case out. The Hanovers would then have to decide whether to endure a second trial and another six to twelve months of reliving their son’s death.
“It’s not pretty,” Trenton said. “So far, Superior and the paper haven’t been able to agree on the language of the affidavit. But they’ll get there. They’ll probably file one minute before five o’clock on New Year’s Eve.”
There was more. In separate settlement negotiations between Superior and the Hanovers, the family had agreed to drop their lawsuit in return for Superior contributing $200 million to a fund that would subsidize alterations of the trucks for owners who wanted them. The Hanovers would also receive a $5 million cash payment, most of which would go to their lawyers.
“They won’t get the windfall,” Trenton said, “but some of the trucks might actually get safer.”
“That’s what they said they wanted all along.”
“Between you and me and the barn door, Gus, plaintiffs always say that. Really most of them want a mountain of cash and maybe a CEO with his testicles in a bear trap.”
“The Hanovers are good people.”
He paused. “Yes, they are. Which is what makes this last little detail a bit of a problem. Superior has stipulated that a condition of their going through with the Hanover deal is you have to give them the name of your voice-mail source.”
“They can’t do that.”
“They’re doing it, friend.”
“They must know who it is. They had the key to my damn locker.”
“Whether they know or not, Gus, they want you to tell them, OK? If you don’t, the Hanovers don’t get their settlement.”
“The hell with them.”
“Then it’s the hell with the Hanovers, too, because Superior says this is not negotiable. No name, the deal with the family’s off, and they take their chances on the appeal, which won’t be too good after the Times tells the court your stories are bullshit.”
“But they weren’t bullshit.”
“Frigging tough to argue in the shoes you’re wearing now.”
My anger felt like it would suffocate me there in my kitchen, surrounded by wrapping paper and Scotch tape. I wanted to shove the phone through the icy windowpane into the pelting needles of rain.
“I can’t fucking believe this.”
“Believe,” Trenton said. “And one more thing: If you don’t give up the name, Superior will also go after you for felony theft.”
“Why the hell do they care so much about the source?”
“I wish I knew. All their lawyers will say is they have their reasons.”
“Right. They want to fuck with me. So, basically, I can screw the Hanovers or I can screw myself. Either way, Superior comes out OK, and tough shit for all the poor bastards who fry in their trucks.”
“My advice?” Trenton said. “Give the guy up.”
“How do you know it’s-”
“Shut the hell up a second and listen to your attorney. You’re pissed off and I don’t blame you. But you don’t owe this voice-mail guy or gal or whatever a thing. You two made a deal: He tells the truth, you protect his identity. But he didn’t tell you he’d been canned. He lied. You couldn’t know his motives were questionable. That’s a breach of contract. You’re no longer under any legal obligation to cover for him.”
Technically, he may have been right, but I didn’t think that V had lied to me. As a journalist, it was nice to imagine that, in extending the cloak of anonymity, you were protecting brave and noble people who were risking their livelihoods or maybe even their lives to tell you things you weren’t supposed to know and were unlikely to learn otherwise. But a lot of the time-hell, most of the time-you weren’t protecting the brave or the noble. Most of the time you were shielding lawyers and flacks and lobbyists and other dissemblers who knew exactly how to exploit your convenient little rule of anonymity so they could shape your story without leaving fingerprints. Yes, V hadn’t told me the whole truth. But I never sought the whole truth. V told me what I wanted to hear, and I eagerly, willingly, hungrily swallowed it. He got what he wanted, I got what I wanted. And the truth was now, as Wendy Grimm had said, irrelevant.
“When do they need to know?” I asked Trenton.
“ASAP.”
“Merry Christmas, Scott,” I said, as I dropped the receiver in the cradle. Then I picked it up again and dialed V. I heard one ring followed by three high-pitched beeps, then a recording saying the number had been disconnected.
sixteen
So have you told them yet?” Joanie said. We had finished the beers and most of the nacho chips while I was telling my story.
“Told them what?” I said.
“Told them to go to hell, what else?”
She wasn’t letting me off the hook. “I haven’t told them anything yet.”
“Look, Gus. Maybe you shouldn’t have stolen the voice mails. But what’s done is done. You’re still here, doing what you do. Don’t mess that up. There’s no wiggle room here. You can’t give up a source. Period. Did the Times file that thing Superior wanted, saying your stories were bull?”
“Yep.”
“Nobody noticed?”
“The court sealed it. But it’ll be public when the ruling comes.”
“Which is when?”
“Superior’s lawyers are expecting it Friday. I have until Tuesday to decide. If I give up my source, they settle with the Hanovers and the appeal is moot. If I don’t, and Superior wins the appeal, the Hanovers are screwed.”
“The Hanovers are not your responsibility, Gus.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No. You cannot-wait, hold on.” She yanked a pager out from under her sweater and peered into it. “Oh, gosh, I gotta go,” she said. I watched as she stuffed notebooks and papers into her backpack and threw on her coat.
“Where are you going?” I said.
She ignored that. “Will you be in early tomorrow?”
“Probably. What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ll do the Dingus press conference?”
“Yeah.”
“The zoning board’s at two.”
She was almost out the door. “Oh, right. I wish I could do that, too, but looks like I’ll be wrapped up with the cops.”
I heard the bells jangle on the front door. I’d started collecting the empties when I heard the bells again. Joanie reappeared, breathless. “I got it,” she said. “‘Sound Off: Do you believe there are underwater tunnels in the lake?’”
“Done,” I said.
I left Tillie a note about the Sound Off question and went up the inside stairs to my apartment. As I reached the top I heard a voice outside. Through the curtains I saw Soupy sitting on the landing, his head in his hands, a bottle between his snow-slickened boots. His jacket was unbuttoned. He was shaking his head and muttering something. I stepped outside.
“Soup?”
