The Witch of Watergate (12 page)

"Because Downey and his son both denied the truth of
the testimony and the cult thing was mitigating circumstances."

"We are journalists, not lawyers. The information
existed. Polly made it quite clear that it was not something that had been
dreamed up. And she hedged it as best she could."

"So you disagree with Harry Barker?" Fiona asked.

A frown passed over her forehead.

"He's the editor. Actually, Polly won most of the
arguments. She would submit proof and usually Mr. Barker would bend."

"But not in this case."

"I think she died before she could make the
case." Sheila shrugged. "The fact is that the information is out
there if you know how to find it. It wasn't fabricated. Polly had dredged it up
through hard work. I think Mr. Barker was wrong not to run it."

"You think he bowed to pressure from Mr. Downey?"

"I wouldn't begin to speculate. I have a great deal of
respect for Mr. Barker. In his wisdom, he made the decision to eliminate it. I
won't second-guess him."

"Does he know how you feel about it?"

"What would it matter? I'm just a peon."

For the first time since they had been with her, she grew
sulky and distant. Fiona was beginning to feel a sense of enormous frustration.

"But wouldn't it have been overkill?" Fiona
asked. She knew it was a deviation from the central focus of her questions, but
Sheila's growing militant attitude was irritating.

"The truth is the truth is the truth," Sheila
said. "A journalist's job is to present it. That's our mandate. Polly
Dearborn died for that principle." Sheila's face had flushed. A bit of
spittle clotted on one side of her mouth. Fiona was surprised at the sudden
vehemence. She felt the rising sense of her own rage.

"In my business," she said, "getting at the
truth is a tricky business. Things are not always as they seem at first. And
even when you think you have the truth and bring a case to the courts, the most
vicious criminal has a right to defend himself and juries must be unanimous in
their judgement, which has to be 'beyond a reasonable doubt.'

"Now I'm getting a lecture," Sheila said.
"Are you saying we have to come up with the same parameters as a court of
law? Come on."

"Why not?" Fiona said. "Beyond a reasonable
doubt sounds like a pretty good standard for journalists."

"What about people who abuse a public trust?"

"Like Downey?"

"Sure. Like Downey. Favoring his son's company. That's
abuse. Hiding assets from his wife. That's a manifestation of his character.
Same goes for incest with his son. That also has something to do with
character."

Fiona paused to study the woman, still sitting Indian
style, hands clasped tightly as if she were holding a device to keep herself
upright.

"At least I know why Polly Dearborn hired you,"
Fiona said, looking at Charleen, meaning for her to join in.

"You say she died for her principles?" Charleen
asked.

"People do," Sheila said pointedly. "Martin
Luther King, for one."

"Guess we got your dander up," Charleen said,
ignoring the pandering.

"I'm committed on that point."

"Do you think that Polly Dearborn was killed by
someone she wrote about or was about to write about?"

Sheila appeared to be mulling the question.

"I'm not a detective."

Charleen turned to Fiona, an obvious gesture that she had
done her part and was now passing the relay stick. Fiona took it eagerly.

"Who was to be next on Miss Dearborn's hit list?"

"There it is. The raw bigotry of a true media
basher."

"I'm asking only for names," Fiona said. She was
fishing now, hoping to catch something on their hook that wasn't to be found in
the computer material. The fact was that Polly Dearborn was gathering facts on
many important people, raiding data banks, assembling material for future use.
Nor was it likely that the future target knew that he or she was being
researched. Or was it?

"On that point, she kept her own counsel. I never knew
who she would be writing about until she had committed herself."

"Not even the barest hint?" Fiona prodded.

"Not even that."

"Would Mr. Barker know?"

"No. Their deal was that she would tell him who she
wanted to write about and he would have the right of veto. As far as I know, he
never turned her down. Frankly, I doubt very much that she had told him about
what story she would be working on next. She trusted no one on that. Especially
Mr. Barker."

"And you," Charleen said. "Did she trust
you?"

Frown lines formed briefly on Sheila's forehead.

"Yes, she did," Sheila said with indignance.

"Not completely though," Fiona pressed.

"You don't understand," Sheila said with a sneer.
"And I don't think I could explain it."

Fiona studied her. Yes, she could understand. Some things
were just too valuable to share. Polly Dearborn was self-contained. She lived
within her own bounds. That had been adequately confirmed. No one invaded Polly
Dearborn, not her mind or her body. It was time to shift the perspective.

"So you don't think that her next target knew if he or
she was in her sights?" Fiona asked.

"You people..." Sheila began. "You may not
realize it, but there's lots of folks out there that are from the
as-long-as-they-spell-my-name-right school. Most people in power kissed Polly's
butt, hoping that their name would come up on her big wheel. They knew what
they were in for. Many thought it was worth the risk. Even Chester
Downey."

Fiona remembered seeing him at the races, his attention to
Polly Dearborn eager and solicitous,

"I can buy that," Fiona said. "What I can't
buy is that people would subject themselves to her scrutiny if they truly knew
that they had something to hide."

"Polly once explained that to me," Sheila said.
"Many people believe their secrets to be well hidden. Others have erased
them from memory." She paused and looked directly at Fiona, staring into
her eyes. "Hell, we all have secrets that we think are well hidden or have
deliberately forgotten. Haven't we?"

"We work on a similar principle, Sheila," Fiona
said.

"And when you come up with a damaging secret you don't
expect to get killed for it."

"Not necessarily," Fiona countered, remembering
statistics she had seen indicating a startling increase in the number of police
deaths. She looked at her watch. It was getting late.

"I guess you didn't bargain for a debate," Sheila
Burns said. She was smiling amiably now, obviously relieved that the interview
was coming to an end. She unclasped her hands.

Fiona and Charleen stood up. Fiona extended her hand.

"Thanks for your cooperation, Sheila."

Sheila's hand felt soft and clammy. Charleen followed suit.

"It's all right, we can find our way out," Fiona
said as they moved into the corridor and toward the elevators.

"Tough little biddy," Fiona said.

"Bet she'd love to have Dearborn's job," Charleen
said.

The elevator door opened, but before they could move in
they heard Sheila's voice calling out. They looked up the corridor and saw her
running toward them.

"Sergeant FitzGerald."

She reached them, breathless.

"Captain Greene just called. He wants to see you both
immediately."

"Thanks. We'll head right downtown."

"Oh, he's not downtown. He's in Harry Barker's
office."

"FUCKING LAWYER," HARRY Barker fulminated. He was
livid with rage, pacing his office like a caged lion unable to get to a lioness
in heat.

Fiona wondered what cataclysm had created such an outburst.
Here was this invulnerable, all-powerful editor, roaring defiance as if he were
some impotent lowly Washington species. This was Harry fucking Barker, top of
the heap, a world-class nutcutter. She wasn't sure whether to be frightened or
amused.

They were sitting around the rim of his desk, the Eggplant,
Charleen and Fiona. They had not had a chance to consult with each other. The
Eggplant looked whipped and uncertain.

"Oh, how they love to take shots at the big boys.
Really pisses me off."

Fiona was confused. Even Charleen's face revealed a rare
show of emotion. The Eggplant did not look their way, staring instead at the
raging Harry Barker.

"Guy named Farber comes to my office two, three hours
ago, says he's Polly Dearborn's lawyer. Okay. No appointment. He makes a big
fuss with my secretary. I let him in. Greasy guy, slimy. Pinstripe with a red
rose in his lapel. Stinks from heavy perfume, the kind that makes you want to
throw up. Then he says that he's the executor of the Dearborn estate. I must
have looked as if I didn't believe him. Then he pulls out a paper from his
inside pocket. I look at the first page. Last will and testament of Polly
Dearborn. So far, okay. He tells me that Polly wished to be cremated. No
ceremonies, no people. Ashes into the Potomac. That's her wish, it's okay with me.
He's taking care of it himself in the next couple of hours he tells me. Then he
says it's also her wish that the material in her computer has to be
destroyed."

Fiona resisted exchanging glances with the Eggplant and
Charleen, each of whom continued to stare at the ranting Barker. A solution,
Fiona thought, knowing it was in all of their minds. Manna from heaven.
Providence intervening. Then she remembered that the computer contained no
information, that the disk and hard copies were sitting in a luggage compartment
in Union Station. Still, she did not look at them, nor they at her.

"Fact is I had been thinking about that damned
computer. Polly's assistant, Sheila Burns, has been on me about that. Says that
Polly had a gold mine just sitting there inside that damned computer.

"Makes a helluva case considering all those data banks
Polly was hooked into and her method of operating, close to the vest, thorough,
detailed, well within libel limits. Sheila figures that it's all in
there—Polly's network of informants, contacts, notes, gossip, leads, the usual
reporter's mixed bag of goodies. Real ballsy kid.

"She's made a pitch for Polly's job. It's a tough one
for me. Move a tenderfoot like that straight up into the big leagues and I get
lots of experienced people pissed of. Bad enough I had this special deal with
Polly. It's tempting, though.

"But the point is that Sheila put it in my head that
that computer material is valuable as hell. Then comes this sleazeball lawyer
with his pitch and I can see that Polly herself must have thought that the
material was so hot that she had better see that it was destroyed if she died
rather than let it get into the wrong hands.

"Believe me, I don't fault her for that. Okay, she
trusted me, but even I won't last forever. Better the divil you know than the
divil you don't. The fact is that Polly never expected to exit the scene so
soon and so abruptly. I have to believe that she wanted me to have that
material if I was still around.

"Anyway, the paper did pay for that computer. We paid
for all the data banks. We paid Polly Dearborn a lot of bread. The stuff in
that computer belongs to us, and will or no will, Polly Dearborn can't tell me
from beyond the grave what to do with it. No way."

He drew in a deep breath and continued to pace.

"No way. I told him that we'd fight him tooth and nail
for that material, that he had better not take any precipitous action or else
there would be hell to pay. Then he says he doesn't want to be obnoxious about
it. He says maybe we could do business. Do business? I got the bastard's
message fast enough. No fencing around. How much? I ask the cocksucker."

He stopped for a moment and pointed with his finger in the
direction of those observing his tantrum. "I've checked the prick out. A
real bad apple. Can't imagine under what rock Polly found him."

Barker shook his head in an attitude of disbelief, then
continued:

"Six figures. No piker, this scumbag. Hundred thou.
You're off your rocker, I tell him. He argues with me. It's probably very, very
valuable, he says. Probably is. I granted him that. But I contended that we
won't pay for what belongs to us.

"I ask him if he has seen the material. No, Farber
tells me. He doesn't want to see it. But he does say that he will have to
defend any action on the part of the paper to obtain it. That, he tells me,
would cost the paper far more than a hundred thousand dollars. Then I ask him
how he can simply go against Polly's will with the snap of a buck. He says he
can tell the judge that the material should go to the paper for the greater
public good, some legalese bullshit.

"Blackmail, I tell him. Hell, we got an army of
lawyers on the payroll. We'll get an injunction. He says go ahead, but first he
tells me put on my running sneakers. A real hard case, that one."

He stopped his pacing, then walked purposefully back to his
desk and sank heavily into his chair, propping his feet on the rim. Fiona noted
that his shoes were new, the soles and heels barely worn. His pose was
rough-hewn and salty. Underneath, she was certain, he was pure Ivy League and
snobby.

"I told him to get the fuck out of the office,"
Barker said. "Didn't faze that bastard. He gets up, hands me his card and
tells me to think it over and let him know what I've decided. Then, just as
he's walking out that door, Farber turns around and says: "You've got six
hours." Gives me a fucking deadline. This is one hot number. He doesn't
know who he's dealing with."

Suddenly he slapped his hand down on the desk, startling
them. But they said nothing. What was there to say? There was more coming. Save
your energy for the worst that was to come, Fiona decided, searching for ways
to brace herself for the inevitable.

"I still have a newspaper to run. The whole Dearborn
mess is bizarre. Okay, this thing with the lawyer is a whole new wrinkle. I can
crucify this guy, but let's face it, this is sensitive stuff for the newspaper.
I've got to assume that old Polly has a gold mine in her computer. Sure we want
the material, but not this way."

Harry Barker paused and scratched his head. From where she
sat, Fiona could see the frenetic activity in the city room and hear the muted
hum of the busy staff manufacturing tomorrow's paper. In it would be the
recorded agonies and ecstasies of people forever frozen for posterity in a
moment in time. Fortune or failure could hang on the manipulation of language
and truth, and Barker could, by guidance or decree, shift the balance of life
by a mere change of a word or phrase, a tiny adjustment in the calibration of
language.

Fiona felt a strange thrill course through her. She wasn't
sure whether it was the result of fear or awe, but she had no doubt it had
something to do with the immensity of Barker's power. Then suddenly his pause
was over and his scratchy voice began again.

"I called you, Captain Greene, as soon as I hung up
from Farber. There he was on the horn two hours on the nose from when he left
my office. Probably to the second. He tells me he used the key that Polly had
given him when her will was signed, gone to her apartment and taken the
computer and that it was now in a safe and secret place. He tells me that if we
don't make a deal by noon tomorrow, he will destroy the material on the
computer."

Fiona froze. There was no way that she could restrain
herself any longer from exchanging looks with the Eggplant and Charleen.
Providence intervening. No apparent reference to the fact that there was
nothing in the computer. Of course, Farber might find that out. All he'd need
was a screwdriver. Best thing that could happen was for Farber to dump the
computer lock stock and barrel into the Potomac along with Polly Dearborn's
ashes. Just desserts, Fiona thought, forcing herself not to smile.

Barker seemed to be studying them for their reaction. Fiona
wondered how he was reading them. The Eggplant's complexion had turned grey.
Charleen had crawled behind her stoic, frozen look. It was, she knew, one of
those decisive moments that change the course of events. The air seemed
charged, electric. Don't say, "search warrant," she begged Barker in
her heart.

The Eggplant cleared his throat and coughed into his big
fist. He had obviously been summoned to Barker's office on an emergency basis,
adding to the impossible burdens already imposed on him.

"How did the conversation end?" the Eggplant
asked. He was obviously stalling, testing Barker's knowledge of police
procedure.

"Open-ended. I told him I'd have to think it
over."

"And are you?" the Eggplant asked.

"I'm thinking what schmucks we were not getting to
that computer before him."

Fiona felt her heart lurch.

"I'm not blaming you, Captain," Barker added
quickly. "I thought your initial idea was right on target. You had
indicated that one theory you were following was that Polly Dearborn might have
been murdered by someone she had written about, someone who had been badly hurt
by what was published. I understand your people got the clippings we
provided."

The Eggplant nodded.

Fiona lifted the envelopes that Sheila Burns had placed in
their hands minutes before.

"Sheila has just given us the material," Fiona
said, hoping to keep the subject deflected.

"The thing is, maybe she was killed by someone who had
not yet been written about," Barker said. "Someone she had been
compiling stuff about, stuff in the computer."

Fiona felt her flesh grow cold.

"You didn't know who her next ... her next subject
would be?" the Eggplant asked cautiously.

"Our deal was to finish one story before we started on
another," Barker said. "We were set to talk next week."

At least he was moving away from the heart of the issue.

"But it did set me thinking," Barker said.
"Maybe we've been looking at things ass backwards. Maybe the real clue is
not in what was written in the past, but what was intended. I figure it's in
the computer, right?"

"It's a possibility," the Eggplant said haltingly,
showing contrived disinterest.

"That's what I thought, Captain," Barker said.
"And if it's a possibility then what's in that computer is evidence."

"Following that theory, yes."

An oiliness began to ooze out of the Eggplant's skin. He
was, of course, being deliberately indecisive.

"That's why I called you in, Captain," Barker
said. "I'm looking for ideas. I figure we both have an interest in getting
into that computer."

The two men studied each other across the desk.

"We certainly should question the lawyer," the
Eggplant said.

"From what I can tell, he'd stonewall. He's beyond
intimidation. We need some device that moves faster."

"Doesn't give us much time," the Eggplant said,
looking at his watch.

"I'm instructing my lawyers to get an injunction to
prevent him from destroying the computer," Barker said. "It's a long
shot though. I don't know if they can work fast enough."

A long shot. Good odds, Fiona thought. The deadline passes.
Farber destroys the computer. The information that's in the luggage compartment
in Union Station no longer exists officially. The Eggplant looked somewhat
relieved.

At that moment, Charleen, with her infallible nose for bad
timing, spoke out:

"Maybe we can speed things up. Get a search warrant
and pick up the computer."

Fiona thought the Eggplant would collapse. She saw him grip
the arms of his chair. Fiona felt her heart jump into her throat.

Harry Barker's eyes moved quickly to contemplate Charleen
Evans.

"Now there's one smart lady," he said.