# 19 - Chapter Nineteen "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Nineteen 

Rob Wong jammed his smart phone into his pocket and rushed between the desks and people, to the surprise of the other reporters in the in The Inquirer’s Editorial Department.  To the applause and the cheers from his buddies, Wong was trying to get to to Robbi Sessions’ office as fast as he could. 

As one of the paper’s leading investigative reporters and former Pulitzer recipient to boot, she didn’t have to put up with the chaos of the open newsroom. She enjoyed the privilege of a glassed-in private office. 

When Rob arrived, he found that Sessions was tied up on a telephone call. Rob watched her behind the glass wall that somehow lifted her to a level above almost all the other reporters. She was seated behind her desk, and she was gesturing with one hand while she held the receiver with the other. 

Wong had to talk with her, but her door was closed. Rob paced back and forth in front of the glass wall separating them. And he kept pacing back and forth, glancing up at her every time he completed a circuit.

Finally, he saw her cradle the receiver and wave to him to enter. He didn’t hesitate, closed the door behind himself and plopped down in the chair across from her. 

Robbi smiled at him and said, “You look like you got something hot to say, like it’s burning your mouth and you gotta spit it out.”

Spit he did. “He wants to go public. Siegel just called me. He said we can identity him. He was all excited. He said Boswell just called him up to tell him he was a ‘person of interest,’ and he, that is Siegel, he’s all fed up.”

Sessions leaned back in her chair, looked at the ceiling and joined her hands. Without moving, she said, “So, whadda you think we should do?”

“We should plan a killer strategy,” Wong shot back. 

“Rob, you’re right. And I think a killer strategy should be putting on a performance. But first, we got a lot of work to do.”  

-0-

The three of them – Roberta Sessions, Rob Wong and El Siegel – were seated on the black leather couches in the living room of Siegel’s Queen Village row house. 

They drank coffee while waiting. 

“So, Mr. Siegel,” said Roberta Sessions, “think they’ll show up? I don’t how dependable the two of them are.”

Siegel thought for a few seconds. “Who knows? There’s a good chance they’ll make it to the front door. But once they see the two of you, or as soon as they learn you’re reporters, they could turn and just walk away. They’re expecting just little, old me, no one else. The only thing I told Buckley was I’m gonna be more cooperative, that’s all. They’re not expecting reporters from The Inquirer.”

“You know, Robbi can be pretty convincing,” Wong said. “She’s been at this game for a while. But I gotta admit it’s a gamble, like everything. So, Robbi, you all set?”

Sessions took another sip of her coffee. “I’ll give it my best, you know that. I think I know what my pitch’s gonna be; I’ll just try to push the right buttons, that’s all.” 

Silence fell over the room. They were alone with their thoughts. The meeting had been set for ten in the morning, and it was already almost a quarter after. They all realized it was a gamble, and there would be no recriminations if the gambit failed. 

Just five minutes later, three loud bangs from the front door brought them back to reality. They looked at each other. There had to be a good reason for not using the doorbell, and Sessions immediately sensed that it could be the first move in a contest for control. 

Siegel pushed himself up from the couch and walked to the front door. He put his hand on the knob, stopped for a second, turned around, and waited until Sessions nodded. 

He pulled the door open. Boswell pushed past him, as though he was in his own home. Buckley waited until Siegel moved to one side, and he also entered the room. 

“What the fuck’s going on?” Boswell shouted. He started to move his right hand toward his shoulder holster, but he stopped himself. “Who the fuck’re you? We came to talk to Siegel. Whoever you are, you’re gonna have to leave.” 

Sessions stood, but she did not advance toward Boswell. “Please, just give me a few seconds. Give me a chance to tell you what we’re proposing. Well, yes, we’re reporters, reporters from The Inquirer. My name’s Roberta Sessions, and this is Rob Wong.”

Wong nodded, but said nothing. 

“You know that The Inquirer has some sway in this town, and we have our sources in the police department.” Sessions paused for just an instant. 

Wong nodded his head just slightly, but again, he said nothing. 

Sessions continued. “We have a good idea about what’s going on. And we think there’s a chance we can help each other.” 

Boswell moved one step toward Sessions and stared directly at her. “Sure, sure, I think I heard that one before. If you know what’s going on, whadda you doing here?” 

Sessions was trying to act matter of fact, like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Everything’s been cleared. You don’t have anything to worry about. What’s important is that  . . . I honestly believe we can help you. Of course, we’re reporters, and we’d like a little help with a story. That’s all, and we don’t have to use your names.” 

“Help us? Whadda ya talking about?” Boswell moved one step closer to Sessions. “You don’t know anything. We didn’t come here to talk to reporters. We’re here to talk with Mr. Siegel.” 

“Just give me a chance to explain.” Sessions didn’t drop her gaze, but looked directly at Boswell. “We know what’s going on. We know you’re being forced to do something you know is wrong. We can help you.” 

Boswell said, “We don’t need any help. This is a police matter. This isn’t a media event.” 

Sessions said, “Of course, it’s up to you. And I can’t tell you who our police sources are. But if you’re looking for a way out . . .” 

Buckley moved close to Boswell and spoke softly, “I’d listen, why not? It can’t hurt. What if the press could help?” 

“Look’it, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t the two of you talk it over? Just an idea,” Sessions said. “Get a little air, take a look at the river, whatever. We’ll wait right here. The decision’s yours. I’m telling you we can help you. I’m telling you we been in touch with our police sources, guys that want to do the right thing and shut down any cops in the system taking advantage of the system for their personal gain.” 

“How we know you’re telling the truth?” Buckley glanced at Boswell.

“You know how life is, no guarantees,” Sessions said. “You gotta look at us, look us straight in the eye, and form your own judgments. So, we’ll wait here. If you think we’re full of shit, pardon my French, just take off and leave, or arrest us. Or we’ll leave, no hard feelings. But if you think we can work together, com’on back. We’ll try to help you, and you’ll try to help us.” 

She looked straight at them. “Deal, yes or no?” 

Boswell didn’t say anything, but he headed for door and opened it. He motioned with a jerk of the head for Buckley to follow him. The two detectives exited, closed the front door of Siegel’s house and started walking down the block toward the east, toward the grassy areas and the parking area and the Delaware River beyond. 

“I think they’re full of shit, that’s what I think,” Boswell said. “We oughtta cuff both of ‘em and charge ‘em with impeding a police investigation, that’s what I think.”

“Just think, man,” Buckley said. “Just think, what you decide right now, what happens now, somehow it’s gonna decide what happens to you for the rest of your life. What you decide now, you’re gonna carry for the rest of your life.”

Boswell smiled and then pretended to hold back a laugh. “You’re not gonna start playing the big philosopher on me, are you?”

It was a pleasant early summer morning. The air was fresh, and there was a slight breeze coming in from the Delaware River. Getting out of Siegel’s small row house, the open air lowered the tension for both detectives. 

They were walking east and, in front of them, they could see the trees loaded with pink blossoms and the grassy areas, where a few neighbors were playing with their dogs running free. 

“It’s the truth. Just think about it,” Buckley said. “Remember? You told me, just a couple days ago, you said you’re in deep shit, and you don’t know what to do. I don’t know what you done. I’m sure there’s gonna be a price to pay. But we know Siegel didn’t kill that girl. We know it. And the captain, McAllister, is telling you to pin the murder on him. Maybe you could squeeze out of it somehow for now. But then, man, you’d be under the captain’s thumb forever.”

Boswell said, “That women, she’s playing some kinda role, tryin’ to make us think she’s got connections way up the chain of command. I don’t know, the commissioner? That’s impossible.” 

“It’s your decision, man. You’re the lieutenant, you’re the guy with the history. I’m a sergeant, big deal, huh? I think now it’s decision time. It’s a risk; you don’t wanna spend the rest of your life lookin’ over your shoulder, wonderin’ if someone’s following you, if someone’s gonna try to knock you off.”

“You know what I think?” Boswell was raising his voice. “I think it’s all a load of shit, and it’s gonna blow up in my face.”

Buckley remained calm. “I’m saying, it’s already blowing up in our faces. What they say? You gotta bring Siegel around. Think we can do that? He’s not gonna roll over. Why should he? What’s gonna happen then? What else can we do? Tell the whole story to our real boss, Captain Schaeffer? I don’t think that’s gonna protect us. What else we got? Internal Affairs? Tellin’ ‘em’s a longshot.” 

“So, if we tell them what’s really going on, and there’s a story in the paper, what good can that do?  Who reads the paper, anyway?”

“I got no crystal ball,” Buckley said. “I really can’t tell you. But maybe, an article in The Inquirer could bust the whole thing up. McAllister and whoever he’s working with, they sure don’t want people to know what they’re doing. Maybe there’d be a big outcry. Maybe there’d be public pressure. Who knows?” 

The two detectives reached the parking area. They faced a chain-link fence. They looked out at the view of the Delaware River and on the far bank the battleship, USS New Jersey, moored on the Camden docks.

Then, Buckley noticed something that got him wondering. In the parking area, there was an old Chevy truck, and on the side panels was written “Aunt Alice’s Candle House,” along with images of brightly colored candles and a smudged telephone number.

Buckley couldn’t remember where he’d seen that name before. It troubled him. And he noticed that, jammed under the driver-side windshield wiper was a parking violation. 

When Buckley turned toward Boswell, he saw his boss’s face crease up like he’d seen a ghost. 

Buckley turned Boswell and said, “Look’it, man, you been telling me you’re in really deep shit. And you don’t know what to do. Well, I’m not saying this woman and the other reporter, I’m not sayin’ they’re the best choice. I’m saying they might be the only choice.”

“Ya know something?” Boswell said, and his face showed a rare openness. “From the beginning, I knew you’re a pretty smart guy. I know, I’m the boss, and sometimes I push it. But you can think things through, you can work them out in your mind, and I just can’t.”

Then Boswell, his eyes almost pleading, looked at Buckley. “You tellin’ me we oughtta do it, we oughtta gamble on those two reporters?” 

“Yeah, I honestly think it’s the right thing, our best chance.” 

Boswell turned away from the chain-link face and started to walk back up the street to Siegel’s house. Buckley followed.

  When the two detectives arrived back at Siegel’s house, Boswell grabbed the door handle and found the door unlocked. He turned the handle, pushed the door open and marched to the center of the living room. 

  “We’ll do it,” Boswell announced. “But you better be telling us the truth, you better do what you promise. And if you try to screw us, there’s gonna be a couple empty desks at The Inquirer.”  

-0-

Boswell and Buckley spent the next two hours in Siegel’s living room. Sessions and Wong asked one question after another, and Wong scribbled the officers’ responses on a yellow legal pad. Once in a while, the questions were directed to Siegel, and he gave full, truthful answers. 

It was almost five in the afternoon when Sessions and Wong got back to The Inquirer’s offices. Immediately they locked themselves in Session’s office, and she contacted two officials at Police headquarters, one after the other. On the speaker-phone, the two reporters related the outlines of what they’d already learned, and Wong took notes. The police officials did not ask the names of the detectives, and neither of the reporters volunteered them. 

When Wong rushed to his desk and started writing, it was already after six. He had hoped to write the story and make the late deadline for the morning edition of The Inquirer. Sessions, understanding in her voice, told him it just wasn’t possible. She placed an order for sandwiches and soft drinks to be delivered, and then briefed City Editor Del Wynn and Editor-in-Chief Morrie Robbins.

Wong finished the first draft, and then – while they chomped on their sandwiches – Wong and Sessions polished the text until they were convinced the story took the right approach and was accurate and fair. Totally exhausted, they forwarded the draft to Wynn and Robbins.

Sessions and Wong agreed to meet early the next morning. During the day, the story would get its final edit, The Inquirer’s legal staff would review it, and members of the editorial board might also review it. And then, if the story survived, illustration and layout would present its final form. 

-0- 

Wong arrived at the office at seven the next morning with Wawa coffee and donuts, ready to roll up his sleeves, answer any questions, add any information, and make any editing changes requested the paper’s lawyers or editors. 

No changes were requested.

The entire day was a waiting game. As the time passed, Wong felt increasingly uneasy. Sitting at his desk in the newsroom, he hoped he would be asked to verify some fact in the story, or urgently produce a block of text to clarify an element just mentioned in passing. No requests were made of him. He tried to create some task for himself, but his mind kept returning to the story and his desperate hope of its approval. 

Around noon, he left the newsroom and walked to the entrance area. He looked at the bank of elevators and wondered if he should grab a sandwich, but he rejected the idea; he realized an answer could come at any moment. He turned and examined the row of snack-vending machines. For no reason, he turned away and returned to his desk. 

Then Wong was hit by a premonition, a visual premonition. The scene was almost real. He could see it. Some top editor, or maybe a young lawyer entered the newsroom, shake his head, and then say simply that The Inquirer could not publish the story. 

When he shared his doubts with Sessions, she simply repeated the same phrase: “Whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen. It’s out of our hands. There’s a lot of considerations we just can’t know. Just remember: We delivered a very strong story.” 

And Wong answered with the same phrases more than once: “I swear, I never lived a time like this. If it’s published, I think they’re some bad guys out there not too happy with this story. Then, my only thought’s gonna be if I get past the next few days alive.”

Mid-afternoon, approval came in the form of a telephone call from Morrie Robbins to Sessions. Around two, Sessions located Wong at his desk and said: “Robbins just called me. It’s a go.”

Wong felt a wave of relief, and anxiety. He asked, “That’s it. Just a few words?”

“No,” she said. “One other thing: Morrie liked your work. You have a new job here. Congrats.”  

-0-

The Inquirer’s early morning edition hit the streets at three the following morning. The article was on the front page, above the fold. 

Below is the beginning of the article, followed by an overview of the remaining text:  

Murder Puts the Drug Trade in the Crosshairs 

By Rob Wong and Roberta Sessions 

Inquirer Investigative Reporters 

She was twenty-eight years old and already a rising star in Philadelphia’s burgeoning world of poetry. Since her teenage years in Cincinnati, where she lived before settling in Philly, her works had already been published in poetry journals, and in her new home she was helping other poets improve their works and get them published. 

About four weeks ago, the lifeless body of Faith Gruen, wrapped in plastic sheeting, was discovered by two boys looking for their soccer ball in the middle of a stand of trees in Fairmount Park. An autopsy determined that she had died from the loss of blood from more than a dozen knife wounds, and that she had been raped. 

Until yesterday, the Philadelphia Police Department had never revealed Faith Gruen’s murder. No announcement was made, and it was not listed on the department’s official log. However, police sources revealed, several teams of detectives have been conducting investigations into her murder. 

And the sources said that her parents had been informed of her murder, and they traveled from their Cincinnati home to identify their daughter’s body and take possession of her remains. The sources acknowledged that her parents were not told the circumstances of her murder. 

Now, according to these sources, the Police Department has expanded the investigation to include two other murders and the drug war between a several drug cartels competing for the Philadelphia market. 

The two other murders involve one unidentified male and another male victim who has been identified as a Russian citizen, these sources said. Both male bodies were also discovered in the same stand of trees in Fairmount Park, where Gruen’s body was discovered. 

In addition, the sources said, the expanded investigation includes a review of police personnel to determine if any current officers have been in contact with a drug cartel, one – in particular – that could be operated by a Russian national. 

Contacted by The Inquirer, the office of Police Commissioner Ralph DiNardo issued the following statement:  “The safety and security of the people of Philadelphia are the priorities of our department. Rest assured that we have an ongoing program to attack the illicit drug trade in our city and remove the scourge of death and lawlessness drug cartels have caused. I can’t give you any details on our program; as we know, the walls have ears. But I can inform you at the moment of our choosing, our program will be evident to you and to the criminals it’s aimed at. We all love our city, and we will insure all of our residents and visitors enjoy true safety and security, and a sense of safety and security.”   

Faith Gruen was an active member of the poetry group “Wonder Words,” which meets Wednesday evenings at the Philadelphia restaurant Gertie’s Pub. The head of the group is Bruce Moore, who organizes the poetry readings, publishes collections of his group’s works, and assists other poetry groups in the Philadelphia area. 

“My heart goes out to Faith’s family, all of her friends, and all those who have worked with her and grown to love and respect her,” Moore said. “Faith was a poet of exceptional and unique talent, and she was a wonderful, giving person who never hesitated to assist her fellow lovers of the arts, in particular poetry. The world is poorer without her.”   

The Inquirer story continued for another seventeen paragraphs, detailing Faith Gruen’s life in Cincinnati, her studies at Haverford College in the Philadelphia suburbs, and in Philadelphia; the results of the police investigation so far, including the autopsies of the three murder victims; and experts’ opinions on what actions the Police Department would likely take.