Prophet (72 page)

The governor’s tone was sharp. “Mr. Oliver, I’ve said all I’m going to say about that. I know you covered my address to the Women’s Citizen League, and in that address I shared as much personal information as I thought necessary. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer you just be content with that.”

“Mm-hm. Well, you need to know that we have since uncovered some additional information, and in the interest of fairness I’d really like to discuss it with you before we go any further. Would you be agreeable to that, sir?”

“What information?”

Ben consulted his notes. “Well, first of all, we’ve been able to establish that you knew about the abortion all along and that the warfarin story was essentially a cover-up that you had full knowledge of and approved.” Ben waited for a reaction. There was none. “Uh . . . would that be accurate?”

The governor seemed remarkably calm—cold but calm. “What else?”

“We’ve been able to establish that Shannon DuPliese, Hillary’s best friend, was a witness and party to the abortion, and that you and your office put financial and psychological pressure on her to remain silent about it.”

That got a direct curse from the governor, and then he demanded in an angry tone, “What else?”

“I understand this could be difficult for you, sir.” Ben was trying to maintain as nice a manner as he could, but there seemed to be no way to avoid the governor’s wrath. He rubbed his brow nervously and continued. What else could he do? “We’ve also been able to establish which abortion clinic was responsible, and we’ve discovered that only a month after Hillary’s death at least one other girl died in the same clinic.”

Now there was a deathly silence.
Hoo boy
, thought Ben,
that had to hurt.
“Uh . . . were you aware of that, sir?”

Then the governor cursed slowly, employing whole phrases. “What kind of a cheap, supermarket tabloid stunt is this? You think for one minute people are going to believe that crap?”

“Uh, well, as I said, this is a rather tedious story, and that’s why I’m calling to discuss it with you, to get your comment—you know, get your side of it.”

“What does Loren Harris have to say about this?”

“I haven’t discussed it with him yet. This is pretty fresh material, it just came across my desk, and I’m trying to get some things nailed down first. I thought I’d get your reaction and perhaps set up an interview so you can respond. Would you be interested, Mr. Governor?”

“Is John Barrett behind this?”

Well . . . why hide it? “Yes, sir, this is a story he’s been working on, he and one other reporter.”

Now the governor cussed out John Barrett. “I should have known . . . that little pretty-boy TV star and his kooky, bigoted father. It must run in the family!”

Ben scribbled that quote down. “Uh . . . should I consider that a quote? A response?”

Slater exploded. “Lay off the objective reporter routine, Oliver!
You don’t think I know what you’re doing? You don’t think I know what Barrett’s up to?”

“Perhaps you’d like to discuss this with John Barrett and review the material he’s gathered?”

“I’m talking to Loren Harris about this! This has gone far enough!”

“Well, perhaps you’d like to hear some more details—”

Click.

Ben hung up, went over his notes, thought for a moment, and then went out into the newsroom.

He found John sitting at his desk, editing the script for the Five O’clock.

“John.”

John looked up and immediately knew there was trouble.

“What’s happening?”

Ben bent close and talked quietly. “I just talked to the governor.”

John could see the answer in Ben’s face but asked anyway. “How’d it go?”

“I’m on my way to the restroom to wash my ear out. But tell me, do you have copies of all that stuff you gave me?”

“Yeah, we copied everything.”

“The tapes too?”

“Yeah.”

Ben nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Keep ’em in a safe place, will you? There’s no telling what’ll happen to this story in the next hour or so.” He straightened up and looked around the newsroom, his domain. “I’ll be in my office. I’m expecting a call from Loren Harris any moment.”

Ben went back toward his office, tapping Leslie on the shoulder as he passed her desk. “Better finish up your work quick. You’re going to be busy on something else today.”

TWO FLOORS UP,
Loren Harris, short in stature but imposing in position, slammed down the telephone, took just a moment to brew up some appropriate and professional demeanor, and then grabbed up the phone again, banging out Ben Oliver’s number.

He’d just heard from Governor Hiram Slater.

SLAM! TINA LEWIS
put down her phone, incensed. She needed a moment to regain control. She sat in her chair, trying to do some deep yogic breathing, think of beautiful ocean beaches, anything. But all she could visualize was tearing out John and Leslie’s hair by the roots. Finally she decided she should be up-front, direct, honest, and confrontational, and she bounded from her office to have words with Ben Oliver. She’d just heard from chief of staff Martin Devin.

HAL ROSEN THE
weatherman knew the forecast was going to be pleasant—outdoors. But in the newsroom it didn’t take weather radar or a satellite to see some dark clouds gathering. They were moving right past the weather desk, in full view. First came Ben Oliver, walking tall and alone like Gary Cooper in
High Noon
, heading back to his office as if he would be facing death.

Oh-oh! Here came Tina Lewis, bursting from her office with her weight so far forward he was afraid she would crash right on top of him instead of making that sharp right turn toward Ben’s office.

Whew! She made the turn. At least Ben would catch all that thunder and not Hal!

Tina got to Ben’s door and waited, leaning against the doorpost on one foot, the other swinging in little circles and punching holes in the carpet. Ben was on the phone.

Then he came out of his office again, carrying some papers and videotapes. She started whispering something to him with such force that he grimaced and turned his head to protect his ear.

“C’mon,” Hal heard him say. “We’re meeting Loren Harris up in the viewing room.”

And away they went, around the corner and out of sight, Tina still whispering, and Ben trying to hold her off until they got upstairs.

Loren Harris! Now this was going to be weather!

LOREN HARRIS HAD
done many a Channel 6 editorial, and on-camera his manner had always been studious, reserved, and proper. Now, as
he stood before the gathering in the Client Viewing Room, his suitcoat buttoned, his tie subdued in color and straight in knot, and his posture exuding dignity, he was trying very hard to maintain that image, to look like the man in control, the wielder of power, now deigning to descend into the sweating, groaning galley of the ship.

John and Leslie had just come up from the newsroom and joined Tina and Ben at the small conference table. They could feel the tightly wound tension in the room the moment they stepped inside. Ben’s eyes were locked into that narrow gaze that meant a toe-to-toe tangle, and Tina was into her treed cougar role.

As for Loren Harris, he would not have appreciated being described as shaken and discomfited. It would have been better to say he was approaching a power of conviction and a fervency of delivery they’d never seen before—and should pray they would never see again. He glared at them, one by one, looking for weakness, testing for guilt.

Then he spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a choice before us, an immediate question of agenda. Do we settle this quickly and professionally, with the best interests of Channel 6 at heart and our emotions and personal views safely in check, or do we take off the gloves and let our feelings totally disrupt the orderly process so that we get nowhere? Decide now which it will be.”

He looked at them, and they looked at each other. There were no outbursts, but neither were there any concessions. Each person stood his ground.

Harris made the choice for everyone. “We will settle this matter quickly and professionally and then continue with our normal business. Understood?”

Leslie said, “Understood.”

John nodded.

Tina glared holes in the table.

Ben just looked out the window.

Harris proceeded. “Now, John and Leslie, for your information, the rest of us have seen excerpts of the video and have perused your notes, and there is no question that this is going to be a delicate matter not only for the governor but for this station.”

“And for women everywhere . . .” Tina muttered, still glaring holes in the table.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Harris let it slide. “For your information, I’ve just had a conversation with Governor Hiram Slater, and he was . . .” Harris showed a slight grimace at the memory. “. . . he was furious, he was indignant, he used an abundant amount of profanity, and he made as strong an appeal as he could to me as a friend to take control of this situation.” He paused to see if his words had produced any effect, any reactions.

“Are you going to kill the story, sir?” John asked.

Tina hissed, “There’s no story to kill! This isn’t a story! This is trash!”

Harris cut them both off. “I will finish what I have to say, thank you very much!”

They looked his way.

“The governor has his opinion about all this, naturally. He’s convinced that we’re about to do a very damaging story about him, something slanderous to himself and his family, and he put my feet to the fire, suggesting in the strongest terms that we were doing this only because this is an election year and he’s right in the middle of a campaign. He accused us of pursuing a political hatchet job—a suggestion I find revolting and offensive, and I told him so. Nevertheless, he then went on to bemoan how he once trusted us, how he always thought our station had a favorable position toward him, or at least an unbiased position, and asked how I, being his friend, could tolerate such sleazy, muckraking, gossip-mongering reporters on my news staff, including . . .” He looked at Ben. “. . . my news director.”

Ben raised an eyebrow but held his peace.