“Then why didn’t Hatley mention the second car in his report?” Stevie said. “Is he a liar too?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know exactly.” Stevie thought her eyes were glistening just a bit. “I didn’t even know what was in the report until yesterday, remember?”
Stevie nodded and decided to let the silence be his next question.
She leaned toward him and smiled again, eyes still glistening.
“Can I tell you something completely off the record?” This was happening just as Kelleher and Susan Carol had predicted it would.
“Actually, I’d prefer you didn’t,” Stevie said. “I can’t take a chance that you’ll tell me something I already know, or might find out later, and then won’t be able to use because I agreed to let you tell me off the record.”
For the first time since they had sat down, the look on her face betrayed a hint of anger. “You mean after all I’ve told you, you might still write a story?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Stevie said. “But I can’t put myself in a position where I can’t write the story.”
“But I told you what happened,” she said. “You can easily check what I told you about Molloy and Dad playing in Sumter. I’m not lying about any of that.”
“I’m not saying you’re lying about anything,” he said. “But you don’t have all the answers either: your dad says two cars were involved; the police report only mentions one car. Was your dad drinking? One cop-who you say hated your father-insists yes. The other cop-your dad’s friend-says nothing about it in the report. And the fact remains that the version of the story your dad has told you may not be the way it happened at all.
“But what really bothers me is that David Felkoff, apparently with your dad’s approval, sent Walsh to Lynchburg to check the report and then sent him to tell-and I assume pay-Sergeant Hatley to keep quiet about it all. That doesn’t exactly make your dad out to be innocent.”
“But I told you why Felkoff wanted to do it. He wanted to be sure no questions would come up later about Mom’s death.” Her tone had changed from flirtatious to angry. “He didn’t know what was in the report either. Walsh was sent there to make sure the report jibed with what had happened.”
“Well, if your dad’s buddy Hatley wrote it, why wouldn’t it jibe? But it doesn’t jibe, does it?”
He realized he was cross-examining her and that wasn’t the best way to get someone to talk to you. But there were so many holes in her story.
“Don’t you understand?” she said, her voice rising. “Dad didn’t do anything wrong that night, but the truth is not what publishers and Hollywood producers want to hear. The truth ruins the story.”
He leaned across the table. The tears in her eyes were, Stevie guessed, real.
“Morra,” he said softly, hoping to convince her he was still her friend, even though it was probably way too late for that. “Did your dad and Felkoff send you here today to try to get me off the story?”
“No!” she said. “They don’t even know I’m here!”
For some reason he was instantly convinced she was telling the truth-at least about this. Still not raising his voice, he said, “Morra, I know you don’t want to hear this, but the truth is the story. It’s the only story. And if your dad is lying on any level, it’s going to come out.”
WHACK!
Stevie felt his face sting and burn all at once and realized, since he hadn’t seen it coming, that she had just slapped him. He wondered if they taught that at pretty-girl school too.
“Turns out David was right,” she said, standing up. “He said I’d be wasting my time trying to convince you there was no story to write, that you were so insanely jealous of him you’d want to get Dad no matter what.”
“But this wasn’t a setup, right?” he said, gritting his teeth a little because he was in pain. She was stronger than she looked.
And she looked as if she might hit him again-but she didn’t. Instead she just said, “I thought journalists were supposed to be the good guys-not people who ruin people’s lives.”
She turned on her heel and stormed away from the table and out of the restaurant. Stevie looked around and saw people staring at him. The waiter hustled over to the table.
“Is everything okay, sir?” he asked. “Do you need some ice or something?”
Stevie figured his cheek was probably bright red, judging by the burning he was feeling. “No ice,” he said. “Just the check would be good.”
He sat back in the booth again. Covering the World Series was becoming less and less fun by the minute.
18: TO TELL THE TRUTH?
STEVIE LEFT THE RESTAURANT QUICKLY, checking to make sure Morra wasn’t outside waiting for him. Seeing no one familiar, he called Kelleher.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“It’s too complicated for the phone,” Stevie said. “I need directions.”
Thankfully, the directions were pretty simple. Down three blocks to E Street and then up six blocks to the Herald’s offices.
The guard at the door called Kelleher to come down and get him. When Bobby saw Stevie’s cheek, his jaw dropped.
“What happened to you?” he said. “No, wait, tell me when we get upstairs. Clearly, it’s a long story.”
For all the writing he’d done, Stevie had never been in the newsroom of a major newspaper before, and he was awed by how big it was. Since it was Saturday, the massive room was fairly empty.
Kelleher led Stevie through the newsroom to the sports section. A number of writers and editors were sitting at their desks, some working on computers, others reading the newspaper. Several were seated around a television set watching a college football game.
“Navy-Notre Dame,” Kelleher said. “Navy is trying to start another streak.”
“Streak?” Stevie said. He thought he remembered that Navy had broken a forty-three game losing streak to Notre Dame a few years earlier. His dad had called it one of the great upsets in the history of football.
“Yeah,” Kelleher said. “Navy beat them one in a row, then the Irish won last year.”
“Hey, Matt, how’s Coach Rockne doing?”
“It’s seven to seven in the second quarter,” Matt answered. “Coach Rockne just went for a fourth and nine and got stopped.”
“Coach Rockne?” Stevie asked.
“Yeah, we call Charlie Weis Coach Rockne because he thinks he’s so smart, he might as well be Knute Rockne. Not so much the last two years when he was ten and fifteen.”
He introduced Stevie to Matt Rennie, who was the deputy sports editor.
“You’ve done great work,” Rennie said, shaking Stevie’s hand. “Especially considering you’ve had to put up with Bobby.”
“I’d be so much better if I had some decent editing,” Kelleher said.
“Don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen, pal,” Rennie said with a smile before returning to the game.
As they walked back to the small glass office that said Bobby Kelleher on it, Kelleher said quietly: “Best editor we’ve got. By far.”
“But you’d never tell him that, would you?”
“I’d sooner die.”
They sat down in Kelleher’s office.
“So, fill me in,” Kelleher said.
Stevie did-starting with the slap and then working backward. Kelleher let out a low whistle. “You have quite an effect on young women, don’t you?” Then he turned serious: “Clearly, she thought you’d be so charmed by her that you’d let her go off the record so she could take you off the story the way David did with Susan Carol.”
“Susan Carol had no idea what he was going to tell her…,” Stevie said.
Kelleher put up a hand. “No need to defend Susan Carol,” he said. “You know how I feel about her abilities as a reporter.”