metaphors—“and he’s even talking about splashing it out front. He’s going to stick around to make sure it’s something he likes. So don’t dawdle.”
“Ja, mein Führer,” I said.
I returned to my desk, glancing up at the clock on the way: 5:48. After hours.
Fortunately, the AG’s spokesman was a former Eagle-Examiner reporter. This was one of the few benefits of all the buyouts, layoffs, and other staff reductions that had ravaged our numbers through the years: many of the high-level public relations people in the state were former colleagues, having switched from covering the news to slanting it. Ben Hilfiker had left us a few years ago after a long and distinguished stint doing stories about the attorney general’s office and the state police, so I had his cell phone number programmed in mine.
“Uh-oh,” he said, “the state’s largest newspaper is calling. It must be very, very important.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know a lazy government bureaucrat like yourself probably left the office two hours ago, but you think you can give me a comment on something?”
“I wish I left two hours ago. I’m still here. I tell you, I can’t speak for the rest of Trenton, but there are still a lot of lights on in this place right now.”
I told him to save the spin for someone else, then enlightened him about the LeRioux-Kipps press conference—which, as I suspected, he hadn’t seen. He grumbled a few unmentionable words about how this better not screw up his date with a Devils game and a beer, then said, “Okay, let me check with my boss. I’m guessing you’ll need this for first edition?”
“Yep, Brodie wants copy by eight. That going to be a problem?”
With any other flak, I would have said seven thirty. That was the downside of dealing with a Ben Hilfiker: he knew our deadlines.
“No, that should be okay. He’s out of pocket right now, but I think he’s having dinner with Mrs. Attorney General later on. As long as I get him before his second martini, I should have something for you.”
I thanked him and got to work. I would be surprised if the AG wouldn’t at least pay lipservice to looking into it. The attorney general of the State of New Jersey is not an elected official. He serves at the pleasure of the governor. That might seem to make the position less political, but, if anything, it was more. An elected AG at least knew he had four years to do his job before he faced the voters. An appointed one could get bounced at any time.
And in this case, I knew that Pastor Al—whose eight thousand worshippers included a lot of old ladies who voted as religiously as they attended church—had stumped for the governor the last election. The AG would know that, too. Mimi Kipps had chosen her friends wisely.
Then again, politics cut all ways. The mayor of Newark was a Democrat, like the governor. And if Newark’s police director put in a phone call to the mayor, who put in a phone call to the governor? Well, it could complicate matters.
I left a blank spot in the story for the AG’s comment, then put in a perfunctory call to the Newark Police Department. Unsurprisingly, the spokesman on duty told me the department was standing by its statement that “Evidence gathered at the scene supports a preliminary determination that Detective Sergeant Darius Kipps died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
The next two hours fled by as they often do when you suddenly find yourself writing a thousand words on deadline. I was nearing the end when Hilfiker called back.
“Hey, got anything for me?” I asked.
“Yeah, you ready?”
“Go.”
He read: “The attorney general’s office is aware of the request for an independent investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of Detective Darius Kipps. We hope to make a determination within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours as to whether such an investigation would be appropriate.”
I waited for the rest of it, but there was nothing more
“Ja, mein Führer,” I said.
I returned to my desk, glancing up at the clock on the way: 5:48. After hours.
Fortunately, the AG’s spokesman was a former Eagle-Examiner reporter. This was one of the few benefits of all the buyouts, layoffs, and other staff reductions that had ravaged our numbers through the years: many of the high-level public relations people in the state were former colleagues, having switched from covering the news to slanting it. Ben Hilfiker had left us a few years ago after a long and distinguished stint doing stories about the attorney general’s office and the state police, so I had his cell phone number programmed in mine.
“Uh-oh,” he said, “the state’s largest newspaper is calling. It must be very, very important.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know a lazy government bureaucrat like yourself probably left the office two hours ago, but you think you can give me a comment on something?”
“I wish I left two hours ago. I’m still here. I tell you, I can’t speak for the rest of Trenton, but there are still a lot of lights on in this place right now.”
I told him to save the spin for someone else, then enlightened him about the LeRioux-Kipps press conference—which, as I suspected, he hadn’t seen. He grumbled a few unmentionable words about how this better not screw up his date with a Devils game and a beer, then said, “Okay, let me check with my boss. I’m guessing you’ll need this for first edition?”
“Yep, Brodie wants copy by eight. That going to be a problem?”
With any other flak, I would have said seven thirty. That was the downside of dealing with a Ben Hilfiker: he knew our deadlines.
“No, that should be okay. He’s out of pocket right now, but I think he’s having dinner with Mrs. Attorney General later on. As long as I get him before his second martini, I should have something for you.”
I thanked him and got to work. I would be surprised if the AG wouldn’t at least pay lipservice to looking into it. The attorney general of the State of New Jersey is not an elected official. He serves at the pleasure of the governor. That might seem to make the position less political, but, if anything, it was more. An elected AG at least knew he had four years to do his job before he faced the voters. An appointed one could get bounced at any time.
And in this case, I knew that Pastor Al—whose eight thousand worshippers included a lot of old ladies who voted as religiously as they attended church—had stumped for the governor the last election. The AG would know that, too. Mimi Kipps had chosen her friends wisely.
Then again, politics cut all ways. The mayor of Newark was a Democrat, like the governor. And if Newark’s police director put in a phone call to the mayor, who put in a phone call to the governor? Well, it could complicate matters.
I left a blank spot in the story for the AG’s comment, then put in a perfunctory call to the Newark Police Department. Unsurprisingly, the spokesman on duty told me the department was standing by its statement that “Evidence gathered at the scene supports a preliminary determination that Detective Sergeant Darius Kipps died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
The next two hours fled by as they often do when you suddenly find yourself writing a thousand words on deadline. I was nearing the end when Hilfiker called back.
“Hey, got anything for me?” I asked.
“Yeah, you ready?”
“Go.”
He read: “The attorney general’s office is aware of the request for an independent investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of Detective Darius Kipps. We hope to make a determination within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours as to whether such an investigation would be appropriate.”
I waited for the rest of it, but there was nothing more
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