“Who wants?”
“Superior Motors.”
She let her feet fall to the floor and leaned forward. She looked at me hard, as if she’d never seen me before. “Gus, what in hell are you talking about?”
Hell? I thought. Joanie had said hell. I told her everything.
I had gone to Detroit when I was twenty-two years old, carrying with me the vain and preposterous goal of winning a Pulitzer Prize. And not because I thought it might help my career or fatten my wallet. What I wanted was to take whatever fancy certificate they gave you for winning a Pulitzer back to Starvation Lake and hang it on the jangling damn door at Audrey’s, where Coach and Elvis Bontrager and everyone else could see it. Then they’d know who I was.
I almost pulled it off.
I spent most of 1996 writing about Superior Motors’ XP-model pickup trucks. The trucks were big sellers that made big profits. But they had a problem. Their fuel tanks sat between the chassis and the outer shell of the truck like eggs in a vise. In crashes, the tanks ruptured and gasoline ignited, causing explosions and fires. Hundreds of people had been severely burned. Some had died. Superior had kept it quiet by buying the silence of victims and survivors with out-of-court cash settlements. Almost no one noticed until I started writing about it. Eventually, the TV newsmagazines started airing pieces, the national papers followed, the government started investigating. It was the kind of story you waited your whole career for. And it kept getting better.
One family, the Hanovers of Valparaiso, Indiana, refused to take Superior’s hush money. Justin Hanover had been a seventeen-year-old basketball player with a decent jump shot who wore baggy jeans that hung to his butt crack and a fake diamond stud in his left ear. He played chess and liked Nick Lowe records and had a girlfriend named Jennifer, one of four Jennifers he’d dated in high school. One night on his way home after dropping Jennifer off, he was broadsided by a drunk driver in a Honda Accord. Justin’s 1991 XP pickup truck exploded beneath him. Eyewitnesses heard him screaming inside the flaming cab but couldn’t get near enough to help him.
In the courtroom, the Hanover family’s attorneys cited some of my stories as evidence that Superior executives and lawyers knew the trucks were dangerous but did nothing to fix them. My reporting showed that Superior had buried an internal study that portrayed the trucks as unsafe, that the company had attempted to hire a government investigator working on the case, that one highly placed executive was demoted after arguing that Superior should admit the trucks were unsafe. The jury found this behavior repugnant and awarded the Hanovers $3 million in compensatory damages-equal to Superior’s latest settlement offer-and an additional $351 million in punitive damages, or $1 million for every known truck fatality due to fire. The jury’s forewoman said jurors wanted to punish Superior for “a willful neglect bordering on the amoral.”
A good deal of my reporting depended on a longtime source I had inside the company. As a mid-to-high-level marketing executive, he had access to a great deal of valuable information, such as the next models Superior would be building, where it was closing or expanding plants, which bosses were hot or not. He’d call me with tips, feed me internal memos, confirm stuff I’d uncovered elsewhere. On occasion he leaked information that wasn’t flattering to Superior. I asked him once why he did this, and he said, “If I don’t dish some dirt, then the fluff has no credibility, does it?” Which was true. I didn’t worry about his motives because I believed, foolishly, that motivations had little or no bearing on whether something was factual. It was either a fact or it wasn’t, regardless of who happened to whisper it to you. And he had never fudged his facts or otherwise steered me wrong.
It would’ve been hard to pick him out of a roomful of Superior executives. Like most, he was white, trim, lightly tanned, with a charcoal suit, starched white shirt, dull red tie, every salt-and-pepper hair in place. He wore a smile as routinely as most guys wear a T-shirt. After we got to know each other a little, he told me to forget his real name and refer to him as “V.” That way, he said, I was unlikely to unmask him even if I did slip and mention him around anyone from Superior.
One day in May of 1996, V left a message to meet him that evening at Fran amp; Jerry’s, a pub on Detroit’s northwest side. When I arrived, the front door was propped open to let the sun in. Stevie Wonder was singing through a tinny radio behind the bar. V waited in a varnished wood booth in the back. He had removed his tie. A thin stack of papers rested facedown in front of him. We ordered a Pabst and a Michelob.
“So what’s up?” I said.
“You’re busting our balls, my friend,” V said. He meant the pickup truck stories. By then I had written just two or three.
“Pretty interesting stuff,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “A kid in flames, a big, bad company, all the ingredients.”
I didn’t respond, but I was thinking, yes, all the ingredients. The waitress brought our beers. V asked for a glass. Then he removed reading glasses from his shirt pocket and placed them on his nose. He turned his papers faceup and scanned the first page, then the second.
“You might find this interesting, too.” His eyes flicked up at me over the spectacles. “Off the record, for now?”
“Sure.”
“And the fact that I’m giving it to you is totally off the record.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
At first, I couldn’t tell what the pages were. The Superior letterhead marked them as clearly from inside the company, but they didn’t look to be a memorandum. More like a script. Each page was filled with entries, some lengthy, some as short as a few words. One said: “Mark, it’s Laurie, give me a shout back.” Each was labeled with numerals that appeared to denote a date and time. The entries made frequent references to the XP trucks.
“This isn’t Friedman, is it?” I asked V.
“That would be Mark Friedman, yes,” V said. Friedman was Superior’s general counsel.
“So Laurie would be, uh, Lauren Watson?”
“Wilson.”
“Right.” An assistant general counsel. “So this other guy’s got to be, what’s his name? Reichs.” Howie Reichs was Superior’s top safety executive.
I kept flipping through the pages. “I don’t get it,” I said. “It’s like they’re not in the same room. I can tell from these things”-I turned a page toward V and indicated the time-and-date notations-“that they’re not even talking at the same time. Some of these are like an hour or so apart.”
“Very good.”
“It’s not e-mail?”
“Close.” The waitress set a tulip glass down. V picked it up and tilted it as he poured so that the beer barely had a head on it. “Not quite so modern.”
“Voice mail?”
He nodded.
“Transcripts of voice mails?”
“Did you notice what they’re talking about?”
“Yeah, your pickup trucks.”
“You’re selling yourself short, my friend.”
I took a minute to reread the first few pages more slowly. “Oh,” I said. “Holy shit.”
The people on the pages were talking about me and my stories and some questions I had asked. “Look at this,” I said. “They’re plotting how to bullshit me. Friedman says, ‘I think we can provide Mr. Carpenter an answer that will make him think we’ve actually given him one.’”
“Stop the presses,” V said sarcastically.
“Goddamn voice mail. Where did you get this?”
“Not going there.”
OK, I thought, you’ll tell me eventually. “Can I keep these?”
V hesitated. I thought maybe I’d sounded a little too eager. The music faded. I heard traffic hissing past outside.
“You cannot quote from them,” he said.
“What? Come on.”
“No.”
“Then what good are they?”
