The Submission - Amy Waldman [17]
His silence goaded her. “Paul, you’re not answering me,” she said, standing just to the right of his ear. “Do I need to make another appointment with the hearing doctor?”
“My hearing’s fine, Edith,” he said, staring down at the eggs, which brought to mind a leaking sun.
He went to his study, where his eye fell first on a photograph of himself with the governor, displayed in a black leather frame propped against the decorously aged set of Gibbon. Paul and Governor Bitman were beaming and clasping hands, a shake that had sealed Paul’s chairmanship of the memorial jury.
His cell phone rang as soon as he’d seated himself at his desk.
“Mr. Rubin, hello, it’s Alyssa Spier. You remember—from the Daily News.”
He did remember, made it his business to know the beat reporters covering the memorial process. She was no worse than the rest of them, maybe a bit better—she truncated his quotes but didn’t butcher them. He brought her features into focus: the short one, glasses, on the heavy side, tired hair, lips always twitching like she had something to ask. The kind who dreamed in questions.
“How can I help you?”
“I have a source who says a Muslim has won the competition. Could you confirm that?”
Paul gripped the desk as if it were a cliff’s edge. Who was the Judas? Someone had leaked. “I can’t confirm anything,” he said. “We don’t have a winner yet.” Was this technically true? The last thing Paul needed was to be caught in a lie.
“That’s not what I hear. It’s, you know, Mr. uh, Mr. uh … hold on, I’m just checking my notes.”
Her bluff could be sensed through the phone: she didn’t have the name. He said nothing.
“Oh, I’ll have to find it later. Look, I won’t be quoting you on the confirmation—that’s off the record, although I may then want to get an on-the-record reaction from you. I just need to make sure my source is right.”
“And your source is … ?” He had to know: Was it one of his jurors? He tried to think who would want to make this public. Not the minute-taker, with that posture of fear when he reminded her of the confidentiality pledge. Claire: Would she think she could box them in?
“You know I can’t give away my sources, just like I won’t give you away,” Alyssa cooed.
Paul deployed his “stern-father tone,” which required sadly little effort. “Alyssa, on the record, off the record, I have nothing to say. I would help you if I could, and of course we’ll have a winner shortly, but today I have nothing for you.”
He ended the call. Think, Paul, think. Strange, but this crisis within the crisis provided a certain relief, for he knew how to handle this. You figured out whom to pressure, which levers to pull. You called in favors, dangled others. Feeling his old mastery returning, he found the number he needed and dialed.
“Fred, Paul Rubin. A drink later?”
Paul had told the Daily News editor to meet him at the Four Seasons. He wanted a setting that conveyed gravitas, and twenty-dollar martinis always helped.
“I think I know why I’m here,” Fred said with a smile as they took seats in a discreet corner. The bar had the amber light of poured whiskey.
“What can I get you?” Paul asked.
“Jameson,” Fred said.
“You sure?” Paul asked. “Why not try this GlenDronach Grandeur? Make it two,” he told the waiter. “Neat.”
Once they were alone, he turned toward Fred. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how delicate this situation is.”
“So Alyssa’s right?”
“I didn’t say that. Whether it’s fact or rumor is really irrelevant.”
“That’s not how we see it in the newspaper business.”
“But you haven’t confirmed it?”
“You just did.”
Paul started.
“I’m kidding, Paul, I wouldn’t do that to you. But Alyssa’s a bulldog—she’ll confirm it eventually. Look, I see your position, but please see mine: it’s an explosive exclusive.”
“Explosive is right, Fred. This country can’t handle this right now. I know you have a newspaper to run, and that you feel a … uh … duty to report the news, but there are more important principles