Operation Mockingbird Read online

  “Listen, Matt,” Kagan replied, “we were one of the first participants in the embed program. From that program, we were able to get a bird’s-eye view of what was going on over there. In Iraq, we got stories and pictures of GI Joe and GI Jane on the front lines. Videos of the most sophisticated fighting machine in the world bombing and shootin’ the shit out of the bad guys. In Afghanistan, we got pictures of people proudly displaying their purple fingers on Election Day. That stuff was priceless.”

  Matt sat up straighter in his chair. “That stuff was Pentagon propaganda. Those guys were essentially acting as the government’s stenographers, starting with the reporting on the search for WMDs that didn’t exist and then on to how great the war was going even as more and more military personnel and civilians were being killed.”

  “Maybe,” Kagan interrupted with a small smile. “But our readers love that so-called ‘Pentagon propaganda.’ That stuff sold papers. Folks don’t want to hear the doom and gloom —negative news or reports of tragedy or failure. And we’re struggling for survival here. We have to give the people what they want.”

  “Dave, that’s bullshit,” Matt protested.

  His comment drew a surprised look from Ana who had just arrived with two mugs of coffee. As she sat the coffee mugs down on the desk in front of Matt, she shot him a warning look before she turned and walked out the door.

  Matt continued despite Ana’s warning.

  “The embed program lost all credibility after the truth about Jessica Lynch and Pat Tillman came out. You would have thought they would have killed the program after that. But, instead, several years later, the program is still going strong. I couldn’t stomach getting involved.”

  Matt was referring to the extreme measures the U.S. government took, at first to win popular support for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and then later, when the wars weren’t going to so well, to avoid negative backlash. In the case of Private First Class Jessica Lynch, the military tried to capitalize on the capture and ultimate rescue of the first U.S. prisoner of war since World War II and the first woman prisoner by issuing press releases describing her heroic actions before she was ultimately captured. It was later determined — and confirmed by Jessica Lynch — that the reports were incorrect. The reports of her actions were highly inflated and attributed to the Pentagon’s attempts at manipulating the media.

  The Pat Tillman story was slightly different. In the aftermath of September 11th, Tillman left a successful professional football career to join the Army Rangers. He served several tours in Afghanistan before he died in the mountains of Afghanistan. When he was killed, the Army figured out relatively early on that he had died from friendly fire but reported that he had been killed by enemy fire in order to avoid having to admit to the human error and to be able to exploit the memory of a beloved celebrity.

  “Well, Matt,” Dave finally said as he clapped his hands. “Either way, the war in the Middle East is finally coming to an end. Military operations in Iraq have been terminated and the troops in Afghanistan will be gone by next year. Thankfully.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Matt said. “There’s still a lot going on in the Middle East. The U.S. government may have declared formal military operations over and may have set a timeline for troop withdrawals, but we’re still going to have a presence over there — in some form or another. And that presence is going to have some serious implications here and internationally.”

  “Maybe,” Kagan replied. “I’ve certainly heard talk of that. But, folks are more focused on the economy now and on jobs. Those are the issues our readers want to hear about.”

  “Since when does a newspaper filter the news based on what it believes its readers want to hear?”

  Matt tried to keep himself from shouting as he pressed on. “With all due respect, Dave, our job is to inform people, tell them what’s really going on — even if it’s unpleasant and not necessarily what they want to hear.”

  “Still the idealist, I see.”

  “Matt, let’s get serious,” Dave continued. “When you were here, The Chronicle was a privately held local paper owned by the Walker family. About a month after you left, the Walkers threw in the towel and sold the paper to the Armstrong Media Corporation, a public company. Now, we’re accountable to a board of directors and to our shareholders. John Armstrong — our CEO, Chairman of the Board and largest shareholder — expects us to consistently exceed Wall Street’s earnings expectations. Armstrong calls me twice a day to remind me that in order to do that we need to cater to a much broader audience. As a result, I’m constantly commissioning these surveys that tell us what our readers are most interested in.”

  “Our readers must have some interest in what’s going on outside of our little Banana Republic,” Matt replied.

  Dave smiled at the local reference to the City of Miami and its crazy politics. “Yes, they do. Right now, the average person is interested in jobs and how they make up all the money they have lost as a result of the worst market crash since the Great Depression.”

  An awkward silence filled the room. Matt knew he had screwed up. Once again, he had let his temper get the best of him. The conversation was headed downhill quickly and he wasn’t sure how to apply the brakes, let alone turn the conversation around.

  Finally, Dave took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “But, listen, that’s not to say we’re not interested in what you’ve got.”

  Matt felt like Dave was throwing him a lifeline.

  Dave glanced at his watch. “Go home, email me all your drafts and story ideas, whatever you’re thinking about. I’ll see if maybe we can use some of your material.”

  Dave started to rise.

  “Thanks, Dave.” Matt said taking his cue and standing up. “I appreciate that.”

  When they got to the door, Matt hesitated before asking the question that had been weighing heavily on him. “What about Commissioner Suarez?”

  A few months before he had left for Afghanistan, Matt had written a series of negative — but well-researched — articles about City of Miami Commissioner Carlos Suarez. The articles described how Suarez had violated campaign finance laws by taking contributions from convicted felons, some of whom were partners in his own real estate ventures. Suarez, himself a man with a questionable past, hadn’t appreciated the embarrassing allegations and had publicly threatened to destroy Matt’s career.

  “It looks like he’s going to return the contributions and get away with a slap on the wrist for questionable campaign finance activities. Thanks to his brother the Senator, of course.” Kagan opened the door as he continued. “As you may have heard since you got back, the commissioner is running for re-election and, despite all the controversy, it looks like he’ll win.”

  Kagan signaled to Ana who looked up from her desk.

  “Don’t worry, Matt,” Kagan rested a firm hand on Matt’s shoulder. “The commissioner likely has more important things on his plate than his vendetta against you. But I’m not going to lie to you. You’re going to have to promise to keep him out of your sights. Think you can do that?”

  “I don’t know, Dave, he’s an awfully appealing target,” Matt replied honestly. “But, I really want to focus on the Middle East. So I’m sure I can play nice … at least for a little while.”

  “That’s the spirit, Matt,” Dave said as he slapped Matt on the back and ushered him out the door. “Play nice. Life will be much easier that way.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  JUST ANOTHER DAY in paradise Matt thought as he headed down to Scotty’s Landing to meet his old friend and neighbor Pierre Baptiste. Palm trees planted along South Bayshore Drive swayed in the gentle breeze coming off the bay. The sky was a cloudless sapphire blue. The black asphalt street gleamed from the effects of the sun. The air-conditioning was going at full blast but the sun beating down on the roof of Matt’s CJ-5 Jeep Renegade created a sauna effect.

  Matt arrived at Scotty’s Landing just before 1 o’clock. He parked,
went in to sit at the bar and ordered a beer. Despite the heat, the marina deck and restaurant were packed. The locals were accustomed to the weather, and the tourists were not to be deterred in their pursuit of fun in the sun. The bayside restaurant was situated in the middle of a busy marina filled with boats, but had a casual laid-back atmosphere and serene setting. Every seat in the place enjoyed a view of Biscayne Bay where manatees floated by and occasionally pushed their snouts up to the surface for some air. Women in bikinis strutted their stuff between the various boats, the marina and the restaurant.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  Matt felt a heavy paw land on his right shoulder and turned to see Pierre grinning widely even as he sweated from the heat and the extra eighty pounds he carried. The man was clearly losing his ongoing battle with vaca frita and black beans and rice but that didn’t seem to affect his disposition at all.

  Matt rose and allowed himself to be enveloped into a bear hug. Pain shot through Matt’s left shoulder and he gritted his teeth.

  “Hey, buddy. How you doin’?” Matt said clapping Pierre on the back while at the same time trying to steer his face clear of the dark crescents in the armpits of his old friend’s shirt.

  “I’m hot as a pig on a spit. That’s how I am,” Pierre said finally letting Matt go. The bigger man ran his forearm across his glistening brow. When his round face emerged, he was still smiling. His coal-black face, dark eyes and bald head were a welcome sight for Matt’s tired eyes.

  “Have a seat, my brother!” Matt said gesturing to the stool beside him. “You look like a man in desperate need of some refreshment.” He waved to the young girl behind the bar.

  “Janie, a Bud Light for my friend here and another for me, please.”

  Pierre and Matt proceeded to engage in the male version of conversation, covering all the important points such as frustrating sports team performance and attractive women, peppered with brutal assaults on each other’s masculinity.

  “So, how was it over there?” Pierre finally asked.

  “Intense. Really intense,” Matt replied. “You wouldn’t believe the shit those people have been through — still go through every day.”

  “Are you gonna tell me about it or should I just wait to read about it in The Chronicle?”

  “I met with my boss yesterday, but he didn’t seem real receptive to my material. Seems the news business has changed a little since I’ve been gone. They think more “happy news” is going to help them increase their circulation and me going in to the nitty-gritty about what’s going on in Afghanistan these days doesn’t fall within that category.” Matt paused. “I’m not sure they’re going to run my stuff.”

  “I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Pierre replied. “The Chronicle is lucky to have you — and your material.”

  “I appreciate that, but I gotta tell you, Pierre. They didn’t seem real eager to have me back.”

  “You think that may have something to do with your exposé on Commissioner Suarez?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re trying to convince me that people around here aren’t interested in what’s going on in the Middle East.”

  “Well, the military does seem to finally have things under control.”

  Matt scoffed. “Yeah, I wish, Pierre.” Matt took a drink. “Based on my experiences, the situation is worse than ever. I saw Americans and Afghan noncombatants get blown to bits — in broad daylight no less. I also saw a lot of new construction over there — military bases — and that seemed to be a pretty strong indicator that the U.S. presence there is going to be significant and permanent. Don’t you think people want to know about that?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. I don’t,” Pierre admitted. “People are tired of hearing about the war and the money that’s being spent over there. I know I am. I read about the big bags of cash that the CIA was dropping off at President Karzai’s office and it just made me sick. Sick to my stomach thinking about how that money could be used over here.” Pierre shook his head. “And while the U.S. government is handing over that kind of cash, I have to worry about how I’m going take care of my parents as they get on or what happens if I get sick since I don’t have health insurance.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell between the two old friends. Matt was surprised to hear the big man’s confession, although he shouldn’t have been. Pierre’s parents were Haitian and had come to the United States back in the 1970s through the Dominican Republic. With only limited education, his parents had raised four children in the United States. Pierre was the oldest and ran a successful landscaping business from which he supported himself and a few other guys. Business had always seemed to be good, but Matt imagined that he struggled with making enough to provide for himself and still help out his parents who lived nearby. Both men stared out into the Bay as they sipped their drinks.

  “So have you called Dana to let her know you’re back in town?” Pierre asked.

  “Nah, man.” Matt said shaking his head firmly. “You know we left it on bad terms. She was pretty upset I was going.”

  “Well, I think she might have recovered from her grief.”

  “What are you talking about?” Matt said turning in his bar stool to look at Pierre directly. “Have you seen her?”

  Pierre nodded. “I was at Monty’s about a month ago. You remember that place?”

  Matt nodded yes.

  “It was late in the afternoon and she came by boat.” Pierre turned toward Matt and smiled. “Get this. It was a Cigarette Tiger Twin Step called ‘Dr. Feel Good’.” Both men grimaced. “The guy at the wheel must have been about fifteen years older than Dana and looked it. But Dana,” Pierre shook his head slowly from side to side. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. That girl sure looked fine.”

  Pierre paused and looked off into the distance.

  “And …” Matt finally prodded when it seemed like Pierre had gotten lost in his thoughts.

  “I spoke with her briefly.” Pierre continued quickly. “She asked about you.” Pierre shot Matt a meaningful look. “You should give her a call.”

  “Bad idea, my friend. You know I really didn’t have a chance with her. She was just slummin’ it with me until someone better came along. It looks like she found her man. And a doctor no less. I bet her mama sure is proud.”

  As Matt drove home from his afternoon with Pierre his thoughts drifted to his ex-girlfriend Dana Fried. She worked for the agency formerly known as the Immigration and Naturalization Services, or INS, until after September 11th when it had been absorbed by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. She was a lawyer specializing in immigration issues in several key regions including the Caribbean. They met when Matt was researching a story on the U.S. policy on Haitian immigrants compared to the policy on Cuban immigrants. Dana had been recommended by a friend as someone he could talk to and who could help provide some background for his story.

  Dana and Matt hit it off immediately and began dating just after his article was published. Their relationship was fun and passionate and, Matt had to admit, the closest thing to a real relationship he’d ever had.

  After they had been dating for several months, Dana started talking to Matt about his career. It started as questions about how his day went and he couldn’t help but he flattered she was interested in what he did. But Dana quickly moved from asking general questions about his job to offering specific career advice and then to pushing him in directions designed to advance his career down a sensible path. A path that required daily shaving, networking at various events and a new set of friends.

  He soon found himself being directed down a road he did not want to travel. She didn’t take it very well when Matt started ignoring her guidance and any discussions about his “professional progression” as she liked to call it.

  Matt began to realize just how driven Dana was, professionally and socially. She already had the successful career, having established herself as an expert on U.S. immigration policies. She was at a point in her life when she wanted to est
ablish herself in the center of the Miami social scene, a place her parents had long occupied. She served on several strategically chosen charity boards. She got invited to all the right events and attended most of them, mingling easily with the Miami elite. She had enough ambition for the two of them plus half the slackers in Matt’s own social circle.

  Matt was being dragged to those networking events and fundraisers that made it to the top of Dana’s pile of invitations. Once there, he was awkwardly rubbing elbows with Miami politicos, international businessmen and professional athletes. At first, it was pretty exciting stuff, but Dana approached these events as she did her career — with a singular focus on cultivating the relationships that would enable her to be accepted as a member of the group of professionals known as much for their connections as anything they may have accomplished.

  His aspirations were a lot less grand — a hot wife, a couple of kids and an interesting job that enabled him to travel occasionally to exotic locations to report on the latest political scandal or civilian uprising. Sure, he wanted to make enough money to support his family, maybe even enough to own a boat and a house in the Keys. That was about the extent of his dreams. Aside from the occasional Art Deco pub crawl on South Beach or some random international street festival, he had little interest in the Miami social scene.

  His decision to leave for Afghanistan just when the problems between Dana and him were coming to a head didn’t help matters. Dana saw Matt’s decision to run off to the Middle East, without the support of an embedded team of other reporters and heavy army escort — and knowing his views on the situation and guessing the nature of the stories he would be writing — as a very career-limiting move. She had always accused him of being politically tone deaf. In a moment of clarity, just days before he left, he realized that while she meant this as an insult, he did not consider her accusation a slur upon his character. He thought the opposite was true. Being politically tone-deaf was a condition he cultivated. It was, he believed, what made him a hell of a good investigative reporter.