Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) (7 page)

14

Offices of the
Columbus Gazette
, ten days earlier

Jack couldn’t believe how nervous he was, sitting there in a chair by the bustling city desk in the newsroom of
the
Columbus Gazette
. A week ago he’d called each of the editors whose names Derrick had given him, and now he was waiting for his appointment with Buck Stevens, the one who’d agreed to see him.

With his big leather portfolio on his lap, he gazed out at the maze of cubicles before him, a football field’s worth of computers, scanners, printers, and reporters. The sound of keyboards clicking and people on telephones trying to get facts and quotes and scoops mesmerized him. He didn’t even know if there was a job opening, but he wanted to work in that newsroom so badly, he could taste the newsprint.

Derrick had called Jack to let him know he was in a studio somewhere in the building, overseeing a photo shoot with Ohio senator and presidential candidate Martin Sterling. They planned to meet up when Jack was finished with his interview.

Jack desperately needed the job, for Pam’s sake if nothing else. She was almost eight months along, yet she was up and down all day long at the orthodontist’s office, escorting patients, retrieving files, answering phones. He’d recently spent more than they could afford on some really cushy shoes for her, but even so, her ankles swelled up almost every night.

Please, Father, let this Buck Stevens find favor on me.

His phone vibrated. Probably Pam checking in on him.

Hey. You got a minute to meet me?

It was Shakespeare, not Pam.

Jack replied that he could meet in a while and reminded Shakespeare that today was his big interview downtown.

He unzipped the portfolio and double-checked that his résumé was on top and ready to present. He’d brought five copies just in case.

“Jack?” A gray-haired man, probably in his early sixties, approached. He was holding a mug with a Denison University logo and wearing a white shirt, red suspenders, and khakis. He stuck his hand out. “Buck Stevens.”

“Very good to meet you.” Jack stood and shook the editor’s hand. “Thanks for agreeing to see me today.”

“Let’s go back this way where we can talk.” Buck headed off, looking behind him to make sure Jack was following. He had kind of a hunched back and a medium build. “Derrick’s told us a lot about you. I actually remember your work from the
Dispatch.
”

The buzz of the newsroom gave Jack a euphoric feeling, almost as though he were floating as he walked. And he could actually smell the newsprint from the presses, which were in the same building.

They settled into a tiny conference room with a huge table and almost no room for the many large chairs that surrounded it. Buck motioned for Jack to sit.

“This election is knocking us on our rears, and it’s still a year off,” Buck said. “It’s because Sterling is so darn popular. His numbers are soaring.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Oh yeah. As of a few minutes ago, he’s atop
all
polls, including Republicans.”

“That’s amazing,” Jack said, still nervous. “Would he be the first independent candidate elected president?”

“Actually George Washington was independent both of his terms,” Buck said.

Why did I ask a question I didn’t have the answer to? Isn’t that one of those things you’re never supposed to do?

“We’re excited because this is an Ohio boy and he’s got a real shot,” Buck said. “This is no Ross Perot or Ralph Nader. The guy is a contender, and we’re going to cover him like a pack of dogs. Your buddy Derrick’s working it full-time, and we’ve got some others doing the same, in various capacities.”

“Yes, he told me it had him running,” Jack said.

“You and Derrick did quite a job on that Demler-Vargus exposé for the
Dispatch
. It was fine work. You certainly scooped us on that one.”

“Thank you.” Jack fingered his résumé, anxious to give it to Buck and start showing off his clips.

“I don’t need to see your book.” Buck nodded at the portfolio. “I’ve done my homework.”

“Okay. I’ve got a résumé for you.” Jack tried to mask his enthusiasm.

Buck shook his head. “I’ve got your number. Listen, let me get right to this thing. We like your work. We like what kind of man you are. We like your experience. Derrick’s filled us in, and as I said, I’ve done a good amount of homework.”

This was sounding good. Really good.

“So we’ve been looking ahead to the election next November, trying to plan what it will mean to the paper as we head into the new year,” Buck said. “It’s quite possible—likely even—that our local boy will make it on the ticket and, ultimately, make it to the White House. Right now he’s got a darn good shot, and we plan to cover him every step of the way.”

It was sounding so good, Jack was already envisioning a dinner-out celebration with the family.

“So what we’ve determined is this. If Sterling continues to remain up in the polls for another month, until Thanksgiving, we will likely assign Derrick to cover a new Washington-slash-Sterling-slash-political beat that would keep him busy full-time. He’d be back and forth between here and DC and working on nothing local. In that case, we would need a reporter to take his place on his normal beat.”

“I see.” If there had been any doubt before about whom Jack was backing for president, it was gone now. Sterling was his man—and his meal ticket.

“I know what you’re probably thinking, but bear with me,” Buck said. “We wouldn’t want you for that job.”

Jack felt a tinge of despair.

“We’ve got a relatively new editor on staff who’s missing her old beat as a reporter,” Buck said. “So the plan would be to have Derrick cover Sterling full-time and move this editor back to a reporter slot. The upshot is, we need to replace the editor. That’s where
you
would come in.”

Even more pay!
Yes, the answer is yes!
Jack tried to contain his excitement. “That sounds interesting.”

“I know there’re quite a few ‘ifs’ involved, but when I realized you were available, I told our senior editor we needed to try to make a place for you. Your call came at just the right time.”

That was God
.

“Well, I’m interested.” Jack realized he was smiling.

“We can talk about salary and benefits if and when it happens. Again, the target is Thanksgiving.”

“Super,” Jack said. But suddenly the doubt that had built up like a massive dam over the last seven months got the best of him. “What if, by chance, Sterling’s popularity should wane?”

“We can cross that bridge then.” Buck stood. “I’m looking at this as a long-term relationship. If this doesn’t pan out, there’ll be other opportunities down the road. Let’s commit to keeping in touch.”

“Okay.” Jack stood, debating whether to crack the joke that came to mind.
What the heck.
“I can call you every day, if you like.”

“Jack, hold up!” The shout came from across the newsroom. It was Derrick, leading a group of dark-suited men and one woman.

“Mr. Stevens, thank you again,” Jack said to Buck. “I’m going to say hello to Derrick.”

“Fine. I’m going to scoot back to my office before I get swept up in all the hoopla.” Buck waved at Derrick’s group, then went the other way.

Derrick approached, leading Martin Sterling and his entourage, and Jack felt as if he were in a dream. The whole morning at the newspaper had been a dream—a very good dream from which he had no desire to wake up.

Sterling was flanked by two generic-looking security guards and his sharp young black-haired handler lady, who ran a finger down a clipboard, checked her watch, and whispered something to Sterling. A third security guy, portly and dark skinned, brought up the rear. He produced a toothpick from somewhere in his big mouth, swirled it on his tongue, and made it disappear again as he gazed about the newsroom, looking bored.

“Jack, I want you to meet the next president of the United States, Martin Sterling.” Derrick smiled and gestured toward the senator. “Senator Sterling, this is my best friend, best man, and hopefully soon-to-be new reporter with the
Gazette
, Jack Crittendon.”

Sterling had a viselike grip. “Pleasure to meet you, Jack. You two made quite a team on that Demler-Vargus fiasco. Woodward and Bernstein got nothing on you.”

Jack chuckled. “Thank you, sir.”

“We just did a photo shoot for the Sunday magazine,” Derrick said.

“My mother-in-law is a huge fan of yours,” Jack said to Sterling. “Wait till she hears that I met you.”

“Jenny, do we have a photograph for Jack’s mother-in-law?”

From beneath her clipboard Jenny produced an eight-by-ten glossy of Sterling wearing a bomber jacket with an American flag on the shoulder. She uncapped a Sharpie and handed them both to Sterling.

“What’s her name?”

“Margaret,” Jack said.

Sterling scribbled a brief message, signed with looping exaggeration, and handed the photo and marker back to Jenny, who blew on the signature and gave the photo to Jack.

“Thank you very much. She’s going to collapse when she sees this,” Jack said. “I mean it. Over the past few months she’s become a diehard supporter, mainly because of your stance on national security and defense spending.”

“We have a great deal of support from the elderly. More than the president does. That’s clear. At least that’s what the polls say. It’s the young vote we must have.”

Sterling looked at Derrick to say,
This is off the record
, then turned back to Jack.

“We don’t think young people grasp what the country’s in danger of losing. It’s about freedom and heritage and legacy. But they’re more concerned about taking pictures of themselves and posting them on Twitter and Facebook.” He lowered his voice and inched closer to Jack. “They’re so darn inward-focused … they’re
asleep
. They have no concept of reality. Not in their wildest dreams do they realize how drastically things could change.” He snapped his fingers. “Overnight.”

“Senator.” The young lady tapped her watch. “We do have a tight agenda. Best we keep moving.”

Sterling shook his head and waved a hand. “Aw, don’t get me started. Jack …” They shook hands. “Great to meet you. I assume I’ll be seeing more of you, if and when you come on board here.”

Jack smiled. “Yes, sir. I look forward to it. Good luck in the days ahead.”

Derrick and he bumped fists, and the Sterling entourage continued through the newsroom like a dark cloud working its way across a white sky.

The new text waiting on his phone was another from Shakespeare. He was at the Sinclair, a tavern several doors down from the
Gazette
. With a bounce in his step, Jack made his way to the windy city street. He stood there for a moment, eyeballing the concrete landscape, high-rises, eateries, and businesses, and pictured himself working there.

He took in an enormous breath of cold air. He hadn’t felt so excited in months.

Thank you. That was good. Please … please let this happen.

He ducked into the dark bar, let his eyes adjust, and walked toward the back. It smelled like … fish. Shakespeare lifted a drink to get his attention.

“Hey, man.” Jack slid in across from him. “What’s going on?”

Shakespeare reeked of booze. His drink was dark gold with no ice—whiskey, Jack presumed.

Both elbows on the table, Shakespeare pursed his lips and swirled the drink. “Sheena’s leaving.”

Jack deflated.

A waitress appeared. Jack ordered a tonic and lime. Shakespeare ordered another short whiskey.

“Why?” Jack asked.

“I am a ‘survivalist freak
.
’ I have ‘lost touch with reality.’” His head wobbled back and forth sarcastically with each word. “I have taken my ‘threat addiction’ too far. I have failed as a husband and father … You want me to keep going?”

“What about the kids?”

Shakespeare tossed his head back, draining the drink. “She says she’s taking ’em.” He wiped his mouth with the back of a wrist and nodded slowly.

“Does she want the house?”

“She doesn’t care. Just wants out.” His speech was slurred.

“Maybe it was just a bad day,” Jack said. “Didn’t she do this once before?”

“She’s talked to a lawyer. She means it this time.”

“Man …”

He lifted up and craned his neck toward the bar. “How long does it take to pour a whiskey?”

“So what’re you gonna do?”

He looked down, shook his head, then tipped the empty glass way back again, loudly sucking at the last few drops. “Looks like I’m gonna be flyin’ solo.”

“Dude, I know a really good marriage counselor. She’s helped a couple of my friends. One says she saved their marriage.”

The waitress showed up, and Shakespeare eyed his drink as if she’d just arrived with a lobster dinner.

“Christian, I suppose.” He didn’t take his eyes off the drink.

“Yes.”

He took a swig, puckered his lips, and let out an “Ahh,” as if the drink was his lifeline.

“You’re not driving home. I’ll take you,” Jack said.

“I’m not like you, Jack …” Shakespeare winced. “There’s something different about you. I’ve always admired it—”

“You need to make an appointment with this lady—”

“I mean it. You’re a real Christian. You don’t just hang out with other Christians. You’re friends with everybody. You care about people.
Phhh
… what a concept.” He took another swig. “Most of the Christians I know are self-righteous idiots. Think they’re better than everyone else. Bunch of hypocrites. It’s all just talk. I can’t stand it.”

“God knows our hearts, dude.”

“Yeah.” Shakespeare chuckled but didn’t smile. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Jack got out his phone and searched for the counselor’s name and number. He and Pam had actually discussed going to see her on several different occasions.

“Don’t bother. She won’t do it. She’s done.” Shakespeare looked at his watch. “Thanks anyway.”

“What if you and I were to get together? Say once a week.”

Shakespeare looked at Jack intently, his mouth sealed shut.