Deadline (49 page)

“There’s something I just don’t get,” Molly said. Her forceful presence and determined approach reminded Jake of Doc as much as her piercing eyes, auburn hair, and olive complexion. Her intensity even convinced Mr. French to delay his determined march away from the classroom.

“What’s that, Molly?”

“Carly made a presentation in this class, and she read from one of your columns. Ms. Beal thought it was so good she made copies for the whole class. I have it right here.” Molly pulled out the goldenrod photocopy from her folder.

Jake recognized the distinctive heading with his profile sketch from the
Tribune.
It was titled “Let’s Face the Facts about Teen Sex.” The date was eleven months earlier. He couldn’t remember exactly what he said, but he did recall some lively discussions with Finney and Sue about this column.

“It talks about why schools ought to pass out condoms to kids, to keep them from getting AIDS,” Molly said. Looking down to scan the paper, she went on. “You said we should be realistic that lots of kids are going to have sex. That sexual activity isn’t for everyone, but kids have the right to choose whether to be sexually active, and schools must teach them their options, since most parents don’t bother. Here, I’ll read the last part word for word. You said, ’Parents have no right to sacrifice their kids’ lives by interfering with our schools’ efforts to teach responsible sex. Just because the religious beliefs of a minority make them uncomfortable with sex in general and birth control in particular is no reason for the rest of us to punish our nations children by denying them the necessary education and equipment for safe sex.”’

Molly looked Jake in the eyes. “Do you remember writing this?”

Jake remembered. He wished he didn’t. He stared at the cracks between the off-white floor tiles, wishing they would suck him into oblivion.

“So what gives you the right to yell at Ms. Beal? Everything she’s told us is the same stuff Dad said, the same stuff you say in your columns. You wrote it,” Molly’s voice shook with anger, “maybe you better go back and read it.”

She shoved the paper in Jake’s face. Reluctantly, not wanting to even touch it, he took it from her.

Everything about Molly’s accusing tone suggested a story of personal pain was behind it. Jake started to respond, but she’d already turned away and headed down the hall. Mr. French resumed ushering him away.

Starting to think about what he’d wished he’d said to Molly, he said to himself,
No, this isn’t about hen it’s about me.

He’d denied his own guilt and hypocrisy when Carly confronted him with his columns. He’d taken the focus off his responsibility by casting the blame on Ms. Beal. Now Molly had put her finger on his guilt again. This time he couldn’t escape it and refused to try. He wouldn’t let a voice, his own or any other, succeed in justifying himself again.

Jake realized his feet had stopped moving. He heard someone say something. It was Mr. French.

“Sit down, Mr. Woods. Obviously, we need to talk.”

“I am reminded of another event, Master Finney, one I witnessed while on earth. Two men owned farms side by side. One was a bitter atheist, the other a devout Christian. The atheist was constantly annoyed at the Christian for his trust in God. So one winter the atheist said to him, ’Let’s plant our crops as usual this spring, each the same number of acres. We’ll both work hard, you your six days and I seven. You pray to your God and I’ll curse him. Then come October, let’s see who has the bigger crop.’ When October came the atheist was delighted because his crop was larger. ’See, you fool,’ he taunted, what do you have to say for your God now?’ The other farmer replied, ’My God doesn’t settle all his accounts in October.’

“And so it is, Master Finney. Elyon will settle all accounts. Some will begin to be settled in the other world, but the final settlement will not be on that side of death, but here on this side. You were right when you talked on earth about living in light of eternity and having only one chance to do so. Many will deeply regret their lives on earth and wish they could live them over again. But there is no second chance for unbelievers to go back and trust in Christ. Neither is there a second chance for believers to go back and live for Christ. Second chances sometimes come on earth, but they are always limited in time and opportunity. Whether through death or final alienation or something else, the doors always close on second chances.

“And that is why Elyon gave you his Book. So you could know the truth the first time around. So you could know the judgment that awaits you, when there are no more second chances. So you could know what Elyon required of you while still on earth. So you would not have to wait until you died to learn how you should have lived.”

After pausing quietly to consider these truths, Finney and Zyor moved together toward the portal, not speaking a word. Once again they felt compelled to intercede for someone still living in the world of second chances.

Jake sat home, lonely and miserable. As he reflected back on the day, he felt hurt, depressed, and embarrassed. His own father hadn’t been there for him, and he faced the fact he hadn’t been there for his daughter. No, it was worse. At least his father had never walked out on his mother as he’d walked out on Janet. Somehow, in a way he had denied before, his desertion of his child’s mother was the greatest possible betrayal of the child herself.

Carly and Molly both confronting him with his columns had caused much soul-searching. He found himself wondering about many things he’d believed for years, and the foundation—or lack of foundation—on which those beliefs had been built. He thought about Janet, Carly, and his mother. He saw the disastrous consequences of his beliefs and lifestyle choices. They had cost him his marriage, his relationship with his mother and daughter, and now they would cost even his daughter’s life. As Finney might have put it, he was reaping what he had sown.

Worse yet, he had not only embraced these beliefs, he had propagated them through his columns, his speeches, and his conversations. He had not only failed in the important things in life, he had led others down a path that would lead to the same kind of failure.

As clumsy and inappropriate as his attempt to stand up for Carly had been, there was some inexplicable sense of Tightness about it. He’d come to her aid and defense too late, to be sure, but he had come nonetheless. If she knew how he did it—and inevitably she’d find out—she’d be embarrassed, maybe miffed at him. Yet perhaps she would see that in his belated, inexperienced, and fumbling way, he had tried to do for her what fathers throughout the ages have tried to do for their children—defend, protect, and go to battle against those who dared to wound them.

Unfortunately, in Carly’s case the one inflicting the wound wasn’t just Ms. Beal. The deeper wound had been at his own hand.

Jake wished he had a chance to do it over again, this father thing. And yet he knew himself well enough to know he’d probably mess it all up one more time. He was still who he was. What would change? He’d just fail Carly a second time, wouldn’t he? Could either of them endure the encore?

Finney’s Bible, there on the lamp table by the recliner, seemed to call to Jake as if it were more than an inanimate object. It unnerved him. Finally he picked it up and gingerly opened the flyleaf, with the feelings of an explorer about to enter a cavern for the first time, having only a faint idea of what he might discover within. He sensed some of it contained perilous dangers, but felt willing to take that risk for the rewards that might await him. How much worse could things get?

Jotted in various places, with different colors of ink, were sayings such as, “Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven,” and “Hammer away, you hostile hands; your hammers break, God’s Anvil stands.” At the top of the second page the word Bible had been turned into an acrostic, reading “Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth.” Underneath it, nicely typed and printed in Times Roman, were various quotes Finney had assembled, printed, then taped in this prominent place. The yellow tape suggested he’d done all this years ago. Jake read a couple of them with interest:

“I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage. I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death.”—C. S. Lewis

“He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.”—Jim Elliot

“Let no one apologize for the powerful emphasis Christianity lays upon the doctrine of the world to come. Right there lies its immense superiority to everything else within the whole sphere of human thought or experience. When Christ arose from death and ascended into heaven He established forever three important facts, namely, that this world has been condemned to ultimate dissolution, that the human spirit persists beyond the grave and that there is indeed a world to come. We do well to think of the long tomorrow.”—A. W. Tozer.

The long tomorrow. That’s the big question, isn’t it? What awaits us in the long tomorrow?

He read another sentence at the bottom, written in Finney’s distinctive hand. “When all else fails, read the Directions.”

Jake smiled wryly, remembering all the times on vacations and outings when he was lost and Janet accused him of being proud and stubborn because he refused to stop and ask directions. He always thought he knew the way, and if he didn’t he wasn’t about to admit it to someone else. He knew the answers, Jake realized, to innumerable questions. But to the questions that ultimately mattered, he had no answers.

Jake sat back in his recliner, and with a profound feeling of failure combined with a faint glimmer of hope, he began—as a man relieved to finally admit he’s lost—to read the Directions.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

J
ake labored over his column with uncharacteristic nervousness. As he typed the sentences that magically appeared on his terminal, he found himself turning his head to be sure no one was watching. Today he felt as Leonard had described it, like a boy in class hiding a
Playboy
behind his textbook. He was startled by a hand on his back. It was Guy, a city politics reporter. “Jake, you’re not actually doing your column, are you? It’s only nine. You put in a full three hours and they’ll have to pay you overtime.”

It was the usual good-natured ribbing of columnists, who were
Tribune
heavyweights, but had a rep for keeping lightweight schedules.

Jake quickly turned and blocked Guy’s line of sight to his screen. “More on my mind than usual. This might be a tough one to write, so thought I’d get a jump on it.”

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Condoms in schools, that sort of thing.”

“You’ve done pieces like that before. This a new slant?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Well, prudes everywhere are out there just waiting for you to infuriate them. Don’t disappoint ’em! See ya later.”

“Later.” Jake’s voice was uncharacteristically limp. He listened as his seventh call of the day came in on his telephone recorder. He was screening for the rare one he needed to take.

“Jake? Sutter. I need to talk. Pick up that phone, will you?”

Jake hesitated a moment then picked up the phone, instinctively whispering as he never did for other calls. “Look, I’m busy, Sutter. I’ve got a real job.”

“Is that what you call it?” Sutter chuckled. He seemed to find humor in everything.

“I’m on deadline. Make it quick.”

“Tried to call you yesterday, but no answer. Just wondering if you found anything out at the high school. What’s your lead there anyway? Think the water polo team was involved in the murder?” Sutter snorted, pleased at his wit. “Not holding out on me, are you?”

Jake sighed, tired of Sutter knowing everywhere he went. “The school had to do with my daughter. I do have a life besides the investigation.”

“Sure, okay. But you’ve been running in and out of diners, making late night trips to your friend’s house. You must have something for me, Jake.”

“I do.” Jake gave Sutter a quick synopsis of the locked files and told him he’d fax over Finney’s computer papers as soon as they got off.

“What about you, Sutter? Anything for me?”

“Yeah. How about we get together?”

“Look, maybe tomorrow. Not today. If you’ve got anything, tell me over the phone. Nobody would have it bugged but you.”

“What I’ve got you’re not going to like, but here it is, and it fits perfectly with the new stuff you uncovered. We’ve run traces on some complicated financial transactions. They take off from a bogus company set up by our friends in organized crime. And they land in the back yard of your friend, Dr. Lowell. He took at least one payoff, maybe more, just as your computer files suggest.”

“What was the payoff for?”

“No details yet. We have a few ideas. And when I go over your faxes I think some stuff may rise to the top. There’s more, but not over the phone.”

Sutter had piqued Jake’s curiosity.

“Okay. How about you meet me in the deli at one tomorrow? The one where you were pretending to read the
Trib
and drinking your Red Sangria? You know, when you were eavesdropping on me and Ollie. Remember?”

Sutter laughed. “I wondered if you ever put that together.”

“Don’t mistake me for a complete moron, Sutter.”

“I don’t, Jake. Believe me, I don’t. One more thing, and I hate to say it. The Bureau’s got an operation going on somewhere else, a big one, and I’ve got to pull surveillance on you for a couple of days. Mayhew flew out last night. The two other agents who’ve been sharing duty on you have to take a hike too. I fought the brass on it, but they have to set priorities with limited personnel, and this time you got bumped.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Look, they’ve only made one move on you, right? And our guys haven’t seen ’em on you for over a week—that’s a lot of coffee and donuts and sore rear ends for nothing. Besides, they don’t know we’re not still on your tail. They’ve been timid since the episode behind the market, and remembering Mayhew’s .44 Magnum isn’t going to make them braver. Hey, it may just be one guy anyway—Mr. Baseball didn’t have any backup, right? By the time anybody notices, our guys will be back on the job. Your own little guardian angels.”

“Okay, Sutter. I’m not going to sweat it.”
What difference would it make if I did?

“Good. Just be careful. See you at the deli at one tomorrow. And we’ll make sure no one’s eavesdropping!” Jake cut off Sutter’s good-natured laugh when he hung up his phone.

Once again Jake undertook the mental discipline of setting aside the latest distraction to concentrate on the task at hand. He typed for another thirty minutes, identifying with asterisks parts where he needed hard data and further development. In the past he’d always called Planned Parenthood on this subject. He did so again, got lots of opinions, but they didn’t have documentation on most of the things he was looking for. He called Barbara Betcher at NEA. She had some strong feelings, but again not the hard data he needed. He took a deep breath and decided to call Carl Mahoney at CARE. Jake had a vague impression from his interview two months ago that Mahoney might have some studies he needed.

Jake dialed his number, smiling as he recalled his last episode with Mrs. Mahoney and the spin cycle. This time a man answered the phone.

“Citizens Advocating Responsible Education. Carl Mahoney speaking.”

“Yeah, Carl. Jake Woods from the
Tribune.
”

There was a pause. “Uh-huh.”

People’s voices usually picked up and showed life when they heard Jake’s name. He knew it was a bad sign that Mahoney’s did not.

“Carl, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Woods, but I need to tell you I’m pressing the record button on my answering machine. Our conversation is now being taped. I’m not sure if I’m required to tell you this or not, but I wanted you to know.”

“Um … why are you taping our conversation?”

“It’s a practice I started after the last time you called me, actually. You were the third person from the
Tribune who
misquoted me. This is a protective measure.”

“I misquoted you?”

“I’m going to assume you’re shooting straight with me, but I find it difficult to believe you don’t know how you portrayed me in that column. I received hate mail and two phone threats. Even my kids got hassled because their dad supposedly said some things I didn’t say. Or if I did say them, you took them out of context.”

“Well, if that’s true, it certainly wasn’t deliberate.”

“First, it
is
true. Anyone listening to our last conversation then reading your column would know that. Second, while I appreciate your saying it wasn’t deliberate, that doesn’t reassure me. If anything, it frightens me.”

“Why would it frighten you?”

“Because if it had been deliberate, then you could apologize and promise not to do it again. But if it wasn’t deliberate, if you did it unconsciously, then you’ll just do it again, because it comes naturally. I mean no offense, but that’s how I see it.”

“Well, Mr. Mahoney, I don’t quite know what to say.”

Jake considered apologizing, but admitting wrong was seldom good policy. Especially not when you were being taped!

“I understand you have strong beliefs, Mr. Woods, as I do. Those beliefs are very different. Maybe it would be hard for me to communicate your beliefs fairly, but I’d like to think I could quote you accurately, then take issue with you honestly, in a way that showed respect for you as a person.”

“And you felt I didn’t show you respect?”

“That’s right. Don’t think this is a matter of hurt feelings. If my feelings were easily hurt I’d just go with the crowd. But when I take the lumps, I want it to be for what I really believe and really said and how I really said it. Since your last interview, and a few other misrepresentations, I’ve been on the defensive, doing damage control, putting out fires. I’ve had to repeatedly refute your caricature of me. I had a speaking engagement canceled because they read your column and found out what kind of person I really am.’ I just don’t think you understand how you can mess up somebody’s life. You move right on to the next column, but we have to pick up the pieces. Can you understand that?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. I can see you’re upset. I’ll do my best to quote you accurately, Mr. Mahoney.”

“I’m sorry, but our board has made a list of four or five media people who have badly misrepresented us, and they’ve instructed me not to grant them more interviews. I’m afraid you’re on the list.”

“But … you’ve already been talking to me. And you’re taping the interview, right?”

“I’m taping our conversation in which I’m explaining why I can’t grant you an interview. I turned on the tape lest you misrepresent my explanation. To be honest—and I’m probably crazy to say this—an attorney told me the tape won’t do much good anyway. Suing the media for libel or slander is pointless unless you can prove what was said is false
and
that there was deliberate malice. If I had a tape of our last interview, I could prove you misrepresented me. As I understand the law, though, all you’d have to do is say you intended no harm. Unless I could prove otherwise, the case would be closed. Am I right?”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s quite that simple, but yes, that’s basically accurate.”

“But whether or not you had malice, the harm still stands. I rear ended someone last month. I didn’t intend to smash into his car, but I did. There was no malice, but I was still liable for the damage. But it doesn’t seem to work that way with you people. You’re immune. The tape recording is a small consolation, but what good will it do? Even if I have proof you misquote me, how do I get it into people’s hands? A half million people read what you said about me—is that the
Trib’s
circulation? I’d be lucky to reach a few hundred.”

“Mr. Mahoney, I probably shouldn’t say ’I was wrong’ and ’I’m sorry,’ especially not on tape. But as a show of good faith, I’ll do it. I was wrong and I’m sorry. It wasn’t malicious, but I believe you when you say damage was done. I’m truly sorry.”

“Well … thank you. It doesn’t undo the damage, but it does make me feel better. To be honest, a correction or retraction would make me feel a lot better than your apology, but I’m not unrealistic. I know you won’t do that.”

Mahoney paused, as if there was a faint hope Jake might say he would. Jake didn’t even consider it. It was too late, it would make him look too bad, and Winston would never go for it anyway. Mahoney was right and Jake knew it. His apology was sincere, but it did nothing to correct any damage.

“It’s like the old saying, Tool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’ I want to trust you, Mr. Woods, but after what happened last time, I’d be a fool to. If I sound like I’m a little gun shy, remember you’re not the only one I’ve had this experience with.”

“Well, I can see where you’re coming from, Mr. Mahoney. I understand your decision not to do the interview, but I think you may be surprised when you see the column.”

“Really? Well, we’ll see.”

“Anyway, let me ask you this. Do you have some material on Planned Parenthood, birth control education, school clinics, condom distribution in schools, that sort of thing? I’ve got files full of stuff from the other point of view. Do you have anything you can fax me in the next hour?”

There was a pause, as if Carl Mahoney wasn’t sure if this was some kind of trick. “Well … okay. Give me fifteen minutes and I could get together lots of pertinent stuff, government studies, independent research, all kinds of data.”

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for. I appreciate your help. I owe you for this, and again I’m sorry about last time.”

“Okay, well, thank you. I’ll fax this stuff over pronto. What’s your fax number?”

Jake gave him the number and seconds later was staring at the screen, pondering the indictment Mahoney had laid on him. He was surprised he hadn’t been more defensive. Mahoney was wrong thinking he’d done anything deliberate. But he needed to take the accusation seriously. He looked at the letter from the woman, pinned up on his wall, the mother he’d unfairly accused in the column about her criminal son. What was it Mahoney had said? “Whether you intended it or not, the harm stands.” And, “You move on to the next column, but we have to pick up the pieces.”

Jake had a queasy feeling, like maybe after this column, he’d be the one picking up the pieces.

Ten minutes later he walked to the common fax machine in his area. A call just came in, and the waxy white sheets were slowly emerging. Good, it was from Mahoney. He started reading the first few pages, without tearing them away from the machine. He looked through the research and statistics and started marking pertinent items with his pen.
Yeah, this is exactly what I’m looking for.
He could fill in the asterisks with hard data now. But lots of people weren’t going to like it.

After another hour of pounding the keys, editing and rewriting, Jake finally had a column, eight hundred words. He’d had to cut it in half and decided to remove the hard data after all and save it for another column, assuming he’d still be working here. He just summarized the main facts and appealed to the reader’s common sense. He sat back to read it start to finish, trying to put himself in the place of his readers:

What I’m about to say will be controversial. That’s an enlightening commentary on our times, since what I’m saying also happens to be indisputably true.

Here it is: The true biological cause of teen pregnancies is not the absence of birth control. You’d never know this from the literature and television programs and columns on the subject, but it’s true nonetheless.