Rick Mofina - Vengeance Road

What came next was a tale Gannon had heard before. Jolene’s dad walked out on them when Jolene was eleven. When Jolene hit her teens, Mary lost her to drugs and the street. A year ago, after Jolene nearly died from overdosing on bad drugs, she started going to church and decided, for the sake of her three-year-old son, Cody, that she had to get clean.

Jolene got a fast-food job, took night courses, and through a service, landed a junior motel manager position in Orlando.

“Jo was over the moon because it was her chance to start a new life. She wasn’t proud of the things she’d done to get drugs …” Mary Peller’s voice trailed off and she stopped to regain her composure. “We don’t have much money, Mr. Gannon. Jo left last week on the bus to Florida. She was supposed to set herself up then return for Cody. But I haven’t heard from her.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a word. She never arrived. She should’ve been there days ago. It’s like she’s vanished.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Police here, police in Florida, social workers. Nobody cares.”

“You consider hiring a private detective?”

“I can’t afford it.”

She passed her folder to him.

“I was hoping you could do a story, it might help me find her. You’re good at finding things out. Please, Mr. Gannon, you’re my only hope.”

Gannon looked at the folder’s contents, beautiful pictures of Jolene and Cody, some letters, personal papers, numbers, addresses, more pictures. One photo stopped him.

Man, she looks like Cora in this one.

A shadow fell over them. When Gannon lifted his head, Nate Fowler was there.

“Excuse us, ma’am,” Fowler said, turning to Gannon. “I need you in my office, now.”

Fowler left.

Gannon closed Mary Peller’s folder, gave her his card and stood.

“Can you leave this file with me?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t guarantee I’ll do a story. But let me look it over. I have to go. One way or the other, I’ll call you.”

Mary Peller took his hand and shook it.

“Thank you. Thank you for listening.”

“Jeff will show you out.”

In Nate Fowler’s office, Ward Wallace’s haggard face conveyed the climate. Gannon had stepped into a shit storm.

“Shut the door.” Nate twisted a rubber band around his fingers while staring at Gannon.

“Jack, as managing editor of this paper I sit on the boards of many charitable organizations that do a lot of good work for this city. Did you know that Detective Karl Styebeck is also a board member of some of these groups?”

He didn’t know that.

“And did you know, Jack, that I was reminded of that fact this morning when I got a wake-up call from the publisher, who got a wake-up call from a police commander, who said your story was wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“He called it a fabrication and demanded a retraction.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Am I smiling?”

“My story’s not wrong.”

“It should’ve been verified before the presses rolled. I should have been called.”

“We called you, Nate,” Wallace said.

“I got in last night off a late flight from Los Angeles and had no messages.” Fowler glared at Wallace, then Gannon. “Give me your source’s name so we can confirm and stand by the story. Otherwise we run a retraction.”

Gannon swallowed, took quick stock of Fowler’s office, the citations, framed news pages, including Gannon’s for the Pulitzer nomination. There were photos of Fowler with city, state and federal politicians. His wife had a power job with the New York State attorney general’s regional office. His brother was married to the publisher’s daughter.

Fowler was a political player and Gannon didn’t trust him.

“I can’t give you my source’s name.”

Nate looked at Wallace then back at Gannon.

“You can’t? Did I hear you right?”

“My source has too much at stake.”

“And you don’t?” Fowler glared at him. “Do you have any documents supporting the story?”

“No.”

Nate Fowler glared at Ward Wallace then Gannon.

“Jesus. So we have nothing in our possession. No warrant, no affidavit, no court record?”

Gannon shook his head.

“Do you have a source or not, Jack?”

“I have a source, but I can’t give them up to anyone. I gave my word. You have to trust me.”

“The hell I do! As an employee conducting business for this company, you are required to advise your managers of your source, or be considered insubordinate.”

“Jack,” Wallace said, “just tell us who your source is and where they work.”

“I can’t. My source would lose more than their job.”

“Job?” Fowler said. “Let me tell you about jobs, Gannon. If we print a retraction, we rupture the paper’s credibility at a time of eroding readership. At a time of possible staff cuts. Do you understand what’s at stake here?”

“I do. I swear my story’s good.”

“Is it? Without so much as a thread of evidence, you’ve accused an outstanding member of this community of murder! A man recognized for putting his life on the line, a man who volunteers to help street people. Your story claims he killed a goddamn prostitute!”

“A human being. A troubled nursing student, that’s what she was.”

“A drug-addicted hooker.”

“My story’s not wrong, you have to trust me.”

“Trust you? We’re way beyond that.” Fowler thrust his finger at Gannon’s face, then the door. “You’re gone!”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m suspending you indefinitely, effective now and without pay.”

“My story’s not wrong, Nate.”

“Then give me your source.”

“I can’t.”

“Then get the hell out of my newsroom.”

Gannon left the Sentinel struggling to make sense of what had hit him.

Blood drummed in his ears as he walked through the parking lot to his car. He rested his arms on the Vibe’s roof, letting time pass as he contemplated the building and his options.

He had none.

He’d given his word that he would not give up his source to anyone. Not even his editors. There was too much on the line.

Sentinel workers were arriving. Oblivious to his trouble, some waved. As he watched them, Nate Fowler’s ominous words about staff cuts made his stomach tighten and he drove off.

Navigating through Buffalo’s downtown traffic, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, adrenaline still rippling through him.

The fact was Nate Fowler refused to believe his story. The guy had no respect for his own reporters. He didn’t care for the truth. He kowtowed to politics and could not be trusted with sources.

Gannon recalled the advice of Sean Allworth, the paper’s Washington bureau chief, when they’d teamed up last month for a story that never saw publication. It was on state and county real estate contracts.

Fowler had spiked it and that set Allworth off in one of their calls.

“Jack, never give that guy your sources. He’s a snake. When I broke that land development story last year, I had to give him my source. A week later, Fowler’s brother bought some key property. The whole thing stunk.”

Allworth said he’d heard rumors that Fowler was going to run for some state office, and through his wife, was cozy with big backdoor players. “He’ll give up your sources to build alliances. Be careful.”

A popular hero cop like Karl Styebeck could give Fowler a ton of community support, Gannon figured as he stopped at a 7-Eleven lot.

Okay, he was suspended, so now what?

He’d pursue the story on his terms, as an outcast.

Start at square one.