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Chapter 5: Crash Test Dummy
 By Jim Caple |
Previously at 24 College Avenue: A photographer for the State College student paper, Steve Hamilton was jailed with his editor, Woody Redmond, for refusing to hand over a camera memory card in a police investigation of a campus riot (see 24 College Avenue: Big Brother). As a reward for sticking it out, the Redmond newspaper family gave Steve an internship at its New York Journal-American. Assigned to the paparazzi beat, Steve took a shot of The Asterisk – the controversial slugger closing in on the home run record -- leaving a strip joint with a blonde who is not his wife, then hopped on his motor bike in pursuit of the slugger. . . . Meanwhile, the nation’s media has been captivated by the story of the cheerleader missing from State College’s band camp at Devil Lake, supposed site of a serial killer and where Mandy Stevenson returning to her bunkhouse late one night to find a sharp hook dangling from the door knob and a cold hand on her shoulder . . .
The first thing Steve noticed when he opened his eyes was that his room was air-conditioned and clean. Clearly he was not in the fourth-floor walkup apartment the Journal-American had him sharing with three other interns.
“Well, good morning,’’ said a nurse making a note on his chart. “Feeling better?’’
Everything that happened the previous night came rushing back to Steve quickly. He and the rest of the paparazzi had taken their photos of The Asterisk leaving The Lusty Lady strip club with a young blonde woman who was most definitely NOT his well-known wife (and former Hooters model). They all hopped on their motorbikes in pursuit of The Asterisk, with Steve bringing up the rear as usual. Steve was accelerating up to 50 when The Asterisk suddenly threw his SUV into reverse in a wild attempt to lose his pursuers. Steve veered to the left, which unfortunately was the same direction The Asterisk turned his vehicle at the same moment. The SUV slid into the motorbike, tossing Steve onto the hood and against the windshield. The Asterisk braked so quickly that his own face struck the steering wheel, provoking a nose bleed. He got out of the SUV and slipped on a banana peel and banged his chronically sore right knee on the pavement. The Aste risk limped over to Steve with blood pouring down his face, prompting breathless rumors on all the news networks that he had been seriously injured.
His injuries were superficial, however, as, miraculously, were Steve’s. The SUV had only bumped the motorbike and Steve was wearing a helmet, so the damage was minimized. Steve sprained his left wrist, bruised his knee and cracked his head hard enough against the windshield that Dayton Shelton, his counterpart at “The New York 24/7 News’’ had insisted on taking him to the hospital – after both first transmitted their photos from a 24-hour Starbucks, of course. The emergency room doctor who examined Steve said there was nothing to worry about but, because he had hit his head, admitted him for the night just to be sure. Welcoming any excuse to not spend a night at his horrible apartment, Steve quickly agreed and enjoyed his first decent sleep of the summer.
“If I told you I was in a lot of pain, could I spend another night?’’ Steve asked, sitting up. “My apartment doesn’t have any air-conditioning and the garbage is beginning to smell pretty bad.’’
“Afraid not,’’ the nurse said. “All your vital signs are normal and your company’s insurance company is going to be unhappy paying for one night as it is. By the way, nice picture.’’
Steve gave her a confused look. The nurse picked up a copy of the final edition of The Journal-American and held it so he could see. His photo of The Asterisk and the stripper covered the front page of the tabloid
“The AsteriXXX’’ the large headline read. “Slugger Enjoys Ladies Night.’’
The nurse handed the paper to him as she left the room. Steve looked closely at his photo, admiring the composition and lighting. He had come up with a photo that captured The Asterisk’s angry expression, and more importantly, his companion’s considerable cleavage. He flipped to Page 2 for any other photos and the article some gossip writer on the desk had put together quickly based on the photo and description Steve had phoned in.
“What’s next for The Asterisk after he breaks the all-time home run record?’’ the article began. “Apparently his next goal is breaking Wilt Chamberlain’s record claim of sleeping with 10,000 women. These photos, taken by industrious intern Steve Hamilton, show the ballplayer leaving The Lusty Lady strip club and well on his way to first base with a sexy blonde that is apparently his new mistress late last night. And from the looks of her, he’s not the only one in the couple chemically enhancing his body.’’
Well, it wasn’t exactly a photo of a napalmed Vietnamese girl running for help but it might help him secure a job at a Journal-American paper after his internship ended – though preferably not on the paparazzi beat.
There is nothing in journalism that feels better than good work prominently featured, so Steve was feeling good about his himself as he got out of bed and began to pack. And then his cell phone rang. He winced as he grabbed it with his injured left hand, looked at the number and saw that it was his editor. He obviously was calling to congratulate him.
“Hello, is this the Pulitzer committee calling?’’ Steve asked cockily.
“Afraid not, @#&%,’’ the editor snarled. “Hope you already checked out of that hospital because your health insurance is officially cut off. You’re fired.’’
A sick feeling washed over Steve’s body and his heart began racing. “Fired?’’ he asked. “Why?’’
“Because @#&%,’’ his editor said. “The Asterisk’s lawyers called this morning. Turns out, that wasn’t his girl friend or mistress or whatever else you implied. It’s his niece. And they’re suing you for libel.’’
# # #
As detective Bo Arts paced around the bare interrogation room, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the one-way glass separating him from his partner in the observation area. He sucked in his gut, flexed his biceps and checked himself out. Not bad, he thought, not bad. Especially given that he had had such little time to work out since taking on the missing cheerleader case.
The case wouldn’t be that bad were it not for the ever-present media, shoving their cameras and microphones where they didn’t belong, blowing every little statement way out of proportion and constantly demanding why his department had yet to make an arrest. On the other hand, Arts had gotten a lot of face time on TV and two publishers had already contacted him about buying his story. “Of course,’’ they told him, “that’s only if she winds up . . . well, you know.’’
Still, all that media attention had brought such intense pressure on his department that if Arts didn’t come up with something solid soon, he might really need one of those book contracts because he would be out of a job.
Which is why he felt good about the person sitting in the chair at the interrogation table. For the first time, Arts finally had a lead he felt confident would crack the case.
“So,’’ Arts said, taking a last glance at his waistline in the glass. “Just when was the last time you saw your friend?’’
“Like I told you. I saw her during practice in the afternoon and I didn’t see her again.’’
Arts nodded. “And she didn’t mention anything to you about any sort of plans? Where she might be going?’’
“Where could she be going at Devils Lake? There’s like soooo nothing to do there. I guess that’s why they have us go there every summer.’’
“But did she say or do anything that led you to believe she might leave the camp?’’
“Do you not understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?’’
Arts was proud that he maintained his temper and did not snap. Instead, he sat down calmly and spoke gravely to the “person of interest’’ across from him. “Yes, I do. But do you understand the meaning of the terms ‘obstruction of justice’ and ‘interfering with a police investigation’?’’ He could tell by the reaction to the threat that he had finally gotten through. Now it was time to let up a little and massage some information. “Listen, I know what you’re going through. You’re scar ed and you’re confused and you’re worried about your missing friend. But I’m just trying to help find her. And if you help me, I think I can. But if you don’t, then we may never find her in time before . . . before something terrible happens.’’
He leaned forward. “So what I’m really asking you here is this: Will you please help me help your friend?’’
After a couple seconds of silence, Mandy Stevenson nodded and began to talk.
# # #
Steve envied newspaper writers. They sat in air-conditioned pressboxes the entire game eating free hot dogs and cookies while surfing the web on their laptops and waiting for the post-game boxscores that essentially told them everything they needed – including quotes from the manager. If they missed a play while watching videos on MyWeb or bidding for crap on MyGarageSale, they could just check out the replay on one of the dozen HD monitors mounted above their chairs. Miss a play when you’re a photographer and you’ve just plain screwed.
But mostly Steve envied writers because they could pack so light. All they needed was their laptop, two pairs of jeans and a couple Tommy Bahamas shirts that were meant to be worn untucked to better cover their guts. Hell, they could go carry-on.
Photographers, on the other hand, needed to pack as if they were the Joad’s or the Clampett’s loading up the truck and moving to California. Cameras, lens, lights, strobes, remotes, batteries . . . he needed cases for it all. It made flying an ordeal.
As he waited in line to check in for his flight, Steve recalled the meeting with his editors earlier in the afternoon. After being informed in the hospital that he was being fired because The Asterisk was suing the Journal-American for libel, Steve had raced to the newspaper’s office to save his job (well, internship). He felt sick and unable to breathe the entire cab ride. He was learning a painful lesson of journalism. Making a mistake felt much worse than getting a scoop felt good.
When he arrived at the 58-story, terra-cotta Journal-American Building, he was ushered into a meeting with his editor, the managing editor and the ancient publisher, Woodway Redmond, II.
“Sit down, Hamilton, but don’t get too comfortable,’’ Redmond said when Steve walked into the publisher’s office on the 58th floor. “In case they aren’t teaching this in J-school anymore, getting sued for libel is no way to begin a journalism career. Do you know how many resumes we get everyday from students begging for internships?’’
When everyone had taken a seat at Woodway’s massive conference table, managing editor Monte Sano explained the situation. As it turned out, he said, the woman at the Lusty Lady strip joint was not The Asterisk’s mistress as their story had stated; she was his niece. She had run away from home and was applying for a job at the Lusty Lady to get back at her parents. The Asterisk took it upon himself to personally get her out and take her home. He was understandably upset that looking out for his family had been painted as a sexual liaison – and with his niece no less.
As it turned out, however, The Asterisk was threatening to sue the Journal-American, not Steve, in part because it was the newspaper that bore the responsibility for printing the story, but also because the paper had the money.
Fortunately for the J-A, it’s very difficult for a public figure to win a libel case by proving a reckless disregard for the truth. So after swift consultations among everyone’s lawyers, The Asterisk agreed to drop the suit in exchange for a front page correction, a $50,000 donation to his charity (Big Leaguers For Bed-Wetters) and an agreement to refer to him by his real name instead of the nickname everyone else used.
Further, the J-A editors realized that fault lay just as much with the copy editor who hastily wrote up the story based on Steve’s hastily phoned-in information.
In the end, Woodway still wanted to fire Steve but reluctantly chose not to at the request of his grandson, Woody.
“We’re only keeping you on because you stood up for journalism rights and went to jail with my grandson,’’ Redmond said. “Although young Woody tells me you almost pissed your pants in jail and needed your hand held – from what I’m told of life in prison, you’ll want to be very careful with that sort of thing. Still, at least you did the time, and even if I wouldn’t pick you first to share my foxhole with, journalism is under attack on too many fronts for us to sacrifice the few brave (well, semi-brave) soldiers we have.’’
Steve relaxed for the first minute since receiving the call in the hospital.
“So Hamilton, I’m giving you one final chance to redeem yourself,’’ Redmond went on. “Succeed and we keep you on and you may one day make yourself into a photo-journalist. @#%& up again and you’ll be lucky to get a job as a paperboy. But at least you’ve got one thing going for you – you’ll be able to take advantage of your long history and personal relationship with the subject.’’
Steve couldn’t believe his luck. “Long history and personal relationship?’’ Redmond could only mean the missing State College cheerleader whose story had gripped the nation – or at least, gripped the nation’s media.
“You mean the cheerleader story?’’ Steve asked. “I was wondering when you would take advantageous of my contacts at State College. I mean, I know her. I took pictures of her all the time during Red Devils games. And like I said, I know her -- I know Lacey V. Murrow-Bridge. And I lived in the same house as her friend, Mandy Stevenson. I can get the inside scoop.’’
Redmond stared incredulously at Steve then laughed. “The Missing Cheerleader story? Are you joking or just insane? Well, it doesn’t matter which. Because you’re not getting anywhere near that story! You’re going on The Asterisk beat until he breaks the record – after all, like I said, you have a relationship together now, a history.’’
Which is why Steve was at the airport catching the last flight to Los Angeles for The Asterisk’s next game. He checked in with the counter agent and took a look at his ticket. A middle seat. Great.
Steve grabbed his laptop and headed for the security line. He was pleased to see that it wasn’t very long.
And then, as he looked to the front of the line, he thought he saw a very familiar face before the metal detector blocked his line of sight.
It couldn’t be, could it? Or was that really who he thought it was?
Next: I Heard The Checkered Owl Call My Name
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