A
Personal Scandal
by David Hagerty
I’d recorded history at the Daily
Herald for barely a year—long enough to know the actors in the drama but
not long enough to understand their backstory. I’d landed there right after
college, my first real job, the first requiring thought. I’d been doing my job,
nothing more, I told myself, just a reporter looking for a story, when I came
across that burning ember on the local police log.
I checked that printout every
morning—a quest for something worth printing in a small town with little real
news. It listed all the calls and arrests from the previous 24 hours, including
those when I’d been too distracted or sleepy to monitor the scanner. Typically,
I left disappointed. At most, I’d find a DUI or an inconsequential fight at the
high school.
That day, though, I saw a
familiar code, 152, listed by a familiar name: Sylvie Braxton. The
statute meant petty theft. Her name I recognized from the town’s school board,
where Sylvie sat as one of five elected members.
She was a bleached blonde who
wore house dresses and sensible shoes and confined her comments to safe stands.
She had supported the high school’s plan to limit sex education to abstinence
and the superintendent’s plan for a modest COLA for teachers, but otherwise she
failed to qualify as newsworthy.
This, though, merited headlines:
Trustee Busted.
In a town as quiet as
Rhineburgh, any criminality could make the local paper, but the arrest of a
local celebrity, no matter how minor, would capture the top of the front page.
Although an hour’s train ride from New York, the Hudson Valley defined bucolic,
with farmhouses several centuries old, thoroughbred horse farms, wineries
boasting of Old Vine Chardonnay, and a local chapter of the Daughters of the
American Revolution. It had preserved as much of that era as it could,
including an insularity to progress.
I asked a dispatcher to summon a
lieutenant and waited impatiently in the lobby of the police department as
other citizens filed past to pay for their pet licenses or complain about their
neighbors. From inside I heard clanging typewriters and ringing phones.
Probably 20 minutes elapsed before the clerk ushered me inside.
Despite his grey hair, Lt. Jim
Glanville looked like a cop, with the stereotypical full mustache and stocky
build, and the weariness too, from keeping the peace amid generational grudges.
His office always smelled of breath mints and Old Spice, as though he were
masking some inner decay. He scanned the file quickly then stared at me for an
uncomfortable time. “What’s the news value in this?”
“You know who she is?”
He shook his head.
As I explained, he maintained
that neutral stare, but exhaled softly as though practicing at patience. We
both knew I had the right to ask about any case, no matter how petty—the power
of the press, even a local rag—so rather than resist, he scanned again. I tried
to read the copy upside down, which I could often do faster than the cops could
right side up, but Glanville saw my tactic and tilted the page toward him. Then
he sketched the facts:
Sylvie Braxton, 39, WF, arrested
at 1:14 p.m. Tuesday outside Dresser’s Dry Goods for petty larceny, a
misdemeanor.
“What’d she take?”
He studied the one-page report,
then glared. “Six dollars of makeup.”
I scribbled the details, then
asked if there was anything else newsworthy.
“You mean anything at all,” he
said. “I still don’t see the story in this.”
“She’s a politician.”
“School board is political?”
“In this town.”
#
That gave me a good first
paragraph but little more. I needed details, so I walked to the crime scene on
the creaky wood plank sidewalks of main street, past brick storefronts made
soft and round by time. Nearby, I heard steam boats whistle by on the Hudson
and smelled the effluent of the local paper mill. A place out of the past. I
half expected Natty Bumppo to traipse past with his long rifle. My college campus
twenty miles away felt distant, my English diploma irrelevant. For this job,
instead of wasting my parents’ money on tuition, I should have studied with the
town’s archivist.
The five and dime store looked
typical for the genre: open counters and shelves offering everything from
clothes to car parts, with Muzak from the 50s and a stench of Borax cleanser. I
spotted the cosmetics about ten steps from the checkout aisles and asked to
speak to the manager.
Although small, she possessed
the wiry toughness of the working class. Her Asian heritage and accent marked
her as an outsider, which built my trust. Most people in Rhineburgh traced
their ancestors to the founding fathers, whereas we could chart the day we
arrived. After I explained my interest, she proved less suspicious than the
police, sharing that the accused had placed two lipsticks and a blush into her
purse, then attempted to leave the store without paying.
“You think she meant to take
them?” I said.
“She claimed she forgot, but she
had to dig to the bottom of her handbag to find them.”
“You know who she is?”
Her blank expression said not
and did not change when I explained.
“What are you going to do?” I
asked.
She pointed to a sign by the
register reading, “We prosecute all shoplifters.”
#
Walking back to work, I debated:
what did it say about me that I cared if a local yokel boosted a couple of
cosmetics? Hardly the stuff of Pulitzers. More like small-town gossip. Every
day I ignored others accused of more. Why publicly shame one housewife just because
she held a minor office?
True to the rest of the hamlet,
the Herald’s office was eroding with age. It dated before building
codes, with loose stone walls slowly detaching from each other, a dearth of
windows, and a balky floor that still emanated the funk of hay and horses from
its historic use as a stables. As I passed the galleys of the next day’s
edition, where we literally pasted the words together with scissors and glue, I
decided to leave the choice to my editor.
Richard scowled as I hovered outside
his office. Even though we provided more PR than investigative reporting,
Richard played the part of cantankerous journalist, cowed by no one. The top of
his mullet stood on end, and he exuded a nicotine addict’s twitchy energy.
Since he did the work of four men at most papers, he bore little patience with
my dawdling.
“I think I have something good,”
I said.
“You think?” he said,
laying on the sarcasm.
Once I’d presented the case, he
drummed his fingers on the desktop next to the ashtray.
“I could just ignore it,” I
said.
“She’s an elected official.”
“Who cares about the school
board?”
“Parents.”
“She’s not teaching. Mostly, she
makes meaningless speeches.”
“On public issues. It’s why
we’re called the third estate, to balance the power of the state.” He pushed up
the sleeves to his blazer as though preparing for a fight. “Call the accused,”
he said. “Get a comment.”
I dialed slowly, attentive to
every digit, then listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times, half
hoping she wouldn’t answer, but she greeted me in the mumsy voice she used on
the rostrum. Unlike the others I’d approached, she expressed no suspicion at
the call, didn’t connect it to the crime until I made the link for her.
In my brief experience as an
interviewer, I’d learned to use silence as a submission hold, so I kept quiet,
letting the tension hover. Would she play angry, defensive, defiant?
“Oh, please don’t print anything
about that,” she pleaded.
“It’s not up to me,” I said.
“My
editor will decide, but he’d like to know your version.”
“It was an accident. A
misunderstanding. I never meant to steal anything. I just put them in my bag
and forgot to pay. I was rushing home before school let out and got
distracted.”
She talked a few minutes more,
about her reputation in the community and the damage that an article would do,
until I assured her that I’d convey her side to my boss.
Only after we hung up did I
realize that she had the timing wrong. Two hours remained in the school day
when she got popped. As with Watergate, the coverup had betrayed her.
#
The article ran on the top of
the front page next to a campaign photo of Sylvie kneeling beside a child.
Richard never appreciated subtlety, but I understood his motives. Locals didn’t
much regard the Herald. The elementaries used it for Papier-mâché, and
the fish and chip store to wrap their takeout. I liked to think people read the
articles before they recycled them, but typically my work drew no response from
anyone but the subjects.
This people read. The next
morning, my phone started ringing before 8:00.
The first caller, Stephanie
Platz, chided me in a grandmotherly tone for my “filthy mind.” I explained my
job was to report the news, not censor it, but she called me a “guttersnipe”
and hung up.
The next caller, who only
revealed himself as Jack, labelled it “the moral decrepitude of the town,” and
demanded that I investigate the “corruption of the children by idolators.” I
promised to follow up and only wished I could capture his televangelist tone in
print.
The third caller I recognized
although we’d never met: a squeaky tween who defended Sylvie as a “good mom and a good person.”
I assured her daughter
that I did not doubt her skills as a parent, only her actions in the moment. At
least the girl did not blame me for her mother’s downfall.
The hectoring continued
throughout the day, with attacks on my character running equal to those on
hers, so I wrote a man-on-the-street reaction piece that offered no new
information, but Richard seemed satisfied, smoothing his mullet as he read.
By quitting time, I wanted an
alcoholic analgesic and headed toward “The Captain’s Arms,” the only decent bar
in town, with soft rock on the jukebox and landscape prints from the Hudson
River school. I hadn’t made it half a block before a man’s deep voice called
“carpetbagger.” I ignored it and kept going, but the heckler raised his tone,
about “foreigners and invaders” until I turned to face him. In the flickering
light from the gas street lamps, I couldn’t see clearly, but he measured no
taller than me, nor any fitter. However, he made up for his lack of size with a
drunk’s bleary courage.
“Don’t hang the town crier,”
I
said.
The heckler staggered toward me.
“More like the town tattler.”
“Let’s leave it to the law.”
“Law of the people.” He put up
his fists.
Fortunately, an irresistible
urge to vomit distracted him long enough to let me walk away, but I skipped the
bar in case he returned for a refill.
#
The next day, Richard deflected
my regrets with an open palm. “You roused people,” he said. “Good. That means
they’re reading, that they care.”
“About a petty scandal.”
But the journalist in him
thought in terms of circulation.
Still, by afternoon the hubbub
had faded, with only a few complaints to our receptionist. I focused on other
factoids, about a charity auction and a new sandwich shop, yet on my desk
calendar, a date in red burned like a warning light: the next school board
meeting—that night. Would anyone comment on the case, and would a hanging mob
show?
When the hour arrived, I waited
ten minutes, till after the pledge of allegiance, then snuck in the back. I
scanned the audience but saw only the usual array of desultory bureaucrats
ready to update on budget totals and attendance figures. I felt relieved until
I saw the agenda, with three hours of tedium planned, plus more time possible
if anyone caught the spirit to pontificate. I sank into a chair and lay aside
my tablet, prepared for a long night.
Only within the minute, Nancy
Ambrose, the board president, said she wanted to correct the “yellow journalism
of the local paper.” She sat erect as a schoolmarm and stared straight at me as
I scribbled her comments, careful to get the wording exact as I knew she’d be
checking the next day. Typically, her orations focused on bake sales and car
washes, but this one compared me to Walter Winchell and Liz Smith—minus the
circulation.
Had she read a tabloid lately?
My piece hardly measured up to their stories about alien abduction and
three-headed babies. Not had I goaded the town into the Spanish-American War,
yet to hear her, you’d think I were William Randolph Hearst, a whirlwind of
excess and arrogance. The board passed the mic so each member could add a
defense of their colleague while Sylvie sat by, naked without makeup, acting
saintly and martyred.
Once they returned to business,
I checked my pages and saw more than enough to fill my required column inches,
but Richard would erupt if he caught me leaving a meeting early, no matter how
dreary, so I started composing in my head. I couldn’t find an angle that
removed me from the headline, but I rewrote half a dozen versions of a humble
lead such as “board defends colleague.” After an hour, I’d confined myself to
the byline.
On a break, I moved to the back
hallway, out of sight of the tribunal, where dusty photos of every graduating
high school class for decades lined the walls. I found Sylvie’s image, with
heavy mascara hiding bad acne, then noticed three other board members within a
couple years of her. More study showed the police chief, mayor, and various
local business people. I knew that the town protected its own, but I hadn’t
counted on such nepotism.
“You found the inbred
loyalties,” a man’s voice said.
I turned to see Angelo, the
facilities manager, standing a few feet away. Among the town’s WASPs, he stood
out, with dark eyes, hair, and skin—a Greek, I’d guess, but I’d never asked. He
glanced around to ensure no one was listening before continuing. “There’s four
families that run this town. They’re all related by marriage. Sylvie wed
Nancy’s cousin, whose brother went with Rhonda in high school.”
I nodded and thought of ways to
verify the alliance through official records.
“Sylvie’s side are the country
cousins. She’s a ditz, too scattered to remember where she put her car keys.
Barely graduated high school. Everyone in the family knows. They only ran her
for school board because she’d vote as they said. Except she’s family. She may
have married the least-promising brother, but by local standards she’s a
Kennedy.”
“So they don’t think she meant
to steal the stuff?”
He threw up his hands in
exasperation. “No one knows what she’s thinking,” he said, “if she is at all.”
A banging gavel summoned us back
inside, but I left to escape further censure.
#
Over the ensuing days, the board
conspired to blacklist me, refusing my calls while writing salacious quotes in
their own newsletter about the “media conspiracy” against them. According to
Richard, they were merely playing at journalism, “pretending” to balance our
coverage, as though I represented some competing power.
Outside of Richard, no one sided
with me. The mayor and the council members gave me the silent treatment. The
police offered only-the-facts answers. Even the Chamber of Commerce president,
a shameless publicity hound, didn’t want to be interviewed.
That Sunday, I happened to pass
the local Lutheran sanctuary as services let out. I saw Sylvie, Nancy and
Rhonda exiting together, looking penitent—until they noticed me and their
thoughts turned toward damnation. I knew that truth usually comes to light,
even for the self-righteous. Except I’d already been excommunicated.
In absence of anyone to
interview, I resorted to rewriting press releases and filling in obituaries.
Richard threw me a few easy stories from beyond the city limits, where my name
hadn’t been sullied: meetings by the county’s mosquito control board and the
region’s farm bureau, even if nothing interesting appeared on the agenda. Then
he accepted my scant copy with a skeptical frown.
Meanwhile, I eyed another red
circle on my calendar—Sylvie’s court date—as
though it were me who faced a trial.
#
When the day arrived, I dressed
in my best blazer and arrived early at a silent courtroom, which reeked of
furniture polish and incense, like an aging church. The rest of the
congregation looked equally oppressed—disconsolate figures who I pegged as
suspects or homeless—but Sylvie proved tardy.
The bailiff called forth a dozen
defendants, some clanking on chains. I imagined Sylvie, cuffed at the arms and ankles, shuffling forward
like a
condemned convict headed toward the gallows. I pictured her kneeling before the
judge, begging for mercy. I fantasized about him chiding her publicly for her
callousness. I chided myself for leaving my camera at home, even though none
were allowed in the courtroom.
Religiously, I checked to see if
Sylvie had snuck in, but the audience contained no hangdog housewives in
kerchief and sunglasses. Instead, when her
turn came, two attorneys stepped to the bench and whispered confidentially. I
leaned forward to overhear but would have needed lip reading to glean the gist.
After several minutes, the lawyers returned to the tables and announced they’d
reached a settlement. Then the judge dismissed the case with only a word,
“resolved,” leaving me hanging.
I chased the prosecutor from the
courtroom. She appeared little older than me, but with a better suit coat and
haircut. She clutched a dozen thick files to her chest like some schoolgirl
hiding her budding breasts.
“What just happened?” I said,
unable to hide my exasperation.
“The defendant has accepted a
diversion program.”
“So she pleaded guilty?”
“No plea. All charges will be
dropped if she completes the requirements in six months.”
I must have sagged visibly,
because the attorney looked at me empathetically—the first person to do so in
weeks. “It’s standard for first offenders.”
“Can I... is it accurate to
write that she confessed?”
The files threatened to escape
her grasp, so she walked backwards toward some other engagement. “I wouldn’t.”
Later, I called Sylvie and her cronies for
comment, but my messages went
unanswered. I did reach her attorney, who high handed me with rhetoric. “My
client hopes that this resolution will put to a stop her persecution by the
local media.” Him I quoted verbatim in hopes that people could sense the
coverup.
#
The next day an anonymous flier,
mimeographed in educational purple, landed on my doorstep, trumpeting Sylvie’s
“vindication” and urging “vengeance” against her persecutors. It included a
cartoon version of me shackled in a stockade. Then someone scratched the word “banished” into
my car door. I
couldn’t prove it related to Sylvie, and Lt.
Glanville gave me no hope he’d find the vandal. “Without witnesses...,” he
said, and shrugged. Now I understood why he’d tried to sway me from the story.
From Angelo, my Deep Throat, I
heard about a rally for Sylvie at the park
downtown. “The pioneers are defending their fort,” he said. I knew I shouldn’t
attend, but by quitting time curiosity got the better of me. As I approached, I
smelled something burning. People were standing around a bonfire consuming
copies of the Herald and a stuffed doll of me. When they noticed my
approach, they chased me on foot halfway home. Which made my decision easy. I
stopped only long enough to pack a bag and leave instructions for my landlord
to send the rest to my parents.
As I drove through the dark
streets of town one last time, I wondered if Woodward and Bernstein had
suffered such backlash, and if not, why I had been so singled out? Plenty of
muckrakers before me had prospered. How else to explain the careers of Geraldo
Rivera and Kitty Kelley.
Then again, I’d never aspired to
become a gossip columnist. The false quietude of Rhineburgh had necessitated
such scandalmongering. I took the job thinking it would be the start of a great
career, ending at a plush job with a monthly magazine. Instead, it turned me
into a tattletale.
The only way to write a better
ending was by starting over.
END
