Operation Mockingbird (2 page)

“Ay, Matt, I’m so glad you’re back,” she continued. “It’s been so boring here without you. And I’ve missed my happy hour buddy.”

Her bottom lip pushed out into an adorable pout. It was a look Matt had been the recipient of many times in the past, one that completely enthralled him. He sometimes sought to disappoint Ana just for the fun of seeing that sad face and then replacing it with one of sheer delight. He wasn’t the only one, though, who appreciated Ana. Back in the day, Ana had most of the single guys in the office vying for her attention -- which was exactly the way she liked it.

“I’m glad to be back,” Matt replied. “And I’m definitely looking forward to one of those happy hours.”

“Well, I’ll put you back in the loop,” she said beaming. There it was -- the smile.

As they walked through the hallways and toward Dave Kagan’s office, Matt could feel the energy bouncing off the walls of the newsroom. He had missed it. The phones ringing, computer keyboards crackling and reporters huddled together along the tight row of desks. The smell of burnt coffee from the morning and leftover Cuban food from lunch and then dinner for the journalists working late
to meet the dreaded deadline. Finally, they got to Dave Kagan’s corner office. Ana stood back to let Matt go in first.

“Matt,” Kagan said warmly as he rose from behind his enormous antique desk. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Dave. It’s good to be here.”

His boss may have put on a few pounds, his blond hair may have thinned a bit, but the time since Matt had first come to the paper ten years ago had otherwise been good to the man. He was dressed in freshly pressed khaki trousers. He wore a starched white shirt that was in sharp contrast to the deeply tanned skin visible at the neckline and where his sleeves ended. A navy sweater was tied loosely around his neck. A gold Rolex glittered on his wrist from underneath the French cuffs fastened with monogrammed cuff links.

“Sit down, Matt,” Dave said as he gestured to the empty seat in front of his desk. “And, Ana, could you get us both some black coffee?”

Dave settled into the deep leather chair behind his desk. Out the picture window behind the editor, Matt could see all the way across Biscayne Bay to the Venetian Islands and almost the entire length of South Beach. On one side of Kagan’s desk sat a flat-screen computer monitor hooked up to an ultra-thin laptop in a cradle. Advertising layouts covered the flat surfaces of the otherwise immaculate desk.

Dave Kagan had been the paper’s editor-in-chief since before Matt had joined the staff fresh out of college. He had been a very hands-on editor, involved in every story line as it developed, and reviewing every article before it was permitted to be included in the final edition. He had been
more diligent than any of the copy editors, and Matt had been the recipient of many pages bearing the red Sharpie evidence of Kagan’s dissatisfaction.

“So, Matt, how are you?” Dave gestured with his chin in the general direction of Matt’s shoulder.

“Fine,” Matt replied shrugging off Dave’s concern. “A little sore, but the doctors tell me I’ll be fine.”

“That’s good to hear. I was worried about you. You took a lot of unnecessary risks in Afghanistan,” Kagan continued. “What the hell were you doing skipping out on the embed program? You were supposed to stay with all the other approved reporters, not run off to Fallujah and then Kandahar where you didn’t have any military support. That was risky, Matt, and could have ended up much worse than it did.”

“It wasn’t that bad ...”

“Not only was it bad, Matt,” Dave interrupted, “but it was also against
The Chronicle
’s orders. You should have stayed in the embed program instead of running around Afghanistan by yourself. You could’ve gotten some good stuff and we would have been able to keep you safe.”

“Good stuff?” Matt snorted. “Come on, Dave, those embeds got crap. They only got what the Defense Department wanted them to get.”

In 2003, the Bush Administration created the “embed program,” which allowed only approved journalists to be in Iraq and Afghanistan and only if they agreed to be attached to military units. Nearly 600 reporters working for news agencies from around the world agreed to the terms and traveled alongside U.S. and coalition forces. Administration
officials hailed the program for permitting access to the front lines and soldiers’ daily lives. Media watchdog groups, on the other hand, criticized its often restrictive nature and publicly worried that reporters would become indoctrinated into the military culture, develop relationships with the soldiers and then deliver stories from a military point of view instead of an objective one. Some journalists -- including Matt -- believed that the program rules only enhanced the military’s ability to limit the release of undesirable news and eschewed any involvement with the program.

“Listen, Matt,” Kagan replied, “we were one of the first participants in the embed program. From that program, we were able to get a bird’s-eye view of what was going on over there. In Iraq, we got stories and pictures of GI Joe and GI Jane on the front lines. Videos of the most sophisticated fighting machine in the world bombing and shootin’ the shit out of the bad guys. In Afghanistan, we got pictures of people proudly displaying their purple fingers on Election Day. That stuff was priceless.”

Matt sat up straighter in his chair. “That stuff was Pentagon propaganda. Those guys were essentially acting as the government’s stenographers, starting with the reporting on the search for WMDs that didn’t exist and then on to how great the war was going even as more and more military personnel and civilians were being killed.”

“Maybe,” Kagan interrupted with a small smile. “But our readers love that so-called ‘Pentagon propaganda.’ That stuff sold papers. Folks don’t want to hear the doom and gloom --negative news or reports of tragedy or failure. And
we’re struggling for survival here. We have to give the people what they want.”

“Dave, that’s bullshit,” Matt protested.

His comment drew a surprised look from Ana who had just arrived with two mugs of coffee. As she sat the coffee mugs down on the desk in front of Matt, she shot him a warning look before she turned and walked out the door.

Matt continued despite Ana’s warning.

“The embed program lost all credibility after the truth about Jessica Lynch and Pat Tillman came out. You would have thought they would have killed the program after that. But, instead, several years later, the program is still going strong. I couldn’t stomach getting involved.”

Matt was referring to the extreme measures the U.S. government took, at first to win popular support for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and then later, when the wars weren’t going to so well, to avoid negative backlash. In the case of Private First Class Jessica Lynch, the military tried to capitalize on the capture and ultimate rescue of the first U.S. prisoner of war since World War II and the first woman prisoner by issuing press releases describing her heroic actions before she was ultimately captured. It was later determined -- and confirmed by Jessica Lynch -- that the reports were incorrect. The reports of her actions were highly inflated and attributed to the Pentagon’s attempts at manipulating the media.

The Pat Tillman story was slightly different. In the aftermath of September 11
^th
, Tillman left a successful professional football career to join the Army Rangers. He
served several tours in Afghanistan before he died in the mountains of Afghanistan. When he was killed, the Army figured out relatively early on that he had died from friendly fire but reported that he had been killed by enemy fire in order to avoid having to admit to the human error and to be able to exploit the memory of a beloved celebrity.

“Well, Matt,” Dave finally said as he clapped his hands. “Either way, the war in the Middle East is finally coming to an end. Military operations in Iraq have been terminated and the troops in Afghanistan will be gone by next year. Thankfully.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Matt said. “There’s still a lot going on in the Middle East. The U.S. government may have declared formal military operations over and may have set a timeline for troop withdrawals, but we’re still going to have a presence over there -- in some form or another. And that presence is going to have some serious implications here and internationally.”

“Maybe,” Kagan replied. “I’ve certainly heard talk of that. But, folks are more focused on the economy now and on jobs. Those are the issues our readers want to hear about.”

“Since when does a newspaper filter the news based on what it believes its readers want to hear?”

Matt tried to keep himself from shouting as he pressed on. “With all due respect, Dave, our job is to inform people, tell them what’s really going on -- even if it’s unpleasant and not necessarily what they want to hear.”

“Still the idealist, I see.”

“Matt, let’s get serious,” Dave continued. “When you were here,
The Chronicle
was a privately held local paper owned by the Walker family. About a month after you left, the Walkers threw in the towel and sold the paper to the Armstrong Media Corporation, a public company. Now, we’re accountable to a board of directors and to our shareholders. John Armstrong -- our CEO, Chairman of the Board and largest shareholder -- expects us to consistently exceed Wall Street’s earnings expectations. Armstrong calls me twice a day to remind me that in order to do that we need to cater to a much broader audience. As a result, I’m constantly commissioning these surveys that tell us what our readers are most interested in.”

“Our readers must have some interest in what’s going on outside of our little Banana Republic,” Matt replied.

Dave smiled at the local reference to the City of Miami and its crazy politics. “Yes, they do. Right now, the average person is interested in jobs and how they make up all the money they have lost as a result of the worst market crash since the Great Depression.”

An awkward silence filled the room. Matt knew he had screwed up. Once again, he had let his temper get the best of him. The conversation was headed downhill quickly and he wasn’t sure how to apply the brakes, let alone turn the conversation around.

Finally, Dave took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “But, listen, that’s not to say we’re not interested in what you’ve got.”

Matt felt like Dave was throwing him a lifeline.

Dave glanced at his watch. “Go home, email me all your drafts and story ideas, whatever you’re thinking about. I’ll see if maybe we can use some of your material.”

Dave started to rise.

“Thanks, Dave.” Matt said taking his cue and standing up. “I appreciate that.”

When they got to the door, Matt hesitated before asking the question that had been weighing heavily on him. “What about Commissioner Suarez?”

A few months before he had left for Afghanistan, Matt had written a series of negative -- but well-researched -- articles about City of Miami Commissioner Carlos Suarez. The articles described how Suarez had violated campaign finance laws by taking contributions from convicted felons, some of whom were partners in his own real estate ventures. Suarez, himself a man with a questionable past, hadn’t appreciated the embarrassing allegations and had publicly threatened to destroy Matt’s career.

“It looks like he’s going to return the contributions and get away with a slap on the wrist for questionable campaign finance activities. Thanks to his brother the Senator, of course.” Kagan opened the door as he continued. “As you may have heard since you got back, the commissioner is running for re-election and, despite all the controversy, it looks like he’ll win.”

Kagan signaled to Ana who looked up from her desk.

“Don’t worry, Matt,” Kagan rested a firm hand on Matt’s shoulder. “The commissioner likely has more important things on his plate than his vendetta against you. But I’m not going to lie to you. You’re going to have to
promise to keep him out of your sights. Think you can do that?”

“I don’t know, Dave, he’s an awfully appealing target,” Matt replied honestly. “But, I really want to focus on the Middle East. So I’m sure I can play nice … at least for a little while.”

“That’s the spirit, Matt,” Dave said as he slapped Matt on the back and ushered him out the door. “Play nice. Life will be much easier that way.”

CHAPTER THREE

JUST ANOTHER DAY in paradise Matt thought as he headed down to Scotty’s Landing to meet his old friend and neighbor Pierre Baptiste. Palm trees planted along South Bayshore Drive swayed in the gentle breeze coming off the bay. The sky was a cloudless sapphire blue. The black asphalt street gleamed from the effects of the sun. The air-conditioning was going at full blast but the sun beating down on the roof of Matt’s CJ-5 Jeep Renegade created a sauna effect.

Matt arrived at Scotty’s Landing just before 1 o’clock. He parked, went in to sit at the bar and ordered a beer. Despite the heat, the marina deck and restaurant were packed. The locals were accustomed to the weather, and the tourists were not to be deterred in their pursuit of fun in the sun. The bayside restaurant was situated in the middle of a busy marina filled with boats, but had a casual laid-back atmosphere and serene setting. Every seat in the place enjoyed a view of Biscayne Bay where manatees floated by and occasionally pushed their snouts up to the surface for
some air. Women in bikinis strutted their stuff between the various boats, the marina and the restaurant.

“Hey, stranger.”

Matt felt a heavy paw land on his right shoulder and turned to see Pierre grinning widely even as he sweated from the heat and the extra eighty pounds he carried. The man was clearly losing his ongoing battle with vaca frita and black beans and rice but that didn’t seem to affect his disposition at all.

Matt rose and allowed himself to be enveloped into a bear hug. Pain shot through Matt’s left shoulder and he gritted his teeth.

“Hey, buddy. How you doin’?” Matt said clapping Pierre on the back while at the same time trying to steer his face clear of the dark crescents in the armpits of his old friend’s shirt.

“I’m hot as a pig on a spit. That’s how I am,” Pierre said finally letting Matt go. The bigger man ran his forearm across his glistening brow. When his round face emerged, he was still smiling. His coal-black face, dark eyes and bald head were a welcome sight for Matt’s tired eyes.