Ariel tears through CHARLIE WOLFE’S DIRTY NOT-SO-LITTLE SECRET: a click-bait masterpiece of unsubstantiated allegations of harassment, rumors of assault, no comment from a local police chief, no comment from a DA, no evidence, no quotes from any real source—this reporter never even called Ariel for a comment—but plenty of photos.
There are two names for the byline. One is a hyperactive freelancer who peddles celebrity gossip out of LA; she’s obviously the one who was able to get the story placed. The other has no website and very little presence in the world: Kirsten Tabor is a staff writer for a small local newspaper, with no national stories, no prior bylines of celebrity gossip, no experience reporting on politics, no truly relevant experience at all; but she’s the one who found the story to begin with.
On social media, Ariel follows just a few dozen people, most of them friends of George; she wants to know what these kids get up to online, even though she understands that she’s seeing only what the children are allowing her to see. She doesn’t have access to their fake accounts, their aliases, the apps she’s never even heard of where they share memes, dirty jokes, who knows what.
One of the few non-tweenagers Ariel follows is Persephone_The_Book_Goddess. This account is also followed religiously by the local reporter Kirsten Tabor, who likes approximately one hundred percent of Persephone’s posts. Especially those photos of the two women together, of which there are plenty, hoisting glasses, showing off new tattoos. Inseparable friends. The type who tell each other every single secret, even those that are not their own.
*
Wagstaff knows that it’s easy to read a tabloid article like this and see nothing but a partisan hit job, the type of sensationalism that’s inevitable on the eve of a confirmation hearing, shared and amplified and woven into the national mood. Most consumers of puerile gossip don’t give much thought to journalistic ethics. That’s what makes it puerile gossip. But just because a story’s first coverage is irresponsible doesn’t mean there’s no real story. And a tiny slice of gossip consumers do care about ethics and facts: serious reporters working for more established outlets, pursuing more serious matters, adhering to more rigorous standards. People like Pete Wagstaff.
Serious reporters also, on occasion, investigate celebrity gossip. Not necessarily the personal-life foibles of overcompensated entertainers. But definitely a violent crime committed by a public official and the measures he’s willing to take to cover it up: secretly paying out millions of dollars to kidnappers; making policy decisions to hide personal transgressions; eroding trust in American institutions; compromising national security.
Reporting on this activity is not puerile rumormongering, not exploitative hearsay. This reporting is why the very First Amendment of the US Constitution enshrines freedom of the press. This is something Americans have always known, even if sometimes we neglect it: Nothing is more important to democracy than holding the powerful accountable for their transgressions.
Wagstaff had a big head start. But now that the story has begun to crack open, he won’t have much time before other reporters catch up. It’s time to make the final call.
*
Ariel is surprised by the emotion of this moment, reading mediocre prose and slipshod reporting on her smudgy laptop screen, the everyday ordinariness of this act that’s about to change everything. After so long as her own private trauma, the story now has a life of its own, out there in the world, out of her control. It’s just a matter of time. And then what?
Her phone rings, a number with the 351 country code. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Pete Wagstaff. Have I reached Ariel Pryce?”
“You have a lot of nerve, calling me.”
“First off, I’m really sorry about what you went through. But I’m also really relieved to learn that your husband was released unharmed.”
Ariel isn’t going to let him off the hook that easy. Or at all. She stays silent.
“And I really don’t want to bother you. But it’s, you know, my job. So I have to ask: What’s your relationship to the Secretary of the Treasury?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Evidence suggests that Charlie Wolfe provided you with the cash for the ransom.”
“Evidence?” Ariel can’t give any information to this reporter, but maybe she can get some. “What evidence?”
“Is it true?”
“I actually respect your job, Pete. But what you did to me was terrible. You know that, don’t you?”
“From what I’ve been able to gather after talking to various witnesses, something happened between you and Charlie Wolfe fourteen years ago, resulting in your pregnancy. You agreed to an out-of-court settlement of cash in exchange for silence. Then when your husband was abducted in Lisbon, you used a threat of exposure to coerce Mr. Wolfe into paying the ransom.”
Ariel doesn’t respond.
“If a cabinet secretary can be extorted now, in this moment of intense scrutiny into every aspect of his life, is there any reason to think that this vulnerability won’t still exist—or even increase—if he becomes vice president?”
Wagstaff again waits for Ariel to jump in, but of course she doesn’t.
“Or president?”
Wagstaff must realize that Ariel won’t participate in his conjecture. But she supposes he needs to give her the opportunity to comment, to deny, to explain, to protest. Even if he knows she can’t, and why. He obviously does.
“Can Americans trust such a person to act in the nation’s best interests, instead of his own private ones?”
No, she thinks, we certainly can’t.
“Surely you can see, Ms. Pryce, that this is a matter of the utmost national importance; in fact it has global ramifications. The confirmation hearings start tomorrow, which makes this urgent as well as important. And you might be the only person in the world who’s in a position to shed definitive light on the situation. So will you? On the record?”
Ariel knows that this call is being recorded, by Wagstaff of course on his end, but also by the CIA, the FBI, both.
“Any comment at all?”
This is evidence that’s being created right now. The defendant might end up being her. The crimes would be breach of contract and slander, plus whatever else could be trumped up, which would be plenty. Treason is not completely unthinkable.
“Ms. Pryce, is it true that fourteen years ago Charlie Wolfe sexually assaulted you?”
Wow, she thinks: Good job, Pete. That didn’t take long.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and hangs up.
Then again, it took forever.
CHAPTER 50
DAY 5. 1:11 P.M.
Ariel’s landline is ringing, a rare event. The only reason she still has this line is because somehow her overall service would be more expensive without it, a state of affairs that makes it clear that someone is getting away with something at her expense. The telecom companies don’t even try to hide it anymore.
This call is from an unknown number in area code 201: Washington, DC.
“Hi, Steph Barton here, calling from the office of Senator Alan Brown. Is this Ariel Pryce?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Pryce, do you also go by—or did you once go by—the name Laurel Turner?”
“How can I help you?”
“Well, Ms. Pryce—or is it Turner?”