“Were the clothes analyzed?”
“Not sure. I wrapped them up, and they were sent to the county health lab.”
It was a long way down this rabbit hole; the thread of questions multiplied. The story took on a life of its own. Why couldn’t anyone at the lab track down the kid’s clothes? How come records showed the clothes were checked, but no tests were done? It was a question that could end Lou’s story, leave people wondering.
Surprisingly, Dr. Turner called back. Yes, Lou could quote him about the tritium, but everything else was off the record. Lou shot him another bunch of questions before getting off the phone. He couldn’t get enough information, and there were so many possibilities, so many tangential stories. In a strange way, it was starting to feel like his passion for sportswriting, the obsession to find the words to make the story real.
His story started to take shape. Thankfully, Diana wouldn’t have to be quoted. He was relieved; it meant he wouldn’t be breaking any rules if he wanted to see her.
Implicating ALLPower in Kaylee’s death demanded a company response. People needed to hear both sides. Lou visualized himself playing defense on the court, a trick he learned in order to gear up for a contentious interview. As he reached for the phone he knew putting Bob Stalinsky in the hot seat was sure to be unpleasant.
“You’re writing about what?” Bob sat up straight in his chair and spun around to look at the low, gray clouds darkening the Hudson. He put Lou on speaker phone as he chomped on one of Stella’s homemade sandwiches.
“Tritium in the water? From the plant? What’s this all about, Lou?”
“The girl’s death. They found tritium in her blood.”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“Do you want to give me a formal response?”
“To what? Are you suggesting its tritium from the plant?”
“People have suggested just that.”
“What people?”
“Union of Concerned Scientists, NIRS.”
“Oh, yeah. Well they would be saying stuff like that. They’re always hard on nuke plants. That’s their whole existence.”
“Can you give me a quote, Bob?”
“You know, Lou. You really should stick to sports. It’s simpler than nuclear power, easier to grasp.”
You hard ass. “Let me run down a list of facts for you, Bob. A seven-year-old girl died when she ingested river water. Her blood showed tritium. The closest place that could emit tritium is the plant, right across the cove from the beach. It’s a good chance the water poisoned the girl, Bob. Now do you want to say something?”
“Yeah. No comment.”
“Fine. No comment it is.”
“Wait. You can’t print a story like this. You don’t have any evidence.”
“The girl’s blood test.”
“It’s speculation, and you know it.”
“Yup. I do know it. Good-bye, Bob.”
He jammed down the phone, suddenly regretting it. What the hell. He got out his notes and started typing up the story.
“Wow. This is big, Lou,” Owen said, reading the story off his screen. “Only one problem.”
“What?”
“You have to change the tone. You can’t allege ALLPower had anything to do with the girl without a decent comment from Stalinksy.”
“I’m not alleging—I’m suggesting. For God’s sake, Owen, where else would radioactive particles come from? The kid’s lollipop?”
“Look, Lou. It’s a great story, and you’ve done a great job. But ALLPower is a big advertiser with us; it’s our revenue base. In a way, they pay our salaries—your salary. Get a better response from Stalinsky to keep it balanced, okay?”
“Listen to yourself, Owen. I thought editorial and advertising were separate. Now and always. It’s how newspapers are supposed to run. Where’s your goddamn spine?”
Owen slumped back in his chair. “If we lose them as advertisers we could fold, get it?”
“How do you know we’d fold? We’d get other ads, for Chrissakes.”
Owen turned away from Lou and looked at his computer screen. Lou stood there. He wouldn’t move until Owen said something. They would wait each other out, they’ve done it before. In the newsroom reporters knew sparks were flying.
“Call Stalinksy and then revise. And don’t kid yourself. I’m sharpening my editing sword.”
“And I’m shaking in my boots.” Lou tore out of the office. Feckless little bastard, he thought, and he headed straight for the kid interning with the paper.
“Hey, Paul. You got a smoke?”
“Sure. But didn’t you quit?”
“Who are you? My mother?”
The kid fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “Need matches?”
“Yeah. Sorry about snapping.”
He headed out the side door and lit up. It had been months since he smoked. The first long drag shot deep, sating his lungs and easing his misery. He needed nicotine, especially if he had to call Bob back, begging for a better response, like a dog with his tail between his legs. He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, stubbed it out, and made the call.
“Sorry, Mr. Padera, Bob just stepped out. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. Ask him to please reconsider his comment and call me back by deadline. That’s in an hour.”
When she hung up, Bob’s secretary poked her head in his office.
“It was him, Bob. He wants another statement.”
“I’ll bet he does. Let the guy stew. He ain’t getting nothin’ from me.”
Chapter 16
The headline dominated the morning’s paper, but the eye-catcher was the subhead:
Stella gasped when she picked up the paper outside her front door. Bob was straightening his tie in the bedroom, and when he walked into the kitchen the paper was on the table.
“Read it. It’s not pretty.”
“Must I?”
“How could you say ‘no comment’? That’s like pleading guilty! What were you thinking?”
“Guy has no evidence. It’s a bogus article, I can tell you that right now, Ma.”
“He’s talking about lethal radiation getting into water that kids swim in. And cancer! Anyone at the plant got cancer?”
“You’re making too much out of this. No one is getting sick, either at the plant or living nearby.”
“There are other studies. Look at the list in the sidebar next to the story. This Padera is a decent news reporter. Easy to understand.”
“Yeah—don’t kid yourself. He has an agenda and is treading on thin ice,” Bob blurted out.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s this ‘poor boy done good,’ failed athlete, now heady with the power of the press. He’s after white, corporate America, and he’s targeting ALLPower. Surprise, surprise.”
Stella’s eyes popped out of her head. She took a full, deep breath and ended up exhaling a torrent of words.
“Oh my God—what am I hearing? How do you think your father and I started out? Your grandparents ran a laundromat in the South Bronx, and we all worked our way through school so our children—you—wouldn’t have to struggle like that. You are biased and way off base, Robert. I seriously doubt this reporter has an agenda to bring down a powerful utility corporation.”
“This guy insinuates all sorts of crazy, damaging stuff about us. We could snuff him out if we wanted to.”
“Snuff him out? What the hell are you talking about? Is there a nuclear power mafia? Did they replace concrete shoes with a drink spiked with tritium?” Horrified, she whispered, “Are you really my son?”
“Come on, Ma. ALLPower is a multibillion dollar corporation. This guy is just one reporter. We can’t let him run amuck, influence people and politicians, and make us look bad.”