under state law and grab one of his female surrogates for practising illegal prostitution under existing state law - and then put them on trial we could run with it from there. We’d have a criminal story, a political story, a virtuous civic story. Copies of every edition would race off the newsstands. But first, Chet, you’ve got to get Scrafield and Lewis behind you … and behind us. Then you’ve got to infiltrate that Freeberg operation and get the goods firsthand. Think you can do all that?’
Hunter was on his feet, pumping Ferguson’s hand. ‘Can I? Otto, watch me do it. Faster than a speeding bullet. Watch me move. And start setting my by-line in type!’
Not until early this afternoon, as he listened to Chet Hunter in the computerised office at the rear of his Church of the Resurrection, had the Reverend Josh Scrafield looked upon his part-time researcher with any real respect.
Until this afternoon, Scrafield had always regarded Chet Hunter with mild contempt, something of a frail grub and intellectual nerd, sallow and frightened of life. About a year ago, when Scrafield had been planning to undertake his campaign against the insidious sex education then invading the public schools, Darlene had discovered Hunter and advised Scrafield that the young researcher might be useful in digging up facts. Reluctantly, Scrafield had taken on the library mole, the ferret.
But early this afternoon, Scrafield had heard and seen another side of the grub. For Hunter, in revealing his knowledge of the pandering Dr Freeberg and the sluts he sent out to corrupt the purity of Hillsdale, had shown a human side to himself. Like Scrafield himself, young Hunter had shown some understanding of lust and how it might come to destroy paradise.
Once he had understood what Hunter had in mind, and what his own role might be, Scrafield had been quick to arrange a meeting for both of them with Hoyt Lewis, Hillsdale’s clever District Attorney.
Now, towering over his informant, Scrafield led Hunter into District Attorney Hoyt Lewis’s impressive office in the marble-floored city hall. Scrafield felt comfortable about this meeting. For one thing, the District Attorney was a smart and perceptive man in his late thirties, as smart and perceptive as Scrafield himself.
Despite his scraggly sandy-coloured moustache and his tendency towards obesity, emphasised by his habit of locking his hands across his spreading paunch, Lewis was a man above the crowd and a man who was going places. In fact, he was self-assured enough to wear a black string tie. Lewis came from one of the better families in Hillsdale (they were said to have second and third homes in Malibu and Palm Springs) and he possessed a real comprehension of the needs and wants of the masses. Not unlike Scrafield, the District Attorney could communicate with the peasants and was popular with them.
Hoyt Lewis had come to his feet, to shake hands with Scrafield and Hunter after they had entered his vast office, and was gesturing them to a button-backed leather sofa near his desk. After they had been seated, Lewis had drawn up a leather chair on casters and lowered himself into it, filling it to overflowing.
‘Good to see you, gentlemen,’ Lewis was saying. His moustache rose to reveal his even white teeth, and he was as cordial as a host at a dinner party. ‘Well, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
While Hunter seemed to cringe inwardly, Scrafield was pleased with the thoughtful formality.
Scrafield glanced at Hunter, then at Lewis. ‘Let me kick this off, Hoyt. It’s an important matter that, I perceive, requires your immediate attention.’ He jerked a thumb at his companion. ‘Chet Hunter here, he’s an expert researcher, you know. I’ve seen his work firsthand. He came to me originally, out of civic duty, with the most appalling information about programmes the liberals were instigating to infect our school system. This information proved to be accurate and
Hunter was on his feet, pumping Ferguson’s hand. ‘Can I? Otto, watch me do it. Faster than a speeding bullet. Watch me move. And start setting my by-line in type!’
Not until early this afternoon, as he listened to Chet Hunter in the computerised office at the rear of his Church of the Resurrection, had the Reverend Josh Scrafield looked upon his part-time researcher with any real respect.
Until this afternoon, Scrafield had always regarded Chet Hunter with mild contempt, something of a frail grub and intellectual nerd, sallow and frightened of life. About a year ago, when Scrafield had been planning to undertake his campaign against the insidious sex education then invading the public schools, Darlene had discovered Hunter and advised Scrafield that the young researcher might be useful in digging up facts. Reluctantly, Scrafield had taken on the library mole, the ferret.
But early this afternoon, Scrafield had heard and seen another side of the grub. For Hunter, in revealing his knowledge of the pandering Dr Freeberg and the sluts he sent out to corrupt the purity of Hillsdale, had shown a human side to himself. Like Scrafield himself, young Hunter had shown some understanding of lust and how it might come to destroy paradise.
Once he had understood what Hunter had in mind, and what his own role might be, Scrafield had been quick to arrange a meeting for both of them with Hoyt Lewis, Hillsdale’s clever District Attorney.
Now, towering over his informant, Scrafield led Hunter into District Attorney Hoyt Lewis’s impressive office in the marble-floored city hall. Scrafield felt comfortable about this meeting. For one thing, the District Attorney was a smart and perceptive man in his late thirties, as smart and perceptive as Scrafield himself.
Despite his scraggly sandy-coloured moustache and his tendency towards obesity, emphasised by his habit of locking his hands across his spreading paunch, Lewis was a man above the crowd and a man who was going places. In fact, he was self-assured enough to wear a black string tie. Lewis came from one of the better families in Hillsdale (they were said to have second and third homes in Malibu and Palm Springs) and he possessed a real comprehension of the needs and wants of the masses. Not unlike Scrafield, the District Attorney could communicate with the peasants and was popular with them.
Hoyt Lewis had come to his feet, to shake hands with Scrafield and Hunter after they had entered his vast office, and was gesturing them to a button-backed leather sofa near his desk. After they had been seated, Lewis had drawn up a leather chair on casters and lowered himself into it, filling it to overflowing.
‘Good to see you, gentlemen,’ Lewis was saying. His moustache rose to reveal his even white teeth, and he was as cordial as a host at a dinner party. ‘Well, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
While Hunter seemed to cringe inwardly, Scrafield was pleased with the thoughtful formality.
Scrafield glanced at Hunter, then at Lewis. ‘Let me kick this off, Hoyt. It’s an important matter that, I perceive, requires your immediate attention.’ He jerked a thumb at his companion. ‘Chet Hunter here, he’s an expert researcher, you know. I’ve seen his work firsthand. He came to me originally, out of civic duty, with the most appalling information about programmes the liberals were instigating to infect our school system. This information proved to be accurate and
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