The Plan

Chapter 37

After Dr. Jazz left,Cole Harris went across the street and got a cup of coffee at a truck stop. Cole had had a few words with the rumpled, cigar-chewing man whom Ryan called Kaz. His journalistic instincts told him he was onto a big story.

For most of his life, chasing stories had been Cole's only passion. He valued it over everything else in his fifty-six compulsive nit-picking years. At his core he was an investigative reporter, an IR.

He had started doing journalism as a corporal in Vietnam, filing personal action stories with Stars and Stripes. Cole had eventually taken small-arms fire in his foot when an airfield in the Delta had been overrun by VC in '63, and he'd come Stateside and mustered out.

Shortly after, he had found a job on his hometown rag, The Detroit Free Press, where he worked the crime beat.

Because of his dogged pursuit of minutiae, Harris had been extremely successful. In the early 1970s, he'd been hired by UBC to try broadcast journalism. He covered everything from the Cold War to Meyer Lansky's failed attempt to get into Israel.

His career had flourished until he'd tried to do a crime series on the mob's secret ownership of Atlantic City's gambling casinos. Cole had found enough hard evidence to call several casino gaming licenses into question. The news desk at UBC had killed the series for unexplained reasons. Cole had refused to drop it, despite a direct order to do so by the senior vice president of news, Steve Israel. Two weeks later, he'd been called into Israel's office.

"Your work is not up to the caliber this news division demands," the bald, young VP of the nightly news had said.

"You kidding me? I got two Pulitzers. . "

"Sorry. We had a discussion in the morning meeting yesterday and the executive producers agree."

"This isn't about my professionalism; this is about the fact that I don't want to drop the Atlantic City story," he'd said, his natural newsman's paranoia going ballistic.

"Just clear out your desk. Give your press pass and badge to Security."

Cole had left Israel's office and had gone to his office on the edge of the Rim and sat there, thinking about it. He suddenly felt so completely frustrated and outraged that he exploded up to his feet and charged back across the Rim to the conference room where the "morning meetings" were held each day at ten A. M.

The huge conference room, as usual, was jammed. Seated around the large table were the vice presidents of news practice, news coverage, as well as the VPs of business affairs and finance.

Steve Israel, senior VP of news, ran the meeting. Also attending were the senior broadcast segment producers, the director of the political unit, the anchors for the two news mags, as well as Brenton Spencer of the nightly news, the political analysts, and all senior political correspondents.

Cole burst into the room. "You guys oughta be ashamed of yourselves," he said to the startled "big feet."

"Cole, this isn't the time" Steve Israel snapped.

"The Alo family has a silent ownership in two Atlantic City casinos. I've got good proof. . witnesses who've seen meetings between Mickey and his father Joseph and members of the Murphy Hotel syndicate. I've gone back and looked at tax records of the Murphy family. These guys owned furniture stores in the eighties. How the hell did they get the money to do a leveraged buyout on two hotels and a casino carpet joint?"

"The decision has been made."

He'd been escorted by Security to his office, where his badges and network press pass were removed from his desk before he could even hand them over. A news staffer was sent to get a box and Cole loaded his stuff inside.

"You guys are working for a bunch of assholes," he'd said as he loaded his desk into the cardboard box. "A free press is the cornerstone of democracy," he lectured the uninterested security men, who were watching him closely, making sure he didn't remove any company property. "If this news division won't run valid stories, exposing power brokers and criminal conspiracies, then it's lower than whale shit," he'd said, half shouting, as he slammed notebooks and leather folders into the box. The last things to go in were his two Pulitzer citations and a pen and pencil set given to him last Christmas by C. Wallace Litman, engraved TO COLE HARRIS, THE BEST OF THE BEST. C. WALLACE LITMAN. He grabbed the box and, with one security guard holding each arm, they escorted him out of the building.

He'd tried to get employment at other networks, but Steve Israel had scorched the ground around him. Nobody would touch him.

Cole had run out of money and for two months had been living in the back of his van in the driveway of Carson's house, eating his meals with his brother and sister-in-law in the cramped dining room, wondering whether he should end it all. He had bought a gun and twice found himself holding the weapon in a shaking hand, wondering if he could put it in his mouth and pull the trigger. But something had stopped him. As he sat in the diner, the reason reached up and grabbed him. . If he killed himself, the y w ould have won. They would have beaten him. His compulsion to win had somehow saved him.

Cole's ex-wife had told him when she was divorcing him that his strongest link was attached to his weakest and that was why she couldn't stand to live with him. It was the one thing she'd said among all the hurled insults and invectives that had made any sense. Cole was humorless and he was driven. His strong link was his compulsion to be right. That compulsion had made him a tireless researcher and had won him two Pulitzers. His weak link, he had come to find out, was that same compulsion. He drove people crazy. Systematically, he had driven away all the soft, nourishing contacts in his life and was left with the bony remnants.

Then he felt a presence standing over him and looked up to see Solomon Kazorowski, with an unlit, soggy cigar in his mouth, glowering down at him.

"I think maybe we need to share some info." Kaz sat down heavily and looked at the newsman, who was dressed in neatly pleated pants with a blue shirt, tie, matching suspenders, and tweed coat. Despite this perfect ensemble, Cole had only a few dollars left in his pocket. His newsman's instinct took over.

"Let me buy you a cup," he said, pulling out two bills, wondering if he could pump this sorry piece of ex-government beef for some information, without giving up any of his own. Kaz had exactly the same agenda.

They played mind poker for two hours, giving little bits of information to get back little bits, trading shreds like beggars. Each wondered how he could use the other to his own advantage. Gradually and begrudgingly, they gained respect for one another.