There isn’t enough coffee in the world this morning … late night. Lazy morning.
It’s said that decisions aren’t made in meetings, and true statements aren’t made in press conferences, which is why running into Sheriff Paul Wilson at The Riverside the other night was … well, off the record – sorta. I’m not sure.
I’m still getting my footing around here, but it’s pretty much Journalism 101 – the value a reporter brings is in knowing who to ask what, who to talk to, take aside, inquire. Trust becomes currency.
From what I’ve heard, at big-city papers, where the most powerful reporters work, the process might involve drinks at a toney bar, maybe an appetizer, jazz wafting in the background. Separate checks (allegedly) and the exchange of information in low voices with suggestive undertones – saying something, but not really saying anything, with a sort of surreptitious feel to it.
People like to be a source, to seem like they are “in the know.”
I write this, of course, in the hopes that someday an ambitious young professor will read my memoir (I’m not sure what I’ll call it yet but I figure I have time) and decide that journalism students should, in fact, know the truth – that most of them will never work at The New York Times. In fact, most of them will simply earn a living on the banks of a sleepy, once-vital river that brings little more than scenic backdrops to graduation photos and first dates – some living along it antsy for change, others happy to not change a thing.
Sheriff Paul Wilson, as a public figure and native son, is caught somewhere in between. It was his daughter that stepped on the hand that led to a press conference that cancelled Middle Valley’s National Jenny Day festivities. And it was that confluence of events that led him into The Riverside that night.
Cassie was pouring and the house was full. I had filed the story, complete with Scottie Blake’s quotes about his daughter, Jenny, named after the founder’s wife and forever love. It was a typical shallow and heartless rendering of an event that, at its core, involves what I believe to be a murder.
In other words, garbage on a page, and after a few pops, the Sheriff was happy to share his feedback.
“You’re that reporter, aren’t you?”
I was surprised he’d even seen me given that his daughter was in the middle of everything. I nodded.
“And you’re new here?”
“Yes, I am. John McHenry.” I’d extended my hand, but instead he reached for his beer and took a long, deep sip.
He swallowed and shook his head. “That place has new people out here every other month,” he said. “Few months ago, it was a young woman, 30s maybe. Nice in the beginning, seemed genuinely interested in us, in the town, then started hanging out with some of those tech people came in to the old JCN place on the hill. Bunch of companies up there now, small companies, young people with lots of money.”
I knew JCN had been a fixture in computing in the 80s, one of the first companies to build and mass distribute desktop computers. I had one in college, but never knew that this was the firm’s home base.
“She left, followed the money I guess.”
“I … don’t honestly know, no one mentioned.”
“Yeah, they won’t, just shipping warm bodies here, that’s all they do. It’s like a revolving door.” He drained his glass. “Cass … another. One for my friend here, too, John, did you say?”
“Yes, sir, but I can’t let you do that.”
“Sure you can. This ain’t Wall Street.”
Cassie delivered the drafts, her brow furrowed, like she didn’t know what to make of the situation. Frankly, neither did I.
“Let’s talk shop … my boys are on it, nothing new, but if there’s anything I know about this place it’s that weird things happen here.”
I reached for the beer, making a mental note to return the favor at some point.
“So … what, you’ve found other body parts in the middle of a parade?”
Wilson laughed. “Well, bodies, and no, not in the middle of a parade.”
He sipped his beer fervently.
“A landfill once, behind the Quick Mart.” He shook his head. “We just have no idea most of the time. City keeps sending its repeat offenders here for rehab and we don’t really have a say. They don’t tell us much, just the rap sheet and some length of time. They act like we can handle it, like our social services people are just waiting for work to do … no, we’ve got our own problems, but they just don’t care.”
He grinned and sipped again. “That’s your story, Boy. Hand to God.”
As he laughed at his own joke, I signaled Cassie for another round.
“How is your daughter?” I felt compelled to inquire.
He smiled. “The most popular girl on social media, let me tell you, with an ankle the size of a grapefruit … she posted a picture of the damned thing … she covered the wrist, where it’s cut, with a scarf her mother gave her for her birthday last year … it’s got the school colors, you know, orange and black. … I mean, can you imagine? I told her not to put it up there, but she just went on, like teenagers do.”
“I’ll have to look her up … where’d she post it?”
“I have no idea. I asked her sister and she wouldn’t tell me, but they seem to be getting a kick out of it,” he said.
“That’s pretty dark,” I said.
“Well, that’s Stacey.” He took a sip. “Pretty dark, very pretty, and pretty much done with this town soon as she can be. Trish and I swear she’ll go to college and never come back.”
“Trish?”
“My ex … she lives down the street. Stacey comes and goes as she pleases.”
Cassie brought the drinks down and I handed her a $20.
“So, what do you think? Where do you think it came from?”
He shook his head. “No clue. We sent it out to Cornell for testing … can’t do that here.”
“How long til you find anything out?”
“A few days,” he said, draining his glass again. He stood up. “Word of advice?”
I nodded.
“Stick around. Don’t run.”
He threw a $20 on the bar. “In 40 years of life, I’ve seen a lot around here. We have characters … I mean, Madam McMurtry over there …” he motioned toward the other side of the bar. “She’s got money, power, she’ll make you or break you, lubed up or sober, either way. And she’s not the only one. We are an interesting lot … I reckon you might enjoy it.”
He nodded in my direction. “Give me a call next week, we’ll see what comes back.”
“I will.”
—
The professors in school, those who’d worked at The New York Times or The Philadelphia Inquirer … I look back now and I think they were trying to paint a picture, sell us on the nobility of this profession. One professor I remember, a visitor from Boston University and just off a decade at The Boston Globe, characterized his time as a reporter as a mix of wild scoops followed by days of looking over his shoulder, worried about the ramifications or who may have been watching him at the bar after work.
For my part thus far, I have a severed hand.
– Respectfully submitted from The Noble Gates, 6-10-2023