Capitol Rookie Part 3: The Tip Off
As deadlines loom and personal distractions arise, Alex races to connect the dots, but will the truth come to light before it's too late?
Capitol Rookie is an 11-part crime fiction noir set in 2004 in Sacramento, California.
By Vince Wetzel
Like the air in this back storeroom of the dive bar in ancient Old Town Sacramento, the conversation stagnated. The ultimatum was clear: I wanted more information, but she was hesitant to give it. I needed a break for a story, and she supposedly had one. One of us had to give.
Anna blinked. She went into her bag and pulled out board minutes for a nonprofit called the Valley Health Foundation with a mission statement to “Promote a healthy Fresno.” Senator Florez was on the board, along with Anna, Dustin Davies, Anna Ruiz, and James Villalobos.
“That’s all I can give you,” Anna said after giving me a few seconds to review. “Start there, ask the Senator, and see what happens.”
“You’re on here too,” I said. “What goes on in those board meetings?”
“We don’t have meetings. That’s what I’m saying.”
She pulled out another document, this one a balance sheet for the nonprofit. Nothing out of the ordinary. Income coming in. Expenditures for “Outreach” going out. The report was provided by the treasurer, James Villalobos.
“Who’s James Villalobos?”
“That’s your job,” she said and exited the storeroom.
Two days later, and I was still looking.
“Where are we on that story on In-Home Supportive Services?” Danny asked two days later.
I should have finished this story hours ago, but I wouldn’t tell him I spent much of my day researching the tip Anna Ruiz gave me. We were thirty minutes away from the deadline, and I didn’t need to look at the clock. Every day, Danny’s movements around the newsroom—stalking cubicles, checking with staff, and monitoring the story deck—grew more intense as each minute of the deadline drew closer.
“Finishing up,” I said. “Just adding quotes from people with disabilities I talked to at the rally. But later, I want to check on how much the unions use these folks as props for their agenda.”
“Yeah, I’m sure their support of people with disabilities is not completely altruistic,” Danny said. “But finish it, then let me know where we are with that tip you received on the Central Valley and political corruption.”
“I’m not sure what we’ve got yet,” I said. “I did some research on the documents my informant provided. Both a political committee and a nonprofit have the same name. They have the same board. They…”
“Not now. Get me my story first,” Danny stormed off to the next cubicle.
I shook my head and returned to my story. I needed to move if I was going to turn this in on time. The phone rang. I wanted to let it ring and continue writing my story, but if there was even a slight chance it could be a source, I always opted to pick it up.
“Times, this is Shelby,” I said.
“Do you think Saddam has the weapons of mass destruction?” a woman with a tinny voice asked. She didn’t have to get to Saddam before I ran a hand through my hair.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
My mom always called at the wrong time, usually on deadline. I should have never given her my office number or my cell phone. We should have agreed that we only communicated when I called her.
“That’s what our government says, but it’s not verified. It’s more of a hunch,” I said. “And the one thing you can trust the government to do well is manipulation.”
“That’s what I thought, but that’s not what my neighbor Pat says. You know Pat, she’s the one who has the classic Mustang that her ex-husband left her when he died, even though they hadn’t spoken in 20 years. Something to do with cheating on her with a stripper. Anway, she’s ready to nuke Iraq. But I told her –“
“Mom, I’m on deadline.”
I took a breath and collected myself. Typically, I was impatient with everyone who disturbed me while I wrote. If someone wanted to really piss me off, find me on deadline and ask me a stupid question. It was a waste of my time. But I learned long ago a moment upsetting mom cost six months of passive aggressive guilt.
“Oh, right, it’s that time, isn’t it?” she said. “Well, I just wanted to share that your father had another child by that other woman. And did you know that he’s going by Matthew now? His transition to full Bible thumper is now complete.”
“Great.” I had no interest in hearing updates about my father. My mother left him more than a decade ago, and I hadn’t talked to him in nearly four years after he was the cause of the greatest tragedy in my life. “Is that all? I gotta get back to my story.”
“’Gotta get?’ And you call yourself a writer? Alex, you know better than that.”
“Spoken versus written, mother,” I said. “Vernacular matters when speaking.”
“So does proper grammar. You don’t want people to underestimate you. You’re a smart young man. Don’t give people a reason to doubt it.”
OK, Mom wasn’t so bad. A recently retired English professor, she constantly critiqued my style, and our debates between Chicago and AP styles were legendary. The validity of the Oxford comma. When to spell out the number versus using the numerals. Each of us held to our guns, which made it more heated. And why she was the only person outside of my editors whom I gave a shit about their opinions.
“Mom, I’ve got to go,” I said. I needed to wrap up the conversation.
“Better, but not great,” she said. “But fine, call me when you have some time. I need to talk to you about… ”
“Bye, Mom,” I said, and hung up.
“Alex, where’s your story?” Danny’s voice echoed from his office and down the hall to me.
“Finishing it.”
“Deadline’s in fifteen minutes.”
I pulled up my story on the In-Home Supportive Services cuts Schwarzenegger proposed—time to add in some of the quotes from the people with disabilities who were at the rally. I talked to Mary Mindy, a polio survivor, who now leads a nonprofit in Sacramento. She spoke about how she would be living in an institution on the state’s dime if she didn’t have her home healthcare worker. Instead, she’s leading a nonprofit, paying taxes, and serving others.
I also looked up a quote from Bart Osteria, an Iraq War Veteran who used his IHSS services to help clean his house and cook a couple of times a week. His brother Simon was his worker. The state paid him to care for his brother, but that pay allowed Simon to help care for him.
From my father’s authoritarian Christian upbringing, I recognized three names from the Bible in my story: Mary, Bart or Bartholomew, and Simon. My mother mentioned that my father was now known as Matthew. I let myself look at the papers Anna gave me. Yep, there was James Villalobos. I shook my head—how many names were inspired by the Bible? And in different languages: John and Juan, Mary and Maria, Peter and Pedro, James and Jaime.
James. I searched my Yahoo search engine and typed in Jaime Villalobos and Fresno. There were thousands of hits, which wasn’t encouraging. I needed to get back to my story, but there was an itch I couldn’t scratch. I told myself, Look at the first page, then finish your story. As I scrolled down the page, the mouse hovered on the headline from the local public radio affiliate. “Abuse of painkillers on the upswing? Fresno cops say no.”
While print journalism provided the most in-depth coverage, I tipped my head to my partners in public radio. Unlike commercial broadcast media, which stole print headlines and regurgitated information, public radio did its own work. The story discussed recent trends of abuse of the painkiller drug OxyContin. A source shared that if managed and prescribed correctly, it can be effective in helping to relieve pain. Recently, however, the drug has been linked to high levels of addiction, leading to a healthy black-market demand.
The cops denied such peddling existed and the drug “was not linked to recent gang hostilities between the East Siders and the Valley Lobos and Jaime Villalobos.”
I stared at that sentence for a minute before I heard Danny scream from his office. “Where’s my story?”
Read Part 4: Unveiling Shadows
Side of Mustard
With Opening Day of the baseball season only a couple of short weeks away, I’m excited for the release of the Award-Winning baseball novel LOSE YOURSELF on Audible on April 7.
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“Wetzel brilliantly captures the magic of sport as well as offering up an often touching and sentimental study of family dynamics. A candid and vibrant sports drama.” - The Booklife Prize
“Lose Yourself features six interconnected stories centered around a thrilling chase for .400, and Vince Wetzel manages to go 6-for-6. is a baseball book that is so much more than a baseball book, beautifully showing the impact the game has on our lives.” - Scott Bolohan, thetwinbill.com
“A kaleidoscopic look at the power and beauty of the sport both on and off the field, Lose Yourself is ample proof that baseball is life.” - Mark Stevens, The Fireballer