Operation Mockingbird (15 page)

“For Stephen, it wasn’t about scooping other journalists. It was all about educating people -- himself and his readers. He was a great mentor -- the best.”

The sun had set, and the only light in the house came from the street lamp in front and the back porch light. Matt made no move to turn on any lights inside.

“So, what do we do now?” Alex finally asked the question weighing heavily on Matt’s mind.

“I’m not sure, Alex,” he started slowly. “But I think I have an idea.”

She must have noticed the hesitation in his voice. She was watching him intently.

“Stephen said he and Bob were working with someone,” Matt continued. “Someone who was helping them gather information. Someone that seemed to have an inside track on what’s going on. I need to speak to that person. Talk to him. Find out everything he knows and exactly what’s going on.”

“How do you find him?”

“I can find him,” Matt replied firmly.

He could tell by the look on her face that she was doubtful. Fortunately for him, she didn’t ask any questions. If she had, she would have realized there was little basis for his certitude.

“And the police?” Alex asked. “Do you think you should we get them involved?”

Matt thought about this for a few moments. “And tell them what?” he finally said. “Tell them about the whacked-out conspiracy theories of an overmedicated, grieving widow and a journalist who was last seen living in shantytown with the homeless and is now dead.” Matt shook his head. “No. I don’t have any proof. At this point, all I know is that Stephen’s apartment was burglarized and he was killed in an attack at a homeless camp where he was hiding out. I need to get more information.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing,” Matt replied firmly. He put his glass down on the table and turned toward Alex. “Stephen warned me about getting involved. He said it would be dangerous and that I’d be better off staying out of it. Apparently he was right. And I made a mistake getting you involved. I need to go it alone from here on out.”

“No, Matt.”

“Listen to me,” he said. “This is what I do.”

“I can help. I can do research,” she continued quickly. “Remember I’m the one that got you that information about IMS.”

“I know, Alex. But this could be very dangerous and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not letting you do this alone, Matt. This is more than just a story to me. A man -- two men -- may have been killed.”

Her mouth was set. Her eyes determined. Her shoulders were back and her hands were clenched in fists, as if waiting for a fight. She wasn’t giving in and Matt wasn’t up for fighting tonight.

“Okay,” he finally conceded. “I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE NEXT AFTERNOON Matt returned from a five-mile run, his head no clearer than when he had started. Once again, the so-called runner’s high had eluded him. He had indeed exercised strenuously. His labored breathing was a testament to that, but he wasn’t feeling euphoric or even particularly happy. The events of the last few days weighed too heavily on him.

As Matt walked into the house, he checked the telephone log and found several missed calls from a blocked number. He also had one voice mail message from Cole Harrison, who said he needed to see Matt urgently and requested a call back immediately. This was Harrison’s third message in as many days. With each call, the degree of annoyance evident in Harrison’s tone had increased exponentially. In this latest message, the man sounded downright pissed off. Matt paused before muttering, “Screw you.” He deleted the message as he had done all the rest before heading to the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, his hair still dripping from a quick shower, Matt threw on a pair of well-worn jeans and a faded green pullover. He stepped into the shoes set on the floor just inside the back door and walked outside. Matt paused to take a look around the playground of his childhood. The backyard wasn’t small but the corpulent banyan tree squatting in the center of the yard took up most of the space. High, thick shrubs running around the back and sides of the yard created the impression of a tropical oasis, notwithstanding the gentrification that had been going on in the neighborhood for the last several years. Over the years, it had been a jungle where he had slain imaginary dragons. A nature preserve where his mom and dad had taught him about the many tropical plants and local wildlife that laid claim to the property.

Matt’s parents had bought the house in 1970, shortly after they were married, and had lived there until their deaths in 2008. Matt was working at
The Chronicle
and living in an apartment nearby when his father was diagnosed with cancer in early 2007. The cancer was caught too late and spread quickly. His father died within less than a year of the diagnosis. His mother had been heartbroken after the loss of the love of her life and died within six months. As the only child, Matt inherited the house and the modest savings account his father accumulated over his years as a college professor. With so many good memories occupying the walls of his childhood home, he hadn’t had the heart to sell it.

Matt descended the three steps to ground level and walked over to the grill parked close to the wall of the
house. He rolled it out from under the eaves and to the far corner of the patio. After turning it on, Matt moved easily between the kitchen inside and the grill outside as he prepared the steaks, potatoes and vegetables. He marinated the meat, rubbing in a homemade mixture of spices, olive oil and Worcestershire sauce. He pricked the potatoes several times with a fork, rubbed them with oil, wrapped them in tinfoil and then placed them on the grill. Matt cut the vegetables and then stacked the pieces on metal skewers, drizzled them with their own marinade and then put them to the side for later. The prep work and cooking were easy. Mindless. A good time to organize his thoughts.

Alex should be over shortly. He was anxious to tell her about the results of the research he had done earlier in the day. Matt heard someone open the gate on the side of the house.

“Back here,” Matt shouted. Several moments later, he looked up to see Alex walk around the corner of the house, carrying a six-pack of beer.

“I thought we could use some of these,” she said gesturing with the contents of her hands.

Matt needed no introduction to his old friend Sam Adams. “Good call.”

“Do you want me to put these in the refrigerator?” Alex asked, noticing his occupied hands.

“No, you can just put them there,” Matt said nodding toward the cooler against the wall and in the shade. Earlier he had dragged it out from the garage, cleaned it and loaded it with ice.

He put down the tongs he was holding and walked toward her. He opened the cooler, took the beers out of her hands and began to bury them in the ice. Alex took the bottle Matt offered and waved away the frosty glass he had pulled out of the cooler.

She looked around, surveying the setup Matt had established outside on the patio. She looked toward the house and then nodded. “I get it, Matt. You’re now taking Stephen’s warnings seriously.”

He didn’t respond.

“Well, it’s a gorgeous afternoon anyway,” Alex continued. “Too nice to be inside.”

The table was large enough for six but they sat at one end, Matt at the head and Alex to his left. Small tea candles in mismatched glass vases littered the table. The lights created flickers across their faces and just barely illuminated the stag horns and orchids hanging from the muscular limbs of the banyan tree.

“So …” Alex began after Matt finished putting the grilled steaks, potatoes and vegetables on the table. “What did you find out?”

“Well, I started with what we know,” Matt replied as he sat down. “And what we know is that this IMS seems to be behind some big conspiracy to manipulate the media and public opinion.”

“Everything does seem to point in that direction,” Alex confirmed.

Matt began slowly. “I can see why a public relations firm would be hired to spin the bad news. It’s not good for anyone to think that the Middle East is out of control, that
all Middle Easterners hate Americans or that the U.S. is at risk of another attack like September 11
^th
. It creates insecurity here and abroad. That’s not good for the economy. It also suggests that the billions of dollars we have spent in nation building have been wasted. I get it.”

“But this PR firm isn’t telling the truth,” Alex said. “They’re peddling what their clients’ want the general public to believe is the truth.”

“PR firms aren’t generally known for their objectivity. They’re hired to promote a particular position. At
The Chronicle,
we had to deal with that all the time. Every day, we’d get press releases from PR firms wanting us to tell stories that were helpful to their clients. Sometimes, if we had time, we’d try to see behind the puffery into the real story, but most of the time, we simply didn’t have time or we really didn’t care. If we needed a story and theirs worked, we’d use it -- sometimes verbatim.”

“But based on what Stephen told us, this company’s doing a little more than just putting out favorable press releases and hoping it sticks. What they’re doing borders on propaganda.”

“You’re right,” Matt agreed. “And that’s the part I don’t get. The fact that they are putting something out there that is completely false -- and the fact that the media is buying it. Slow media day or not, a news publication isn’t going to let you do that, if for no other reason than the fact that a competitor is going to point out the truth and you’re going to end up with egg on your face. Or worse, you will have lost credibility -- and credibility is essential for a news organization.”

“If the stories they’re peddling are completely fabricated,” Matt continued, “how could no one have noticed or said anything? How could one company have that much influence over the media?”

“Well, that part may not be as hard as you think,” Alex said as they both began eating. “Over the last several years, media companies have been fighting for relaxation -- or, better yet, elimination -- of the media ownership rules. It’s reached the point where, right now, about seven companies control ninety percent of what ordinary people read and watch on television -- seven. These companies own stock in each other and cooperate with each other in media joint ventures. The fact that the media is in the hands of so few and that those companies are working together makes it much easier for them to manipulate information to their advantage.”

Matt nodded. “I’ve experienced that media consolidation directly.
The Chronicle
went from an independent, family-owned business to a subsidiary of Armstrong Media Corporation, a large media conglomerate. Around that same time, my boss Dave Kagan went from a champion of take-no-prisoners investigative journalism, to a reluctant censor careful to print only feel-good news. He seems to have become too worried about stepping on toes, afraid of the advertising sales department and his bean-counter corporate bosses.”

“But what about the Internet?” Matt asked. “You can find anything on the Internet. Stuff you don’t even want to know about. There doesn’t seem to be any type of filter there.”

“Sure,” Alex responded. “That was the idea. And, yeah, you can still find the outlier website arguing that the earth is flat, showing how the space program is a hoax to cheat us out of tax dollars, or describing how to make a pressure-cooker bomb, but most of the news on the Internet is still being generated by the same conglomerates that control the newspapers, television networks and radio stations. These seven companies control all forms of media -- newspapers, television, radio, cable, satellite and the Internet.”

“Hold on,” she said, taking a last bite of her vegetables and pushing her plate to the other end of the table to make room in front of her. “Let me show you something,”

She reached down to the messenger bag she had arrived with. She pulled out a stack of papers and began shuffling through them.

“Look at these charts,” she said as shoved the papers in front of Matt and pointed. “AOL Time Warner owns HBO and CNN. It also owns Netscape and several publishing companies. Viacom owns CBS, several radio networks, TV stations and a publishing company. Rupert Murdoch’s News Corporation owns a television empire in broadcasting, cable and satellite, along with some Internet websites, and dozens of newspapers like
The New York Post
– even
The Wall Street Journal --
plus a handful of book companies. The same seven multinational media companies control what you read in the paper, just about everything you watch on television, read on the Internet and see in the movies.”

“This is pretty scary stuff,” Matt said as he scanned the papers.

“I’ll say.”

Matt stood and began to pace the length of the deck.

It may or may not be difficult to tell the population what to think, but it certainly wasn’t hard to tell the public what to think about. It is only after the media emphasizes or exposes a particular topic that the public starts to care about it. And, it is only then -- after the public catches on and creates a public outcry -- that the politicians focus on the subject.

“What do you think, Matt?”

He could feel her watching him as he continued to pace. He sat back down and placed the papers down on the table.

“Actually, I think you might be on to something,” he said.

“Well, it’s still speculation, but I thought it would be helpful,” Alex said modestly.

“I’m not sure how it all fits together, but it is helpful.”

“Okay,” Alex said after a moment. “So, what’s next? What do we do with this helpful information?”

“We talk to Stephen’s contact. Hopefully, he’ll be able to confirm some of our suspicions and lead us to the next step.”

“And how do we find out who Stephen’s contact is?”

“Well, based on what Stephen told me, this guy obviously trusted Stephen, so I would bet Stephen had used him as a source before and protected his identity.”

“It still doesn’t seem like a lot to go on.”

“You’re right, but I think it might be enough. I’ve been digging up Stephen’s old articles, and I found a series of articles Stephen had written about the recovery efforts in New Orleans and the surrounding areas post-Hurricane Katrina. One was an exposé on a national contractor that had been awarded major contracts for the clean-up and rebuilding efforts in New Orleans. They were able to successfully bid on these contracts despite having a terrible track record of poor work and over-billing. They did this by creating several shell companies and subsidiaries. No one knew that all of these entities were related to each other.”