Capitol Rookie: Old Rivals Reunite
In Part 5, Alex Shelby uncovers more than local rumors when he meets with a former college classmate.
Capitol Rookie is an 11-part crime fiction noir set in 2004 in Sacramento, California.
By Vince Wetzel
“Shelby, how’d the fuck you get in here?”
Doug Davis practically spat out his coffee when I walked into his office at the Fresno Free Press. Before he became the news editor, even before he was a professional journalist, Doug was my classmate at the University of La Verne, a small college in Southern California. With a potential scandal involving a Senator and a nonprofit, I hoped Doug could help me make sense of it. But first, we had to go through the cock strut of former friendly rivals.
“I don’t know. I just said the best reporter in the state wanted to teach Doug a lesson, and they just let me in.”
Doug’s consternation fell away, replaced by a wide grin as he stood up, walked to me, and hugged me.
Over our four years together, we collaborated, went out for pizza, fought for stories, and spent many afternoons after deadline sharing our professional dreams. While a hard split with my dad led me to flee to Hawaii for my first job, Doug had always wanted to come back to his hometown. We had lost touch, but I knew that he had moved up the ranks at his hometown paper.
“I heard you were in Sacramento,” Doug said. “Got tired of living on the beach? What the hell, man? You left paradise for dry heat?”
Since moving to Sacramento, every person who learned I had moved here from Honolulu expressed deep surprise and bewilderment at why I left the Aloha State. Sometimes, I’d shake my head and act surprised. Other times, I told the truth.
“It was time to move,” I said. “I loved it there, but I needed more, and the opportunity to join the Capitol Bureau and to cover the world’s fifth-largest economy was an opportunity I could not let pass by.”
I looked back at Doug. I enjoyed catching up, and we could talk about old times later, but I had a job to do, and he was the best source for me to get a better feel for what was going on. It was a little awkward. I needed information. I also couldn’t let the local paper scoop me on a larger political scandal.
“So, what brings you down here? This isn’t a social call.”
I nodded. I had work to do and limited time to do it. Danny had already called me to ask for progress: “I’m down here looking into a story on Senator Florez and the Valley Health Foundation.”
Doug’s expression went from endearment to concern. He craned his neck to see if there was anyone behind me, then stood up and walked to the door to close it. When he sat back down, his blue eyes were ice cold, and his stare bore a hole into my soul.
“Oh, you’re doing something on Florez? What do you have?”
Professional courtesy extended only so far. But then again, I needed information, and he was the best resource in Fresno. If I had to, I’d offer to collaborate on a story. I hope Danny will be fine with it.
“Well, for one, she’s on the board of a nonprofit, and some of that money benefits her political operation. That’s unethical at best, a federal crime at its worst. But I’m trying to find out more.”
Doug nodded and turned to one of his desk drawers, opened it, and pulled out a manila folder the size of my clips from three years covering Hawaii politics. When he slammed it onto the desk, a brief displaced breath of air brushed across me. Doug’s bearded mouth was so pursed, it looked like one big swatch of hair.
“These are the stories we’ve been working on since I got here three years ago. All of them are about Florez. But each of them has been squashed. Either a source recanted their statements, or supporting documents went missing, or the upstairs felt the pressure.”
For a newspaper to succumb to outside pressure was against the journalism creed. For me, I would dig even deeper if there were even a hint of blowback. And here Doug was saying that the truth wasn’t coming out because management was scared? That wasn’t acceptable.
“Hold on,” I said, taken aback. What Anna gave me was not enough to warrant this much of a cover-up. But she did tell me this was pulling a thread. I decided to confide in Doug. “What you’re saying suggests a lot more than misappropriation of funds.”
“Senator Florez is in this town. She has built an empire in the Central Valley using her influence to be a kingmaker and solidify her power. She’s got the city council, the mayor, even the police chief and the Sheriff under her thumb.”
“How does James Villalobos play into this?”
Doug leaned forward on his elbows, covering the folder with information on Florez. In the few years since we graduated, he had bulked up, and I noticed the ink of a tattoo poking out from his rolled-up sleeves.
“How do you know about Villalobos?” He asked.
“He’s on the Board of the Valley Health Foundation,” I said, smiling at my small bit of research. “But there’s also a Jaime Villalobos, the head of the Valley Lobos gang. Same dude?”
Doug opened his Florez file and sifted through the contents. He pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was an adoption record and birth certificate from 1977 in Fresno County. The baby was male. The birth mother was listed as Helen Florez, and Juan Villalobos was listed as the father. My eyes went wide.
“Villalobos is her son?”
Doug’s smile went smug. It was the same look he had in college whenever he got a better grade in class. I hated that look, but I admit that it pushed me harder.
“This is a great story,” Doug leaned back. “Young Helen Florez grew up in the Edison district in Fresno. Her parents were working class. Her father worked as a mechanic. Her mother worked as a receptionist for an agricultural supply company. Well, Helen was in high school when she met Juan. Juan was a good kid, but he’s also tied to a local gang. Well, her parents are pissed she’s dating a gangbanger, so she rebels, and soon she’s pregnant with Juan’s baby. They’re Catholic, so she’s going to have the baby. But while she’s pregnant, Juan is shot and killed. Instead of having a constant reminder of that grief, she decides to give up the baby for adoption.”
It was my turn to be surprised. Jaime was Senator Florez’s son? And now they were working together for a shady nonprofit. The story was beginning to write itself. I had at least enough to go to the fundraiser and ask her some questions.
“And there’s another reason,” Doug said, pulling out another document from the folder. It was a rap sheet for Jaime Villalobos for various drug crimes, including possession with the intent to sell. “Ask her about Jaime and Juan, and you’ll know it’s true.”
My smile was big now. This was the break I needed to gain some status in the Capitol Bureau. This could launch me not only with the Sacramento Tribune, but who knows? Maybe get me to D.C. or New York. I looked at the file again, and there was a big red flag staring me in the face.
“If you have this file, then you have a responsibility to print it yourself,” I said. “This isn’t the Doug Davis I remember in college. Why aren’t you printing this yesterday?”
Doug looked up at the bright fluorescent light for a moment to take a breath, think of a way to throw me off the scent, or likely find a play that would benefit him or the paper. When he lowered his eyes to look back at me, he leaned his arms on his desk.
“Be careful. Here, ties run deep. Debts are being paid and repaid from generations ago. And the pressure that comes down from up top is unrelenting.”
“From Florez?”
“Never her, not directly,” Doug said. “But go to any political event around here and she doesn’t have to be present to know that Florez’s the power behind everything. She’s the first one everyone thanks. Her preferred candidates clear the field. She runs everything.”
I had my notebook out and was scribbling my notes. While I could see why Doug had to tread carefully, he and his reporters should be doing the work to make the story rock solid, not capitulating. Doug was hiding something, and it made me angry. I don’t know if I was more upset that there was this level of potential corruption, or that Doug was sitting idly by and letting it happen. It is one thing to have a stack of stories that were squashed by management. It was quite another not to challenge the hierarchy every day, wear them down until they let you print the truth for the people.
“What happened, Doug? Did management make you soft? What happened to the guy who threw elbows to get the story?”
Doug leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced behind his head in a surrender cobra before he swung forward with his elbows on his desk, his hands now rubbing his eyes.
“I don’t know, man, maybe,” he said. “Man, we are getting killed by the internet. Each day, I feel this dark boot of technology coming down to squash our version of the media. Folks are getting our stuff for free, and the business side doesn’t want to rock the boat. I’ve worked quite hard to move up the chain here. And I don’t want to lose my job.”
“Fuck the internet,” I said, disgusted. “These stories will make everything internet-proof. People will come to newspapers because of these stories. Everyone will always need newspapers. Who wants to go to their office and dial up the internet to get their morning news with a cup of coffee when there’s portable access to news delivered every morning on their driveway?”
But I could tell that Doug was lost to his career. Here was my one-time rival, a fierce rival, and he was now one step short of a PR hack. He wasn’t looking to get the story. He was pushing down the line from management, and if Jaime Villalobos wanted one of these stories squashed, then Doug was the “yes man” who put it into a file and placed it on his desk. I motioned to the file.
“Can I take a look at your file at least?”
I reached for the file, but before I could pull it toward me, he placed his hand on top. I looked up. Even when we were arguing over the O.J. verdict in college, I had never seen this look before. His eyes were cold and unrelenting.
“C’mon, let me take a little look. You said yourself that all of these stories are suppressed by management. They’re not going to let you print them. Let me look instead. It will give me some direction, and I’ll have to verify on my own anyway. C’mon Doug.”
Through clenched teeth, he released his grip slightly, letting me pull the file toward me. I took the file, opened it, and flipped through it. Included were notes from reporters dating back three years, which tied some political donations to high-profile committee assignments, violations of open-government protocols, contracts for the Valley Community Foundation for vague projects with nondescript outcomes, and more. Most of it was circumstantial with anecdotes and conjecture, but even an ambitious cub reporter might fall into an exclusive.
“Why do you have these notes from reporters? You took them from them?”
“For their own good. You don’t want Florez and Villalobos thinking you’ve got dirt out there in the open.”
I was about to admonish him again for his lack of journalistic duty when a wedding photo on his desk caught my eye. Beyond my slight disappointment that I wasn’t invited, I recognized his bride. She was dressed in white with a lovely veil. But her hair and eyes were distinct, even if the only time I’d seen her, she had been wearing red.
“Doug, is your wife Anna Ruiz, the Senator’s consultant?”
Side of Mustard
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