“We cannot be compelled to name sources,” Veneer said. “You know that.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “But there are two courts we’ll be dealing with here, Veneer. One is the court of law. You don’t have to name your sources for them. The other court is the court of public opinion. That’s the one that really counts in our society. When I told you that we would go to the wall with this thing, I was not fucking around with you. We will pull out all the stops. We will get statements from people who actually know Meghan and who will go on record as saying that the Meghan you are portraying is not even remotely like how she is. We will have her mother, her sister, her father, her kindergarten friends, her professors at Cal Poly, her coworkers at the KinderCare, anyone who can give a true picture of her go on record about her character. And we will continuously demand that you name a single source—fucking anyone—who can validate your accusations. And when you consistently refuse to name even one source—because you know you don’t have any—how is that going to look in the public opinion court? How do you think the jury that is finally seated for the trial after four or five years of this shit is going to view your rag? How is the judge who oversees the trial going to feel? And, in the meantime, how are your readers going to feel? The people who buy your rag in the checkout lines? Are they still going to have faith in your bullshit when they see that you cannot come up with a single source to support your allegations against this cute, innocent girl?”
There was silence on Veneer’s end of the line. A long silence. Finally: “I think you’re bluffing about this.”
“I’m not bluffing, Veneer,” she told him. “I am dead fucking serious about this. You print that story and KVA will spare no expense to go after you. We will drag your asses through the fucking mud for however long it takes for this thing to go to trial. And you may ultimately prevail in the end. The judge and jury might just follow the letter of the law and come to the conclusion that we could not prove that what you suggest was not the truth, but that’s a pretty big chance to take, isn’t it? Because we will not accept a settlement. We will go all the way with this thing. And, win or lose, we will make sure that the court of public opinion is on Meghan’s side and not on yours. We will do everything within our power and financial means to make sure of that.”
Another long silence. At last: “Well, this has been an interesting discussion, Pauline.”
“Not the word I would use for it,” she said.
“I will take your words under consideration,” he said. “I will talk to Jack about the story and see what he thinks.”
“You do whatever your need to do, Veneer,” she said, “but just remember that if you print this story, it means war. Total, complete, unrestricted warfare. If you want to print articles about Jake, about Laura, about Celia, hell, even about me and Obie, you go right ahead and sling your mud. But we are not going to let you get away with smearing this young girl who has done nothing but accept a job to take care of a child.”
“As I said,” Veneer told her. “I’ll take your words under consideration.”
The phone call ended. Pauline sat and looked at her notes for a moment, feeling the buzz of battle adrenaline flowing through her body. Finally, she stood and left the office. Obie was still sitting on the couch, sipping a drink. Tabby was still watching Blue’s Clues.
“How’d it go?” Obie asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I gave it my best though.”
Obie smiled. “Then I’m guessing that story ain’t gonna run come Friday.”
“Time will tell,” she said.
His smile got a little wider. “You know, you look really hot when you’re in battle mode.”
“Do I?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “You figure we could slip away for a bit while Blue is entertaining Tabs here?”
“I think maybe we could,” she said.
The week went on. Pauline concentrated her energies on looking into the references and background of one Miles O’Leary, a forty-two-year-old who was a crop duster pilot for a small outfit that operated out of Colusa, California by profession and the saxophone player for the semi-professional jazz band the Dixie Doodles, who had performed at the Dixieland Jazz Jubilee. Meghan continued to take care of Caydee each day while her stomach flirted with the beginnings of a peptic ulcer caused by stress.
Friday morning came. The new edition of the American Watcher hit the newsstands. The lead story on the front page was concerned with the Monica Lewinsky and Slick Willie scandal. There was no new information in this story, just a rehash of already printed allegations. It had all the looks of a stock story that had been composed weeks earlier and held in reserve for when it was needed.
There was not a single word written about Meghan Zachary.
Chapter 26: The Tour Packages
Oceano, California
June 15, 1998
It was Monday morning, the start of the new workweek, and there was a slight difference to the routine in the Kingsley household. Jake, Laura, Caydee, and Meghan still gathered at the breakfast table at 7:20 AM to eat what Elsa had prepared for them (it was a kielbasa, egg, and cheese scramble with onions and peppers, served with toast). Jake and Laura were freshly showered and dressed for the day. Caydee was still in her pajamas because she always ended up wearing a good portion of her breakfast, making it pointless to dress her until after the meal. Meghan took her showers before going to bed, but she was dressed in her clothes for the day: a pair of white shorts and a maroon sleeveless blouse. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail. She seemed a little restless this morning, unable to sit still. Elsa, like normal, did not eat with them. All of this was pretty normal. The difference was the radio was playing as they ate. It was turned on and tuned to the SLO hard rock station, KLBA. At any moment now, Matt’s first release from his new CD—the title cut—was supposed to be aired for the first time.
Fuel, by Metallica, was currently in its outro. It had only been released for airplay the previous week and Jake was still not quite sure what he thought about it. It had energy, and some good riffs by Kirk Hammett, but it seemed to be missing some fundamental element that had always been present in classic Metallica. He was not quite able to put his finger on just what that element was, but he could tell it was not there.
“All right!” the DJ—he went by the handle Big Johnson, which was the subject of endless complaints to the radio station manager from local parents, but the Cal Poly students loved it—said enthusiastically when the song finished. “That was Fuel, by Metallica, the latest from one of the greatest. And speaking of the greatest, we have more new music coming up after the break, something from Matt Tisdale’s latest CD, which will be on sale on June 30th. Stay with us and give it a listen. You won’t be disappointed.”
A commercial for Central Coast liquor mart then began. It was an appropriately placed advertisement aimed at the hard rock audience who tended to be listening at this hour—namely young working-class people commuting in their cars and college students heading for their morning summer classes.
“Good job, Big Johnson,” Jake said with smile of satisfaction. “You got the plug in before the break.” That had not been required by Jake’s promotion instructions to National. He had just directed that they play Faithless after a commercial break and intro it at that time. Johnson had gone above and beyond.
“That’s a dumb name,” Meghan said with a shake of the head.
“And I bet his Johnson isn’t really that big either,” added Laura.
“I don’t know,” Jake said, pondering. “Those DJs score their share, especially in a college town. You would think you would have to be at least a little bigger than average to declare that’s your name, wouldn’t you? Otherwise, word would get around.”