Chapter 14: The Fourth Estate

It had been less than a week since James visited Miss Martin in the County Office Building. It was a good thing that he knew the way, because it was snowing hard again that morning and it was difficult to see the road signs. He was, nevertheless, determined to make the trip. Although out of a job, he needed a place to be in the morning. After the encounter with his neighbor, Norma, he sought to regain his self respect.

The County Office Building was uncharacteristically large for a small city in a rural area. It was new, too, built with some grant or another, secured by a local legislator who just knew that the citizens would naturally want a monument to big government overshadowing the streets of small businesses and quiet residences. It housed many governmental functions. The Social Services Department was one; it was on the fourth floor where he met with Miss Martin several days before. On a lower floor was the office where claimants for Unemployment Insurance benefits shuffled in and out, filing their weekly paperwork. It was James' destination on this day.

James was in a special line for new applicants. While he waited, he filled out a form with information needed for his claim.

"Next!" he heard a clerk shout to be heard over the background noise. James approached and sat in the chair alongside the man's desk. He was a small man, in his fifties, with a pencil-thin moustache and receding hairline. He had a thin frame, but a small paunch that didn't quite fit his physique. There were stamps suspended from a little wheel on the corner of his desk that reminded James of signet rings. An ID card hung from a chain around his neck like a talisman. He appeared to be in a bad mood. He seized the paperwork from James' hand and pored over it.

"Unpaid Administrative Leave," he demanded in a loud, nasal voice, "what's that?"

"They said I'm not fired but I can't work there, either," James explained.

"I don't get it," he answered in the same bullhorn voice. "Either you're fired or you're not."

"They said they would call me back when the time is right."

"That's called a Temporary Layoff," the clerk corrected with a huff of frustration, loud enough to educate any applicants in line who might be in danger of making the same mistake. He crossed out what James had entered on the form and penciled in the correct term. After exercising his authority on the form, the clerk continued his review. His brow furled on the second page.

"You only accounted for four and a half months," he said. "You need six months."

"I only worked there since September," James said.

What did you do before that?"

"I was a priest until the end of June. I wasn't anything in July and August."

The clerk shook his head. "A priest? This never came up before." He leaned forward toward James. "Tell me, what did they fire you for? I've never seen a teacher get fired."

"I didn't get fired," James repeated. "It's an unpaid Administrative Leave."

"Right, right," mumbled the clerk. "It doesn't look like you qualify. You need six months of work out of the last twelve. I don't know whether the priest thing qualifies or not." James let out a sigh. The news was a surprise, and not a good one. His financial outlook had just turned sharply down.

"There's a couple of things you can do," the clerk went on. "Pick up some kind of job for a couple of months. Come back when it's over and you've got your six months." He snapped his fingers to show James ho easy that would be.

What else?" James asked.

"I'll stamp this 'Rejected'. Then, you can appeal it and see if they'll count your time as a priest."

"I think I'll go for that one," James replied.

The clerk didn't answer. He took a stamp from a little wheel on his desk and pressed into a red inkpad. He carefully impressed the red letters in the proper space and initialed it under the ink. He pulled another form from a basket on his desk and filled out. "Sign here," he ordered and held his finger on the line. James took the pen from the desk and wrote his signature.

"That's it," the clerk advised. "They'll send you something in the mail." He thrust a pamphlet into James' hands. "Read this. It'll explain everything."

James took the material and left the office. When he reached the first floor he looked out the window and saw that the snow was driving down even harder than before. He spied a bench in the corner of the lobby and decided to wait for the storm to abate. He started perusing the pamphlet from the Unemployment Insurance Office.

It was approaching the lunch hour. Office workers began to parade past him and disappeared down a stairway. James guessed that there must be a cafeteria on the ground floor. He was thinking about getting something to eat. He decided to wait for the crowd to thin a bit. He started reading again when he heard a familiar voice.

"I didn't expect to see you today," the voice said. James looked up to see Miss Martin standing over him. "Do we have an appointment?"

"No ... uh ... I had to visit a different department," James answered.

Miss Martin caught sight of the pamphlet in James' hand and nodded that she understood, but kept her silence about it.

"There's a cafeteria in the basement," she suggested. "It isn't the greatest, but you can get a good soup and sandwich."

"I thought it would be crowded," James answered. "Anyway, I don't enjoy eating by myself."

"I don't have anyone to eat with, either," she declared. "We'll eat together." She about- faced and strode off with James hopping to it to catch up.

"She must do this all the time," James said to himself, recalling the chase through the gray maze of partitions several days before. James caught up at the start of the cafeteria line. He looked out at the sea of full tables. The snow had driven everyone inside. He was correct; it was crowded.

"We'll take it up to my office. Don't buy any coffee. We have some upstairs."

James bought a ham and cheese sandwich and skipped the soup. He hadn't really planned on spending anything. With the bad news of his morning meeting, he decided that it was more than he thought he could afford. When they finally arrived in Miss Martin's office, she closed the door.

"Normally, it would be unethical for me to socialize with you," she informed him. "I can, because we decided to place the case in 'Inactive Status'. With the mother uninterested in pursuing anything, there's little more for us to do. I sent the file to Archives yesterday. Officially, it's not my case anymore."

"I suppose I should be glad," James said. "I told you how I feel about that."

"I know," Miss Martin said. "I'm afraid that our hands are tied."

"It's better for Becky this way," James replied. "I hope she gets a fresh start somewhere. She was always so unsure of herself. She never thought she would pass Trig; never thought anyone liked her. She was mistaken on both counts."

"Not many men in your situation would say that," Miss Martin observed. "Don't you have any hard feelings that she didn't come out and clear you?"

"What would be the point?" James replied. "I wish she had cleared me, but I can't help it now. She's still a confused kid with big troubles. Hard feelings won't solve her problem, or mine. I have to believe in the good in her, and hope she has the chance to bring it out. If I can't do that, I couldn't believe in the good in myself."

"Is that what you learned when you were a priest?" she challenged. "Do you believe that you have good in you?"

"I don't know. Maybe..." James answered. "There are times that I have to look hard for it. Sometimes the good gets mixed up with the bad. Everyone has some good and bad in them. If I had learned that while I was a priest, I might have never left."

"But, you're not going back?" she asked. James shook his head. "Still, if Becky had just told everyone that it was not you, everything would be a lot simpler."

"She must have her reasons. Her boyfriend was the Mayor's son. I noticed they broke up at about the time she found out she was pregnant. They sat together in one of my Trig sections."

"Jarrod Morris' son?" she asked.

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, too well," she answered, and then fell silent and took a bite from her sandwich. James did the same. For a few minutes they ate in silence, until she paused to take a sip of coffee.

"It's not a bad sandwich, don't you think?" she asked. Before James could answer, she dropped her big question. "And, how did you come to lose your job?" James had his mouth full and looked confused. "I saw your pamphlet," she added as he swallowed his food.

"I couldn't believe it when it happened. It has to do with Chandler. One moment, Nathan and Bob Jackson were behind me. The next, Nathan said I was on Administrative Leave to get me out of the way so they could put the whole thing to rest. I don't know what happened."

"So, you're out of teaching?" she asked.

"I still have my last tutoring client. I have a session with him tomorrow afternoon."

"Why did he stay with you when the others left?" she prodded. James told Raymond's story and recounted his Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Miss Martin listened with interest as he told it. "So, you're going to keep teaching him, even though you're out of a job and they can't pay?"

"If he told me he was going to quit, I would beg him not to," James stated. "He won't, though. His family is poor, but they're better than many I've met in Bates. They stuck by me when all the trouble with Chandler started. They know what it's like to have a bad break or two."

"I think that the School District lost more than they realize," Miss Martin answered. "I do a lot of work with the schools in the area. Sometimes I hear about job openings. If I do, I'll let you know."

The receptionist knocked and told Miss Martin that she had an appointment waiting. "Thanks for listening," James stood and clasped her hand.

"Stay in touch," she answered as James left her office.

During the lunch hour, the snowstorm lessened. James felt a little better, despite the rejection of his benefits claim. Miss Martin was easy to talk to. She spoke few words, but those that she did were worth listening to. So far, she had been honest in everything she said, with the dripping sympathy left out. She was a plain, sexless woman, not good material to be a potential bed partner. She was, however, worth cultivating as a friend, if he could find a way to contact her again.

"Things have a way of working out," he said out loud. He was alone in the car, but somehow, hearing the words made him feel good. Just then, he remembered the eleven hundred dollars that Bubba owed him for the Florida trips. With all that had been happening over the last few days, he had forgotten it. He would see him at bowling in a few days. If he planned carefully, he could make that money stretch for at least another month, maybe two. Things were looking up.

James found himself wandering through the Bates Feed Mill the next day, looking for someone in charge. There were two men talking on the loading dock. He stood back near the door to the office waiting for them to finish.

One man was heavy-set, in his fifties. He wore overalls, a canvas barn coat and black, rubber boots. He had two days' growth on his face. Every now and again he would turn his head away and send a stream of brown tobacco juice from between his lips, and then resume his conversation. James didn't know much about country life, but he would have bet the man was a farmer in town to pick up supplies.

The second man was about the same age, less roughly hewn. He was more carefully groomed, and wore grey work clothes. There were logo patches sewn on the chest pockets of his jacket. James was sure that he managed the mill. Before long, the farmer spotted James and pointed him out to the other man.

"Hey, what can I do for you?" he called to James.

James approached. "I could use a job," James answered. The Mill Manager approached James, peering at him.

"Sorry, we're all filled up," he answered abruptly, then turned away.

"Shoot, Bert," the farmer contradicted. "You know damn well you need someone. With Cy out with his hurt back, you gotta' have someone right away."

"But Augie," Bert protested, "you didn't recognize him. He's that, you know..."

"I sure did see him," Augie retorted. "I got eyes. You don't believe any of the Chandler hogwash, do you?" He turned his head and spit some brown juice onto the ground.

"I don't know, Augie..."

"Hey, mister," Augie interrupted, "you lookin' for any children to molest around here? Maybe they're hidin' among them sacks o' feed." He burst out laughing, then turned and spat again and wiped his chin. "Give him the job, for crissake. I got to get back up the hill to the farm." He climbed down off the loading dock and piled himself into his pickup truck and drove away.

Bert let out a big sigh. "It would only be until my regular guy gets back on his feet. I don't suppose you know how to drive a truck." James shook his head. It'll be seven-and-a-half bucks an hour, then. I can only give you twenty hours a week."

"I'm glad to have it," James answered.

"Bert Hodges is my name," he said, extending his hand. "I already know what your name is. This is no easy place to work. You can start right now. I need that pallet of feedbags over there restacked. Pull out any torn ones and put them over there."

The Feed Mill was really a general store for farmers. Most of the space was devoted to animal feed, either in bags or in bulk. It carried a variety of other supplies, from baling wire to lubricants and even disinfecting chemicals for the dairy barns. James didn't know a thing about them, but as long as Bert kept issuing orders, he kept working. When Bert wasn't there to direct him, he picked up a broom and swept the place out. He worked hard and the time went by fast.

At the end of the day, Bert called him over. "For a teacher, you got some muscles," he said. "I put you on the schedule. It's in the back room. Find yourself a couple pair of coveralls that fit. You'll be outside, so make sure you've got warm clothes, and especially boots. Fill out those tax forms before you go, and I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Peggy Hardaway stood in the doorway of Roger Blair's office. "Are we still interested in that school scandal in Bates?" she asked.

"Seems to have died down recently," he answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Connie Martin from Social Services just called me and said that James O'Toole was fired a week or so ago."

"I thought they were backing him up," Roger said.

"They were, and then they dropped him like a hot potato. She said that Chandler accused O'Toole of getting his daughter pregnant, but Connie said there was nothing to it."

"Anything with sex attached to it gets people's attention—true or false," Roger said.

"Connie gave a new angle," Peggy continued. "He's been tutoring a kid from an indigent family. She said that they might give me a view from the other side. I'd like to see if it leads anywhere."

"Get on it!" Roger agreed. "Interview the other players again, too. See if there's anything new. Whatever you do, don't let them know that you're talking to the student's family." Peggy nodded. "And keep me in the loop," he yelled after her as she put on her overcoat.

Shirley knew who the car belonged to as it parked in front of her trailer. Peggy Hardaway had called in advance. Shirley was reluctant, at first. The cares and worries of her life didn't include press interviews.

"I was told that Mr. O'Toole is your friend," Peggy urged her on the phone.

Shirley thought for a second. "If I don't talk to her," she thought, "everyone will think it's because I'm hiding something. I've got no choice."

"Come over before the school bus brings the kids home," Shirley told the reporter.

Shirley took Peggy's coat and showed her to the dinette table. "Leave your boots on. It's just snow. The kids will track more in a few hours, anyway."

Peggy took a chair at the table and set up her recorder. Shirley set a coffee mug before her. "I made us some coffee," she said before her visitor had a chance to refuse. She set a plate of cookies in the center of the table.

"Thank you," Peggy said politely. "You didn't have to go to all..."

"They're from the batch that I just made to take to James tonight when he tutors my son, Raymond. It's the only payment he'll take."

"Is your son behind?" Peggy asked.

"Hardly!" Shirley exclaimed, a proud grin imposing itself across her face. "He's the best in the class. James tutors him so that he'll be able to take all the hard math courses when he goes to Engineering School next fall. His Guidance Counselor said that without the extra help he'd be behind the students from other schools next year."

"That's interesting," Peggy replied. "So, you don't think James O'Toole should have been fired?"

"No, of course not," Shirley proclaimed. "He's the best teacher they've got. That wouldn't mean much to them, though."

"And it doesn't bother you—you know, about all the rumors about him?"

"All those rumors are phony," was Shirley's blunt reply.

"How do you know?" the reporter asked.

"How does anyone know anything about anyone?" Shirley asked back. "How do you know I'm not a liar? You don't—you just believe that I'm not. I believe in James. If I didn't, I wouldn't let my son go with him every week, or let my little girl play with him in that chair over there on Thanksgiving. I've seen enough good and bad in my life to know; you can believe me or not."

Peggy was scribbling notes as Shirley spoke. Shirley waited for her, and then continued.

"My stepdaughter knows him, too. She's a teacher in the same school as James. You should talk to her."

"I'll do that," the reporter promised. "Why do you think they fired him? No one from the school will talk to me."

"It's because James isn't enough like them," Shirley confided. "They all got their power and their place, and that's what they care about. He just wanted to do his job as best he could. Anyone who upsets the applecart has got to go."

"I shouldn't be talking to you. Remember, you promised that this would be anonymous."

"Sure," Peggy answered Tracey. "It's just for background."

"So you know James O'Toole?" Peggy began. Tracey nodded that she did. "And you think that he's alright?" she continued.

"Better than alright," Tracey answered.

"What kind of teacher is he?"

"Everyone knows that he was one of the best in the High School," Tracey attested. "He was undoubtedly the best in the Math Department. There's a big crisis going on there now. I heard that a third of the seniors taking Trigonometry failed the midterm—except for James' students. They all passed. They need it for graduation. Nathan Smithling told us that the test average was about the same, but he's covering up. It was James' sections that brought up the average."

"Then, why did they fire him?" Peggy asked.

"I don't really know," Tracey answered. "I heard it had something to do with Becky Chandler getting pregnant and moving away. I can tell you this. I've lived in this town all my life. I've learned that those who do the best aren't always the ones rewarded. What matters is keeping things the same."

"I'm new here," Peggy admitted. "I'd like to think better of people."

"They start out fine," Tracey said. "Along the way, something happens that lets them take the easy way out. At first, it feels bad. After a few more times a person gets used to it, until they're doing it all the time. They just settle for less than what could have been, and then they're trapped in it."

"I think that you're talking about someone that you know well," Peggy said.

"Just people, in general," Tracey looked away. Her eyes were watering and she bit her lower lip.

"Can I ask you a few more questions—or would you like me to leave?" Peggy asked sympathetically.

"I'm alright; go ahead," Tracey said as she turned back to face her.

"Why does Ethan Chandler hate James so much?"

"Reverend Chandler?" Tracey stiffened. "I barely know him."

"What about Jarrod Morris? He seems to be very close to Chandler. Do you think that he has any part in this?"

"I don't know Morris, either," Tracey answered tersely.

"It's funny," Peggy went on. "He's on the board of Ethan Chandler's Church and he always seems to be on the fringe of things, but never quite in the middle of them. He's been very evasive any time I've spoken with him."

"I told you," Tracey repeated. "I don't know him."

"That's too bad," Peggy said. "Morris won't give me an interview. I wish I could find someone who knows him."

"I can't help you with that," Tracey repeated, her tone turning harder.

"If we're off the record," Peggy confided, "I think that it was really Morris who got O'Toole fired to cover up for his son. They say that the boy is really the father of Becky's child."

"Why are you telling me this?" Tracey spat out angrily. "I told you, I don't know Morris."

"It looks like O'Toole made friends with the wrong people," Peggy said to Roger Blair upon returning from her day in Bates. "I spoke to the parent of the student I told you about. Even though O'Toole's out of work, he still tutors him for free. The mother swears by him. I thought that it was a problem student, but actually, he's gifted. They're sorting through scholarship offers. They credit O'Toole for a big part of it."

"Interesting," Roger mumbled.

"There's more," Peggy interrupted. She told her boss about her interview with Tracey and the crisis in the Math Department.

"What did Jackson and Smithling say about it?" Roger asked.

"They refused to be interviewed." Peggy grimaced, thinking that she had failed to close the loop.

"Don't feel bad," Roger assuaged her. "By not talking, they're telling us something. What about O'Toole."

"I spoke to him, but he didn't have much to add. He just said his firing was a shock, and wished that he was back with his students. He's working at Bates Feed Mill now. I think he knows less than we do."

"I think we're getting closer," Roger said.

"There's one more thing," Peggy added. "I asked Tracey Jacobs—the teacher I interviewed—about Jarrod Morris. She was very defensive. Maybe it's a woman-to-woman thing. I think there's more there."

Roger cocked an eyebrow at the sound of Jarrod's name. "Now, I know we're closing in," Roger said. "Keep this story under wraps for a while. We've got some more digging to do.

It was Friday afternoon; the sky threatened more snow. Ethan was in his study finishing his sermon, as he usually did at that time on that day. He heard the front door open, but no one had rung the bell. "Who would do that?" he asked himself out loud. He swung around in his swivel chair, looking toward the foyer. "Who's there?" he called out. No one answered, but he heard rustling noises, and then a soft padding of quiet steps.

"Reverend Chandler, I need to see you," Tracey cooed, as she finally made her entrance into the study. She sauntered toward him.

"Miss Jacobs!" Ethan exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting you."

Tracey ignored what Ethan said and kept her slow advance.

"Why are you here?" Ethan demanded.

"Because I'm lonely," she whispered as she arrived at where he was seated and sidled up next to him.

"Yes, I can imagine," Ethan answered confidently, puffing out his chest. "I'm busy right now. You should have called first."

"Please don't refuse me," she whispered in his ear as she bent down to him. "You know you cannot refuse me." She smoothed her hand over his thigh and placed her hand over his penis. She felt it starting to stiffen under his trousers. She passed her hand over it several times and then stood up.

She turned and walked slowly in the direction of the stairs. When she reached them, she turned and looked at him, still sitting in his swivel chair. "Finish whatever you need to finish. I know my way; I'll be waiting for you."

Tracey made her way to Ethan's bedroom where she undressed. When she was nude she looked around the room. She passed by a picture of Becky, who she recognized. She shook her head sadly. Nothing else was there that interested her. When she started feeling chilly, she slipped under the covers and waited for him.

She must have dozed off. She didn't know for how long. She looked up and saw him standing over her. He was already undressed standing still, displaying his naked erection to her. "I knew that you'd come back; it was meant to be," he proclaimed.

She didn't care for his expression; she thought he looked haughty. Tracey peeled back the covers just the same and Ethan got in beside her. He pressed his body up against her and waited for her to kiss him.

"Suck on my breast," she commanded. Ethan looked at her in momentary surprise, and then obeyed the order. Tracey gathered the flesh in her hands, framing the nipple. Ethan suckled as would a babe. He serviced her left one, and then she switched him to her right. She stretched and then kneaded her flesh, to maximize the sensation. It felt good, equal to Jarrod's attentions. When it was enough she had to lift his head up, as he seemed to enjoy the exercise.

"Go lower," she directed. She rolled on her back and Ethan climbed atop her. He kissed and sucked his way down her lean torso, ending in her navel. She allowed him to lave her there for a minute. "That was nice, but I meant lower than that," she informed him in a husky voice.

Ethan looked up at her with a pleading expression. "But that means..."

"That's right, it does," she confirmed.

"I don't know how," Ethan begged.

"You will soon," she informed him. "Put your face in my hair first." She grasped his ears and forced his nose to her Mound of Venus. She rubbed his face in her wiry, black pubic hair. She pressed him down and bucked up against him. She felt the distant promise of pleasure. Her long legs opened wider. She rubbed herself on him harder and harder, using his face. Pleasure was getting closer.

"Put your tongue in me!" she screamed. She forced him lower, pulling and twisting his head until his outstretched tongue landed on the bud of her clitoris. She used all her strength to pull him in close and hard. A female scent permeated the room. Ethan started learning the task, cooperating as she searched for satiation. Tracey spread herself wider yet, and then wrapped her limbs around Ethan's head.

She climaxed hard, with a sudden, high-pitched gasp. She pinned Ethan where he was and held her breath until it was over. As she descended, she loosened her grip. Ethan looked up, as if asking permission to ascend to his rightful place alongside her.

"You can put it in me now," she told him. Her legs were still split wide. Ethan had no trouble finding her entrance. She was better lubricated this time. He slid in with ease. He thrust forward. She responded. Soon he grunted and released into her. He fell off to the side, gasping. He clutched a breast and lay alongside her, winding down. He closed his eyes as he waited to catch his breath.

"Before the Last Supper, I washed the feet of the disciples and anointed them with oil," he panted in a dreamy voice.

"I enjoyed it, Reverend," she said dispassionately as she arose from the bed. "Maybe next week you can anoint me again," she quipped, as she reached for her clothes. "At least, we're even now."

"I thought you would stay until morning," Ethan answered, surprised and disappointed.

"Not this time," she replied, as he looked longingly up at her. "You've got your flock to tend and I need to get home and shower."

"I'm glad that you invited me to lunch, Ethan."

"How's your soup, Jarrod?" Ethan asked as he slurped in a spoonful.

"It's fine, but I have to admit that it's not as good as Judith's. Have you had any word from her?" Ethan shook his head.

"It's just soup from a can," Ethan admitted. "I hope you don't mind."

"I wasn't that hungry, Ethan. I want to discuss a few things with you." Ethan looked up from his eating.

"This firing of James O'Toole is just what we wanted," Jarrod began.

"It's justice," Ethan agreed.

"That may be, Ethan, but now that O'Toole is out of the way the congregation won't be very interested in him anymore. There's no point in bringing him up in your sermons."

"I heard he's working in the Bates Feed Mill. We can turn our attention to that," Ethan suggested.

"No, no; that won't work at all," Jarrod scolded. "How excited do you think the people will be to save sacks of cow feed from the pedophile? Use your head, Ethan!"

"Sorry, Jarrod," Ethan apologized and hung his head. "That's why I need you."

"We need something new to keep pulling them in," Jarrod continued. "Without it, they'll lose interest again and you know what that means to the collections."