"Boys," I said, as frazzled as I've ever been in my life, every one of my senses screaming for a break, "good to see you."
They came in and settled in my sitting area. We made the appropriate small talk, discussing Havlicek and his wife and the explosion itself and the tidal wave of coverage that was following it.
It was Martin who steered us to the point of their visit. "Jack," he began, "Bob and I have been discussing the events. Bob's worried, and I have to say I agree with him, that with the FBI'S theory that you may be a repeated target of some killer, you should not be putting yourself at personal risk any longer by staying on this story."
I had figured this was on the cards. All you have to do is look at the undistinguished career of Bob Appleton, the very definition of a mediocre newspaperman who got to the top by playing it safe, to know this was coming.
"Well," I said, slowly, letting it sink in, "suppose I wasn't the target of a killer at Congressional. Suppose we just side with logic and assume that was a presidential assassin at work. Then let's follow that line of logic and assume that since we were the lead newspaper in the nation covering that assassination attempt, that someone tried to kill us because they didn't like what we were reporting."
I let that sit out there for a minute so even someone like Bob Appleton could understand it. He started to say something, but I cut him off.
"This is the most logical scenario. Anyone with a brain knows that.
You heard the New York Times reporter ask that question today. If this is the case, by pulling me off the story, you are in effect surrendering to whoever killed Havlicek out there today."
Another pause, and then, in a daring tone, "That really what you want to do?"
There was silence in the room. It should have felt clubby, three guys, successful newsmen, memorializing a colleague who had died and plotting their next move on the biggest story since Watergate. Instead, the feeling, within me, anyway, was one of desolation, a sense of utter loneliness that was on the brink of turning bitter.
Martin said, "Look, Jack, I can only imagine how you feel. Steve is dead. We're all devastated. You've busted your ass on this story, and you've come a long way. Christ, I thought we were going to crack the thing. I really did. But now you've become a part of the story-a big part of the story. The FBI'S having press conferences about you, Jack.
You're going to be on the front page of every major paper tomorrow.
That doesn't work anymore. You know that. You know we can't continue like that."
"Peter, none of our actions, none of my actions, have intentionally made us a part of this story. All we've done is covered it. And even in covering it, we've done everything by the book. It's whoever bombed my car early this morning that made us part of the story. And it's this FBI agent Drinker-and look at his record on this case-who made us part of the story. You want to give in to them now? They don't want me on this story. Don't you get it? Havlicek's dead. My anonymous source is dead. We're knocking on the door of some really serious answers, and you want to give in to them? For chrissakes, I've got valuable documents. We've got this thing all but cracked."
Appleton, who had been watching Martin and I go back and forth as if he were attending a tennis match, spoke for the first time. He bridged his fingers to affect the posture of thought and said, "Jack, we're not giving in, not by any stretch." He spoke slowly, surely, as if every one of his words were some valuable jewel to be savored. This editorship had obviously gotten to his head. "I'm going to send people down to relieve you. For the time being, I know it's best, for your own safety and for the reputation and future of this newspaper, if you bow out for a while and stay in hiding."
I simply sat there, my elbows on my knees, looking down at the blue carpet in the dark room. I felt like a boxer getting my brains beaten out, unable even to think, longing for relief, but knowing the only relief I would get is from conceding defeat, ending the match, going back to my corner the loser.
"You're making the biggest mistake of your careers," I said, softly, almost as if I weren't even addressing them.
That remark seemed to get under Appleton's thin, chalky skin.
Ironically, on a day when they should have been consoling me, offering me any form of help, his tone now changed to that of overt attack.
"We all make mistakes, young man," Appleton said, sternly. "Though this decision doesn't happen to be one of them. Just for the record, I want you to know that I know you were engaging in lengthy discussions with Hutchins about becoming his press secretary at the same time as you were covering this story. Based on that alone, the decision to pull you off the story was made. What happened today just makes it an easy one."
He paused, still speaking slowly, looking me straight in the eye as I picked my head up to match his stare. He continued, "That I consider to be a firing offense. As I said, we all make mistakes, so I'm not going to fire you now."
Appleton looked to Martin and started to stand up. My elbows still on my knees, my voice deflated, I said, "Hutchins pursued me, and he wouldn't take no for an answer, even when I said no. I just used his offer to get a couple of interviews for this newspaper."
Appleton shook his head dismissively. He was on his feet now, leaning toward the door. Martin, still sitting, said, "Jack, you're still a reporter in good standing in my bureau, as far as I'm concerned. My only worry is for your safety. I ask that you not talk to other members of the news media. I ask that you not leave this room until the election is over. There will be no wake for Havlicek. The funeral service is in Boston tomorrow. I'm afraid I have to forbid you from attending. We cannot put your safety at any further risk. We'll continue to foot the bill for all of your protection as long as you don't endanger yourself by leaving. Sandlera and Bartson"-two remarkably ordinary reporters in Boston-"will fly in tomorrow. I'll send them over so they can debrief you. I expect you to tell them everything you know."
Appleton was at the door now. He said to me, "We have your best interests at heart. I'm not sure you could say the same thing to us."
Then he walked out.
Martin rose slowly from the wing chair, pursed his lips, and said,
"Things will turn out fine, Jack. I'll call you later tonight."
And with that, they were gone. It made me think of the line from Pete Hamill, the journalism icon. Newspapers, he once said, will always break your heart. And now I find out, they can also rack your soul.
Boston, Massachusetts February 20, 1979
They led Curtis Black into the small, dingy conference room, a federal agent and a police detective, pushing him along from behind like he was a common criminal, a pimp, a drug dealer of some sort, someone not worth even a flickering moment of respect.
Inside the room, another police detective sat at a scratched wooden table, smoking a cigarette and paging through a manila file filled with official documents. His smoke gathered in the air of the ventless room beneath the single lightbulb that hung from the ceiling above the table. The stained walls were bare but for one filmy mirror. The room seemed to cast a pall over anyone unfortunate enough to be in it.
At first, Lieutenant Kevin Morrissey didn't even bother looking up, didn't deem his prisoner worth even that much dignity or interest.
When he did, as the three men stood by the door, he said in a surprisingly soft voice, "Take his cuffs off."
The detective behind Black pulled out a key, stuck it into the handcuffs, and freed Black's wrists. Black shook them for a moment, trying to regain his circulation.
"Sit down, please," Morrissey said, nodding to the chair across from him, speaking in that same soft voice. He blew a mouthful of smoke out, and it floated into Black's face. It didn't seem intentional. In a room this small, there was no place else for the smoke to go.