery. She’d cry, she’d pay respects, she’d pray. But she wouldn’t stay long. There was much work to do. It would be a horse race, but there was no other choice. The print edition of the Examiner was still alive, for the time being, and Dottie Wyandotte knew that to make the deadline she had to get her copy in by seven p.m.

A rule that had not once been breached in the 113-year history of the newspaper.