The Stringers, page 6
“No, but to be honest I’m having trouble over it myself.”
“How so?”
I shrugged as I spun around in my chair. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I can’t figure it out. Everyone liked it, except me. I don’t feel proud of it.”
“It happens,” Casey said. “When we’ve won so many victories we begin to lose that taste of victory that was once so acute. You aren’t prone to failures, and so perhaps you’ve become numb to your triumphs.”
“Hardly. I was excited about it this morning before it published. But when it did, I felt nothing.”
“Why? What is so wrong about the story than about the others you have done?”
“It’s the fact that everyone made a big deal about me beating the Times to it. It was only by an hour or two, but Mr. Webble has been propagating about it to the entire staff.”
“Should you feel good about it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
For some reason, the cause for my disconcerted perspective on the story suddenly illuminated in my mind. I leaned forward in my seat, a peaceful expression on my face as I looked at Casey, speaking to him in a soft voice.
“I know why. It’s because I didn’t get the story done before Jenny Okon due to my skills as a reporter. We both did the same thing. We conducted the interviews, asked the questions, did our homework, and wrote the same story. I beat her to it only because I happened to be friends with you.”
Casey didn’t snap back with a clever riposte, which was unlike him. He looked at me thoughtfully, then turned away and cast his head down at the floor. He knew there was validity in what I had just said, but the way it had come out hadn’t sounded pleasant.
“It’s true,” I said. “I gave the story to you, you handed it in to the right people and bypassed a whole step in the verification process that the Times reporter had to contend with. Had I not known you, the story would have gotten published tomorrow, which is how long it normally takes for these kinds of stories.”
Casey didn’t break away from his train of thought as he spoke to me, emphasizing his points with a closed-fist gesture. He spoke as if he was trying to convince himself of what he said as much as myself.
“There is no shame in that,” he insisted. “That is how the world works. The more contacts you have, the more likely you are to have opportunities to succeed open up to you. The Times reporter didn’t make the right friends within the ISA. She probably doesn’t know anyone other than the required officer who sits at their desk in the Times newsroom and sips that artificial coffee all day long and takes their time getting a story grinded through the mill because they get paid whether a story is published in a timely manner or not. You didn’t do that. That makes you better than her.”
“Maybe in some way, but not as a journalist.”
“It’s how life is. I can’t see how you feel thrilled about it.”
“I’m being congratulated as a journalist for accomplishing something unrelated to my abilities as a journalist,” I exclaimed. “That’s what bothers me.”
“It’s no different a world than the one it used to be. To be a good journalist, you have always had to have good contacts. Think of Watergate. How did those two journalists get the story? They had the right contact.”
“Bad example, at least according to my journalism and politics course. They published unverified and unproven allegations about a sitting president.”
“That all turned out to be true,” Casey remarked.
“In the end, but not the moment the stories were published. I couldn’t have written that kind of a story now. Your agency wouldn’t let me.”
“Times are different now, Roy,” he said as though I were a student of his. “The government was not the same as it is. Before, when there was not the accountability and strict adherence to the proper role of authority, the press had to do what they could to get the truth out. But now we have an agency that helps them carry out that responsibly. We don’t have to worry about factual inaccuracies in our stories. We don’t have to worry about that kind of corruption in our government anymore, because they’ve fixed all those problems. The checks and balances have been restored. But now that everything has been resolved, allowing the press to write whatever they wish without any accountability by the government is too dangerous. There would be chaos. You’re right; today, you couldn’t write a story like they did about Watergate. But you also couldn’t write stories that in the past led to armed conflicts, like the Spanish-American War or the Second Persian Gulf War. How many wars have been started because the press ran wild and published stories that were later proven to be false? During World War I, the press ran articles about German soldiers cutting off the hands of Belgians as they crossed the border. Absolute lies. But the damage was done, and the American public turned against Germany when the other European powers were to blame for the conflict.”
“Didn’t the government encourage them to do so, though?” I asked suspiciously.
“Right, because the government was corrupt. Now that the corruption has been eradicated like a plague, it is self-regulating. It is self-limiting. Each branch has an incentive to keep the other clean and unsoiled. We have created what the Founding Fathers could have never dreamed of, a government that naturally checks itself without any necessary intrusion.”
Casey rose and approached the window, gazing out at Seattle. In the far distance, red lights flashed in the old downtown area, though the sirens accompanying them were beyond our hearing. He waved at it, gazing at me.
“That is what happens when we just leave things to themselves,” he said as he pointed at Seattle. “We get these illegal newspapers, mere brutes and thugs who tear up neighborhoods and destroy lives with the shameless filth they run. And that’s not enough for them. They have to also kill each other and turn streets into battlefields. They’ve destroyed Seattle, and it’s a good thing the ISA, as well as the Bellevue Police, have taken the necessary precautions to protect this city from the same fate. I’ve heard that they’re trying to spread their circulation across Lake Washington, but we won’t let them. We’re going to keep them isolated. Ideally they will get rid of each other and save us the trouble.”
I got up and looked out the window as well. I saw the old International District, where the red lights moved southward. I then got a news flash from my subscription to the Times. A short bulletin appeared, announcing that Casey was right. It was yet another gang shootout off at Fifth Street and Jackson by the old King Street Station. There were six dead bodies already recovered at the scene, and the shooting hadn’t subsided yet.
I gazed back up at the sky as a black form resembling a dark cloud swept across the lake from the Bellevue side of the water. Like a plague of locusts, police security drones soared silently en masse, seeking to provide support for the law enforcement officers in their efforts to take down the gang members.
It was a rare sight to see so many security drones in such a massive cluster. They were so small by themselves it was difficult to spot one, as they looked too similar to a bird to be noticed. But when grouped together, they posed a deadly threat to any would-be criminal who attempted to trifle with them. Though the smallest ones had only cameras to monitor a scene, the larger security drones had specialized weaponry which could take out a target a mile away without making a sound.
Somehow, however, the gangsters running the newspapers managed to survive each encounter with the security drones, or they suffered a handful of casualties rather than be wholly eliminated. To me, it was a miracle any of them lived.
Judging by the size of the security drone squadron deployed by the Bellevue Police, it was evident they intended to send a message that wouldn’t be missed.
“Believe me,” Casey said. “You may not like everything the ISA does. I sure don’t. I think we have some of the most officious snobs I’ve ever come across. But we play a critical role in providing stability and security. Without us, there would be anarchy.”
“I guess so,” I replied. “I just wish my father would respond to my article.”
“That I can’t help you on. I wouldn’t know what fathers think.”
“It’s quite all right.”
“Tell me: does your father spend much time with you?”
“You could say that. He likes to be around me, but he has such quirky habits. He prefers to read books, actual books, while I sit by him and read the same book on my Eye Reader.”
“Very old fashioned of him.”
“I said the same thing. But he likes it, and there’s nothing wrong with it, so it’s hardly worth bothering him about.”
“It’s good. You shouldn’t bother him about it. You get to spend time with him. Any time you get to spend with your father like that should be valued, no matter how unusual his preferences are as to his method of entertainment.”
There was an unmistakable hint of pain in Casey’s voice, which was perfectly understandable. To him, a father was an idea, a thought, but not an actual being. His father had died when he was young, leaving no memories other than those which had been imparted to him by his family, particularly his onerous mother.
I had been to his home once, and from the moment I stepped foot inside of the door it was plain to see Mr. Nowak was revered in the same manner the ancient Chinese worshipped their ancestors. His portrait was hung in the living room, his medals and awards framed and displayed in the family room for all to see and admire. The news stories recounting his feats against newspaper thugs were also hung in the hallways and in Casey’s room, per his mother’s insistence. As a boy, his mother would play him video and audio clips of Mr. Nowak’s speeches and lectures to fellow ISA officers.
Nevertheless, all this meant little to Casey himself, because it couldn’t replace the time he hadn’t had to spend with his father. So the best he could do was live up to his legacy and, ideally, surpass it. It was no small task, and I encouraged him on every level, regarding similarly to my desire to see my writing get the exposure my father’s hadn’t. While my father only expressed his personal feelings about my decision in a guarded manner, he was always eager to help me with on my initial drafts and continually inquired about the latest story, which I perceived to be a sign of tacit approval.
Casey rubbed his hands together hard, a habit he had whenever he started to fret over something, usually his internship. I had the same habit. I hadn’t known him before that, but I couldn’t imagine anything else preoccupying him more than that.
“What does your mother think of the internship?” I asked.
Casey looked at me hesitantly, but put on a forced smile. “She’s proud, as is the rest of my family. They’re happy I made the last cut that got rid of most of the interns. It wasn’t easy; two hundred applicants, only twenty openings. They didn’t make it easy for us. The application process was pretty brutal.”
“How so?”
He kept rubbing his hands, his breaths forced. “I think I told you about it the first time we met. They want to make sure you’re as mentally capable for the job as you are physically. They test you to see if you’re willing to do what it takes to get the job done.”
“What do they make you do?”
“Sometimes, the job isn’t pleasant. You have to deal with the scum of humanity, and you can’t have any pity for them. Some people think that’s what happened to my father, but it’s not true. He died saving another officer, taking a bullet that wasn’t intended for him. He was a hero. And I didn’t get any special treatment for being his son, nor did I want any. I have to earn everything I get, or else I’m just riding off of my father’s hard work.”
“So what did they have you do to qualify?”
“They-they have you demonstrate your commitment to law and order. Sometimes, in order to keep social order from collapsing, you have to remove those who would destroy it. Not all the applicants had the strength or courage to do so. I did. I had to.”
“Oh.”
“It was, I don’t know. But my mother was so proud of me. You know she’s not a very affectionate woman, or she’s not liberal about complimenting people. But you should have been there when I told her I made the cut. I didn’t send her a message for her to read. I had to do it the old way, tell her in person.”
“She was happy?”
His eyes glowed with elation.
“Was she? Roy, you should have seen her. She was in near tears when she heard. She actually hugged me. It must have been the fourth time since I was a boy. And told me she loved me.”
I was impressed. Casey’s mother was at best a distant individual who kept everyone at an arm’s length. When I had been at their home, she had been quiet and polite, but not warm. She treated Casey as if he were as much of a guest in the house as I.
“But you know what, Roy?” Casey continued. “As wonderful as it was to have my mother talk like that, it didn’t replace my father. I realized then nothing could. But I know what would have made him proud, and I’m going to do it. I’m going to become the best ISA officer in the Bellevue Metropolitan Area, and then Washington State.”
“That’s very ambitious of you,” I said. “I’m sure you can do it. But I think your father would be proud of you no matter what, wouldn’t he?”
Casey didn’t reply immediately. He tapped his hand against the windowpane, his head resting against the glass.
“I wish I knew,” he uttered.
A lengthy period of silence fell over the room. Just when I was about to bring up another topic to cheer him up, I received a message from Correen, my girlfriend, that made me wince.
Hello. Are we still scheduled to meet up at Riordan’s in an hour?
I slapped myself on the side of the head. I had forgotten to put it on my calendar. Lucky for me, Correen was a punctual girl, and she loved to extend her punctuality to others, whether they asked for it or not. As her boyfriend, this meant I had her sending me messages to remind me of significant exams, as she had access to my schedule.
The saddened glimmer in Casey’s eyes dissipated as his frown broke into a smile.
“Correen?”
“Yes.”
“What’s she reminding you about now? That you need to brush your teeth before you go to bed?”
Such a comment would have been purely funny, if it hadn’t been too close to the truth. Correen liked to take advantage of the fact that I had no mother, and therefore no one to watch over me. It was one of those things I wished I had somehow “failed” to mention to her when we had first started talking.
I sent out a fast, short message, just to keep her from panicking and thinking I was ignoring her.
Yes. I can get off earlier. Does that work for you?
Her answer five seconds later: Of course!
Perfect. I’m sure my editor can let me go now. He’s left me with nothing to do.
I’m sorry to hear that! You wrote such a good story today! Everyone has been talking about it!
Thank you. What if we meet at Riordan’s in fifteen minutes?
That works for me!
Great. I will see you there.
I closed my message inbox and then asked Mr. Webble if I could go early today. With that weird tone still in his voice, he told me it was quite all right with him and that he had a story he wanted to assign to me tomorrow that he was sure I would appreciate.
“I’m off,” I told Casey as I headed to the front of my cubicle. I looked over my shoulder at him, observing how rapidly his demeanor had changed from when he had first come in for the day. I suspected he had neglected to explain the entirety of his conversation with his mentor. His apprehensive gaze indicated it had involved his mother somehow, who kept in touch with her dead husband’s old colleagues in the Bellevue ISA office and was continually updated on Casey’s performance.
“It will pass,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
“Thank you,” Casey said distantly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I hope so. I hope so.”
Chapter Four
I arrived at Riordan’s five minutes early, which left me with some free time to consider what I cared to order, and also to prepare myself for meeting Correen, whom I had not seen in some time. I was shown to my table by the waitress, listening to the sound of twentieth-century rock-and-roll music playing in the background as I smelled the distinct aroma of traditional American food. On the walls were plastered pictures of American sports athletes, politicians, actors, comedians, and movie posters from the 1990s. In the banquet room the walls were decorated with Norman Rockwell illustrations and framed copies of the now defunct Time magazine’s Person of the Year issue.
In a metropolitan area where Pad Tai, Vietnamese, Korean, and Chinese establishments had come to dominate the restaurant industry in Bellevue, Riordan’s Diner was one of the few places left where one could order American food outside of the ridiculously expensive, ritzy places at the Kirkland waterfront. It also catered to patrons who either had parents from that era or had a particular fondness for the time period themselves.
On the surface, it appeared chauvinistic to classify one type of food as American and others as foreign, but Riordan’s had done a remarkable job of catering to the heavily diversified culture in Bellevue by providing a wide range of cuisines on their menu, though I was well satisfied with a classic gourmet cheeseburger, a tall glass of soda, and a milkshake.
The waitress brought me to a two-person table in the far right corner of the room, which I had requested because the music wasn’t quite as loud there for some reason. For once, I hoped to have a real, genuine conversation with Correen without distractions of any kind. The last thing I wanted was to have rock and roll blasting through my ears. I had a music player installed inside my ear if I wanted to do that.
Accessing the restaurant’s site, I downloaded the menu and casually browsed it as I set my clock so that it was situated in the corner of my eye, waiting for the exact time Correen would come walking through the front door. Fretting over what to do and say to her, I tried to calm myself down by rereading my story on the Record’s site. As an apprentice, I had special access that allowed me to view the number of hits a story received. My piece on the potential cost for the bridge demolition had more than doubled its visits in the past two hours, the most read of any story I had published.
