“Do you talk like this to all your clients?” Ryan demanded, laughing.
“Well no. Usually I say it in Spanish. I do know all the bad words in Spanish.”
“Which gets us to Mexico faster, Vic?” Ryan said seriously.
Vic considered that question. “Let me find out how far along our partner in San Francisco is, and what Vincent thinks. I’ll get back to you on that. But either way, make plans to go to Nampa.”
Ryan ended the call, started down the winding road of Pill Hill. He heard a motor roar and looked behind him in the rear-view mirror. A large Lincoln was racing down on top of him, it’s big V8 motor ramped up, in a way that a little Prius was never going to compete with. Now if it’s a race across wide open spaces with no gas stations? Then he’d bet on his Prius. Maybe.
But it also had maneuverability, Ryan thought grimly. And that might count for something. And this was his neighborhood. Well close. Council Crest? High school necking place. Portland Heights? Family home.
Never come after someone on their home turf, you bastard, he thought. It had to be Ian Black, although the notion of an ineffectual honors prof running someone off the road on Pill Hill seemed ridiculous. But someone was barreling down on top of him. And he didn’t think he’d pissed off anyone else.
Ryan concentrated on making the curves, not going for speed. There was a turnout.... It had been a while since he’d tried to outrun the police on these narrow, winding backroads. Yes, there it was!
He didn’t brake. That was the whole point. You had to take the turn at full speed so that the other car went on by. And it worked just as it had when he was 14 and sneaking home from a party in the family car — when he didn’t have his license nor permission to take the car — and a police officer spotted him.
He did a U-turn in the cul-de-sac, facing outward to the street. His heart hammered. He tried breathing exercises but all he could think about was someone had tried to kill him. “I have a son to care for!” he yelled at the driver he could no longer see. “I have a woman who needs me. Damn you!”
He sat there until the shaking stopped. Then he called one of his loft-mates. They were still talking when someone honked at him, wanting by. Then he slowly, sedately drove into town and to the newsroom.
Ryan was a bit calmer by the time he went into the newsroom, but apparently not enough.
He barely made it to his desk when Will, Emily and Cage followed him into his office and closed the door. “What happened?” Emily demanded to know.
He saw no reason not to tell them.
Will whistled. “Nasty.”
“You know, maybe you’re looking at this wrong,” Cage said slowly.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re looking at it like he’s a professor and you’re a student,” Cage said. “What if you look at it like he’s a corrupt government official and you’re a reporter?”
“Huh.” Ryan said. He reflected back. Was Cage right? Had he fallen into a student mind-set instead of journalist?
Instead of being EIC of one of the largest journalism outfits in the state? He slowly started to smile.
“Uh, oh,” Emily muttered when she saw the smile. “Now you’ve done it, Cage.”
“Will?” Ryan asked. “How would you write this story? A professor plagiarizes a paper from his honors student to form the thesis of his latest book.”
“Did he?”
“Is that what this is really about?” Emily exclaimed.
“No, it’s really about Teresa filing a complaint that he thinks blocked his promotion to full professor, and his grudge against the Provost for denying that promotion, and his decision to use me as ammo against the Provost. But that’s a complicated story and leaves Teresa and her family vulnerable on immigration status. By the way, that sabbatical? He was assisting ICE in researching families who might be here illegally.”
He caught them all up to date on the more convoluted story.
“But think of this as the equivalent of Al Capone’s sentence for tax evasion,” Ryan said. “Not sure we can get him on the big stuff. But the plagiarism?” He dug out a thumb drive and handed it to Will. “Here’s a copy of the complaint I filed with the Provost this morning. At his request, but that’s not on the record.”
“I think a long narrative style would be fun to try,” Will said. “A Tom Hallman style piece.” Tom Hallman was an Oregonian reporter who won a Pulitzer Prize for his long-form narrative style writing. Everyone wanted to write like him. Few had ever managed it at Eyewitness or Folio, but Will might. Ryan shrugged. Not his problem. Or wouldn’t be in a few minutes.
He looked at the other two people in the room. Dr. Clarke was right. He had been blessed with people who cared about him. Just looking at Emily and Cage, and he could feel that bucket mend itself. He smiled at the whimsy. Been a lot of whimsical thinking this last week since a cute 3-year-old landed in his arms.
“Also on that drive is my resignation as EIC and my recommendation to the Media Board that they appoint the two of you to finish out my term of office,” he said.
They yelled at him. All three of them. Which brought Sarah and Ben back to see what was going on. And that drew Lam, because Sarah had been editing his copy for Thursday’s Folio.
“Un-huh, Ryan, that’s not happening,” Cage was insisting. “Emily sure. But you’re not sticking me with this.”
“You’d make me do it by myself?” Emily demanded. “Some friend you are.”
Oh no, Ryan thought, and his eyes met Sarah’s. He looked away before they both burst out laughing.
“Enough!” Ryan said, over the hubbub. “Look, I’m going to have to take Teresa to
