“Good. That’s even better. I get the feeling this story is going to break national. The Atlanta Constitution has done a long article, and the Charlotte Observer has someone up there now. I’ve heard CNN may do something as well.”

Lee glanced at the wall clock. I wondered if he was checking how long before lunchtime and a chance to down a couple of Heinekens at the Capital Grill. I occasionally joined him there, and I’d seen how his eyes closed when he raised the green bottle for his first long swallow. I knew that was probably the high point of his working day, that he must have felt like a climber at altitude getting a hit of bottled oxygen.

“The story’s getting national play—is that how you were able to convince Hemphill to take it?”

“Hudson chose the assignment,” Lee said, “and pushed Hemphill hard. Hudson’s evidently getting tired of his highest-paid reporter covering chitlin struts and peach festivals.”

“So you wanted him on it as well?”

“I’m only doing what the boss wants, following the party line. But just because he’s won some hotshot awards,” Lee said, frustration in his voice, “it’s not like he’s earned the right to take a good salary and do nothing. If he was seventy and had been doing this fifty years, okay, but Hemphill’s thirty-nine for God’s sake. He hasn’t put in twenty years yet.”

More than just frustration, I thought, when Lee finished. Perhaps professional jealousy. Perhaps resentment that someone of a lower caste had surpassed him in status.

Lee glanced at the clock again. “Give Hudson credit. If he can get Hemphill off his ass, get him to write to his capability, this could be one hell of a story. Just pray they don’t get her out before that dam’s built, because you’ll get some good pictures, something UPI or Reuters might pick up.”

“I think I’ll save my prayers for a worthier cause.”

“Suit yourself,” Lee said, “but that girl can’t get any deader than she already is. If we get a good story out of what’s happening now, that’s not so terrible. It’s not hurting her.”

He laid his hand on my shoulder.

“I need to know by twelve if you want this. Otherwise, I’ll send Julian.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll let you know by twelve.”

His grip tightened. My Uncle Mark once told me that a man’s hands reveal a lot about him. Lee’s were smoother and softer than any woman’s I’d grown up with.

Lee let go of my shoulder and stepped out of my cubicle.

“If you don’t go, you’re disappointing not just me but Hemphill.”

“How so?” I asked. The question was directed at his back.