Since I’m not rushing through the office like an escaped felon, I have plenty of time to work through the news feeds and sort out the information for the other reporters. I make little piles for each person and write a few texts about information I’ve seen on twitter as well. It feels good to be there early, and a tiny voice in the back of my head tells me, that’s why you’re supposed to get here at eight, dummy.
I don’t bother going to my cubicle right away and putting myself under Jack’s microscope, so I don’t even know if he’s in the office yet. I assume he is, if for no other reason than hoping to reprimand me for being late. After yesterday, I’m really not in the mood for his lectures about my reporting skills or my punctuality. I don’t want to hear him tell me that it was irresponsible to be at a bar last night when I should have been making sure I wasn’t neglecting any other stories and letting everyone down at the paper. And I desperately don’t want to talk about how I cornered him in the hallway and tried—if I’m remembering correctly—to get him to have bathroom sex with me. OMG, kill me now.
Even though a part of me wants him to see that I’ve arrived well before eight o’clock, I don’t want to give him the impression that I changed my ways because of his annoying nagging. I’m honestly hoping I can avoid seeing him at all.
As I’m pulling wire copy from one of the printers, I hear the staccato buzz of the main phone line. The receptionist doesn’t arrive until nine thirty, so it’s my job to answer the phone until then. It’s my least favorite part of the day, that hour and a half when I pick up the phone to hear things like, “My paper arrived wet this morning” or “I have a real problem with an editorial that ran in your paper, which should really be called the Bleeding Blue Commie Rag” or “I have a great tip for you on a Ponzi scheme that’s being run out of the basement of my apartment building.”
In other words, calls from certifiable crackpots and people who have nothing better to do than dial up the main phone number of the paper because they know someone will answer and have to listen to whatever they have to say. I have real respect for our receptionist who has to deal with these calls all day long. I always bring her lunch on the days when I get a chance to leave the office. She deserves an appointment to sainthood.
I’m already wearing my Bluetooth headset, so I punch the blinking button on the phone to connect to the caller. “Examiner,” I say into the phone, bracing myself for whatever nonsense I’m about to hear.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line and I figure I’m being crank called, which also happens a lot. Before I hang up, I hear a noise on the line, so I pause, then a throat clears and the caller starts speaking, shaky and uncertain, “Um hi, is this a reporter?”
“Yes, Linden Sandoval. How can I help?”
“Would you be someone I could report something to?” She still sounds uncertain she wants to be making this call.
“Depends what you want to report. If it’s a crime or an emergency, you should call 911.”
She cuts me off. “No, it’s not an emergency… it might be a crime, though.”
“Sounds like it could be something you might want to report to the police,” I say, but the haste with which I apparently dismissed Zumalife’s importance to my life at the paper hangs over me like a death veil. I can’t be quick to push her away when there might be a story someplace. “But why don’t you tell me what made you call us.”
She’s silent again. Again, I think maybe she’s reconsidering whether she made a mistake in calling. “I can’t tell you too much over the phone, not yet. But I have something I think you’d be interested in. It could be a big story.” I’m trying not to be cynical. But in the year and a half since I joined the Examiner, I’ve heard dozens of people tell me they were certain they had a huge story. Exactly zero of them panned out into anything.
“What’s the basic gist?” I ask, knowing I’ll be able to tell her within two minutes whether her idea is worth more of my time.
Again, she hesitates. Another phone line is ringing now, and I need to put her on hold while I answer it. I figure there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll be there when I return to the line. But she’s there, her voice a little bolder now. “I had a job… somewhere, and I think there’s something happening that shouldn’t be. I’ve seen some things and written down some notes, but before I tell you more or show you anything, I need to know if I’m safe.”
“You mean, do we protect our sources?”
“Yeah. Like even if you had to testify in court. This can’t lead back to me.” She sounds legitimately nervous and I decide she’s either paranoid and a little nutty, or she really has something here that I shouldn’t ignore.
“I would protect you. We don’t reveal confidential sources. To anyone,” I tell her, remembering an old episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show when she’s trotted off to jail for not giving up a source. I’m not above imagining this turning into my Mary moment. “Would you feel more comfortable talking in person?”
I hear her exhale. “Yes, thank you. I’m at work now, and I’m so nervous to be making this call,” she says. I can’t believe she’s calling me from work. That seems foolish and potentially dangerous if anyone is within earshot. “It’s a different job than the one I want to talk about, and I’m in the bathroom on my personal cell phone but still, it seems like I shouldn’t tell you more over the phone, just to be careful.” It’s sounding a lot more like Deep Throat.
I arrange to meet her later in the afternoon when she says she’ll have a break from work. There’s a Starbucks near the bureau and it’s always loud enough in there that no one would be able to overhear our conversation. She agrees to come. I’m thinking there’s still maybe a slim chance this will actually lead to a story, but I tell myself to follow every lead, no matter where it goes.
Before we hang up, I ask her one more question that will give me a sense of whether or not there’s likely to be a story somewhere.
“What’s the name of the company, the place where you used to work?” I ask.
“Um, it’s the show, Bachelor Bay?” she says, as though she’s asking whether I’ve heard of it.
“Yes, I know the show,” I say, not volunteering that I’ve seen every episode. Multiple times. For all of its ten seasons. “Okay, well I’m looking forward to meeting you and hearing whatever you want to tell me.”
She thanks me and promises to find me at Starbucks. The line has already gone dead but I’m still holding the phone in my hand, dumbstruck.
The idea of a scandal or some wrongdoing at a splashy pop culture mainstay like Bachelor Bay intrigues me. It could be the makings of a good investigative piece, and with a popular show at the center, even a small story would get pretty good placement in the paper. That could be great for me, since I need to find the quickest way out of the doghouse. Jack is right, though, and the best way to forget about yesterday’s news—especially bad news—is to publish something even better the next day.
There’s only one problem. Bachelor Bay is a TV show, which means it falls under the purview of the entertainment pod, and Jack is at the top of the food chain among those reporters. But Bachelor Bay is, by all accounts, dumb entertainment. Jack writes about billion-dollar mergers and management shakeups at giant companies. It’s hard to imagine him writing about a dating show set on a yacht. And he might not want to waste his time on a maybe-story that could turn into nothing.