Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Thirty-Nine

IntelAvenger became a folk hero to frustrated reporters and outraged readers who didn't have the nerve, access to relevant facts, or the mastery of language to respond to the trolls.

So I kept it up, commenting on everything, sports stories, breaking news, crime stories, financial stories, even opinion pieces.

Readers "threatened" a petition to have the Midway offer me a job, because I seemed so well informed.

I justified my actions by telling myself, that I only called out the bigoted commenters, the blatant liars, the sneaky misinformation spreaders – known since the 2016 U.S. Presidential election as "fake news" spreaders, and the innocent ignorant. I corrected them factually when they were wrong, and I gave them a tongue-lashing when they were unnecessarily mean. I never, ever posted my unfiltered opinion. I just policed territory I considered to be the wild West.

This is what I explain to my informal jury of editors.

For a moment they all stare at me blankly. I can feel the wheels turning as they weigh the options: Fire me and risk me suing them for wrongful termination, and risk me becoming a martyr to supportive readers and journalists; suspend or demote me and risk the same.

If there's another option, I can't imagine it at that moment.

My undoing apparently came about innocently enough. Limpett, of all people, had grudgingly contacted the Information Technology department at the Midway to ask if they could track down IntelAvenger, ironically, to offer him or her a contributing columnist gig.

I may never have been caught, except that the I.T. nerd who fielded Limpett's request to track me down traced IntelAvenger's Internet Protocol address to a Midway-owned computer.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

I had used my work-issued laptop to make my last few comments as IntelAvenger. Under normal circumstances, when I get home from work in the evening, unless I have an article to finish writing or research to complete, I drop my backpack by the front door, with my work laptop inside, and I open my personal computer for everything else.

With the story of the shootings becoming something more and me not slowing down on my after-work imbibing, I've just been worn out lately. And I've taken the lazy route upon arriving home each night: use the closest, handiest computer to me. I made myself a target. I...

"Wilson, are we clear?!?"

Limpett's question is more statement than query. I nod slowly and hesitantly.

While the other editors, including my usual ally, Calibretti, and my usual benefactors, Kilgore and Fleisch look away, Limpett reiterates his victory.

"As I was saying Wilson, a formal investigation is underway to determine to what extent your deception has carried over to your reporting. You cannot blame us for wondering what else you are willing to fake."

With no supporters in this hearing, and not even a union steward to represent me, I choose my words carefully. Even the slightest hint that I feel no remorse, at least not the kind they're expecting of me, and I could find myself in the unemployment line.

"Listen, I won't make excuses. We're clear, but I've been making comments on DailyMidway.com as 'IntelAvenger' for about three months now. None of what I wrote was fake. I mean my comments were all factual and contextual. And on those rare occasions where my comment was open to debate, I played Devil's Advocate. I mean no disrespect, but if you guys had any doubts Tim wouldn't have ordered IntelAvenger found and hired."

And that's that. I don't want to say too much more, in case they try to use my own words against me and make the punishment worse than the crime.

My defense is quick, lasting less than three minutes, but it seems to help. Kilgore's no longer fixated on the ceiling. Calibretti looks up at me with something akin to admiration. And Fleisch, chin in hand, nods a little as if to say, "OK, that makes sense."

But Limpett is never one to miss an opportunity to strike a blow in the name of all that is outdated. So he sucks the air out of the room, reminding all that we've gathered for discipline, not an intervention.

"Well, Wilson, you're a noble guy, but I don't mind saying that I have grave concerns about the accuracy of your work now, and your ability – if you ever had any – to be objective." He knows that last part will get under my skin. He's right. I have restraint but not this much.

"Listen, Barry, you know as well I as do that absolute objectivity in journalism is a myth!"

I may as well have cursed all their mothers. Calibretti grimaces. Kilgore's jaw drops, and Fleisch's understanding look is replaced by one of fuming anger.

But I'm right. I can't say for certain that they know as much, but if they don't know they'd better figure it out before the next twenty years of journalism leaves them behind.

The thing is we're all taught in journalism school that total objectivity is sacred, but one more time: total objectivity is as unnatural as "walking" on one's hands instead of feet.

In the interest of gainful employment, those kinds of opinions should stay safely tucked away in my brain.

Too late. Any empathy the other editors had felt for me is gone. Once again tradition trumps logic.

And I walk out of Fleisch's office suspended till further notice.

I have no witty comebacks. I'm utterly deflated as I stroll limply toward the Midway's gold-tinted double doors. I don't even look up when old Thomas Porter, the parking lot security guard who's in the lobby covering for another guard on break, taunts me.

In one sense, I feel lucky. It is late on Thursday afternoon, and rather than sit at my desk shell-shocked, I can retire from the newsroom to lick my wounds in private.

To add insult to injury though, Limpett calls down to the lobby before I make it outside and tells Porter to put me on the phone. He demands that before my involuntary leave begins I come back upstairs to the newsroom, salvage whatever I can of my day's notes, and write a story for Friday's paper.

It's ironic. The man thinks I'm dishonest but is eager to have a story from me that he will no doubt place on the front page.

I file twenty-two inches of copy quickly, praying silently as I type that nothing earth-shattering happened after I was summoned earlier.