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  “We need to go over your testimony—”

  “I already told you: They screwed me in the ass!”

  “We might want to soften that just a bit for court,” said Shelby.

  “Are you a faggot?” said Cooder.

  “What did you just say?” Shelby started getting up.

  Brook jumped to her feet first. “Mr. Ratch, you want to know when you get paid? The better question is how much, and I have some good news!”

  “Really? . . .”

  The Toyota Camry headed back on the Sawgrass Expressway. Shelby repeatedly hit gas and brake and swerved as traffic whizzed around. “Is someone playing a joke on us? These are the new named plaintiffs who are supposed to help our case?”

  “It’s your buddies at the law firm who added them,” said Brook.

  “I know, I know,” said Shelby. “That was the jury consultant’s idea.”

  Three sports cars whipped in front of the Toyota in an impromptu street race, forcing Shelby to ease off and reestablish distance.

  “So what’s the deal with the consultant?” said Brook. “He actually thinks these are good witnesses? Especially that last asshole?”

  “Says it’s all a matter of timing.” Shelby fell back several more car lengths. “We’re supposed to call Ruthy first and get the jury to start hating the defense attorney when they grill her on cross. Then we call Cooder, who in theory will act as proxy for the jurors’ rage against their lawyers and strike a chord with certain blue-collar elements, at least according to his focus groups.”

  “Is this consultant any good?” asked Brook.

  “We pay him like he is.”

  Shelby hit the brakes and dropped behind the newest cars in his lane.

  Brook shook her head. “You were right about these drivers. If you don’t stay right on the next guy’s bumper, they keep cutting in until it feels like we’re backing up to the last exit.”

  “Just have to let it roll off you,” said Shelby. “That’s life in general: Can’t let jerks dictate your emotions.”

  “You make it sound like nothing bothers you.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Then what about Cooder back there?”

  “I think this is our exit.”

  MIAMI

  The lawyers left for lunch and the courtroom became quiet. In one of the back rows, a young newspaper reporter gathered his notes and opened a cell phone.

  “ . . . Got the whole story. Prosecution rested. Looks like defendants will have to take the stand if they want a fighting chance. I’m thinking Metro front, maybe one-A, twenty inches . . . Could you repeat that last part? . . . Come back to the office immediately? But all the important testimony is this afternoon . . . Another mandatory meeting? . . . Larry, this is one of the biggest corruption cases in the state, millions in no-bid contracts and municipal-bond underwriting. Half the city council might go to jail . . . I know it’s complicated—that’s why it’s essential we explain it . . . I disagree. The readers won’t be bored once they understand the facts and how it undermines the very foundation— . . . What do you mean ‘that doesn’t sell ads’? Look, can I just skip this one meeting? We’re having them every day now and getting scooped left and right . . . Uh, yes I like getting a paycheck. I’ll be there . . .”

  The reporter had five years of deep research reporting under his belt and an untucked shirt. His tie was loosened and, like his collar, sported tiny gnarls of fraying polyester. His byline read: Reevis X. Tome. Reevis thought that including the X was stupid, but his publisher insisted because it lent an air of integrity. His middle name was Paul.

  Reevis reluctantly returned to his Datsun and caught the I-95 ramp north. He worked for one of the big South Florida papers, like the Miami Herald, Fort Lauderdale Sun Sentinel and Palm Beach Post, but not one of those. They were all currently locked in a fierce newspaper war. Except not against one another. Against the future. Everything was now the Internet. And the Internet had just announced, courtesy of Yahoo, the top ten most endangered jobs in the nation. And coming in at number two with a bullet was—drum roll—“newspaper reporter.” Courteously, the article suggested alternative thriving jobs for each of the enumerated declining vocations. In the case of print reporters: Public relations was tomorrow’s land of rainbows and Skittles. Reevis shuddered at the thought. To anyone with newspaper ink in their blood, this was like telling a Navy SEAL to become a birthday party clown.

  It was inevitable. Newspapers, TV, radio and websites everywhere were furiously consolidating into mega-media conglomerates. News was heading in a fresh direction, and that direction was toward a plantation. The owners and top execs saw their compensation rocket, and top television anchors in each market signed guaranteed contracts in the upper six figures. Everyone else was told these were tough times. To save the companies from bankruptcy, they would have to absorb salary cuts, take unpaid furloughs and work harder. Reporters began shooting their own photos, photographers had to write stories, and both were required to appear on camera at ribbon cuttings and propane explosions, speaking into microphones as naturally as if they had just received involuntary sex reassignments.

  Oh, but it gets better: the pedigree of the latest owners. News outlets used to be acquired by other media companies, or someone with at least a whiff of journalism background. Now the buying was done by venture capitalists, land consortiums, commodity traders and petrochemical distributors. Reevis’s newspaper was bought by a thermometer factory.

  The paper’s hardened journalists had remained in denial about their profession’s erosion, until a single watershed moment. The chief of photography went to his new managing editor, who had previously managed the entire southeast region fixing windshield cracks. The photo chief dropped stacks of pictures on the desk to illustrate the drastic difference in quality between his staff’s efforts and those of conscripts from the news department. “They’re just horrible! And not just exposure or f-stop, but chopping off legs and whole heads, and this last pile has one or more fingers over the lens to varying degrees.”

  The managing editor studied the images a moment before picking up the phone for security. “You’re right, it’s bad, but . . .”

  The photo editor jerked his arm away from the guards escorting him out the front entrance. “I can leave on my own. Fuck you.”

  The editor’s quote, in its entirety, went word-of-mouth viral, becoming the catchphrase of every frontline spear-carrier. Then, on a Tuesday, someone stayed late in the newsroom after the night shift had put the last edition of the paper to bed. The lights were off. In the dim glow from the hallway, the company’s new mission statement hung proudly atop the front wall:

  To enhance our community’s aggregate through multi-platform metrics of media synergy catalyzing integrated outcomes of macro-disciplines toward inclusive methodology paradigms generating positive algorithms of unwavering commitment to our children, the flag and God.

  The next morning, reporters and editors filed in, stopped briefly, then took their seats and stared at computer screens as if nothing was different, grinning inside. Toward the front of the room, the publisher shouted at maintenance workers on ladders vainly trying to remove a roll of shelf paper glued over the sign with a new mission statement, courtesy of the managing editor’s departing remarks to the photo chief:

  It’s bad, but it’s good enough.

  Reevis checked his watch as he exited the interstate. He’d made good time from the courthouse. The Datsun raced a few short blocks and pulled into the company parking lot, which used to be free but was now deducted from each paycheck, whether employees used it or not.

  Reevis raced through the lobby of the rechristened crystal news complex and caught the elevator for the fifth-floor auditorium. The meeting was about to start, just a few stragglers like Reevis looking for seats. He found one in the back row, where he always liked to sit, with the cy
nical old guard of journalism from the days of typewriters and indoor smoking. Though Reevis had a half decade of experience, nobody ever believed him. It had nothing to do with professionalism or performance; it was that cherub face. For him, shaving was an affectation. Whenever Reevis showed up to interview, someone always did the math: You need a college degree to be a journalist, so he has to be at least twenty-one. Unless I heard him wrong on the phone and he’s from one of the high school papers.

  And now, if one looked at the mostly veteran occupants of the auditorium’s back row: One of these things is not like the others.

  But the old gang roundly accepted Reevis, if for no other reason than he had still gone to journalism school long after it was well known to be economic suicide.

  “What’s this meeting about?” asked Reevis.

  “Same as all the others,” said a crusty crime reporter named Danning. “Pull us away from writing stories to tell us we’re not writing enough stories.”

  The publisher climbed the steps to the stage, where the new ownership group stood in the wings. His most important contribution to the paper’s top chair was a publisher’s name—E. Strunkend White—and he moved among the well-wishers, shaking hands and making small talk with the only people in the room who didn’t have ticking deadline clocks between their ears.

  The back row squirmed and checked their wrists.

  Reevis leaned forward and looked down the row. “Anything good happen today while I was out?”

  Danning elbowed a thirty-year city-hall beat reporter named Mazerek. “Tell him about Chelsea.”

  “What about Chelsea?” asked Reevis. Chelsea Lane was the second-most-popular TV anchor from Miami to West Palm, rumored to have received a 27 percent pay bump since the last Nielsens, meaning she now made three times more than the entire last row combined.

  “A thing of pure beauty,” said Mazerek. “You know how ever since we merged with the TV station, she has to strut through the middle of the newsroom five times a day? Talking super loud so we all know we’re in her presence? She comes through again this morning, shouting away, yada, and the rest of us are thinking, ‘How much attention do you need? You’re already on TV.’ ”

  Danning elbowed him again. “You’re burying the lead.”

  “Oh, right,” said Mazerek. “Then in the middle of yodeling through the room, something gets caught on one of her ridiculous high heels—and she takes a world-class header!”

  “No!” said Reevis.

  “I shit you not!” said Mazerek. “But the best part is it wasn’t one of those neat, graceful falls. It started with a half trip, which made her think she could correct it and not go down, so she’s moving faster and faster, trying to get her feet back under her. Finally, after stumbling a good twenty feet, she goes flying with her arms out like she’s sliding into second base. Of course nobody helps her up. And she gets to her knees and looks around, and everyone just continues typing and making phone calls like nothing happened, which makes her think we’re all laughing at her inside . . .”

  “We were,” said a seasoned investigative reporter named Bilko.

  “Anything else?” asked Reevis.

  “After Chelsea left, someone found a piece of chalk and drew a crime-scene outline where she went splat, limbs bent at crazy angles,” said Mazerek. “And someone else drew skid marks leading up to the site of the crash.”

  “Wish I could have been there,” said Reevis.

  “How’s the photography coming?” asked Danning, tilting his head at a cynical angle. “Still in the car?”

  Reevis sighed. “Nobody’s noticed yet.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” asked Mazerek.

  “You’ll love this,” said Danning. “Ever since our esteemed managing editor put the kibosh on photo quality, our boy here refuses to get out of the car.”

  “I’m not following,” said Bilko.

  “It’s a matter of principle,” said Reevis.

  Danning put a hand on the junior reporter’s shoulder. “He’s taking a stand. All his photos will be shot from his driver’s seat until someone catches on, but I don’t think they’re going to.”

  “What about mug shots?” asked Mazerek.

  “From the car, too,” said Danning. “He lures them out of their building with some medical excuse.”

  Bilko scratched his scalp. “So that’s why all his head shots in the paper are of people looking down at something.”

  Mazerek put his hand on Reevis’s other shoulder. “I’m liking the kid better and better each day.”

  Danning pointed forward. “Believe it or not, he’s finally going to start.”

  A finger tapped a microphone. “Good afternoon,” said the publisher. “I would like to begin by thanking all of you for the hard work during our restructuring designed to increase efficiencies by combining the efforts of our various media . . .”

  The people on the side of the stage applauded. The audience gave him the stink eye.

  “ . . . However, there is still much to do.”

  Up to now, everyone had been wondering what was on the giant, sheet-covered easel behind him. The publisher turned toward an assistant, which was the signal to remove the sheet.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” said Danning.

  “A giant thermometer?” said Reevis.

  The red on the thermometer rose only a tiny bit from the bulb at the bottom, indicating the temperature of a patient going into hypothermic shock. The publisher aimed a laser pointer at the visual aid.

  “This is our current average story output.” The laser went to the top of the display, next to the large number 98.6. “And this is where we need to be to survive in this market . . .”

  “I may throw up,” said Mazerek.

  E. Strunkend White had placed the laser pointer back in his breast pocket but forgot to turn it off. The audience didn’t hear another word as they stared at the red dot coming through his jacket.

  Danning fidgeted and glanced at his Timex. “I got two stories to file.”

  “What a farce,” said Bilko. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

  Another easel was brought out, listing a series of consultant findings.

  “Time-motion studies?” said Mazerek.

  “They’re tracking how we walk around the office?” said Bilko.

  “We’re approaching the iceberg,” said Danning.

  The publisher leaned into his microphone. “I know a lot of you are thinking you already have full plates, so we’ve come up with a set of streamlining prime directives.” A fist pounded the podium. “First, cut the number of phone calls per story in half . . .”

  And the fist continued to pound with the announcement of each new cost-cutting measure. Apparently that wasn’t enough emphasis. From behind the curtains on the side of the stage, someone emerged and took up a position next to the publisher.

  Every jaw in the audience fell.

  “Did someone drug my coffee?” asked Danning.

  Bilko shook his head. “Are we really seeing this shit?”

  “Wish I had a camera,” said Mazerek. “Nobody would ever believe this actually happened at a major Florida newspaper.”

  Onstage, someone in a Power Ranger costume stood beside the podium. Each time the publisher announced another directive, the ranger jumped into a new fighting stance and karate-chopped the air.

  “No more investigative stories!” said the publisher. “If it’s not breaking, it’s not news!”

  The Power Ranger’s hands sliced and jabbed.

  Danning turned to Mazerek. “We just hit the iceberg.”

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  MIDNIGHT

  Hialeah.

  A blinking neon sign behind barbed wire said that Roscoe’s Haul ’N Scrap was still open for sudden vehicle-crushing needs. Next door st
ood a small concrete pillbox of a building the size of an office at a no-credit-no-problem used-car lot.

  The name of the defunct car dealership remained faintly visible under a new paint job that now read: ZIGGY BLADE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW (DUIS, TRAFFIC COURT, WILLS & DIVORCE).

  All the windows had burglar bars, and a large steel plate protected the entire doorknob area from crowbars. The lone car out front was a purple Jetta with a COEXIST bumper sticker where each letter was a religious logo. The streetlights had the extra-yellowish haze that said you shouldn’t be here. A pumping stereo went by on the next street, leaving a Doppler effect of barking dogs.

  An index finger pressed the doorbell.

  A long pause.

  The doorbell rang again. And again.

  “Maybe he’s not here,” said Brook. “I don’t see any lights.”

  “That’s his car. He’s here.” Shelby pressed the button again. “You have to know Ziggy.”

  Ding-dong. Another pause. Then from inside, barely audible through the door: “We’re closed.”

  A fist pounded. “Ziggy, open up! It’s me, Shelby. I brought my new partner.”

  “Oh, shit.” Then a patter of footsteps running away from the door.

  An exchange of looks between the attorneys.

  In the back of the office, Ziggy threw open a window and flapped a towel to clear the smoke—“Be there in a second!”—a bottom desk drawer slammed shut with an ashtray full of roaches.

  The sound of footsteps again. “Coming! . . .” Ziggy gave his mouth a burst of breath spray and opened with a big smile and bloodshot eyes.

  “Ziggy, this is Brook Campanella . . . Brook, Ziggy.”

  They shook hands.

  “Let’s get inside,” said Ziggy. “I don’t like to leave the door open at this hour.”

  The pair entered. Ziggy stuck his head outside a final time, quickly glancing up and down the street, then slammed the door, bolting four locks and propping a chair under the knob.

  The building was a single room divided in two with bamboo curtains. The front half consisted of the reception area. Cot, two plastic molded chairs and movie posters. Twelve Angry Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, My Cousin Vinny.