Allen Steele - Jericho Iteration

Estes didn’t even blink. “I’d be happy to give you a response,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t know much more than what I’ve read in this morning’s paper.”

He was already disavowing any connection. “Well, sir,” I went on, “it’s interesting to hear you say that, considering that you’ve gone on record to urge ERA to force the homeless population out of the park. Are you saying that you had nothing to do with the raid?”

He settled back in his chair, still smiling at me. “For one thing, I’m not sure if ‘raid’ is the appropriate word,” he replied, switching hands on the receiver. “‘Peaceful police action’ is probably the right term. And although I’ve asked Colonel Barris to step up his enforcement of the indigent population in Forest Park, I can’t say that I’ve directly requested him to … um, conduct any ‘raids,’ so to speak, on the park or the Muny in particular.”

Clever son of a bitch. Until Estes saw how public reaction toward the raid swung, he was carefully avoiding any credit for it, while simultaneously making sure that his name was still associated with the “peaceful police action” if it turned out that the majority of voters were in favor of what had happened last night.

“Do you believe ERA should conduct any further … ah, police actions in the park?” I asked.

“ I believe ERA should enforce the law and be responsible for the safety of all St. Louis citizens,” he replied.

Another neutral answer. Estes might rave in the city council chamber about “taking the streets back,” knowing that the TV news reporters would extract only a few seconds’ worth of sound bite from his diatribe, but when confronted by a columnist for the local muckraker who might print his remarks in their complete context, he would play it much more safely. I had to hand it to Estes; he was a professional politician in every sense of the term. He couldn’t be fooled by the loaded do-you-beat-your-wife queries that might foul up another politico.

“One more question,” I said. “I was at the private reception held at the Tiptree Corporation this morning-”

“You were?” All innocence and light. “ Why, so was I. That was a beautiful shuttle launch, wasn’t it?”

“I wish I could have seen it,” I said, “but my colleague and I were forcibly removed from the room …”

He raised a wary eyebrow. “Really …”

“Really. In fact, the Tiptree official who forced us out claimed that you minded the fact that I took a picture of you, and that’s the reason why we were asked to leave.”

Despite his polished self-possession, Estes looked flustered for a couple of moments. He glanced away from the camera for an instant, as if listening to someone just outside the phone’s range of vision, then he looked directly back at me again. “I’m sorry to hear that was you, Gerry,” he said. “My apologies … I thought you were someone else.”

“Uh-huh. Anyone in particular?”

His smile became rigid. “No comment,” he said evenly.

No wonder. “One more thing,” I said, “and then I’ll let you go. I happened to check your campaign disclosure and noticed that you’ve received a sizable contribution this last year from Tiptree. Can you tell me why?”

He blinked at my knowledge of this tidbit of information, but remained in control. “Tiptree has been a good friend of the St. Louis community,” he said, as if reciting from a campaign fact-sheet. “It’s employed thousands of people over the last several years and has been a growing part of the local aerospace community. As such, we have mutual interests at heart.”

“I see. And Project Sentinel … is that …?”

“A great technological achievement, as Mr. McLaughlin said during his opening remarks.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have to go. I have someone waiting in my office to see me.”

“Yes, well, thank-”

The screen blanked before I finished my sentence.

I went back to my column, this time incorporating the remarks Estes had made about the raid during our interview. They didn’t make much of a difference, except that it was interesting to note how Estes’ “peaceful police action” contrasted with the mob panic, tear gas, and gunfire I had seen and heard.

I finished the piece at about six o’clock, as green-tinted twilight seeped through the windows. By then most of the staff had already gone home; John and I were the last two people left in the editorial department. Jah stopped by to give me the contact sheet of the photos I had taken. I found the shot I had taken of Beryl Hinckley, and John glanced at it under a magnifying glass as he put on his overcoat, memorizing her face for the meeting he was supposed to have with her later that evening.

“You want me to come along for the ride?” I asked after Jah left. “I could help identify her when she-”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Pearl snapped.

I shut my eyes, cussing under my breath. I wasn’t aware that Bailey was just outside the editorial cube. He had been shutting down the production department’s photocopy machines when he overheard our conversation. Overheard, hell: the bastard had been eavesdropping.

“You let John take care of his own stories, Rosen,” he said, glaring at me over the top of the partition. “All I want from you is your column and whatever else I specifically assign you. You hear me?”

Here it comes. The second chew-out of the day. Before I could muster a reply, John cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said, “but I asked Gerry if he would help me out on this. He saw something at the Muny last night that … ah, might have something to do with what I’m working on.”

It was a good lie, and Pearl almost fell for it. His eyes shifted back and forth between us, trying to decide who was putting on whom, before his basilisk stare settled on me. “Did you get your column written?” he demanded.

“Sure, Pearl … uh, Earl. Got it finished just a few minutes ago.”

He grunted. “Good. Then tomorrow I want you working on the Arch story we talked about at the last staff meeting. Deadline by next Friday.”

The assignment in question was a no-story story about why the Gateway Arch hadn’t collapsed during the New Madrid quake. Why hadn’t the Arch fallen? Because it was built well, that’s why. When some dopey Wash You intern had suggested the piece, I had argued that point and added that the quake was old news; besides, who needed another feel-good piece about things that hadn’t fallen down and gone boom? The TV stations, the Post-Dispatch, and the local shoppers had already published so many of these yarns that a new category in local journalism had been tacitly created to encompass them: Courageous Firemen, Heroic Pets, and Gee Whiz It’s Still Standing Upright.

But Pearl had assigned it to me anyway-largely, I suspect, because he wanted to see how well I jumped through hoops. I was about to protest that this was a useless assignment when I caught John’s stern expression out of the corner of my eye and shut up. Since I was already walking the tightrope, I might as well show off my other circus tricks.

“And the next time you decide to take off with John,” Bailey went on, “you might have the common courtesy to tell me first. We got a tip this morning from some lady out in Webster Groves. Squirrels are back in Blackburn Park for the first time since the quake-”

“And there was no one here to cover it,” I finished, snapping my fingers and shaking my head. “Aw, gee, I’m sorry I missed it. Sounds important.”

John coughed loudly and covered his mouth with his hand, this time to disguise the grin on his face. Bailey shot a harsh look at him, then focused on me again. “I’m the editor here, Rosen, and you’re the reporter. Understand? Just to teach you a lesson, I want you to call this lady back ASAP-”