“Let’s call it a school project on the Pierce piece.” I bared my teeth in something vaguely resembling a smile. “You cited an anonymous source, saying that the decision was all but made. I’m wondering what made you think this information was legit.”
“You’re wondering who my source was,” the reporter translated. He was starting to look like a man who wanted a drink. “You might want to look into shield laws,” he said. “For your project. Or”—he flicked his eyes over to Henry—“you could look up what the Supreme Court has to say about the somewhat narrow circumstances in which a reporter can be compelled to give up a source.”
“That would be of interest,” Henry said politely, “if we were attempting to acquire the information via a legal subpoena or in conjunction with state or federal government.”
Carson Dweck huffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Look, kids, all I can tell you is that my source wishes to remain anonymous, but that the facts I was given have since been verified.”
I had a feeling he’d delivered a slightly less condescending version of that statement to multiple people in the hours since the article had gone up.
“What if we had something you wanted?” I asked pointedly. “Could you point us in the right direction then?”
Those words seemed to take the man by surprise. He smiled slightly. “And what is it that you have that you think I would want?” he asked in a tone that told me he was humoring me.
“An exclusive with Justice Marquette’s grieving grandson.” I saw a flash of interest in Dweck’s eyes. Theodore Marquette’s death was big news, and Henry wasn’t just a tragic figure—he was young, handsome, wealthy, and tragic.
“Sounds like more of a People magazine piece than something for the Post,” the reporter commented. But he didn’t say no.
“Does that mean you’re not interested?” I asked point-blank.
“It means,” Dweck replied, “that I’m not going to violate journalistic integrity for a fluff piece.”
“What if it wasn’t a fluff piece?” Henry countered.
I stared at him. What was he doing? This—whatever this was—hadn’t been part of the plan.
“No offense, son, but what could you possibly have to tell me that could get me a Pulitzer?”
A warning bell went off in my head. He wouldn’t, I thought, horrified. I tried to catch Henry’s eye.
“Off the record?” Henry ignored me, his attention focused solely on Carson Dweck. The reporter nodded.
“I have reason to believe my grandfather was murdered. And,” Henry continued, “I have reason to believe that the White House is covering it up.” He took a step forward. “Now,” he said, his eyes glittering, “who’s your source?”
CHAPTER 48
Twenty minutes later, the reporter was gone, and I was considering ending Henry Marquette.
“You,” I started to say, but that was all I could manage. “You,” I said again.
“I went public,” Henry supplied calmly. “You got what you wanted, and I insured that your sister is not going to be able to sweep this under the rug.”
Ivy was going to kill me. And I was going to kill Henry.
“That wasn’t the plan,” I told him, poking him in the chest with my index finger.
“That wasn’t your plan,” he replied. “I never said that I didn’t have one of my own.”
Apparently, his plan involved taking everything we knew—the fact that Vivvie’s father had been implicated in Justice Marquette’s death, the doctor’s subsequent suicide, the existence of the burner phone, the suspected involvement of other players with powerful political connections—to the press. And the kicker was that I’d helped him do it. I’d set up the meeting myself.
“They won’t print anything on your word alone,” I told Henry.
“Which means,” he emphasized, “that your sister isn’t going to be the only one looking into this. Our friend at the Post is already thinking of this as his Watergate.”
Henry had a rare gift for sounding reasonable no matter what he was saying.
“If you’re done silently judging me,” Henry commented, “might I turn your attention to the information we got in exchange for what I was willing to barter?”
I pictured myself actually wringing his neck. It was therapeutic, but possibly not productive. Begrudgingly, I thought back over what Carson Dweck had told us about his source for the Pierce story.
“I’ll tell you what I told your sister,” he’d said, pointing a finger at me. “The tip came from inside the West Wing, and that’s all I’m going to say.”
Fighting back a sinking feeling in my stomach, I tried not to think about the first half of that sentence.
“Inside the West Wing.” I focused on that part, saying the words out loud. That revelation shouldn’t have been surprising. Where else would a tip about the president’s plan for nominating a Supreme Court justice have come from?