and, it is understood, wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire even if he were, by some miracle, in. When I explain that I already know their prime suspect, left unattended overnight, is on the lam, and I further explain that all our readers who have iPhones or iPads also will know that shortly, there is quiet on the other end of the line.
I am promised a callback.
Not fifteen minutes later, I hear the blues-based ringtone on my phone. I am expecting some midlevel functionary giving me the latest self-serving comments from our highest-paid law-enforcement entity.
Instead it’s L.D. Jones himself.
He probably was already pretty unhappy before he got the news that the entire metropolitan area, plus anyone who cared in the entire blogosphere, soon would know about his department’s latest screwup. He’s somewhere on the other side of sore pissed now.
“Black, goddamnit, you can’t print that shit,” he says by way of greeting. “It’s unsubstantiated.”
I tell him I’ll take my chances.
“Where are you getting that crap from?”
I could just tell him it’s none of his fucking business, but that might start him sniffing around possible leaks, including one staffer in particular who used to be a reporter.
So I make something up. I tell him that a woman I met yesterday at poolside, whose name I don’t know, called me and told me she talked to someone who saw Sax leaving sometime in the middle of the night. I had left her my card and asked her to call me if she saw anything unusual concerning Mr. Sax. Miraculously she did.
“And,” I go on, “knowing how proactive your department is, I just guessed you were going to arrest him today. Seems like I was right.”
He doesn’t know whether I’m being a wiseass about the “proactive” part.
“You don’t know what we planned for today,” he says. “You don’t know your ass from first base.”
“Well, I’ll bet you a twenty that there was going to be a press conference called for this morning.”
There is silence on the other end, followed by a sigh. I know that sigh. The chief is ready to switch gears and deal.
“Look, Willie,” he says, changing over to first-name basis, going for a mix of friendliness and condescension, “this is off the record, but if you just wait a few hours, I’m sure we’ll have this bastard all locked up. We know where he went. We’re closing in on him even as we speak.”
Like hell you are, I’m thinking but not saying. Finally, tiptoeing along that often-trod tightrope between what the police want and what our readers expect, I compromise. I’ll post something about Sax apparently skipping town. No point in concealing his name, since it’s in the story I wrote for this morning’s paper. But I will write that there was nothing in Mr. Sax’s background to indicate that he should have been locked up posthaste, so he was released. And, I’ll add, when the cops got a look at his computer, they became much more interested in him and sent a SWAT team around to arrest him, by which time he had, of course, fled. I won’t, in other words, write that our police are blithering idiots. The readers can infer.
“You did find something interesting in that computer, I’m assuming. Just keep quiet if I’m right.”
Another sigh, but nothing else.
I tell the chief I’ll even quote him as saying that the cops are sure they will have Sax in custody in a few hours.
L.D. Jones isn’t happy with that, but he’s happier than he would have been with my original plan, which was to spell out line by line just how easily our defenders let Sax slip away. He knows that I am cutting him a deal, and that I expect something in return.
“When you catch him,” I say, letting the other shoe fall, “would you do me a favor and give me a heads-up?”
“Sure,” he says. He sounds like he’s saying it with his teeth clenched. I am sure that making a deal with the devil, meaning me, is taking a toll on the chief’s molars.
I POST
I am promised a callback.
Not fifteen minutes later, I hear the blues-based ringtone on my phone. I am expecting some midlevel functionary giving me the latest self-serving comments from our highest-paid law-enforcement entity.
Instead it’s L.D. Jones himself.
He probably was already pretty unhappy before he got the news that the entire metropolitan area, plus anyone who cared in the entire blogosphere, soon would know about his department’s latest screwup. He’s somewhere on the other side of sore pissed now.
“Black, goddamnit, you can’t print that shit,” he says by way of greeting. “It’s unsubstantiated.”
I tell him I’ll take my chances.
“Where are you getting that crap from?”
I could just tell him it’s none of his fucking business, but that might start him sniffing around possible leaks, including one staffer in particular who used to be a reporter.
So I make something up. I tell him that a woman I met yesterday at poolside, whose name I don’t know, called me and told me she talked to someone who saw Sax leaving sometime in the middle of the night. I had left her my card and asked her to call me if she saw anything unusual concerning Mr. Sax. Miraculously she did.
“And,” I go on, “knowing how proactive your department is, I just guessed you were going to arrest him today. Seems like I was right.”
He doesn’t know whether I’m being a wiseass about the “proactive” part.
“You don’t know what we planned for today,” he says. “You don’t know your ass from first base.”
“Well, I’ll bet you a twenty that there was going to be a press conference called for this morning.”
There is silence on the other end, followed by a sigh. I know that sigh. The chief is ready to switch gears and deal.
“Look, Willie,” he says, changing over to first-name basis, going for a mix of friendliness and condescension, “this is off the record, but if you just wait a few hours, I’m sure we’ll have this bastard all locked up. We know where he went. We’re closing in on him even as we speak.”
Like hell you are, I’m thinking but not saying. Finally, tiptoeing along that often-trod tightrope between what the police want and what our readers expect, I compromise. I’ll post something about Sax apparently skipping town. No point in concealing his name, since it’s in the story I wrote for this morning’s paper. But I will write that there was nothing in Mr. Sax’s background to indicate that he should have been locked up posthaste, so he was released. And, I’ll add, when the cops got a look at his computer, they became much more interested in him and sent a SWAT team around to arrest him, by which time he had, of course, fled. I won’t, in other words, write that our police are blithering idiots. The readers can infer.
“You did find something interesting in that computer, I’m assuming. Just keep quiet if I’m right.”
Another sigh, but nothing else.
I tell the chief I’ll even quote him as saying that the cops are sure they will have Sax in custody in a few hours.
L.D. Jones isn’t happy with that, but he’s happier than he would have been with my original plan, which was to spell out line by line just how easily our defenders let Sax slip away. He knows that I am cutting him a deal, and that I expect something in return.
“When you catch him,” I say, letting the other shoe fall, “would you do me a favor and give me a heads-up?”
“Sure,” he says. He sounds like he’s saying it with his teeth clenched. I am sure that making a deal with the devil, meaning me, is taking a toll on the chief’s molars.
I POST
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