They needed Carolyn as a decoy, and even though her ego was growing immensely, their plans were jelling nicely.

But if Carolyn found out that Warner was even communicating with the old man, there’d be hell to pay. The kind of hell that left a man permanently burned.

Jack slammed the phone into the receiver. The son of a bitch didn’t have the balls to confront him face-to-face. He’d mailed the letter, then gone on vacation. Typical Pat Mead, Jack thought, deliver the news then hideout until things calmed down. He re-read the notice he’d received via FedEx from his office.

Mr. Rudly:

Your story on Senator Lane’s military history was substandard. You are hereby warned to verify your sources more carefully. You’ll be expected at the National Convention, until then your assignment is to report on the campaign, not investigate personal issues. Management expects you to write a personal apology to the Senator. This notice shall serve as a warning. When you’re back in town we can discuss this further.

Signed,

Pat Mead

Special Projects Editor

“Verify sources more carefully,” Jack mumbled. “Substandard?” What the fuck did that mean? Never before in his journalistic career had anyone ever questioned his reporting methods, let alone reprimanded him for inaccurate information.

Jack prided himself on being precise, and he knew his article was accurate. He’d verified all of his sources, and had authentic medical records as evidence. The facts obviously didn’t matter. Jack realized; he’d stepped on powerful toes. But he didn’t give a damn.

Jack crumpled the paper, and tossed it into the garbage can. Like hell, he’d write an apology.

He’d done nothing wrong.

Jack had been smarting for weeks from Mead’s chastisement as he stood with other members of the press in the back alley of a large red brick auditorium waiting for Candidate Lane to exit after a speech to the teacher’s union. He glanced over at a colleague. “Hey, Dan, how the hell are ya?”

“Fine, and you?”

Jack lit a cigarette, exhaling as he spoke. “I’d be better with some dinner and a beer right now.”

“I hear ya.” Dan was an old-timer in the business.

“What do you think about the candidates?”

“Same shit, different mouth.” Dan joked, “but personally I like what Lane has to say. What about you?”

Jack shrugged. “Keeping an open mind. There’re a lot of questions I’d like to see answered, but his campaign staff isn’t very forthcoming.”

“They’re just being cautious. Give him a break. He’s new to the national scene. Missouri’s small potatoes compared to the market he’s jumped into now. I mean, you have to admit, we’re a tough crowd.”

“Are we? I’m not so sure, anymore. I can’t believe how easy these guys have been on Lane.” Jack took a drag on his cigarette. He wasn’t prone to arguments, but damn, the lack of curiosity his colleagues were showing was frustrating.

“I don’t think anyone has been easy on him.”

“What about the sweatshop thing? That was dropped like a pregnant debutante.”

“Maybe the press is getting a conscience. It could be argued that journalists are trying to be more objective and not ruin people’s careers just to sell a few newspapers or boost ratings. Look at the Kennedy days. The press kept his personal business quiet and it was probably better for the country.”

“I don’t buy it. If that were true, we wouldn’t have jobs. What’s with the double standard? Suddenly the press has a conscience? Bullshit!”

“Come on, Jack, you’re ignoring the facts. Warner Lane didn’t own that company, his father did.”

“My take is different. Maybe the elite media only has a conscience when it comes to politicians with ideals they agree with.” Jack tossed his unfinished cigarette onto the pavement.

“I can’t believe you don’t like the guy. He’s one of us. He’s a product of the sixties, just like we are. He stands for the same things we do and his wife is a powerhouse. She’ll be more than a pretty figurehead. I believe she may actually make a dent in the drug problem. Shit, she already has.” Dan smacked his fist into his palm “Their concerns are right on target.”

Jack shook his head. “Listen to yourself. ‘He’s one of us.’ That’s exactly the type of group think that destroys the veracity of the media. No wonder the public feels they get the same perspective from every news organization.” This wasn’t about liking or disliking Warner Lane. It was about manipulating the system and biased reporting “You know, I keep getting the same response when it comes to my esteemed colleagues.”

“Maybe that means something,” Dan commented.

“Yeah, like a lot of crack reporters have gotten caught up in all the Lane hype and forgotten their jobs.”

“I call it listening to the man’s message.”

“I call it bullshit.” Jack watched Dan walk away.

He’d tried to maintain an open mind, but maybe his father’s theories of graft had prejudiced him. Jack had known of the Lane family for years, and rumors of trading political favors for profit had always circulated about Edmund and Warner. The implications in his father’s files were unsavory, yet none of them could be proven. Still, the documents haunted him. And he couldn’t ignore his own experience of being reprimanded for revealing Warner’s military career. Someone had applied pressure to shut him down.

Jack leaned against the cool brick of the auditorium. Was he being a hard ass? No, the facts were apparent. At the very least, Warner was being protected and Jack wanted to know by whom.

Time to go back to Missouri and pick up his father’s investigation, Jack thought. He was not into tabloid press, but there were a lot of loose facts that didn’t add up. Carolyn’s relationship with Mort Fields, for one, and why Mort would expose Carolyn to Bill Rudly. This made no sense. And the reference to Winston Cain, made to Bill Rudly from Adam Miles, alarmed Jack.

Winston Cain’s agency would stop at nothing to complete a job, and his father’s notes implied a relationship between Cain and Carolyn. Jack followed up on the hottest lead by visiting Cain’s office in Washington, D.C. Not surprisingly, he was thrown out.

Then, there were the strict orders from the news magazine to report only the standard campaign rhetoric. They wanted him off any real story and essentially threatened his job if he didn’t comply. Jack debated on how hard to tread on very thin ice.

He wasn’t used to having his hands tied by his employer. This job might be considered the big-time by industry standards, but compromising his journalistic integrity wasn’t worth any dollar amount. To Jack, journalism demanded honesty, anything less was a misuse of power and betrayed the readers.

He had expected support for Lane from some of the competition, like National news magazine. Andrea Walden was Lane’s media advisor, and her father was editor-in-chief of National. But he didn’t expect a complacent, even defensive, attitude from his own employer. Could the Lane machine have power sources that deep into the press? It had happened before, and he believed it was happening again.

Jack thought of his father. It must be a family character flaw, he mused, to find oneself pushing against the grain of popular opinion. He had to go back to Missouri. Back to the source of the questions.

He didn’t care if his editors didn’t approve. He’d chased lesser stories against greater odds. The fact was, he had a job to do, and he’d be damned if he’d let someone else tell him how to do it.