“I’ll see if I can find a copy at home tonight. Let’s get back to this story and get it in. Prendo is going to want to see it in the basket as soon as he’s out of the four o’clock meeting.”
“Okay, Jack.”
She raised her hands in mock surrender. I went back to the story and got through the rest of it in ten minutes, making only one change in the copy. Angela had tracked down the son of the elderly woman who had been raped and then stabbed to death in 1989. He was grateful that the police had not given up on the case and said so. I moved his sincerely laudatory quote up into the top third of the story.
“I’m moving this up so it won’t get cut by the desk,” I explained. “A quote like that will score you some points with the cops. It’s the kind of sentiment from the public that they live for and don’t often get. Putting it up high will start building the trust I was telling you about.”
“Okay, good.”
I then made one final addition, typing –30– at the bottom of the copy.
“What does that mean?” Angela asked. “I’ve seen that on other stories in the city desk basket.”
“It’s just an old-school thing. When I first came up in journalism you typed that at the bottom of your stories. It’s a code—I think it’s even a holdover from telegraph days. It just means end of story. It’s not necessary anymore but—”
“Oh, God, that’s why they call the list of everybody who gets laid off the ‘thirty list.’ ”
I looked at her and nodded, surprised that she didn’t already know what I was telling her.
“That’s right. And it’s something I always used, and since my byline’s on the story…”
“Sure, Jack, that’s okay. I think it’s kind of cool. Maybe I’ll start doing it.”
“Continue the tradition, Angela.”
I smiled and stood up.
“You think you are okay to make the round of police checks in the morning and swing by Parker Center?”
She frowned.
“You mean without you?”
“Yeah, I’m going to be tied up in court on something I’m working on. But I’ll probably be back before lunch. You think you can handle it?”
“If you think so. What are you working on?”
I told her briefly about my visit to the Rodia Gardens projects and the direction I was going. I then assured her that she wouldn’t have a problem going to Parker Center on her own after only one day’s training with me.
“You’ll be fine. And with that story in the paper tomorrow, you’ll have more friends over there than you’ll know what to do with.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Just call me on my cell if you need anything.”
I then pointed at the story on her computer screen, made a fist and banged it lightly on her desk.
“Run that baby,” I said.
It was a line from All the President’s Men, one of the greatest reporter stories ever told, and I immediately realized she didn’t recognize it. Oh, well, I thought, there is old school and then there is new school.
I headed back to my cubicle and saw the message light on my phone flashing at a fast interval, meaning I had multiple messages. I quickly pushed the strange but intriguing encounter with Angela Cook from my mind and picked up the receiver.
The first message was from Jacob Meyer. He said he had been assigned a new case with an arraignment scheduled for the next day. It meant he had to push back our meeting a half hour to 9:30 the next morning. That was fine with me. It would give me more time to either sleep in or prepare for the interview.
The second message was a voice from the past. Van Jackson was a rookie reporter I had trained on the cop beat at the Rocky Mountain News about fifteen years before. He rose through the ranks and got all the way up to the post of city editor before the paper shuttered its doors a few months earlier. That was the end of a 150-year publishing run in Colorado and the biggest sign yet of the crashing newspaper economy. Jackson still hadn’t found a job in the business he had dedicated his professional life to.
“Jack, it’s Van. I heard the news. Not a good thing, man. I’m so sorry. Give me a call and we can commiserate. I’m still here in Denver freelancing and looking for work.”
There was a long silence and I guess Jackson was looking for words that would prepare me for what was ahead.
“I’ve gotta tell you the truth, man. There’s nothing out there. I’m just about ready to start selling cars, but all the car dealers are in the toilet, too. Anyway, give me a call. Maybe we can watch out for each other, trade tips or something.”
I played the message again and then erased it. I would take my time about calling Jackson back. I didn’t want to be dragged down further than I already was. I was hitting the big three-oh but I still had options. I wanted to keep my momentum. I had a novel to write.
Jacob Meyer was late to our meeting on Tuesday morning. For nearly a half hour I sat in the waiting room of the Public Defender’s Office surrounded by clients of the state-funded agency. People too poor to afford their own legal defense and reliant on the government that was prosecuting them to also defend them. It was right there in the constitutionally guaranteed rights—If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you—but it always seemed to be a contradiction to me. Like it was all some kind of racket with the government controlling both supply and demand.
Meyer was a young man who I guessed was no more than five years out of law school. Yet here he was, defending a younger man—no, a child—accused of murder. He came back from court, carrying a leather briefcase so fat with files it was too awkward and heavy to carry by the handle. He had it under his arm. He asked the receptionist for messages and was pointed to me. He switched his heavy briefcase to his left arm and offered to shake my hand. I took it and introduced myself.
“Come on back,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need a lot of your time at this point.”
We walked single file down a hall that had been narrowed because of a row of file cabinets pushed against the right wall and extending its entire length. I was sure it was a fire code violation. This was the kind of detail I would normally put in my back pocket for a rainy day. Public Defenders Work in Fire Trap. But I was no longer worried about headlines or coming up with stories for the slow days. I had one last story to write and that was it.
“In here,” Meyer said.
I followed him into a communal office, a twenty-by-twelve room with desks in every corner and sound partitions between them.
“Home sweet home,” he said. “Pull over one of those chairs.”
There was another lawyer, sitting at the desk catty-corner to Meyer’s. I pulled the chair over from the empty desk next to his and we sat down.
“Alonzo Winslow,” Meyer said. “His grandmother is an interesting lady, isn’t she?”
“Especially in her own environment.”
“Did she tell you how proud she was to have a Jew lawyer?”
“Yeah, actually she did.”
“Turns out I’m Irish, but I didn’t want to spoil it for her. What are you looking to do for Alonzo?”