It was believed that Castor was a reporter more plugged in on the three upper floors than on the seven below. It made dealing with him more career dangerous for the rank and file than with other reporters. That was one reason Ballard had always steered clear of him.
“Detective Ballard, Jerry Castor over at the Times,” his message began. “We haven’t met but I cover the cop shop and I’m working on a story over here about the death of Thomas Trent. I really need to talk to you about it today. My main question is about the fatal injuries Mr. Trent sustained. As I understand it, this man was unarmed and not charged with any crime but he ended up getting stabbed multiple times, and I’m curious to know if you’d care to comment on how that figures in with justifiable use of deadly force. My first deadline is at eight o’clock tonight, so I am hoping to hear from you by then. If not, the story will reflect our unsuccessful efforts to reach you for your side of things.”
Castor thanked her, left his direct number in the newsroom, and hung up.
What felt like a punch to Ballard’s gut wasn’t the reporter calling her out in terms of the deadly force. At the academy, they don’t teach you to shoot once when you need to fire your weapon. If deadly force is warranted, you use deadly force in whatever quantity is necessary to get the job done. Legally and departmentally, whether she stabbed Trent four times or only once didn’t matter. What got to Ballard was that someone inside the department had told the reporter the details of the killing and pushed them out into the uninformed public space. Someone had called Castor, knowing that the details provided would be cause for debate and vilification.
She felt like she had been cut loose from the department and was on her own.
There was a knock on the bedroom door.
“Renée?”
“I’m getting dressed. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Honey, I’m making fish tonight. I got some barramundi fresh from Australia. I hope you can stay.”
“Tutu, I told you, just because they call it fresh doesn’t mean it’s fresh. How can anything be fresh if it’s packed in dry ice and flown or shipped all the way from Australia? Stick with stuff you know is fresh. Halibut from the bay.”
There was silence and Ballard felt like shit for taking out the frustrations of the moment on her grandmother. She started dressing quickly.
“Does that mean you don’t want to stay?” Tutu asked through the door.
“I’m really sorry but it’s a work night and they’re calling me in early,” Ballard said. “I need to pick up a rental car and go soon.”
“Oh, sweetie, you’ve been through so much. Can’t you take the night off?” Tutu asked. “I’ll cook something else.”
Ballard finished buttoning her blouse.
“It’s not about the fish,” she said. “Cook your fish, Tutu. But I can’t stay. I’m sorry. Are you okay with Lola here for a couple more days?”
She opened the door. Her tiny grandmother stood there, worry clearly on her face.
“Lola is always welcome here,” she said. “She’s my buddy. But I want her owner here too.”
Ballard reached out and hugged her, holding her in a fragile embrace.
“Soon,” she said. “I promise.”
Ballard didn’t like lying to her grandmother but the full and honest explanation was too complicated. She had to get back to the city. Not only did she have the session with Feltzer the next morning and the psych exam to follow, but she knew that she couldn’t fight this battle from up in Ventura. She had to get to ground zero to make her stand.
30
Most people were trying to get out of L.A. Ballard was trying to get in. She steadily goosed her rented Ford Taurus through heavy rush-hour traffic on the 101 freeway toward downtown. The miles went by so slowly, she feared she would miss the eight-o’clock deadline at the Times. She had devised a plan that she believed might give her the upper hand against those working against her in the department.
She knew a couple things about how the murky lines between the media and law enforcement were negotiated. She knew there was little cooperation and even less trust. Those who chose to cross those murky lines guarded against risks. It was that practice she was going to use to her own purposes.
The PAB and the Times Building sat side by side on First Street, with only Spring Street separating them. The two giant bureaucracies cast jaundiced eyes at each other, yet at times they certainly needed each other. Ballard finally got to the area at 7:20 and parked in an overpriced pay lot behind the newspaper building. She took a shoulder bag containing some of her clean clothes with her and walked to a coffee shop on Spring Street that offered a clear view from its corner window of the block-long stretch of road that separated the newspaper and police buildings.
Once situated with a cup of coffee at the counter behind the corner window, Ballard pulled her phone and called Jerry Castor on his direct newsroom line.
“This is Renée Ballard.”
“Oh! Uh, hi, I’m glad you called. I wasn’t—there’s still time for me to get your comments into the story.”
“I’m not giving you any comments. This conversation is off the record.”
“Well, I was hoping to get some reaction to what I’m saying in my story, which is—”
“I’m not giving reaction, I’m not giving comments, and I don’t care what you say in your story. I’m hanging up now unless you agree that this conversation is off the record.”
There was a long silence.
“Uh, okay, we’re off the record,” Castor finally said. “For now, at least. I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to get your side of it into the story.”
“Are you recording this?” Ballard asked.
“No, I’m not recording.”
“Well, just so you know, I am. I’ve been recording since the start of the call. Are you okay with that?”
“I guess so. But I don’t see why you—”
“You’ll understand in a few minutes. So that is a yes on recording?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Okay, good. Mr. Castor, I’m calling to tell you that your information is wrong. That you are being manipulated by your LAPD sources to put out a story that is not only wrong but designed to inflict harm upon me and others.”
“Harm? How is that?”
“If you tell a lie in your paper, that harms me. You need to go back to your sources and take a look at their motives and then ask them for the truth.”
“Are you saying you didn’t stab Thomas Trent multiple times? That your statement wasn’t contradicted by another victim’s statement?”
That second part was new information and it would be helpful to Ballard.
“I’m saying you have been lied to and I have this conversation on tape,” Ballard said. “If you proceed with that story and its lies and out-of-context statements, then this recording with its direct warning will go to your editor and other media outlets so it will become clear to the community and in your workplace what kind of reporter you are and what kind of newspaper the Times is. Good night, Mr. Castor.”
“Wait!” Castor cried.