Capitol Rookie: The Tip
A gripping new crime noir serial begins with a young reporter receiving a cryptic tip from a mysterious caller. Unravel the truth in this thrilling first chapter!
Part 1
Friday, February 13, 2004
Two dead after political corruption scandal unravels
A personal account of drugs, influence, and legacy
By Alex Shelby
Though bodies have been moved, the blood still covers the warehouse floor. Political corruption leads to distrust in process and transparency, but it rarely leaves multiple murders in its wake.
My role as a journalist is to report what I research, investigate, and observe. We try not to participate. But the stain of this tragedy will be forever in my hands, and the truth can never be wiped clean. It is why journalists exist. And why we are called to hold those in power accountable to the people.
One week earlier…
Friday, February 6, 5:30 p.m.
Thirty minutes until my first front-page story.
I know I should be over it by now. By the time I left the Honolulu Telegraph, I had a front-page story about once every couple of weeks. But I’d been at the Sacramento Tribune for almost four months and had yet to break through with a cover story.
Today was the day. I was covering Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger’s first appearance at the Sacramento Press Club after he ascended into power six months ago in a historic recall. This would be my chance to ask about the budget, suggested cuts to services benefiting the elderly and disabled, and the state legislature, who was still looking for ways to work with him.
“It’s time to cut off the waste and abuse in our government,” I transcribed from my notes into the story. “I will terminate our chronic budget deficit problem and restore California to financial health.”
Since coming to the Tribune, I’d been toiling in the banality of state government. Not much to see here. I had no sources, and no one was willing to talk to me. I was stuck with vanilla stories expanding on press releases put out by state flacks. I was ready for something bigger.
Twenty-five minutes.
Back to typing. I pulled some data from the Department of Finance, which shared how the proposed cuts to in-home services would cost the state more in the long run, as vulnerable populations would have to move into costly nursing homes.
“Hey Alex,” I heard a voice from behind. Danny Preston was my editor and my boss. He was in typical editor attire. Slacks, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled, a loosened tie and readers slung on a chain around his neck. Though Danny was in his early 30s, flecks of gray peppered his mustache, and his black curly hair was thinning on top of his brown head. But I wasn’t going to tell him
“Danny, don’t worry, I’ll have the story in on deadline,” I said. Next to him was the Tribune’s primary columnist, Declan Shepard. Contrasting with Danny, he was more polished, the spoils of mixing it up with the ruling class. His tie was always tight across his neck, His shirts were pressed. Declan had the job I wanted with a loyal readership, a hefty contract by newspaper terms, and a writing style that was both acerbic and inviting. “I’ve got this.”
Danny leaned in on the cubicle, his eyes squinted. Declan’s smile was pained. Something was up.
“So, I hate to tell you this, but Declan is also writing on the Governor’s cuts to the disabled,” Danny said, turning to Declan. Declan’s thin smile became a razor. “So, can you share some of the data and the quotes with him? We’ll make sure you get a contributor credit.”
I looked at my boss, my face blank with shock. Declan averted his eyes. I lost a bit of respect. He could challenge the best of politicians, but he couldn’t look at a colleague whom he just bent over.
“What? This is my story. You assigned it to me,” I said. “Can’t you write something else?”
I followed Danny’s gaze up to the clock. Twenty-two minutes. His anxiety ramped up as he closed in on the deadline. This last-second change had already pained him, and raising a stink wasn’t going to help.
“Not this time,” he said. “Look, I’ll make it up to you. But I need you to share what you’ve got so he can plug into what he’s written.”
“When am I going to get a chance here?” I asked. “You brought me from across the Pacific to be here, and I feel like a correspondent.”
“You’ll get your sea legs, trust me,” he said. “I’ll get you something. Promise. Now, let’s get moving. We’ve only got a bit of time left.”
He left, and Declan slid into the spot against the cubicle. I glared at Declan, but my professional calculus evaluated that any adverse reaction would only harm me. I was the junior reporter. He was a columnist. I was expendable. He was not.
“What do you need?” I asked, rubbing my eyes before picking up my notes. He pulled out his notepad, and I shared all of Schwarzenegger’s quotes relevant to his story. The professional violation lasted four minutes. Fifteen minutes until deadline. Not that it mattered anymore.
“This sucks,” I said when we finished. “I’m being wasted here.”
“You’ve been here four months,” Declan said. “You need time to cultivate good stories. They don’t come out of the blue. Look, it took me 10 years to get calls back from some of these guys.”
With a slap of his reporter's notebook on the cubicle, Declan walked toward his office. Yes, he also had an office. I shook my head. Whenever I got to his level, I was going to be a force. I wasn’t going to need any junior reporter’s notes to fill out my story.
And yet, here I was, a glorified errand boy for the Capitol Bureau of the Sacramento Tribune. I had never struggled so hard to break a story in a newsroom. In college in Southern California, I became editor at the end of my sophomore year and held it for two years. I covered the administration and even scooped my biggest rival, Doug Davis, on the President’s retirement.
When I graduated, I left the community paper where I had worked part-time and flew to Hawaii to immerse myself in a new culture and get away from Southern California. Even as a mainlander, I moved up the ranks quickly and was promoted to covering local and state government. I even had a girlfriend, Nalani, a local woman who helped me embrace the spirit of Aloha.
But six months ago, I got the call to return stateside and cover the world’s fourth-largest economy. There was no question I’d take the job. Sacramento was closer to the big time. Nalani wasn’t happy, and looking back, I ended it poorly. Still, while I’d miss the weather, the autonomy I’d come to enjoy, and enjoying a heavy load of success, Hawaii wasn’t California.
Ten years to cultivate sources? Yes, I was young, but how old were Woodward and Bernstein when they started at the Washington Post? 28? I was almost 27 and stuck as the backup budget committee reporter, covering random boring committees such as Insurance and Business and Professions.
The phone rang. I pushed aside one pile of papers to get to it. At some point, I’d shift these papers back. In my most hopeful fantasies, I might even file them on the desk. Today was not that day.
“Sacramento Tribune. This is Shelby,” I said, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear. The newest phones were slimmer, making this maneuver more challenging, but I was determined to continue. With my hands free, I returned the pile to its original space.
“I got a tip for you,” the voice said. I took mental notes. Female. Sophisticated but raspy. A smoker. At least, she used to be.
I stood up and looked around. Where was Declan? Didn’t he say that sources don’t fall out of thin air? Either Declan didn’t know shit, or he was playing me. He was in his office pulling my quotes for his column. Danny was talking to Trent, one of our sportswriters. He didn’t look over. I was going to be skeptical, but this could also be my lucky day.
“Yeah? Whatcha got?”
“A Senator. A nonprofit. Donations in exchange for influence and favors,” she said.
My ears perked up a little. Those were serious charges. Either the woman on the other line did have something worthy, or she was blowing smoke up my ass. I continued to expect the latter, but the former gave me hope, and I allowed myself to pursue this further.
“What Senator? What nonprofit?”
“I can’t tell you right now,” she said. “I’d rather share with you in person.”
I looked for Danny to see if he was still down the hall talking to Trent. Yep. Declan was in his office, clueless that I was even on the phone. “Look, I need to know more before I can just meet for drinks.”
“There’s a story, and either you want it, or I go to the Chronicle,” she said.
If this woman’s tip was legitimate, then I couldn’t let her escape to the Chronicle. I’d never live it down, and who knew if I would ever get a scoop again?
“No, no, don’t do that,” I said. “I just need to know more than a Senator is mixed up in a scheme with a nonprofit. I need the Senator or the nonprofit. At least a region or a district that can help me begin to do my own research.”
The line went silent. From her breath, I knew the line hadn’t been disconnected. But I couldn’t wait forever. I looked at the quiet. I’d give her five seconds to talk. Or else I’d say I was hanging up.
One… Two… Three…
“OK, I have nonprofit papers that show the Senator on the board. The board raises a million dollars a year, but there are no board meetings, and the expenditures are only related to ‘community outreach.’”
“How do I know these papers are authentic.”
“I'll give you copies. That will be enough of a thread to follow up on your own.”
I remained hesitant. Something seemed off, like this was some sort of hazing ritual that was going to lead me to interviewing a pig at the State Fair. Or, it could be the big break I needed.
My pregnant pause was too much.
“Well” asked the woman. “Are you in or am I taking this to the Chronicle?”
What is Alex going to do? Next episode out Feb. 2
Side of Mustard
Shrinking (Apple TV+)
From the folks that brought you Ted Lasso comes an equally heartwarming and funny dramedy. Instead of English football, the fun-loving character in crisis is therapist Jimmy (Jason Seagal), still reeling from the death of his wife. All good comedy comes from the heart, and Shrinking is no different. A fantastic cast, including Harrison Ford as the cranky curmudgeon we all know he can be, portrays life as it is, painful, funny, and ordinrty in remarkable ways.
Fridge Philosophies
Thoug many of you know my Fridge Philophies as my regular second Friday post, they originate from a weekly practice I started seven years ago. Beginning in January 2018., I began to write inspirational quotes on a whiteboard and placed them on my refrigerator each Sunday. They were meant to be in the faces of my teenagers as they went to get a snack ten times a day. My reasoning was that if they see read that quote once out of the fifty times they opened the refrigerator every week, and if one out of ten quotes resonated, then I’d have subversively influenced them in some way.
But a funny thing happened. I started to read these quotes and be personally inspired by them. I thought about how I could apply them in my own life. I began to incorporate them into my thinking. Seven years later, I’ve amassed 366 of these quotes. My kids are in college now and don’t get to see them as often. Last week, I posted my last one.
But now what? I’m working on creating a daily reflection book. Not only, will it include the fridge philosophy, but a short reflection on it, and a question for the reader to ask themselves. Stay tuned. It may become the latest book in my library.