White Collar Girl (14 page)

Inside, it was spotless and bright, as if the sun rose from within its walls. Mrs. Casey had decorated everything in buttercup yellows and mint greens. There were fresh flowers on the polished end tables and clear plastic coverings clinging to the couch and chairs in the living room. The wall of portraits confirmed that this was a home that celebrated family. Baby pictures, graduation pictures, birthday pictures, pictures with the Christmas tree, and huddled around their Norman Rockwellian Thanksgiving turkey. At my parents' house you found photographs by Ansel Adams in the hallway and a caricature by Al Hirschfeld hanging over the fireplace in the living room. But nowhere would you find a family portrait or even a photograph of my parents' wedding day resting in a silver frame. There were no embarrassing pictures of Eliot and me in diapers, no pictures of us, period. They didn't even bother with photographs posing with Hemingway and their other famous friends.

“Why, she's darling, Jack,” said Mrs. Casey, taking my hands in hers and swinging them side to side.

I was worried my hands were sweaty—that's how nervous I was.

“Just darling,” she said again. Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed and she wore her apron like a beauty-pageant banner.

“She sure is.” Judge Casey gave me a hug that I wasn't
expecting. He was a jovial man, the type who always had a smile. He was tall and had probably been handsome in his youth, like Jack.

The five other boys were handsome, too. They lined up and one by one rattled off their names. After a few more pleasantries were exchanged and Judge Casey offered me a drink, I followed Mrs. Casey into the biggest kitchen I'd ever seen. It was color coordinated like the rest of the house with yellow canisters on the counter and a row of cookbooks parked between two bookends shaped like giant lemons. She even had a yellow telephone mounted right on the wall. I'd never before seen a telephone like it. I watched her move about the kitchen, doing all kinds of things as if she had magical powers: I could almost picture her opening a can of vegetables with one hand while beating a bowl of egg whites to perfect peaks with the other.

The first hiccup came when I asked if I could help with anything because that's just what you do when you're a dinner guest.

Mrs. Casey hesitated with a thoughtful finger pressed to her chin. “Well, I suppose you could set the table.” She pointed to a stack of china on the counter and a collection of water goblets and wineglasses turned facedown on a monogrammed dish towel.

I went out to the dining room, and after placing the plates all around, evenly spaced, I separated the various forks, spoons and knives she had waiting on the buffet and arranged them before each place setting. I folded the napkins and tucked them under the fork to the left of each plate. I stood back, thinking the table looked rather nice, until Mrs. Casey stepped into the room.

“Oh my,” she said. “What have we here?”

My face burned red as she laughed and went from plate to plate correcting my work, moving the napkin to the plate and switching the order of the forks, the spoons and the glasses. Apparently I managed to get the knives right.

I was still apologizing for my faux pas back in the kitchen while she pulled a roasted goose from the oven.

“No harm done,” said Mrs. Casey, basting the potatoes and roast. “Thank goodness we caught it before everyone sat down.” She laughed and changed the subject, asking about my family. “Jack tells me your mother is a poet.”

“Yes.” That was as much of an answer as I was allowed to give.

“I'm afraid I'm not much of a reader.”

“That's a shame.” I couldn't imagine. Reading was like breathing to me.

“Well, who has time? So much to do around the house and then there's the boys to look after.” She smiled, slinging a dish towel over her shoulder.

Mrs. Casey and I continued to make small talk until Mr. Casey called me out to the living room.

“Jack's smitten with you,” he said. “And I can certainly see why.” He raised his glass to me and winked. “So tell me, did you grow up here in Chicago?”

I sensed that this would be the first of many personal questions and so I got out in front of him and turned it around. “Did you always know you wanted to be a judge?”

“Absolutely.” He smiled and went on to tell me how he'd put himself through law school and paid his dues, working his way up to the bench. “I believe in the system. I truly do. In this imperfect world of ours, I believe that our justice system is worth upholding. You know what makes this the greatest country in the world? It's not our standard of living—it's our constitution.” He thrust his finger in the air and nodded. “That's the backbone of our society and we owe a debt of gratitude to our founding fathers. What courage, wisdom and foresight they had.” He spoke with such pride. It made me feel patriotic. “I wanted Jack to go to law school, too, but he's got that reporting bug. I guess you have it, too, huh?”

“It runs in my family,” I said with a smile, grateful that we were called to dinner before he could ask me to elaborate.

I took my place at the table with the rest of the family, and as I looked around the room, something caught in my chest. Something bittersweet. Jack and I hadn't officially become engaged yet, but still, it struck me that this was my future family. There was so much to live up to. In my mind, the Caseys were perfect. The judge no doubt helped his young boys with their schoolwork after supper while Mrs. Casey darned their socks and tucked the younger ones in for the night with bedtime stories. They were wholesome and innocent, and no one drank too much or used curse words or isolated themselves in their office. I couldn't see how my parents and I fit into this picture. But I knew I wanted to try.

I was admiring them when without warning all members of the Casey clan joined hands, bowed their heads and said grace.

“O heavenly Father,” began Judge Casey, “we give thanks for the blessings you are about to bestow upon us. . . . We praise your grace and mercy. Thank you for all the fruits which we are about to enjoy. Amen.”

I joined the others and I meant it.
Amen, amen, amen
.

As plates were passed and spoonfuls dished out, Judge Casey and I entered into an interesting conversation about the political rift between Mayor Daley and his former friend and primary opponent, Benjamin Adamowski.

“Now, now,” said Mrs. Casey, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “No politics at the dinner table.”

“You know”—Judge Casey continued anyway—“there's talk about Adamowski leaving the Democrats and joining the Republican Party.”

“So I've heard. A friend of mine told me that Adamowski is going to run for state's attorney.”

“A friend?” Jack gave me a look that said,
So when were you and Scott talking about this?

“It's a long shot,” I said, touching my thigh against Jack's to reassure him.

“Daley'll never let him get elected,” said Judge Casey. “Adamowski would be out to clobber the machine. Can you imagine if Adamowski won? The last thing Daley needs is his enemy in a powerful position like that. Adamowski would be a real thorn in Daley's side.”

“C'mon now,” said Mrs. Casey, lightly slapping the table. “Enough political talk. We're having dinner.”

I smiled and went back to my roast. I didn't see what the problem was. All my family usually talked about over dinner was politics and I enjoyed talking with Jack's father. It reminded me of the conversations I used to have with my own father and it was comforting even though it made me homesick for him. Homesick for what we had before we lost Eliot.

Since our uproar over Eliot's typewriter I'd stopped by the house several times, and each time my father had mumbled his usual hellos. This told me there was no permanent damage done to our already fragile bond. Or else he'd been so drunk the day I moved out that he'd blacked out and didn't remember a thing we'd said. Either one was possible.

•   •   •

O
ne morning in mid-October, I arrived at the city room early and shot the breeze with the slot man while I checked the assignment book. I saw that Mr. Copeland had me covering a piece for Neighborhood News about an expansion for Kiddieland, a theme park for toddlers. Not exactly hard news, but it was better than weddings and charity balls.

So I went out to Melrose Park and met with Arthur Fritz, who had opened the theme park back in 1929 with half a dozen ponies. The park was closed for the season now, and all the rides were dismantled, their frames covered by heavy tarps to protect them from the winter. I sat in his office while he showed me plans for the new Ferris Wheel and the Roto Whip coming that summer. The whole time he spoke, I was looking for a bigger angle, but two hours later, it was clear this was about the expansion of a wholesome little theme park for tykes and that was it. There was nothing sinister, nothing scandalous to report. It was just Kiddieland.

When I got back to the city room I began writing up the piece, and as I was about to pull the copy from my typewriter, Ahern telephoned, wanting to see me. Right away.

“And bring a sharp pencil with you,” he said.

I met him at the Museum of Science and Industry in front of the Corliss steam engine exhibit. He gazed around the area while I looked at the chambers and levers before I followed him to a coffee shop around the corner overlooking Lake Michigan. I hadn't even known the place existed. We sat at a picture window with half curtains covering the lower panes of glass.

“I was surprised to hear from you,” I said.

Ahern lit a cigarette, cupping the match with his hands. “Well, I saw your piece the other day on the ‘Origins of Trick or Treating' and figured you could use some help.”

“So is that what this is about? You helping me?”

“This is about us helping each other.” He dropped his match to the ashtray, sending up a ribbon of smoke.

“So what do you have for me?”

“Get out your pad and pencil. You're gonna want to take this down.”

I did as he said and reached inside my handbag. “Okay, shoot.”

But he didn't say anything. I cleared my throat. Still nothing. He was making me wait while he
tap-tap-tapped
his spoon to the rim of his coffee cup. At last he said, “How quickly do you think you can get a juicy story out about a crooked politician who's about to be subpoenaed?”

“That depends on who the crooked politician is and what he's being subpoenaed for.”

“Let's start with the 1st Ward.”

“D'Arco?” John D'Arco was the 1st Ward alderman and in thick with the Outfit. He
was
the Outfit. Everyone knew that.

“You didn't hear this from me, but the state's attorney is going to subpoena him first thing tomorrow to appear before a grand jury.”

“For what?”

“Faking automobile accidents. And with government cars.”

“Excuse me?”

“
Allegedly,
D'Arco hired a group of crooked insurance appraisers to fake a string of auto accidents for city vehicles. He ended up collecting close to $70,000 in false claims from a dozen different insurance companies.”

“How do you know this?”

His smile was a sly one. “I have friends in the state's attorney's office.”

I sat up a little straighter. Scott was no longer working there, but I wondered if Ahern knew him. I was tempted to ask but knew I couldn't. Ahern was supposed to be an anonymous source. No one was supposed to even know I was speaking with him. I couldn't let my friendship with Scott jeopardize this arrangement with Ahern, so I kept my mouth shut.

“It was really a brilliant operation D'Arco had going,” said Ahern. “They'd take a perfectly fine automobile and dismantle it, bang it up good so that it looked like it had been totaled. They could get about six or seven claims off one staged smashup.”

I asked a few more questions and jotted down my notes.

Ahern reached for my notepad and scribbled down a name and telephone number. “That's who you need to talk to. He's in the state's attorney's office. He'll talk to you, but you can't use his name in the piece. He has to remain anonymous. That's the agreement.” Ahern slid the notepad across to me. “No names. We're clear, right?”

“No names.”

“And you need to move quickly on this if you want to break the story,” he said as he stood up. “I don't know how much longer they can keep it quiet, and you know as soon as word gets out it'll
be all over the place.” Ahern dabbed his mouth with his napkin and turned up his collar. The bells above the door chimed when he walked out.

As soon as he left, I stubbed out my cigarette, rushed to the nearest pay phone and called the number Ahern had given me. I spoke to the contact, assuring him that I would not print his name. In exchange he spoon-fed me the story. With the receiver cradled between my ear and shoulder and my pad pressed to the phone booth's wall, I wrote upside down and sideways. He gave me the real license plate numbers and the fake plate numbers, too. He gave me the names of the crooked adjusters and the insurance companies they had swindled.

I made more calls until I ran out of change for the pay phone. But by then I had spoken to an insurance adjustor who corroborated everything my first source said. I was still looking for more backup and had left messages for everyone I could think of. No one wanted to talk, and those who did, didn't want their names mentioned. By four o'clock I was waiting on one of the insurance adjusters to call me back. Another fifteen minutes and I knew I couldn't hold out any longer. The clock was ticking and I had to get the story out before D'Arco was subpoenaed and this scoop would become yesterday's news. I raced back to the city room, fed the typewriter a set of copy sheets and cranked out the story.

It was a few minutes after five and Mr. Copeland was already gone for the day, so I went straight to Mr. Ellsworth, catching him just as he was reaching for his coat and hat. “Wait—don't go.”

“Excuse me?”

“Here—wait.” I held out my copy to him. “You have to take a look at this.”

He tossed his hat onto the horseshoe and unbuttoned his overcoat. “This better be good. I have dinner reservations at Fritzel's tonight.” With one hand stuffed in his pocket, he stood next
to the desk and read, his head nodding every few minutes. He read some more and muttered to himself before he looked up and said, “So D'Arco is about to be subpoenaed by a grand jury for operating a fake auto-accident insurance ring?”

“Involving city automobiles.”

He nodded again. “This is a good start. Get another quote and we'll take a look at it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? No. Tomorrow's too late.”

“No?” He gave me an indignant look.

“If we wait until tomorrow, this story is going to be all over the place. If we run it now, we can be the first. We can have it out in the bulldog edition.”

“No, we can't.” He chucked the copy onto his desk and said, “I need another quote and if you get that, we'll take another look at it tomorrow.”

“But we'll miss our window.”

“Walsh, do you feel that?” He indicated the rumble beneath our feet. “The presses are running. The story will be there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow when it's old news.”

“Even if I were going to stop the presses, which I'm not about to do, there's not enough here. It's too thin. You need another quote.”

“But I have two sources.”

“Still not enough.”

“But didn't you see the quote I have?”

“Yeah. I saw it.
‘
An unnamed source inside the state's attorney's office . . .' Hell, Walsh, you might as well have spoken to the cleaning woman.”

“But they confirmed the $70,000 worth of fake claims. That's rock solid. And what about the fake license plates and the multiple claims for the same car?”

“Says who? Who's your source?”

I knew this was coming. “I can't say. But what about the insurance adjustor?”

“He doesn't have a name either.” Mr. Ellsworth reached for his fedora. “Tomorrow, Walsh. Go get me another quote. And not from an anonymous source this time and we'll look at it tomorrow.” He turned off his desk lamp and squared his hat on his head. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have dinner plans tonight.”

I worked until ten that evening trying to get another quote, but it was late and no one was at their desks. I tried home telephone numbers, too, but I couldn't reach anyone. By eleven o'clock I had no choice but to accept defeat.

The next morning Ahern telephoned, and I cringed when he asked what happened. “Where's the story?”

“My editor wouldn't run it. I tried. It was too late. The presses were already running.” I couldn't bring myself to tell him that Mr. Ellsworth thought the piece was too thin.

Ahern sighed into the receiver. “I'm doing what I can to help you, Walsh, but I'm afraid you blew it this time.”

Later that morning I saw that very same story on the front page of the
Daily News
. As soon as I started reading the article, a tightness settled into my chest as the blood rushed to my face. I was consumed with jealousy. The
Daily News
had that extra quote I had so desperately needed. What's more, they had documented $120,000 in fake claims, not just $70,000. Their reporter had scooped me.

Ahern was right. I had blown it. I should have worked smarter, faster. I shouldn't have waited around for callbacks. I should have moved on and found other sources. I should have gotten in front of Mr. Ellsworth sooner. After I beat myself up, I promised that I'd never let something like that happen to me again.