CHAPTER 32: Toe Stubbin'
“What?” asked Grace loudly. Heads bobbed up in The Los Angeles Tribune newsroom. Her editor Chase Stanford gave a glance and all eyes returned to their monitors, but he knew their ears were wide open. No secrets in a newsroom, he thought.
“Grace,” he said. “You heard me. The story’s on hold. Bruce Rudin in Legal wants a consult. I am not at liberty to discuss specifics,” said Chase, “but we have issues to address.”
He thought back to the managing editor Patrick Chapman’s warning: There are risks, Chapman had said. Until Legal clears her, no more research, no more poking bears.
Chase added in the complaint from Paula Karmin of the Wildness Society. She had called Grace “rude and unprofessional” and threatened to get the lawyers involved, to sue if Grace tarnished the good name of her organization.
If Grace barrels forward without oversight, I’ll be the one to pay, thought Chase.
He held up some papers. “We’ll set up a conference with Legal right away and, in the meantime, you get busy in another direction. An overview of the latest desert tortoise numbers—steering clear of the controversy over replacing native cactus with solar panels—or a piece on San Diego/Tijuana sewage. Take your pick.” He tossed the papers onto his desk and waited.
Grace rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. “I have sources and time sensitive inquiries in play, Chase. I can’t abandon them, just drop it all.”
“You will, Grace,” he said.
She picked up the papers he’d tossed and dropped them in the recycling bin by his desk. Chase raised an eyebrow.
“Text me when you’re ready to be sensible,” she said, walking out.
Damn that woman, he thought. She’ll get herself fired with an attitude like that. Chase rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, shook his head and thought, But you gotta love her.
“Grace,” he said, “come back here.” She stopped, turned, waited. “Sit down,” he said. “We need to talk.”
Grace paused, then took a seat on the couch. Chase pulled over a chair, sat and leaned in. “What have you found? How important is this story?” he asked. She started to open up, then hesitated.
He leaned back. “You’re familiar with the early opioid reporting by Barry Meier of The New York Times?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Grace. “Big Pharma pressured The Times. I read about it. Netflix did a series.”
“I’ve been pressured several times to remove a reporter from a story,” said Chase. He shook his head. “It’s not an easy decision to sideline a reporter, but sometimes it’s necessary. Some get distracted by their own lives, or involved personally with the targets of their investigation or their sources.”
Grace shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He noticed.
“Some use the newspaper as a vehicle to advance their careers,” said Chase. “Some burn out, get ill or are lost to alcohol and drugs. We’re human.” Chase stood. “Barry Meier’s editor wrote a commentary detailing The New York Times’ attempts to balance journalistic integrity against legal liability. You’ll want to read it. The title is ‘You Can Stand on Principle and Still Stub a Toe’.”
Grace laughed. “Odd phrase,” she said.
“Yes, it is, but I’ve often discussed that commentary with colleagues over beers. What would we do? Would we stub a toe? You take my point?”
“We’ve got a toe stubbin’ situation here,” said Grace.
“Yes, we do. I offered you an out—write something else, wait on the conference with Legal. You stood firm.”
“You were testing my resolve.”
“I was. If you’re not committed to your sources and your research, then I am definitely not putting my neck on the line for you.“
Grace was silent.
“The Trib’s problem is that you’ve triggered complaints—risk to The Trib. My problem is whether I help you research while Legal does its analysis—personal risk to me and my family. Is this clear?”
Grace nodded.
He sat down, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. “So, here’s the official offer from The Trib as laid out by your Editor, an employee of The Trib—you’ll take three weeks vacation and at least two meetings with Legal.” He paused. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.
“My family does.”
“Good,” said Chase. “Bring them to the meetings. As I said, this is not my first toe stubbin’ situation so, officially, the discussion we are about to have never happened. Can you commit to that?”
“Yes,” said Grace.
“OK then, tomorrow night,” said Chase, “meet me at Joe’s on Montana—about 8 works. We will sign confidentiality agreements and talk. You will share what you know. If I feel you’re on to something, I will compartmentalize you at my sister Joan’s communications company where you will be a contracted writer with access to the usual databases, research assistance, a modest expense account.” He smiled. “You will work with a very good editor, if you get my drift.”
Grace nodded.
“OK,” he said. “If The Trib kills the story—and I’m pretty sure it will—you’ll go on sabbatical and Joan will help you publish via other outlets and take a percentage of income generated. I’ll bring the contract to Joe’s and, yes, it includes a confidentiality clause. You should have your lawyer take a look.”
He stood up, “In the unlikely event that Legal clears the story and you want to move forward under The Trib’s direction, all this toe stubbin’—this discussion, the meeting at Joe’s, the time at Joan’s—never happened. You’ll return to The Trib where your Editor, moi, will take a look at where we are and we’ll navigate from there. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Grace. She thought for a moment, then asked, “In other words, this could be the start of my freelance career.”
“Could be.”
“Can Joan negotiate movie rights?”
Chase grinned. “She has before.”
“What do you think of Toe Stubbin’, LLC?” she asked.
He laughed. “See you tomorrow night. Until then, get out of here. See Personnel—vacation time starts as soon as you sign the paperwork.”
<><><><>
In the parking lot under The Los Angeles Tribune building, Grace popped an address into her GPS and drove west past the homeless camps clustered under dusty trees, next to withered shrubs.
Grace exited the crowded freeway and drove her hybrid north past more homeless camps lined up south of the Brentwood Country Club.
It’s collapsing, she thought. We built massive reservoirs to capture the snow melt and torrential California rains. Our civilization and irrigation systems rival any ever built and yet we have not enough jobs or water for people, farms or trees. We have magnificent forests, but the price of shelter is higher than anyone can bear. We are rich and yet we are dismally poor.
She crossed San Vicente Boulevard and cruised by Robert Patton’s Canyon Drive townhouse in Brentwood. Seamus Boyle, Robert Patton, Mark Reading, thought Grace. A FOR RENT sign hung in a downstairs window. She snapped a picture, worrying, Has he left town already?
She drove west through heavy traffic along Sunset Boulevard, fiddled with the radio and settled, with an ironic laugh, on Jimmie Allen’s “Freedom Was A Highway”.
I wish I could go back to those days / When the town was the whole world / And love was the girl next door / Soundtrack was a song in the dark / I miss those days when our dreams / Were there for chasin' / But time was better wasted / We were summer young and livin' for a Friday / And freedom was a highway / Freedom was a highway
At home inside her condo in Pacific Palisades, Grace set her laptop on her desk. Filled with half written articles, it waited patiently for more input, but she felt overwhelmed with what she knew and what she assumed she didn’t.
Her phone vibrated on the desk and caller ID announced: TONY DIXON. Grace’s body involuntarily warmed with fond memories. Tony’s smile; Tony laughing. She could almost smell his amazing coffee, almost feel him nuzzling her neck, kissing her. Emotions flooded over her as she answered his call.
“Grace, sweetheart, I was worried!” he said. “You didn’t call.”
“I’m fine, Tony. Just swamped,” she replied.
“Are you back in town? I have three events coming up, but no date for two. I was counting on you for at least one.”
“Tony,” she said slowly, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
He was silent for a moment. “I’ll ask Melissa and Megan,” he said.
“Sure,” she said, knowing where it would lead and feeling a pang of jealousy. “Tony, I do have a question for you. The Equal Access to Justice Act.”
“The EAJA? Yeah, what about it?”
“It pays legal fees? Do you know the rate?”
“Whatever the court decides is fair market,” he said. “It would be higher in L.A. and DC than say places like Podunk or Cleveland.”
“The environmental groups fundraise to cover pro-bono work, then taxpayers pay the lawyers via the EAJA? Does that violate truth in advertising laws?”
He was silent, then said, “Not something I’ve considered. If you’re asking for my legal opinion, make an appointment and we can talk. First consultation is always free,” he laughed.
“That’s a kind offer, thanks,” said Grace, a bit miffed. “The EAJA payments come out of the Social Security Trust Fund, right?”
“Yes,” he said, “but attorneys get taxed on their income and pay right back into the Fund, at higher rates than your average Joe, so it all comes out in the wash, Grace.”
What goes around comes around? she wondered.
“It’s for a good cause, Grace. It’s not just Social Security. Other agencies pay out too. It’s all public, all legal. There’s a report to Congress on EAJA awards, from the Administrative Conference. Last one I saw—I think it was in 2020—it was running about a hundred mil a year with only about half that coming from Social Security. Not much.”
Fifty million here, fifty million there. It all adds up, she thought. “But—,” she started.
He cut her off. “Look, we can talk about it over drinks. Next week? Call my assistant. Love you. Ciao, Bella!” He ended the call without waiting for her reply.
She shook her head. What’s wrong with me? she thought. He’s a good man, an environmental lawyer working to save the planet. He lives right here in L.A. Why can’t I make it work?
She laughed out loud, studied the flawless blue sky outside the window.
I really miss clouds, she thought, for the first time in her life.
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After a swim in the complex’s pool, Grace changed into an oversized cotton T-shirt and leggings. As she pulled on her sheepskin boots, she thought on the sheep from which the hides had come, the container that dinner came in. While making a very strong mug of coffee, she thought about Vivian Armstrong’s sealskin coat. She sat down at her computer with her coffee and thought about natural versus synthetic fibers, then pulled her thoughts back to forests.
It’s a great story, she thought, worrying that if The Trib cleared her moving forward it would be with so many guardrails the tale would be impossible to tell.
Plus the trail will be stone cold frigid by then, she thought with a sigh. God bless Chase and his sister Joan.
Grace sent a thank you basket to the Armstrong family and then made sure her virtual private network, VPN, was active on her computer and phone. She created a new email address and blocked the caller ID on her phone. She called the number listed on the FOR RENT sign in Brentwood. A woman answered at Marston & Miller. She said that the townhouse was available for $5,000 a month with a $15,000 security deposit.
Who could possibly afford that? thought Grace as she gave out a fake name, phone number and her new email address.
A few minutes later, an email arrived with a Marston & Miller brochure attached. It boasted of the company’s “continuing commitment to excellence”, explaining that, for over 50 years, Marston & Miller owned and managed properties for its clients through offices in three countries—the US, the UK and Switzerland. It announced it was opening offices in Dubai.
Its International Skyways division—which also owned the Cessna flown out of Seattle—offered 20 different aircraft in five US cities plus others in London, Geneva and Paris.
Grace called the numbers she had for Jameson Corporation in Florida and the Rockefeller Charitable Trust in New York. A recording answered—a smooth, calm, male voice, the same male voice on both voice mails. She did not leave messages.
Are land and resources moving from private and productive and taxed use to the fed’s control—no use, no taxes produced, access denied?
She turned to her library of books, ran her fingers along some of their spines. She chose one that Jackson had, Ron Arnolds’ massive work from 2010: Trashing the Economy: How Runaway Environmentalism is Wrecking America. She opened it to the chapter on The Nature Conservancy.
Net assets in 1993: $855 million. She pulled up The Nature Conservancy’s non-profit tax returns. Net assets in 2023: $7.8 billion.
She listened to a clip from Robert Kennedy, Jr, the one in which he laid out how the Powers That Be used sovereign debt terms to set policy. She listened to it again. They’re moving us into global servitude, she thought, and I need to know more about sovereign debt terms.
She selected two more books: Dr. Kojo Koram’s Uncommon Wealth: Britain and the Aftermath of Empire and Silent Coup: How Corporations Overthrew Democracy by Matt Kennard and Claire Provost.
In Uncommon Wealth, she flipped to '‘Chapter 4: Debt” and quickly reread it.
In Silent Coup, she refreshed her memory by re-reading Chapters 5-9.
How could I have been so naive? she thought as she touched her computer’s keypad and composed her thoughts. They automatically flowed to her fingers which moved effortlessly across the keys.
I’m going to tell this story, she thought. With or without the friggin’ Trib.