|
CHAPTER 7: The Woodshank Redemption
 By Jim Caple |
Previously at 24 College Avenue: Steve Hamilton, a sports photographer for the State
College student newspaper, took a photo of a student tossing a tear gas canister
during a riot that broke out after the school lost a football game to the University
of San Marco Brawlin’ Italians. The canister wound up starting a fire that burned
down houses and caused millions of dollars in damage. Steve received a subpoena to
give police investigators his memory card of all the picture he took that night or
go to jail but his editor, Woodward P. Redmond IV, refuses to let him do so. . . .
SCCHHHLANG!!!!
The harsh metallic sound of the jail cell door sliding closed chilled Steve to the
bone. The echo of his jailer’s footsteps clattering through the hall caused him to
break into a flop sweat. The suffocating confines of the 8x10 cell set his heart
racing. The sight of the prisoners’ hardened faces across the hall set his stomach
flopping. The thought of spending a single night here left him weak in the knees.
The prospect that he might spend many nights here, weeks or months even, sent his
lungs hyper-ventilating. He backed away from the door, reaching for some means of
support. His right hand felt the cell’s bunkbed and he grabbed it, then slowly
lowered himself onto the narrow cot, its springs squeaking in protest. Steve had
never felt so scared in his life.
“Ha! Is this the worst you can do?’’ his cellmate shouted at the retreating guard.
“Compared to the State College dorm rooms, this is luxury!’’ Hearing no response,
Woodward P. Redmond IV turned to speak to Steve. “Well, this isn’t so bad is it,
Hamilton? I don’t mind telling you – I was a little afraid reporting to jail this
morning. But now that we’re in here, I feel pretty good. More than that, I feel
strong. Positively invigorated. Don’t you?’’
Steve raised his head and stared incredulously at his sports editor, who, despite
the situation, looked fresh and crisply dressed enough to be attending a board of
directors meeting of his family’s corporation. He wore his usual blue oxford shirt
and pleated wool trousers, missing only his burgundy bow tie and black suspenders
that the police had removed as a customary suicide prevention measure.
“What the hell are you talking about, Woody? We’re in jail for God’s sake. We’re in
@#%$ jail! And God knows for how long! And all because you won’t let us turn over a
stinking memory card of photos we didn’t think were good enough to publish!’’
“Whoaahh, calm down there, Hamilton, calm down. It’s not that bad. First of all,
it’s not like we’re in a federal penitentiary filled with rapists and murderers.
It’s just a holding cell of the local jail. Second, we’re not in here because we
won’t give up a memory card – we’re here because we’re standing up for the first
amendment and freedom of the press that so many of our forebears fought so hard to
establish and protect. That thought stiffens the old backbone, doesn’t it? Third, it
won’t be long at all before the government realizes we’re not going to back down and
they let us free.’’
Steve felt his stomach heaving. He needed air. And space. “I don’t know, Woody. I
hope that’s true. But I gotta tell you. I’m scared. I don’t know if I can do this.’’
Redmond sat down next to Steve and patted his shoulder.
“Courage, Hamilton. It’s always darkest before the dawn. Remember how bleak it
looked when the Chicago police had Walter Burns and Hildy Johnson in jail and Hildy
thought they were going to be locked up for good? Walter assured him that a divine
force looks out for newspaper reporters and there was nothing to worry about. And
sure enough, within minutes they got their hands on incriminating evidence that
forced the sheriff to release them. And got them a great scoop in the bargain.’’
Steve began to nod in reflexive agreement before his memory caught up with the
names. Walter Burns? Hildy Johnson? Was Redmond kidding, delusional or just plain
stupid?
“Woody,’’ Steve said, “those are characters in ‘The Front Page.’ It’s a play. A
farce. It wasn’t real life. And it was written like 100 years ago.’’
“The principle is just the same,’’ Redmond said confidently, slapping his hands
against his thighs. He stood up and began pacing the cell as if delivering a college
lecture. “We’ll be fine. In fact, we’ll be better than fine. When we walk out of
this jail – and I promise you, it will be soon -- we’re walking out as heroes,
journalism icons. You’ll be able to name your job. The New York Times. Sports
Illustrated. ESPN. That’s better than starting out at a crappy weekly suburban paper
shooting county council meetings, isn’t it? Think of it that way. This isn’t jail.
It’s an internship that’s going to get you a great job.’’
“That’s easy for you to say,’’ Steve snapped. “Your family owns Redmond News Media,
one of the most powerful media companies in the world. You’re set no matter what
happens. But I’m just a damn sports shooter with a pile of college loans to pay off.
I don’t want to be an icon of journalism. I just want to take pictures at games.
Hell, if you look at the memory card you’ll see I’m no hero. Half the photos on that
card are up-skirt shots of Mandy Stevenson and the rest of cheerleaders.
“Hell, Woody, it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. I don’t want to spend Thanksgiving in a
crappy jail cell with my sports editor and whoever else they crammed in here. I want
to be home with my family. I want to eat turkey with dressing and cranberry sauce
and sit around watching football and stuff my face with pumpkin pie and whipped
cream until I puke. I should be packing for the Polar Star Shootout! Why can’t we
just turn the damn thing over and be done with it?’’
Redmond didn’t respond. He picked a piece of lint from his shirt and hitched up his
pants. He rubbed a smudge from his leather shoes and walked to the cell door. He
gripped the bars and tried to peer down the hallway.
“You disappoint me, Hamilton,’’ he said finally. “I know this is difficult now but
you should take this opportunity in your arms and embrace it. Look at me. I didn’t
fear this. I welcomed it. I was delighted when my name was included on the subpoena
because I saw this situation for what it truly is: an adventure. Yes, an adventure
that we’ll fondly recall as a highlight of our salad days. This is a moment far more
rewarding than any up-skirt photo you ever took (rewarding though those are in their
own way). We’ll write about this in our memoirs.’ He turned around. “So what do you
say, Hamilton? How about we buck up and make the best of this?’’
“Why don’t you do me a favor and just stick the #% @$ first amendment up your #% @$
ass?’’
Steve’s angry response struck Redmond as if they were a physical blow. He looked at
his cellmate with a hurt expression for a few minutes, then shrugged and crawled
onto the bunk above Steve. An uneasy silence settled over the cell so thick you
couldn’t slice it with a jailhouse shiv.
Emotionally and physically exhausted, Steve fell asleep. He was dreaming he was back
at 24 College Avenue, where Mandy was inviting him into her bedroom when the sound
of Redmond muttering in the bunk above woke him.
“And though my back ached from the rusty springs of the bunk as I lay down, I took
comfort that I was standing proudly with a long line of journalists such as Woodward
and Bernstein, Joe Rossi, Aaron Altman and Joe Bradley who had so faithfully
protected our right to publish. And with that knowledge I spent my first night in
jail slumbering like a baby . . . ’’
His editor was dictating his memoirs.
Next: The North Star
|
|
|
