“I’m sorry,” he said.
Corinna kept pressing. “What do they want from you? State of Massachusetts, Grand Jury. Big shots.”
“Corinna, it’s not like I’m telling you the Grand Jury doesn’t scare me. It scares me, no question. You saw me in there.”
“Yeah but that’s just what I’m saying, Kit. You sit in your office all shrunk up over the phone, shrunk up massaging your neck — and then you come out and lock the door and say to put the message on the phone. You say, ‘Guys, we need to talk.’ Kit, I mean, what’s that Grand Jury got on you?”
“Aw, please. I’m not a criminal.”
“Kit, listen — I know about things like this. I know a Grand Jury, sometimes it’s got a rule that says no one can talk. No one can say anything about what’s going on.”
Kit hoped he looked as impressed as he felt. But once more he shook his head.
“Kit, I mean. These people and their subpoena, aren’t they the same people who said you could go down there in the first place? Said you could go down to Monsod and get yourself all banged up.” Corinna ran her glossy fingernails down one side of her face. “It’s the same people, running this Grand Jury. Same big shots.”
“Corinna. If you want to blame someone, blame me. This is my call. My decision.”
“Kit. You really want to close the paper?”
“I want to suspend publication. For the time being.”
“Well what’s that mean? How long?”
“Ah, till I’ve finished my testimony on Monsod.”
Really, Viddich? Was there really some moment of clearance out there? A point at which all this outrageous fortune settled back down into manageable office ethics — back to sea level? Kit hadn’t thought it through, or not beyond what he’d just managed to put into words. And the woman could tell. Corinna kept on complaining, her accent thickening. As her body language picked up the shoulders of her dress slipped, exposing her bra straps. She swung round in her chair, facing Zia.
“What about you, you got nothing to say? You on some drugs today, girl?”
The writer sat sunk behind the bright patchwork of her desktop. Chin down, face soft, she didn’t answer. Zia had said next to nothing in fact since Kit had come out of his office, out of note-taking actual and imaginary, and turned the lock on the hallway door. Now inside the macho collar of her jacket, of course a black leather jacket, Zia’s pout appeared to have grown more fleshy, younger. Girl. Kit remembered her in the headscarf at the Sons of Columbus. Thursday night — ow. And yet, nutty as he’d been to run out there, at the Sons of Columbus he’d wound up accomplishing something. He’d won Zia’s trust, he’d seen her secrets. Running around out of his mind, he’d done some good. But now what about today, when he was trying to do good?
“Zia,” Kit suggested, “give Rachel a call. Rachel at the Globe. She’ll be glad to hear you’re getting time off.”
Her look might have lightened up, Kit couldn’t be sure. Corinna wouldn’t let him alone. “Kit,” she said, “I don’t think you thought this through. I mean, what am I supposed to tell people when they call?” Good question. The phone had rung twice during their conversation already, and the speaker on the message machine could only be turned down so far. Twice Kit had needed to raise his voice, working against the electronic rumble of puzzled callers. Worse, he’d told the women that they’d both remain on salary. Both of them, yes, though he knew the bank balance couldn’t support it. He’d be broke by Valentine’s Day. But how could he tell Corinna that he was going to keep sending her a paycheck and not do the same for Zia?
Now came a knock on the door. A knock, something else he hadn’t considered. The way he’d been thinking — if you could call it that — the demands of carrying around the hottest story in Boston would be vaporized as soon as he closed the paper. Vaporized, poof, Star Wars. Kit thought of Junior’s father, run off to Hollywood.
The knock sounded again, more loudly.
“What about this guy, Kit?” Corinna asked. “Should I get this or not?”
At the door was Rick DeMirris, frowning at Kit’s bruises as he unzipped a parka patched with duct tape. He’d brought a list of the Monsod contractors. “The list, you know. The bad guys.” Freelancer’s initiative — no wonder Rick was Kit’s favorite. And even now Kit couldn’t resist a look. There between the front room’s partitions, still on his feet, he searched Rick’s list till found the name he wanted. Joints, fittings, misc. plumbing: Mirinex, Inc. Kit had been on to a story, this time. He’d been on to something people deserved to know, and something for which other people deserved to get spanked. It looked like he was still learning about the power of that story. It had a life of its own, regardless of what Kit might do with his shoestring newspaper.
Corinna bent over the phone’s answering machine, Zia pulled out a messed-up legal pad. Kit took DeMirris back to his private office, hoping that in there the bad news might go over more quietly.
No such luck. “Christ, Kit, you locked the door on me,” the freelancer erupted. “Can’t you at least tell me why?”
Kit gestured at the legal paper on his desk … you are hereby commanded … “There are larger issues.”
“Larger issues?” Rick yanked on his sweater. “Kit — the next issue of Sea Level, now that’s a larger issue.”
You had to admire the guy. A card-carrying member of Agitators Anonymous. He’d come in with his list, terrific initiative, and he wanted his byline. It didn’t help any when Kit reminded Rick that he still had the piece on the new MBTA station. They’ve unearthed some interesting stuff down there, Rick … it didn’t help. A few old bones under the city floor were nothing compared to what had turned up out at Monsod. Rick strode round the office arms akimbo, very Greek, and one of his quick, angry connections gave Kit an idea. Like Corinna, the freelancer pointed out that the subpoena made no mention of a gag order. “Man, you can publish,” he said. “You’re clean.” With that, Kit began thinking of Forbes Croftall.
Croftall too could come out clean, in an open Grand Jury. Not that the Senator was holding the strings, here — the investigation came under a different jurisdiction — and not that Kit knew just what the Senator was up to, yet. But doing without a gag order seemed to serve the man’s purposes. It seemed of a piece with sending Kit out to the penitentiary in the first place. It fit with CYA, looking good for the papers.
Struggling to make sense of it, struggling with working-world speed, Kit shepherded Rick out of his office. Sighing, he repeated that his mind was made up. Finally the freelancer played to the two women. “Kit,” he said loudly, “I’ve got a feeling I’m saying goodbye for the last time.” Aw, Rick. For the remainder of the morning Kit set himself up at an empty desk out front. No gag order at Sea Leveclass="underline" he was out where everyone could take their best shot. He would have made his callbacks from Corinna’s phone if the switching from line to line hadn’t proved so clumsy. Ma Bell was such a stick-in-the-mud monopoly, slow to make changes. Kit returned to his office but left the door open, as he worked through one no-comment after another.
He’d been putting this off for days, he hadn’t touched the memos on his kitchen table — yet compared to what he’d faced already this morning, making the calls came easy. What little he could say felt routine. Even the tone of voice was a painless charade, apologetic but businesslike. These weren’t people who knew him, or knew him more than a handshake’s worth, and didn’t he have injuries? Didn’t he have a lawyer? Soon Kit’s eyes wandered back to the list of prison contractors, lying across the subpoena on his desk.