The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Connection - 9/26/04

Sunday, September 26, 2004

I have few things to thank the U.S. Divide for. One of those few things is meeting Lucy Pfeiger-Zalt.

Some months back, Ryloff assigned me to call up Anton Zalt and confirm his current address, age, and a couple of other cursory facts. Zalt would think that our magazine was doing a puff piece on the amazing success of his law firm. The firm had grown rapidly over the past five years to become one of the most successful firms in all of Washington, while employing groundbreaking numbers of female and minority lawyers and legal aides. That was the story that the Divide's lead reporter on the story, Aaron McCuskey, had implied to Anton. 

While all of those facts about Anton's firm were true, they weren’t the focus of the actual article at all. Instead, McCuskey was following up on evidence that the firm (and prominent lobbyists) had exerted illegal influence over Congressmen who were considering a recent piece of legislation in the House. (Sorry I can't be more specific here.) 

McCuskey had stressed to me in his typical arrogant fashion that before I made any calls to Anton Zalt, I should be absolutely sure that I knew which facts I was confirming—and which facts not to speak a word of. I assured him that I knew what I was doing. Even I wasn't stupid enough to ask something like, "Mr. Zalt, could you just confirm that it was two hundred thousand dollars that your firm gifted to Representative Lowell for a new wing on his house? Two then five zeros?" 

So I rang the Zalt residence. A sweet soprano answered. "Hello?" 

"Hello," I said, "this is Mark Huntley with the U.S. Divide. I'm just fact-checking for an upcoming article— could I speak with Mr. Zalt?" 

"Mr. Zalt isn't here. Is there something I can help you with, maybe? I'm his wife, Lucy." Then a note of suspicion: "An article, you said?" 

"Oh, yes," I said. "Mr. Zalt knows about the article... he's been speaking with the reporter doing the story, Aaron McCuskey, for a couple of weeks now." 

"McCuskey," she breathed. "I know that name— I've read his pieces before. He's kind of a muckraker, isn't he?" 

Crap. I wasn't even supposed to be talking to this woman, I thought. But I couldn't just end the conversation now. "No. I mean, he's done pieces of that nature before, but this is basically just a piece about the success of your husband's company, and his, uh, his progressive hiring policies." 

"Is it?" She went on before I could answer: "I thought your magazine was a little more hard-charging than that. Especially McCuskey. Heh, I didn't even know that Anton was talking with a reporter about a story. Isn't that sad?" 

Yes, it was sad? No, it wasn't? 

"Er.... we cover all kinds of political and business-related news. There's hard news and soft news. You know." 

She didn't appear to have heard my idiotic response. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, though. I don't even know his whereabouts half the time. Why should I be up to date on his upcoming appearances in print, right?" Yep, she was trying to sound ironic, but this was just sad. 

"You, um.... I..." I wasn't used to people sharing this much. I was just a random voice on the phone. Still, it seemed like I should say something. "He doesn't let you know where he is?" 

"Nah, I'm just his wife, why bother? I'm just the kid at home. The one who—" She broke off and laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm really embarrassing myself now, aren't I?" 

"A little, but not too much," I said. "It's okay." 

"I've really got to get out of the house more often," she muttered. "I don't want to become one of those women who keeps long-distance salesmen on the line just to talk. Not that I don't have my own work, and my own hobbies, you understand. I'm in the theatre. I'm just... between plays right now." 

"I imagine it must be hard to get gigs all the time," I said. "How many different auditions do you usually have to do before getting a part?"

I had crossed the line into way too much familiarity with someone close to a hot story source. Someone who could throw a wrench into the whole article if I said the wrong thing. McCuskey would be enraged if he were listening right then. But oh well, I didn't give a fuck. The obviously lonely woman on the other end of the line wanted to talk, and I wouldn’t deny her that. Besides, she sounded cute.

"Oh, well, some I tumbled right into," she said, "and there've been other times when it seems like I have to hit every stage in D.C. before I get a bite." 

"I don't think I'd ever be able to get up there, and sort of bare it all," I said. "Must take a lot of bravery to do that." 

"Ah, I don't know." She laughed again. "You're not really baring it all when you're hiding behind a role. It's your body up there, and it's your voice, but it's not your soul. Unless, you know, you wrote the play too. Or if you really identify with the character...." 

"My acting experience ended around second grade," I told her. "I was in The Wizard of Oz. My best friend Charlie got to be the tin woodsman, but I was stuck being Farmhand #3. My one line in the play was 'We understand you, Dorothy,' which I had to say in a chorus with the other two farmhands. Trouble was, my timing was always terrible. I could never say it at the same time they did. The night of the show, when that part in the play came around, the other two guys said the line, but I didn't realize the moment until it was too late. Still, not to be left out, I blurted out ten seconds after them: 'We understand you, Dorothy!' Everyone laughed. I was humiliated. That was when I realized I'd make a better accountant or gas station attendant." 

She giggled. I wondered how old she was. "You seem like a charming guy, Mister Mark Huntley. Why are you working for an evil enterprise like the U.S. Divide?" 

"I have rent to pay," I said. "And mouths to feed." 

"Mouths to feed?" 

"Well... no. Just my own. But it’s a big mouth." 

"You're very nice to put up with talking to me," she said. "I should let you get back to your job. But don't let... you know, I have a very stupid husband. If he'd ever actually bothered to read the Divide, any of McCuskey's articles..." 

I waited for her to continue. 

"He's stupid, but he's also a good man," she said, "so don't let them write anything bad about him, okay? What he does, he may not always do the right thing, or the thing that people think they understand is right, but he does it for the right reasons."

Bullshit, I thought. But I’d already made a decision.

"I can't control what the article is about, Mrs.—" 

"Lucy." 

"Lucy. I'm just a fact-checker." I glanced around to make sure Aaron McCuskey wasn't hovering nearby. I was about to make my riskiest move ever, one that should have gotten me fired. And why? I didn't even know. Maybe there was more than one lonely party on this line.

"Your husband should just be ready to defend the practices of his firm,” I said. “Where the money goes, in whose Congressional pocket. That's all." 

There was an extended silence on the line. Finally, Lucy said, "I can defend them. And if I can, so can he... with this advance warning. Thank you. This won't come back to you." 

It didn't. When the article came out, and Anton Zalt met the challenge with his defenses already prepared, his deniability in place (and the House members’ too), McCuskey looked for blood. He found it not in me, but in the conveniently suspicious behavior of a source at the firm who he’d believed to be airtight. 

And two weeks after that, the first time I saw Lucy Pfeiger-Zalt, she was in a radiant pink dress and looked like an angel.

I’ve got a lot to answer for.

posted by Mark Huntley @ 6:02 PM

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