Adam Canfield of the Slash (21 page)

“You know,” Mr. Brooks went on, “history certainly teaches us that treachery lurks around every corner. And yet, against all odds, despite every form of human stupidity, we Homo sapiens are still here.”

“Yeah, right,” Adam mumbled. “What about Rwanda?”

“Well, yes . . . I don’t deny . . . Look, Adam, my point is I’m worried that all you’re seeing is the bad. Is anything wrong?”

Adam hesitated. He didn’t know if he should tell Mr. Brooks the truth. What use was it? Mr. Brooks seemed even more afraid of Marris than Adam was. That last talk they had about Marris had left Adam feeling so blue, so powerless, so embarrassed for Mr. Brooks. If Mr. Brooks didn’t stand up for his own World Domination game, why would he help them on the Miss Bloch story? This man had talked so much about how important it was to preserve his dignity and privacy and his bachelor life. What was that about? Just a fancy way of saying he was afraid to lose to Marris? Adam wondered what the Latin word was for “coward.”

Jennifer had begged Adam to ask Mr. Brooks for help on the Miss Bloch story. She insisted that this was different from World Domination. She kept saying, “You’re wrong; he’ll help — you’re his favorite.” She said sometimes it was easier for a person like Mr. Brooks to stand up for someone else than for himself. She said maybe Mr. Brooks had personal reasons for not wanting to be the center of attention, but he might not mind helping on this one little point when it wasn’t all about him.

Adam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear watching this teacher he thought he admired groveling out of another fight with Marris.

“No, Mr. Brooks,” Adam answered. “Nothing’s wrong, just really busy.”

The teacher eyed him. “How’s the November issue of the
Slash
coming along? I tell you, that October issue was so good, it will be a hard act for you to follow.”

Adam nodded. Mr. Brooks didn’t know the half of it. Adam was getting a pretty certain feeling that the November
Slash
would be their final act.

“Working on any interesting stories?” asked Mr. Brooks. “Or is that privileged information?”

Adam shrugged. “Just the usual.”

Now Mr. Brooks nodded.

The older Adam got, the more he talked to adults, the more confused and disappointed he was. He felt like such a moron for thinking adults knew everything. One of the things he’d liked about Mr. Brooks was the man’s ideas always seemed fresh. Now that Adam had come to know him a little behind the scenes, he realized Mr. Brooks could blather on just like the rest of them.

“Mr. Brooks,” said Adam, “I’ll try to have a better view of the world. I promise. Is there anything else? I’ve got to get to voluntary/mandatory.”

Mr. Brooks raised his eyebrows. “Certainly wouldn’t want to be late for that.”

Adam smiled. “Yeah, we’re probably practicing sharpening number-two pencils today.” He picked up his backpack to leave.

“Um, Adam,” said Mr. Brooks. “I don’t quite know how to say this. When I was at Harvard a hundred years ago, they didn’t teach journalism. It was considered a trade, like plumbing or bricklaying. So I don’t really know the formal rules of the journalist. But this . . . I guess you’d call him a
source
— from the Latin, by the way,
surgere
. . . Well, this source-person told me that you kids might need some help for a story you’re doing on Mrs. Marris.”

Adam froze, too surprised to say a word. He didn’t even remember to nod.

“I think the source-person’s precise words were, ‘They got the goods on that witch this time.’ Well, what I’m trying to say,” Mr. Brooks continued, “is that if I can be of assistance, I’d be delighted.”

Had someone cut the wires between Adam’s central nervous system and his neck? He was trying to nod, but his muscles weren’t working.

“And this source-person,” Mr. Brooks went on, “explained to me about not being in a position to be quoted by name. I think he said he was off the cuff. Well, what I want you to know is, you can use my name. It’s all right. Of course, I can only help with what I know, and I don’t know much, but if I understand the situation, you don’t need much from me.”

Suddenly Adam’s synapses must have thawed or reconnected or done whatever synapses do to get back to business, because he was nodding at a ferocious clip, like one of those bobble-head dolls given out for prizes at the video arcade.

“You, of course, will have to explain the whole story to me,” said Mr. Brooks. “I must be sure what I am telling you is placed in a fair context. . . . Adam, are you OK? . . . If you’re not careful, you’re going to nod your head right off your neck.”

Was Adam OK? He had never been more OK. He was dying to ask Mr. Brooks why he’d decided to help them. Maybe Jennifer did have it right. But Adam caught himself. He didn’t want to say anything that might spook Mr. Brooks.

This much Adam was sure of: A good reporter needs to know what questions NOT to ask.

It took a long time to lay out the whole story for Mr. Brooks. Adam loved telling it. He felt like he was in one of those extra-credit handouts Mr. Brooks had given them from a Plato dialogue. To Adam, Mr. Brooks sounded like Socrates: “Is it not true . . . ?” “Can we not assume . . . ?” “Do I understand you to say . . . ?” And Adam was the star pupil at the Academy.

It was after five when they finished. They decided that the story needed just one quote from Mr. Brooks. Adam had taken down a comment Mr. Brooks made, and then, together, they worked on getting it as clear and concise as possible. They agreed the finished sentence in the
Slash
would say:

Adam kept thanking Mr. Brooks, but the teacher waved him off.

“Thank you,” he said. “You know, I fear we’ve gone on so long, you’ve missed voluntary/mandatory.”

“That’s OK,” said Adam. “I feel pretty confident about sharpening number-two pencils.” He started to go, then turned back. “Mr. Brooks, I wanted to ask. A friend told me, there was a reporter who made a president resign?”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Brooks. “Two reporters. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein of the
Washington Post.
Their stories back in the 1970s on political corruption forced President Nixon from office.”

Adam paused. “They didn’t wind up in chains or die in poverty and neglect or anything like that, did they?”

“Oh no,” said Mr. Brooks. “On the contrary. There was a movie about them — did quite well at the box office, as I remember.”

Adam slapped the startled Mr. Brooks five and ran out the door, shouting,
“Ave atque vale!”

“Animosus atque fortis appare!”
Mr. Brooks called after him.

Several seconds passed and Adam’s head appeared back in the door. “What was that?” Adam asked. “Don’t think I know that one.”

“Animosus atque fortis appare,”
Mr. Brooks repeated. “Be bold!”

The phone rang at the
Slash.
“Adam Canfield there?” asked the caller. It was a man.

“He’s out on assignment,” said Jennifer. “Can I help you?”

The man said he had some information about the basketball hoop crackdown that Mr. Canfield might find interesting.

Jennifer explained that she had worked on the story with Adam.

“Oh, you’re the Jennifer byline,” said the man. “Great job. Listen, are you guys planning a follow-up? Because I think I may have something for you.”

The man explained that he was a zoning lawyer with a firm that had offices downtown, on top of the bank. He said he represented several people trying to stop Code Enforcement from tearing down the hoops.

“We went into court today to get a TRO,” said the lawyer. “I think we have an excellent chance. The judge seemed sympathetic. If we can get the TRO, I don’t think they’ll be able to get it lifted.”

Jennifer’s mind was racing. What was a
tiaroh
? It must be really heavy if they couldn’t lift it. She tried thinking of legal stuff she’d heard her dad say at home. She remembered something about squishing subpoenas and vacationing in junctions, but lifting a
tiaroh
? Rang no bells. She hated sounding stupid to a grownup. Maybe he’d lose confidence and change his mind about helping. The only thing that kept popping into her head was beauty queens wearing
tiaras.
She considered bluffing her way through and trying to figure it out, but then decided to take a chance and admit her ignorance. Their minister always said ignorance is no shame if you’re willing to learn your way out of it. “I’m sorry,” Jennifer said. “I feel stupid, but what’s a
tiaroh
?”

It worked like a charm. The lawyer told her there’s nothing he respects more than reporters who know what they don’t know. “It’s the ones who know everything who do all the harm,” he said. “Like that idiot Peter Friendly, on News 12. The man’s a ticking time bomb.”

The lawyer told Jennifer a TRO was a temporary restraining order. The lawyer said that if someone is about to do something to you — like tear down your hoop — and you believe it is unfair, you can go to court and try to convince a judge that tearing down the hoop would cause serious harm. The judge has the power to issue a temporary restraining order — a TRO — to stop Code Enforcement from tearing down any hoops in Tremble until a full-blown trial can be held.

“I think we’re going to win,” said the lawyer. “I’ll let you know. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

He told Jennifer that the hearing before the judge that morning was the most bizarre legal proceeding he had ever witnessed. “You met these Herbs, right?” said the lawyer. “Are those guys the whacko brothers?”

The lawyer said the Herbs had made all kinds of incredible statements and that Jennifer might want to use some of it in her next story. “I have a copy of the hearing I can send you,” the lawyer continued. “I won’t send the whole thing — it went on for three hours. I’ll just e-mail a few pages of the transcript. Any questions, call me.”

When Jennifer got home, she went right to her computer and opened the attachment from the lawyer.

It was part of his courtroom interview of Herb Black, and it must have been from the middle of the hearing — the first page the lawyer e-mailed was 108.