headline shocked her, and she moved quickly into the newly formed line for a copy of the paper. Biding her time, she could see piles of the New York Times, its front page without mention of the Yinger escape. There were copies of the New York Daily News and New York Post, and they were also Yingerless, but then they were earlier editions.
The New York Record alone had the sensational beat, and she had a copy in hand now, while paying the man.
She unfolded the front page and swiftly scanned the exclusive story. There it was. Yinger’s incredible last-minute escape. His cell had been found empty at dinnertime. There had been some laxity in not spotting his flight earlier, the guards lulled by the fact that his cell was on Death Row. Yinger had apparently wriggled down a vent pipe to a subbasement, found a tunnel beneath Green Haven prison, inched his way through the narrow tunnel and under the prison wall and, many yards beyond, had broken through the thin layer of turf and got away in the darkness. He might be armed and dangerous. There was evidence, an imprint in the soil, that suggested some excavating inmate had stashed a gun at the escape hatch. There was also evidence, footprints and other signs farther on, that Yinger had been headed south toward New York City. There was an allpoints bulletin out for his capture and arrest. To Victoria, that meant that Sam Yinger would be shot on sight.
Going toward the filling station, Victoria’s mind reeled at the turn of events. How could Yinger have known of that secret tunnel? Only two of them at the newspaper knew about it - she herself, and McAllister. And McAllister had known it was off the record. Nor would he have had reason - or the means - to convey the information to Yinger. Then she realized that she and McAllister had known because Gus Pagano had informed her about the tunnel. Pagano, of course. He was hardly what one would call a sterling character. He was a criminal. He would have sold the information for a payoff, and the information had gone to another convict on Death Row who had passed it along to Yinger. And Yinger had acted
fast and daringly. And successfully. Somehow the Record had it as an exclusive.
She caught another glimpse of the corner newsstand. More people gathering. More papers selling steadily. But only one paper was selling because it had the big story. The New York Record was a runaway tonight.
Somehow, she felt a pride in belonging.
Continuing to the station, she wondered if her interview with Sam Yinger meant anything anymore. His pre-execution story had been fully supplanted by his freedom story. Her own interview would no longer be as newsworthy, Victoria realized, but it still might make a colorful sidebar. She must keep going and write that story.
Once inside the filling station, she had a ten-minute wait before a gas pump attendant was free to help her. Again, an open map. Again, a Rosetta stone. But now the directions were clearer because her destination was nearer.
Eager to get to her story, eager to satisfy her curiosity about her paper’s scoop, Victoria was on the run to her Chevrolet. She pulled away from the curb fast, but was soon enmeshed in heavy traffic and slowed to a crawl.
It was slightly after nine o’clock in the evening when she turned into Park Avenue and headed for the Armstead Building. She had rewritten the lead of her interview with Yinger a half-dozen times in her head, and even in light of the new development it worked. Nor was she worried about her tardiness. She recalled that McAllister had said the deadline for the Late City Edition was ten o’clock. Her dashboard clock promised her that there would be time enough to make it if she got straight to her desk and banged the story out.
By the time she was idling at the next stoplight, she was mentally rewriting her story one last time, editing out Yinger’s foul language. Her mind reached the final paragraph:
‘When asked whether there was anything he
The New York Record alone had the sensational beat, and she had a copy in hand now, while paying the man.
She unfolded the front page and swiftly scanned the exclusive story. There it was. Yinger’s incredible last-minute escape. His cell had been found empty at dinnertime. There had been some laxity in not spotting his flight earlier, the guards lulled by the fact that his cell was on Death Row. Yinger had apparently wriggled down a vent pipe to a subbasement, found a tunnel beneath Green Haven prison, inched his way through the narrow tunnel and under the prison wall and, many yards beyond, had broken through the thin layer of turf and got away in the darkness. He might be armed and dangerous. There was evidence, an imprint in the soil, that suggested some excavating inmate had stashed a gun at the escape hatch. There was also evidence, footprints and other signs farther on, that Yinger had been headed south toward New York City. There was an allpoints bulletin out for his capture and arrest. To Victoria, that meant that Sam Yinger would be shot on sight.
Going toward the filling station, Victoria’s mind reeled at the turn of events. How could Yinger have known of that secret tunnel? Only two of them at the newspaper knew about it - she herself, and McAllister. And McAllister had known it was off the record. Nor would he have had reason - or the means - to convey the information to Yinger. Then she realized that she and McAllister had known because Gus Pagano had informed her about the tunnel. Pagano, of course. He was hardly what one would call a sterling character. He was a criminal. He would have sold the information for a payoff, and the information had gone to another convict on Death Row who had passed it along to Yinger. And Yinger had acted
fast and daringly. And successfully. Somehow the Record had it as an exclusive.
She caught another glimpse of the corner newsstand. More people gathering. More papers selling steadily. But only one paper was selling because it had the big story. The New York Record was a runaway tonight.
Somehow, she felt a pride in belonging.
Continuing to the station, she wondered if her interview with Sam Yinger meant anything anymore. His pre-execution story had been fully supplanted by his freedom story. Her own interview would no longer be as newsworthy, Victoria realized, but it still might make a colorful sidebar. She must keep going and write that story.
Once inside the filling station, she had a ten-minute wait before a gas pump attendant was free to help her. Again, an open map. Again, a Rosetta stone. But now the directions were clearer because her destination was nearer.
Eager to get to her story, eager to satisfy her curiosity about her paper’s scoop, Victoria was on the run to her Chevrolet. She pulled away from the curb fast, but was soon enmeshed in heavy traffic and slowed to a crawl.
It was slightly after nine o’clock in the evening when she turned into Park Avenue and headed for the Armstead Building. She had rewritten the lead of her interview with Yinger a half-dozen times in her head, and even in light of the new development it worked. Nor was she worried about her tardiness. She recalled that McAllister had said the deadline for the Late City Edition was ten o’clock. Her dashboard clock promised her that there would be time enough to make it if she got straight to her desk and banged the story out.
By the time she was idling at the next stoplight, she was mentally rewriting her story one last time, editing out Yinger’s foul language. Her mind reached the final paragraph:
‘When asked whether there was anything he
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