Four chairs down to my left, Senator Sumner looks stricken, but he doesn’t protest. Unlike Jian Wu, he’s content to let Buckman fight his battles for him.
“Third, the Bienville Watchman will be returned to my father by noon today, for the sum of one hundred dollars. The newspaper will be unencumbered by debt. The building that houses the paper will be included in the sale. Further, the mortgage on my parents’ house will be paid in full by this club and the house titled in my mother’s name. The contracts completing these transfers should be delivered to my father’s hospital room by Arthur Pine by eleven this morning.”
“Consider that done,” says Donnelly, glaring at Pine, who looks as though he’s struggling with ulcer pain. “And I, for one, will be glad to see that happen. I didn’t support that bullshit move yesterday, and I’m glad to see it rectified. The Watchman was founded the same year as the Poker Club, and it’s only right that it should go into the future guided by the family that built it.”
Beau Holland and Tommy Russo would love to strangle Donnelly right now.
“Fourth,” I go on, “all real estate named in today’s article—the homes and land Beau Holland scammed from homeowners along the interstate corridor, et cetera—will be sold back to the original owners for one-half of what they were paid for it. This will be done within ten days.”
Holland has gone so red he looks like he fell asleep in the sun. He starts to argue, but from the corner of my eye I see Russo lay a restraining hand on his arm.
“Fifth,” I push on, “in tomorrow’s paper, I will run an interview with Claude Buckman in which he expresses the critical need for new public schools in Bienville and his intention to push forward a public referendum for a new high school. At a minimum that investment will be fifty million dollars.”
Nobody comments on this point, and since it was offered yesterday, this must have already been factored into their expectations.
“Sixth, a community development fund totaling one million dollars per year will be funded by the Sun King Casino and the Bienville Poker Club. I will initially administer that fund, and I will determine who administers it after me.”
Russo looks like a man with malignant hypertension.
“Finally, the local sheriff’s department will request the assistance of the FBI in the murder of Buck Ferris, and whoever is responsible will either plead guilty or stand trial and accept whatever verdict and sentence result from said trial.”
This demand turns out to be the bridge too far. Several mouths fall open. Then Beau Holland snaps.
“This is absurd!” he bellows. “Every damn word of it! It’s extortion!”
“Beau,” says Blake Donnelly. “Let’s wait until he’s finished.”
“Why even pretend to humor this asshole? We’re not giving in to this bullshit. You know McEwan won’t keep his word. He’s a goddamn reporter! He’ll never be able to sit on this. Look at today’s Watchman stories. He built his career blowing open scandals.” Holland looks around the room. “You’re not actually considering any of this?”
“Beau,” croaks Buckman. “Wait until the man is finished.”
Once Holland sits back in his chair, whispering angrily to Russo, I look down the table at Buckman. “In exchange for all of the above, I will withhold the contents of Sally’s cache from publication for all time. It will be as though that cache does not exist. Never existed. Bienville will get its paper mill, the new bridge, and the interstate. The Indian site will become a huge tourist attraction. Many of you will still likely profit mightily from the various side deals you’ve made related to all the new development. And you can sleep well at night knowing you’re not going to jail.”
Buckman nods grudgingly. Donnelly, Cash, and Dr. Lacey are sighing with apparent relief. But the others look far from happy.
“However,” I say, drilling Arthur Pine with the coldest stare I can muster. “If you fail to live up to any of these conditions, the FBI, the SEC, the IRS, and the Mississippi state tax authorities will be informed of every crime detailed in Sally’s cache. The list is staggering. None, however, approaches the betrayal of the United States implicit in the auctioning of Avery Sumner’s Senate votes.”
The Azure Dragon man stands stiffly. “I must make a telephone call.”
“Call whoever you want,” says Buckman. “But you’ve got no choice, and you know it.”
Without waiting for further comment, Jian Wu leaves the room.
“Mr. McEwan,” says Buckman, “could you give us five minutes alone?”
I pick up my phone and walk to the door. Then I look back and say, “I don’t want anybody coming out here to talk to me. Especially Russo. Make sure that whatever you decide, you’re all on the same page. There won’t be any second chances if I pull the trigger on this story. For this club, that’s the end of the world.”
I walk out into the anteroom, which is only a small alcove off the main second-floor hall. Even out here, the décor is old photographs of steamboats and cotton fields. I check my emails, then scan Twitter. Secretaries pass with brusque efficiency, and most look like they were chosen for their physical attributes.
Unless someone in that conference room has leverage I don’t know about, they have no choice but to accede to my demands. What preys on my mind is the terrible awareness that I’m betraying the most basic tenets of my profession. After today, I’ll be a traitor to every luminary of journalism whose book sits on my father’s shelf of honor. Not one of them ever made a deal like this. Today I join the ranks of the second-raters and sellouts.
Today I become a whore.
Why? I wonder. Is it because I live in a different time? No. There were always robber barons trying to use their power to pervert and exploit the political system for gain. I’m part of the army that’s supposed to stand in their way—
“We’re ready, Marshall,” announces Blake Donnelly, who has stuck his head out of the conference room door.
The oilman holds it open for me to go back inside.
Everyone is seated where he was before, including Jian Wu against the wall. Donnelly walks to his chair at Buckman’s right, and I take my seat at the near end of the table. Of all the faces around the table, it’s those of Pine, Holland, and Russo that look angriest.
“All right,” rasps Buckman. “Azure Dragon will comply in full with your conditions, Mr. McEwan. They don’t like it, but being proved guilty of espionage against the United States they like even less.”
Buckman taps the table with his clawlike fingers. “Next, the Bienville Watchman, its associated real estate, and the mortgage on your parents’ house will be returned to your father and mother forthwith by noon today, unencumbered by debt, as per your terms.”
“Again,” says Donnelly, “you have my apologies as to how that was done. No excuse for it, and I hope Duncan gets back on his feet soon.”
Buckman grimaces at this mixture of sentimental courtesy with business. “The other real estate you mentioned,” he goes on, “will be returned to the various sellers under the terms you described within ten days. Mr. Holland, give Mr. McEwan your word on that.”