A Confidential Source (21 page)

NO MORE VICTIMS

NO MORE BARRY MAZURSKYS

VOTE NO ON PROPOSITION #3

Creating a protest had to be a good thing, right? Galvanizing the public, wasn’t that what journalism was about? Still, I
wished to God I’d seen that press conference.

Marcy Kittner stuck her head out of the Fishbowl, looking for someone. I waved to her, and by the way she started waving back,
I knew she’d been looking for me. Everyone seemed to be watching me make my way up the newsroom. As I approached the Fishbowl,
Marcy practically grabbed me by the arm and pulled me inside. She glanced briefly at my blue skirt. “Apparently, you were
on
Late Night
with Leonard last night?”

There was no missing her tone, but I refused to cower.

“I tried to call you,” I said to Dorothy, who was sitting directly across from Nathan.

“I know,” she said sadly.

“Didn’t anyone tell you to stay away from that lunatic?” Marcy said. “He tries to lure in new reporters.”

Lure in new reporters? What did that mean? “Roger told me it was okay to do the show. That it sold papers.”

“Oh Christ,” Nathan said, without looking at me. He wrote something down on a piece of paper.

“It’s true, the publicity can be good,” Dorothy said. “But you’ve got to be able to hold your own.”

I was ragged from lack of sleep, but what had I missed? Leonard might have extrapolated a bit, but I hadn’t said anything
that was so horribly wrong. “I held my own.”

There was another exchange of looks. Now I was starting to get mad. “Did any of you actually listen to the whole show?”

“I listened to most of it,” Marcy said.

“Anybody else?” Were they relying on Marcy’s interpretation?

“I didn’t listen to the radio show,” Nathan said. “But I got the call from the mayor’s office this morning, and I saw the
press conference this morning in which they denounced the
Chronicle
for ’shoddy reporting.”

“I didn’t expect the mayor to be happy with my story,” I said quietly. “Providence police either.”

“We didn’t expect them to be happy with the story,” Nathan said, “but we didn’t expect them to be able to refute every single
thing in it.”

In fact, the police did not refute every single thing I wrote in my story. But it didn’t matter. They refuted enough of it
to make me look like a complete incompetent.

The basic revelation was this: Because of Barry Mazursky’s gambling history, police detectives had investigated that angle
as a motive, but it had proved false. Not only was there “no concrete evidence” that his murder was a sanctioned hit, informants
concurred that Barry Mazursky had paid off all his illegal loans.

Nadine Mazursky had even made a public appearance at the mayor’s press conference this morning to say that her husband had
successfully overcome his problems through Gamblers Anonymous. “I can’t believe the
Chronicle
is dragging this up and making an issue of it.” Marcy said she’d even wept.

Billy had taken the microphone to explain that his internal memo “leaked by some malcontent” had nothing to do with the upcoming
referendum. He claimed city attorneys had urged caution about releasing information because of the potential liability of
the high-speed police chase. Neither the mayor, the police chief, nor the Fraternal Order of Police wanted any details released
to the press until an internal report, due November 6, could rule out “reckless driving” by the pursuing police officers.

Instinctively, I knew this was a lie. “If that was the real reason, why didn’t police just explain that from the start? Say
that no information would be released until after the investigation into the high-speed chase?”

“Did you even ask about it?” Marcy asked.

“In fact, I did,” I replied. Holstrom had brushed off the issue of internal investigation the very first day. “Sergeant Holstrom
said the pursuing police officers would be cleared easily because they had witnesses and because of Delria’s blood-alcohol
level.”

“Apparently, the chief had a different idea,” Nathan said.

“And the internal report just happens to be due November sixth, the date of the referendum election? Isn’t that kind of a
coincidence?”

No one answered.

“And if the report was due on that date, why didn’t the mayor tell me that last night?”

“He says he did.”

“That’s bullshit.” Blood rushed to my face. “I asked him at least twice to give me another explanation for that date. He blew
me off both times.” I could tell by Nathan’s expression that he didn’t believe me.

The injustice of this was staggering. “I’m telling you, they’re lying. Mazursky’s own son says he was threatened by loan sharks
as late as September. He’s certain his father was killed because of his gambling.”

“Yes.” Nathan and Dorothy exchanged a glance.

“What?”

“Apparently, his mother claims he has stability issues,” Dorothy said.

Stability issues? What was that supposed to mean? He was a paranoid schizophrenic? “He’s not hallucinating this one. I saw
Barry myself with a broken arm just four months ago. And I have another source, too, who says Barry couldn’t get out from
under the loan sharks.”

“Is that the same source who told you about the embezzlement?” Nathan asked. He wasn’t looking at me, but reading from the
Sunday newspaper, where my story had gone on to detail how Barry had first turned to loan sharks to cover the missing $75,000.
“At the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter in Providence.”

“That’s right,” I said.

Dorothy was shaking her head. “Did you check that out with anyone else on the board?”

“I had a photocopy of the minutes,” I said, but I got a cold feeling, an iced shell around my stomach. I’d. spent a week checking
and confirming that Barry Mazursky was a compulsive gambler, I’d called police three or four times, double-checked all the
statistics on crime and legalized casino gambling, and given the mayor a chance to refute. But I hadn’t gotten anyone else
from the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter to talk about the embezzlement. Leonard was a board member, for Christ’s sake. For confirmation,
I’d relied on the photocopies, the meshing of the dates, the fact that news stories reported Barry Mazursky’s unexplained
resignation from the board a month after the embezzlement. A bad tingling started to move upward into my throat as I tried
to formulate my answer. I couldn’t explain that Leonard was a board member without giving his identity away. And I couldn’t
say that I’d been so focused on confirming the gambling and the police delays that I’d thought of the embezzlement, the alleged
embezzlement, as only a minor detail of the story.

Even before I saw Dorothy’s brow knot up in my extended silence, before I read the supreme disappointment in her expression,
I knew I’d screwed up. It was always the lesser details of a story that tripped you up.

“I trust my source on this,” I finally said.

They all looked at Nathan. As editor, he could demand that I reveal my source to my supervisor. My breathing stopped. What
would I do? I’d promised Leonard. Besides, it was obvious that they all thought Leonard was some kind of huckster, a showman
never to be trusted. If I said Leonard’s name out loud to anyone, my career would be over. For the first time, it occurred
to me that I could even be fired.

Nathan glanced at my story again, as if trying to decide something. Then he looked across the table at Dorothy, who lifted
her gaze to his. Her eyes were steady, certain, a hint of morality in them. You have to trust your reporters, her expression
said. He looked at Marcy, who shrugged. Marcy would turn on anyone. That was clear to me. Maybe it was clear to Nathan. Maybe
it was the deciding factor. He glanced back down at the notepad, and I breathed again. I knew he wouldn’t ask.

Another minute of painful silence passed. Finally, Nathan said, “Lawyers for the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter called the publisher
first thing this morning. They say that there was never any embezzlement from the fund. That Barry Mazursky resigned because
of his own private financial problems, and they didn’t want to embarrass him by making it public.”

The agitation raised the combined body heat in the Fishbowl to near suffocating. I wanted to run out of the room, open a window
and breathe. But I knew it was important not to sound rattled. “I’ll
find
another source to corroborate my information,” I proposed.

“I’ll need it by deadline today,” Nathan said. “Because the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter has threatened that if we don’t run
a retraction in tomorrow’s paper, they’re going to sue the
Chronicle
for libel.”

I
HAD TO
give myself credit, I sounded convincing. Nathan didn’t say anything, but he met my eyes, which was a feat in itself. I took
this as an acknowledgment that there was a possibility I could pull this off. Marcy was mercifully speechless and Dorothy,
clearly relieved. But as soon as I retreated to an empty table in the library and hid myself behind stacks of Providence Veterans’
Homeless Shelter annual reports, the rat-a-tat of fear and doubt began to throb in my heart and head.

The shelter’s motive for denying the embezzlement was clear; they didn’t want donors thinking board members regularly pilfered
from the till. So what were the chances of finding another renegade board member? Someone who would contradict the party line?

Shit. Shit. Shit. I flipped open an annual report, but stared at the page unseeing. The throbbing in my head was so intense
that I felt the veins at work through my hair. Whatever made me think it was a good idea to do a story using a confidential
source? Whatever made me think it was okay to go on that confidential source’s radio show?

I became aware that my face was pressed into my hands and immediately withdrew them. I forced myself to sit upright, look
confident, to see the actual words written on the page. The news librarian walked by with newspapers for the counter files,
which were still bound in print form even though you could get them electronically: the
New York Times,
the
Wall Street Journal,
the
Boston Ledger
—prestigious publications that would never want to hire me. I made myself smile at the librarian and say hello.

Breathing helped. In, out, in again. The implications of this size screwup were too big to contemplate, and I had to think
in small steps. I had to tell myself that this was nothing like the Tejian story. My judgment hadn’t been clouded by either
love or grief.

Leonard might be manipulative on the air, but he’d been sincere about Barry Mazursky. I was sure of it. And Drew hadn’t come
to me with the stuff about the loan sharks; I’d forced it out of him. Besides, I’d seen Barry in that arm cast when I’d first
moved to Providence, and that was only four months ago.

Tell that bitch at the
Chronicle,
she’s next.

Irrationally, hope surged. Maybe it wasn’t some nut. Maybe it wasn’t some crank call. If that threat
was
real, it meant my story had been right. It meant the mayor and the police and even Nadine Mazursky were lying and that I
would be vindicated.

With some effort, the words on the annual report came into focus. “The Veterans’ Homeless Shelter in Providence, founded in
1973 to serve Vietnam War soldiers suffering from war experiences, seeks to provide food, shelter, and mental health services
to all Veterans in need.” I turned the page. There were pictures of volunteers with long, smudged aprons and netted hair,
looking noble as they served food from tubs to men who sat together at tables, drinking coffee and warily eyeing the camera.

Flipping the report to a back page, I found the listing of the twelve board members, which I compared to the current annual
report. I was looking to determine which board members had left since the embezzlement. They were the only ones who might
not have been coached to hang up on me.

There were three. The first was Peter E. Halkias, senior vice president of the Compass Rose Bank and Trust. Bankers were not
known for their openness with members of the press, but I tried him anyway. His secretary said he was at a conference in New
York.

The second was a man named Clifton L. Snickers. Looking him up in the database, I learned that he was a lawyer and a state
representative, which meant I’d never get the truth out of him. I moved on to the third board member, Laura Ann Mocek, who
was the CEO of one of the largest costume jewelry companies in Rhode Island. Maybe that meant she was the creative type, a
freethinker, a tells-it-like-she-sees-it kind of person. The vein in my head was still throbbing. I dialed her number and
sat there, practically twisting my earring off as I waited.

When I told Mocek my reason for calling, she was immediately put off. “I thought this was about our new faux pearl line,”
she said.

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Does that mean you didn’t even
get
our press release?”

“I’m not a business reporter.”

“And you’re
not
covering the New York trade show next week?”

“Not me, but maybe someone else. Someone in the business department,” I offered. “Maybe it’s already been assigned.”

“I doubt it,” she said, darkly.

“I’m calling about your two years as a Veterans’ Homeless Shelter board member. I’m trying to confirm information I received
from another board member, concerning an attempted embezzlement from the fund two and a half years ago.”

There was complete silence on the other end of the phone, but I considered that a good sign. If it hadn’t happened, or if
she didn’t know anything about it, I would have heard an exclamation of shock.

The silence continued. Had she hung up? “I’ve been following the murder of Barry Mazursky. Trying to establish the motive.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve been reading the paper.”

Again, the silence, but this time, it was a better silence, as if she were actually contemplating what she should say.