Operation Mockingbird (3 page)

“Have a seat, my brother!” Matt said gesturing to the stool beside him. “You look like a man in desperate need of some refreshment.” He waved to the young girl behind the bar.

“Janie, a Bud Light for my friend here and another for me, please.”

Pierre and Matt proceeded to engage in the male version of conversation, covering all the important points such as frustrating sports team performance and attractive
women, peppered with brutal assaults on each other’s masculinity.

“So, how was it over there?” Pierre finally asked.

“Intense. Really intense,” Matt replied. “You wouldn’t believe the shit those people have been through -- still go through every day.”

“Are you gonna tell me about it or should I just wait to read about it in
The Chronicle
?”

“I met with my boss yesterday, but he didn’t seem real receptive to my material. Seems the news business has changed a little since I’ve been gone. They think more “happy news” is going to help them increase their circulation and me going in to the nitty-gritty about what’s going on in Afghanistan these days doesn’t fall within that category.” Matt paused. “I’m not sure they’re going to run my stuff.”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Pierre replied. “
The Chronicle
is lucky to have you -- and your material.”

“I appreciate that, but I gotta tell you, Pierre. They didn’t seem real eager to have me back.”

“You think that may have something to do with your exposé on Commissioner Suarez?”

“I don’t think so. They’re trying to convince me that people around here aren’t interested in what’s going on in the Middle East.”

“Well, the military does seem to finally have things under control.”

Matt scoffed. “Yeah, I wish, Pierre.” Matt took a drink. “Based on my experiences, the situation is worse than ever. I saw Americans and Afghan noncombatants get blown to
bits -- in broad daylight no less. I also saw a lot of new construction over there -- military bases -- and that seemed to be a pretty strong indicator that the U.S. presence there is going to be significant and permanent. Don’t you think people want to know about that?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. I don’t,” Pierre admitted. “People are tired of hearing about the war and the money that’s being spent over there. I know I am. I read about the big bags of cash that the CIA was dropping off at President Karzai’s office and it just made me sick. Sick to my stomach thinking about how that money could be used over here.” Pierre shook his head. “And while the U.S. government is handing over that kind of cash, I have to worry about how I’m going take care of my parents as they get on or what happens if I get sick since I don’t have health insurance.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between the two old friends. Matt was surprised to hear the big man’s confession, although he shouldn’t have been. Pierre’s parents were Haitian and had come to the United States back in the 1970s through the Dominican Republic. With only limited education, his parents had raised four children in the United States. Pierre was the oldest and ran a successful landscaping business from which he supported himself and a few other guys. Business had always seemed to be good, but Matt imagined that he struggled with making enough to provide for himself and still help out his parents who lived nearby. Both men stared out into the Bay as they sipped their drinks.

“So have you called Dana to let her know you’re back in town?” Pierre asked.

“Nah, man.” Matt said shaking his head firmly. “You know we left it on bad terms. She was pretty upset I was going.”

“Well, I think she might have recovered from her grief.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt said turning in his bar stool to look at Pierre directly. “Have you seen her?”

Pierre nodded. “I was at Monty’s about a month ago. You remember that place?”

Matt nodded yes.

“It was late in the afternoon and she came by boat.” Pierre turned toward Matt and smiled. “Get this. It was a Cigarette Tiger Twin Step called ‘Dr. Feel Good’.” Both men grimaced. “The guy at the wheel must have been about fifteen years older than Dana and looked it. But Dana,” Pierre shook his head slowly from side to side. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. That girl sure looked fine.”

Pierre paused and looked off into the distance.

“And ...” Matt finally prodded when it seemed like Pierre had gotten lost in his thoughts.

“I spoke with her briefly.” Pierre continued quickly. “She asked about you.” Pierre shot Matt a meaningful look. “You should give her a call.”

“Bad idea, my friend. You know I really didn’t have a chance with her. She was just slummin’ it with me until someone better came along. It looks like she found her man. And a doctor no less. I bet her mama sure is proud.”

As Matt drove home from his afternoon with Pierre his thoughts drifted to his ex-girlfriend Dana Fried. She worked for the agency formerly known as the Immigration and Naturalization Services, or INS, until after September 11
^th
when it had been absorbed by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. She was a lawyer specializing in immigration issues in several key regions including the Caribbean. They met when Matt was researching a story on the U.S. policy on Haitian immigrants compared to the policy on Cuban immigrants. Dana had been recommended by a friend as someone he could talk to and who could help provide some background for his story.

Dana and Matt hit it off immediately and began dating just after his article was published. Their relationship was fun and passionate and, Matt had to admit, the closest thing to a real relationship he’d ever had.

After they had been dating for several months, Dana started talking to Matt about his career. It started as questions about how his day went and he couldn’t help but he flattered she was interested in what he did. But Dana quickly moved from asking general questions about his job to offering specific career advice and then to pushing him in directions designed to advance his career down a sensible path. A path that required daily shaving, networking at various events and a new set of friends.

He soon found himself being directed down a road he did not want to travel. She didn’t take it very well when Matt started ignoring her guidance and any discussions about his “professional progression” as she liked to call it.

Matt began to realize just how driven Dana was, professionally and socially. She already had the successful career, having established herself as an expert on U.S. immigration policies. She was at a point in her life when she wanted to establish herself in the center of the Miami social scene, a place her parents had long occupied. She served on several strategically chosen charity boards. She got invited to all the right events and attended most of them, mingling easily with the Miami elite. She had enough ambition for the two of them plus half the slackers in Matt’s own social circle.

Matt was being dragged to those networking events and fundraisers that made it to the top of Dana’s pile of invitations. Once there, he was awkwardly rubbing elbows with Miami politicos, international businessmen and professional athletes. At first, it was pretty exciting stuff, but Dana approached these events as she did her career -- with a singular focus on cultivating the relationships that would enable her to be accepted as a member of the group of professionals known as much for their connections as anything they may have accomplished.

His aspirations were a lot less grand -- a hot wife, a couple of kids and an interesting job that enabled him to travel occasionally to exotic locations to report on the latest political scandal or civilian uprising. Sure, he wanted to make enough money to support his family, maybe even enough to own a boat and a house in the Keys. That was about the extent of his dreams. Aside from the occasional Art Deco pub crawl on South Beach or some random
international street festival, he had little interest in the Miami social scene.

His decision to leave for Afghanistan just when the problems between Dana and him were coming to a head didn’t help matters. Dana saw Matt’s decision to run off to the Middle East, without the support of an embedded team of other reporters and heavy army escort -- and knowing his views on the situation and guessing the nature of the stories he would be writing -- as a very career-limiting move. She had always accused him of being politically tone deaf. In a moment of clarity, just days before he left, he realized that while she meant this as an insult, he did not consider her accusation a slur upon his character. He thought the opposite was true. Being politically tone-deaf was a condition he cultivated. It was, he believed, what made him a hell of a good investigative reporter.

One evening as they were getting ready to attend yet another fancy charity event, she gave him the ultimatum most men were faced with sooner or later. Fish or cut bait. Get engaged or it was over. Matt immediately identified the bait and the sharpened hook from which it was dangled. He didn’t go for the lure. Instead, he used his impressive communication skills learned from years of interviewing reticent witnesses -- and the avoidance techniques learned from years of bachelorhood -- to manage the situation.

He paused and took her slender, well-manicured hand into his own. He glanced at her mouth, set with determination. He looked into her brown eyes, fierce with resolve. He held her stare for several seconds before bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it tenderly. He
then turned her hand over, pointed to the diamond encrusted Rolex her parents had given her for her 21
^st
birthday and finally spoke.

“The gala started ten minutes ago. We should get going.”

Dana shot him a withering glance, pulled her hand away and then surprised him with a powerful punch to the shoulder before storming out of the room.

The temperature in the car on the way over was below zero on the emotional interaction gauge. By the time they arrived at the charity event, Dana still hadn’t spoken. As they walked through the door, Dana fixed the first smile of the evening on her face, made her way through the crowded room and toward the table her parents were sharing with a prominent local attorney and his wife. The wife was a regular in Miami social circles and the current star of the latest
Housewives of Miami
series. Matt took one look at the table and then around the room and quickly determined he was in dire need of some anesthetic. He made a beeline for the bar.

Several single malt Macallans later, he was still standing at the bar when Miami Commissioner Carlos Suarez showed up, accompanied by a woman Matt quickly identified as the flavor of the month. Matt watched the very married commissioner weave his way through the crowd shaking hands, slapping shoulders and kissing the cheeks of the beautiful and powerful people. Matt scowled as he watched others around him practically genuflect to the commissioner as he moved through the room. His companion followed at a discreet distance.

The week before Matt had done a series of articles about the former bad boy turned local politician. He described the commissioner’s associations with convicted felons, some of whom were partners in his current business ventures. He detailed the charges recently brought against commissioner Suarez for violation of campaign finance laws for receiving campaign contributions from criminal elements. In his articles, Matt argued for the need to hold public officials if not to a higher standard, than certainly to the same standard expected of city workers.

Yet, Commissioner Suarez now made his way through the crowd with the confidence of a man who felt no such compunction. He was unwittingly headed straight for Matt, a journalist the commissioner had once suggested should commit a sex act upon himself. This was proposed in the most unseemly of terms and while the seasoned politician was unknowingly being recorded by a major network. For those who missed the seven o’clock, ten o’clock and even eleven o’clock news, Matt proudly recounted all the details of the encounter in an article that appeared the next morning in
The Chronicle
.

The commissioner arrived at the bar and nodded to the bartender, who proceeded to prepare the commissioner’s regular drink. Suarez caught sight of Matt for the first time and stopped, the smile frozen on his face. The two adversaries stared at each for several seconds, neither saying a word, neither moving. Matt finally smiled slightly. The right corner of the commissioner’s mouth twitched. The crowd around them, aware of the significance of this chance encounter, grew quiet. The woman
accompanying the commissioner bestowed a wide smile upon the bartender and Matt as she caught up with her date.

“Matt,” the commissioner said as he took the drink proffered by the bartender.

“Commissioner Suarez,” Matt replied, nodding politely before turning to introduce himself to the politician’s companion. He filed her name away for research later.

The commissioner ordered a drink for “the lady” before turning to greet the couple standing behind Matt. The bartender scrambled to find a white zinfandel while the commissioner schmoozed with the president of a regional construction company, the recipient of the largest government contract in Miami-Dade County history, which was recently jammed through the system by none other than Commissioner Suarez.

Several moments passed when Matt didn’t say a word. But soon the temptation became overwhelming. Dana was nowhere in sight, and Macallan was doing the thinking. As the commissioner reached for his companion’s wine and turned around to pass it to her, Matt called to him.

“Excuse me, Commissioner Suarez.” His voice sounded loud, even to himself.

Some people around the bar turned to look at him, others averted their eyes even as they stayed conspicuously within earshot.

Matt lowered his voice but continued. “Is it true that your office spent $28,000 at the Organ Grinder in South
Miami and, in particular, on a professional dancer by the name of Kiki Calle Ocho?”

Matt could see the horrified looks on the faces of those in the crowd. The onlookers alternated between shooting glances at Matt to stealing looks at Suarez. The commissioner’s date was smiling, basking in the attention and the glow of the warm bodies pressed around them, oblivious to the fact that this might not be the type of attention that one should crave.