bucks.
Brazil had been marched to the principal’s office only twice during his early school years.
In neither case had he really done anything wrong. The first time he had poked his finger
into the hamster cage and had gotten bitten. The second time of trouble occurred when he
inserted his finger into the hole at the top of his clipboard and had gotten stuck.
Mr. Kenny used wire cutters to free young Brazil, who had been humiliated and
heartbroken. The blue Formica clipboard with its map of the United States was
destroyed. Mr. Kenny threw it into the trash while Brazil stood bravely by, refusing to
cry, knowing his mother could not afford to buy him another one. Brazil had meekly
asked if he could stay after school for a week, dusting erasers on back steps, to
earn enough to buy something new to hold notebook paper and write on. That had been okay with all.
Brazil wondered what he could offer to Panesa to make up for whatever he had done to
cause such a problem. When he walked into the publisher’s intimidating glass office,
Panesa was sitting behind his mahogany desk, in his fine Italian suit and leather chair.
Panesa didn’t get up or acknowledge Brazil directly, but continued reading a printout of
the editorial for the Sunday paper, which slammed Mayor Search for his glib, albeit true,
comment about his reluctance to travel downtown these nights.
“You might want to shut the door,” Panesa quietly said to his young reporter.
Brazil did and took a seat across from his boss.
“Andy,” he said, ‘do you watch television? ” His confusion grew.
“I rarely have time …”
“Then you may not know that you are being scooped right and left.”
The dragon inside Brazil woke up.
“Meaning?” Panesa saw fire in his eyes. Good. The only way this sensitive, brilliant young talent was going to last in this criminal world was if he were a fighter, like Panesa
was. Panesa wasn’t going to give him a breath of comfort. Andy Brazil, welcome to Hell
School, the publisher thought as he picked up a remote control from his mighty desk.
“Meaning’ – Panesa hit a button, and a screen unrolled from the ceiling ‘that the last four or five major stories you’ve done have been aired on television the night before they ran
in the paper, usually on the eleven o’clock news.” He pressed another button, and the
overhead projector turned on.
“Then the radio stations pick them up first thing in the morning. Before most people get
a chance to read what we’ve plastered on the front page of our paper.”
Brazil shot up from his chair, horrified and homicidal.
“That can’t be! No one’s even around when I’m out there!” he exclaimed, fists balled by his sides.
Panesa pointed the remote control, pressed another but ton, and instantly Webb’s face was
huge in the room.
‘. in a Channel Three exclusive interview said she returns to the scene of the crash late at
night and sits in her car and weeps.
Johnson, who turned in her badge this morning, said she wishes she had been killed, too .
”
Panesa looked at Brazil. Brazil was speechless, his fury toward Webb coalescing into
hatred for all. Moments passed before the young police reporter could gather his wits.
“Was this after my story?” Brazil asked, though he knew better.
“Before,” Panesa replied, watching him carefully, and assessing.
“The night before it ran. Like every other one that’s followed. Then this bit with the
mayor. Well, that clinched it. We know that was a slip on Search’s part and not
something Webb could know unless he’s got the mayor’s office bugged.”
“This can’t be!” Brazil boiled over.
“It’s not my fault!”
“This is not about fault.” Panesa was stern with him.
“Get to the bottom of it. Now. We’re really being hurt.”
Panesa watched Brazil storm out. The publisher had a meeting, but sat at his desk, going
through memos, dictating to his secretary while he observed Brazil through glass. Brazil
was angrily opening desk drawers, digging in the box under it, throwing notepads and
other personal effects into his briefcase. He ran out of the newsroom as if he did not plan