Free The Philadelphia Quarry by Howard Owen Page B

she were responsible.
    “Tough day,” I say. Sandy gives me a nod so small and tight that the security camera might not have caught it. Sandy’s divorced with two kids in college.
    Wheelie comes puffing in, shaking his head and muttering something about how much he hates all this. He straightens his tie as we walk past Sandy and into the sanctum sanctorum.
    James H. Grubbs doesn’t bother to stand up. He motions for us to take a seat. He looks a little haggard, pale even by Grubby’s standards. It really can’t be that much fun to fire people who once befriended you as a young reporter. But Grubby’s got the MBA playbook, the one that says the only morality is what’s good for the company. Coincidentally, doing what’s good for the company is good for Grubby, who can always take a Xanax when he needs a good night’s sleep.
    “I wanted to get an update on what’s going on with the Simpson murder.”
    Wheelie fills him in.
    “So, we’re done with this one, until the trial?”
    Wheelie nods his head.
    I clear my throat. I should shut up. I can’t.
    “Not exactly.”
    Grubby acts as if he was expecting it. I hear Wheelie groan.
    “Not exactly?”
    I tell them both about my conversations with Philomena Slade and Marcus Green.
    “His mother and his lawyer don’t think he did it?” Grubby says. “Well, we’d better get all over that, then. Stop the presses.”
    “I’m not saying he didn’t do it. But I think we ought to look around a little, see if things check out.”
    “Well, I don’t think so. So don’t do it.”
    I’m a little surprised, I must say. Grubby is a cautious man, but he isn’t above selling newspapers, and he’s got to know that this story has everything the circulation department could ever hope for.
    He looks at Wheelie.
    “We’re done here,” he says, and my managing editor gets up to go.
    I start to say something else, but Wheelie takes me by the arm. I shut up and leave.
    “What the fuck?” I inquire back downstairs in Wheelie’s office. “We’re dropping this?”
    “No,” Wheelie says. “We’re just not going to create our own news. The arraignment’s tomorrow, right? After that, we’ll wait for the trial.”
    “What is this all about?”
    Wheelie shuts the door.
    “Just between you and me,” he says. “This never, ever leaves this room.”
    I nod.
    “It’s about the Whitehursts.”
    The penny drops. The Whitehursts own the paper, have owned the paper since before the Civil War. Grubby is the first non-family publisher, and everybody in Richmond knows his predecessor isn’t just sitting back and giving the new boy free rein. Giles Whitehurst, a hale and blustery eight-five with no heirs desiring a career in newspapering, is still the chairman of the board, and chairman of the board trumps publisher.
    “Did you know,” Wheelie asks, “that Giles Whitehurst and Harper Simpson were fraternity brothers at U.Va.?”
    I confess that I am deficient in my knowledge of Alicia Simpson’s father.
    “Well, apparently, the sister went to Daddy, who called Grubby and told him to back off, that the family has been through enough anguish already. They just want it dropped.”
    I wonder out loud why Lewis Simpson Witt would think we weren’t dropping it.
    “Maybe she knows something about the way you stick that big nose of yours into everybody’s business.”
    “You know what they say, Wheelie. Big nose, big . . .”
    “Yeah, yeah. Just let this one ride, though. I don’t want Sandy giving you a wakeup call.”
    He grimaces as he looks out into the newsroom, where a photographer is being gently led out of the building carrying a cardboard box. He looks our way and pauses long enough to balance the box on his hip with one hand and give Wheelie the finger.
    “Don’t worry,” I tell Mal Wheelwright, “anything I do, I do on my own. They won’t be able to trace it back to you.”
    Wheelie groans again. It is not the response he was hoping for. I can’t help that.