Officer Jones

Chapter 93

“Just perfect,” Murray beamed. “I’m sure somewhere out there Woodward and Bernstein are wallowing in envy. It would have been very easy for you to slant the article based on your very understandable emotions and biases, or incorporate yourselves into the story. I’m also proud you didn’t focus on the celebrity of Senator Kingsbury, like the national media did. Kingsbury was just a small part of a bigger story, which you captured the true essence of.”

Murray completed his autograph and made eye contact with the still strangely quiet Gwen, who munched on a doughnut with Hannibal Lecter-like intensity. She was starting to scare me.

He then turned to me and said, “I really think you are returning to your journalistic roots, John Pierpont. What would you say about working for the Gazette full time? I can’t offer you top pay, but I promise you honest and fulfilling work.”

When I scanned the room, I noticed my mother smiling with pride, while Murray looked at me with anticipation. Gwen, on the other hand, was still brooding.

“I appreciate the offer, Murray, but at the moment I have some other commitments I have to attend to,” I said.

My mother asked in a soft, inquisitive tone, “Why not, JP? It sounds like a perfect opportunity.”

Gwen walked slowly to the office answering machine. No high-tech voice-mail system for the Gazette. Like a lawyer dropping a bombshell in a courtroom drama, she pushed the “play” button and coldly said, “Maybe because of this.”

“John Peter, it’s Lauren. I’m calling to congratulate you on returning to the GNZ family. I’m glad to hear that you finally were able to put your ego aside, and see that working for me is best for you.”

Click. Rewind.

Gwen stared at me so hard I thought I was going to catch on fire. “I always knew you’d leave again. All that talk about staying was just that, all talk! I hope you enjoy North Korea, you son of a bitch!”

She covered her mouth and turned her back to me. It hurt to watch, but at least I now understood the drastic mood swing-I shouldn’t have underestimated what a great reporter she was.

“You promised that you were done with that life, JP,” my mother said in a disappointed voice.

The glares grew intense. I cleared my throat and offered an explanation that I hoped would get me out of here alive, “Yes, it’s true I’m going to do some work for GNZ, but it’s not what you think. I’ve agreed to do six features a year on domestic problems that I feel need more attention. I already have the first year lined up-what can be done to curb drunk-driving fatalities. Another to expose the generator death traps of house boats.”

I smiled, hoping that I avoided the bloody mutiny for a few more moments. “My first feature will be about finding cures for paralysis and the work the Rubber-band Foundation plans on doing to make sure it happens. I’m excited about this. Plus, the travel will be minor, and a lot less dangerous … at least if I can avoid flying coach.”

No laughs. Tough room.

Murray and my mother looked on with pride, seemingly buying the answer. Gwen was still a holdout. She turned to face me. “Why should we believe you this time?”

The ringing of the historic landline phone on her desk cut off her words. Gwen was closest and guarded it so nobody could answer it until I answered her question.

The machine clicked on. Following a professional message from Gwen and a loud beep, a message projected for the whole room to hear.

“JP, it’s Christina,” she started off, sounding annoyed. “Pick up if you’re there. C’mon, JP-pick up the phone, you lazy ass.”

After some more choice words for me, she finally gave up. “Well, I guess you really aren’t there. I just wanted to let you know my train just got into New Haven. I am taking a cab to Rockfield, which I hope you know will be expensed on your dime. I want to hook up so I can say goodbye to you-with the plane to North Korea leaving tonight, and all.”

I attempted a tension-easing joke, “She’s just mad I gave her Humvee to Lamar Thompson.”

Still no laughs. Just the deadly silence of the lynch mob. No wonder they have those drink minimums at comedy clubs.

Gwen pointed an angry finger at me. “You lying sack of…”

She held back, sucking in an extended deep breath, then slowly decompressed. “I don’t know what I’m upset about-I always knew you would go back. You just needed a warm body while you were stuck in this one-horse town. It’s not what you do-it’s who you are. It was pretty arrogant of me to think I could change that. Enjoy North Korea-send me a postcard … and remember to duck.”

She started to throw the answering machine at me, but held back at the last moment. We just stood there and stared at each other for what seemed like an hour. I let her win the battle of wills. I urgently looked at my watch, as if I were late for something, before turning toward the door.

When my face was safely out of Gwen’s view, I smiled. I chose not to tell her that part of my deal with Sutcliffe included an agreement that GNZ would hire, young, aggressive, and talented field reporters as the core lifeblood of the news organization. Less style, more substance. One of those new reporters would be Christina, who was headed to North Korea as a rookie correspondent. Not me.

I could feel Gwen’s eyes boring a hole in my back as I began walking toward the door. When I reached it, I looked back and flashed her my smuggest of smiles. The one that has annoyed people on all seven continents at one time or another.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I have a meeting with a realtor-I’m looking into buying a farm.”