much time with her without extracting anything of consequence about Sepulveda. Everything was set on her end — even Elizabeth Snow had reluctantly set aside her objections and given her permission to go the next step. As the conversation was nearing its end, it was the opportune moment.
Her voice took on a confidential tone. “Strider, I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything about Sepulveda. But there is one thing I can tell you.”
Strider perked up. “Yeah? Like what?”
Debra quickly scanned the room; still, nobody was sitting close enough to overhear anything. “I want to make sure we’re off the record.”
Now Strider was getting somewhere. This was the Debra Wyatt he used to know. “Yeah, sure.”
“Let’s define our terms. I’m not your source. But I do have something you might be interested in.”
“Okay, deep background.”
“You can’t attribute this to me or even to an unnamed source. You’ve got to confirm it independently. I’m serious, Strider. You can use this as a lead, but someone else has got to spell it out for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Debra. So what’ve you got?”
They leaned toward each other. Debra paused to heighten his curiosity. When she spoke, she made every word count.
“Senator Barker is going to plead guilty — very soon. And when he does, Governor Avanes will appoint his successor. And it’s going to be Eric Snow.”
II
The commotion began at daybreak in the cul–de–sac at the end of Eric Snow’s winding driveway, guarded by an ornate wrought iron gate. Crews from half a dozen Chicago morning TV programs and news shows clamored for positioning, their microphone–clutching reporters searching for the right spot to shoot their stand–ups.
Photographers from several newspapers settled for a few static shots of Snow’s stone home as they sipped steaming coffee from white cups and paced themselves for what they figured would be a long wait. Though most print journalists preferred to work the phones from their office, reporters from the Examiner, Tribune, and several suburban newspapers milled among the crowd.
Snow peered out a second–story window as he pressed a cell phone to his ear. “Yeah, there’s no way I can get through there without at least acknowledging them. I’d look like a jerk.”
The story had broken at 3:00 a.m. when the Examiner, in an article by–lined by investigative reporter Garry Strider and political editor Hal Brooks, was posted on the newspaper’s website. The same story anchored the front page of the print edition when it hit the streets before the sun came up: SNOW, McKELVIE TOP CANDIDATES TO REPLACE BARKER AS PLEA NEARS.
“You’ve got to give them footage for the morning shows,” Debra Wyatt was telling Snow. “Remember — they need visuals, and you don’t want them showing file footage of you preaching somewhere. I’m sure they’ve staked out McKelvie’s house or the courthouse; we don’t want him on the air and not you.”
Snow stepped away from the window and walked over to his closet to choose a tie. He selected a red and blue striped one that looked — well, senatorial. “What’s the best way to do this without looking like a fugitive or celebrity in rehab?”
Debra pondered the situation. “Is your morning paper still in the driveway?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, perfect. Get in the SUV and back down the driveway to the paper. Keep the gate closed; it’s not an obstacle for the cameras and it’ll keep the reporters from swarming you.”
“Uh–huh.”
“Then get out of the SUV, pick up the paper, and casually wave to the reporters. They’ll be calling out questions; take a couple of steps toward the cameras but stick to our statement: ‘Thanks for coming out here this morning. I’ve seen the speculation in the press and I just want to say I’m honored to be considered for this important appointment, but I think it would be premature for me to comment further at this time.’ Then get back
Her voice took on a confidential tone. “Strider, I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything about Sepulveda. But there is one thing I can tell you.”
Strider perked up. “Yeah? Like what?”
Debra quickly scanned the room; still, nobody was sitting close enough to overhear anything. “I want to make sure we’re off the record.”
Now Strider was getting somewhere. This was the Debra Wyatt he used to know. “Yeah, sure.”
“Let’s define our terms. I’m not your source. But I do have something you might be interested in.”
“Okay, deep background.”
“You can’t attribute this to me or even to an unnamed source. You’ve got to confirm it independently. I’m serious, Strider. You can use this as a lead, but someone else has got to spell it out for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Debra. So what’ve you got?”
They leaned toward each other. Debra paused to heighten his curiosity. When she spoke, she made every word count.
“Senator Barker is going to plead guilty — very soon. And when he does, Governor Avanes will appoint his successor. And it’s going to be Eric Snow.”
II
The commotion began at daybreak in the cul–de–sac at the end of Eric Snow’s winding driveway, guarded by an ornate wrought iron gate. Crews from half a dozen Chicago morning TV programs and news shows clamored for positioning, their microphone–clutching reporters searching for the right spot to shoot their stand–ups.
Photographers from several newspapers settled for a few static shots of Snow’s stone home as they sipped steaming coffee from white cups and paced themselves for what they figured would be a long wait. Though most print journalists preferred to work the phones from their office, reporters from the Examiner, Tribune, and several suburban newspapers milled among the crowd.
Snow peered out a second–story window as he pressed a cell phone to his ear. “Yeah, there’s no way I can get through there without at least acknowledging them. I’d look like a jerk.”
The story had broken at 3:00 a.m. when the Examiner, in an article by–lined by investigative reporter Garry Strider and political editor Hal Brooks, was posted on the newspaper’s website. The same story anchored the front page of the print edition when it hit the streets before the sun came up: SNOW, McKELVIE TOP CANDIDATES TO REPLACE BARKER AS PLEA NEARS.
“You’ve got to give them footage for the morning shows,” Debra Wyatt was telling Snow. “Remember — they need visuals, and you don’t want them showing file footage of you preaching somewhere. I’m sure they’ve staked out McKelvie’s house or the courthouse; we don’t want him on the air and not you.”
Snow stepped away from the window and walked over to his closet to choose a tie. He selected a red and blue striped one that looked — well, senatorial. “What’s the best way to do this without looking like a fugitive or celebrity in rehab?”
Debra pondered the situation. “Is your morning paper still in the driveway?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, perfect. Get in the SUV and back down the driveway to the paper. Keep the gate closed; it’s not an obstacle for the cameras and it’ll keep the reporters from swarming you.”
“Uh–huh.”
“Then get out of the SUV, pick up the paper, and casually wave to the reporters. They’ll be calling out questions; take a couple of steps toward the cameras but stick to our statement: ‘Thanks for coming out here this morning. I’ve seen the speculation in the press and I just want to say I’m honored to be considered for this important appointment, but I think it would be premature for me to comment further at this time.’ Then get back
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