Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

“Amen,” Prado said.

Cal sighed and looked down, shaking his head. “So, if I can’t write about what really happened, what can I say? You know my editor is going to demand a story—and won’t take no for an answer.”

“That’s a good question.”

CHAPTER 58

IT WAS EARLY SEPTEMBER and Cal stared at his laptop screen, banging out a few lines he thought were sharp and witty in anticipation of Vicente Prado’s rousing debut. Since his return to the U.S., Prado played like a man on fire and earned a late-season call-up to the Major Leagues. Safeco Field contained more empty seats than not and the team had been eliminated from the race to win the American League West division. It was the perfect environment for a debut.

For weeks, Cal sat on Prado’s story, mostly due to Buckman’s reluctance to let him publish it. But when the Mariners announced that Prado had been impressive enough to earn a late-season call-up, Buckman green-lighted the story.

While Cal had earned a well-deserved fine reputation for exposing cover-ups in the world of sports, Prado’s story was different. It was about one man’s quest to better his life against all odds—even if it meant dancing in the dark shadows for a while. And Cal wrote it flawlessly.

“This might be your best work yet,” Buckman told him.

Cal was inclined to agree, though he ascribed to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s line of thinking that every writer always thinks his best work is his latest one—until it settles into its proper place. But Cal struggled to see how his reporting on this story, not to mention his personal experience, could be trumped by anything he’d written in his career. The real story—the one that would undoubtedly win him an award—was a story he couldn’t tell. Or at least, it was a story he wouldn’t write out of respect for Tom Corliss. He had to come to terms with the fact that some stories are best left unwritten.

Cal shot a glance at Josh Moore, who was seated on his right. “Think he gets a hit tonight?”

Moore smiled. “I think he gets two and the Mariners win for the first time in a week. What about that?”

Cal shook his head. “There’s a reason you don’t work in Vegas.”

However, Prado’s debut was far more interesting given the fact that Pablo Guerrero was starting on the mound for the Texas Rangers. Two former teammates from Cuba would be going after each other.

While Cal typed up a few game notes for Josh, his phone buzzed. He picked it up and answered it—Tom Corliss was on the other line.

“Thank you for being so discreet in your story today,” Corliss said. “I read it online.”

“No, thank you. I appreciated your challenging me to write it without compromising national security.” Cal paused. “By the way, what’s happening with that?”

“Off the record.”

“Of course.”

“Let’s just say a series of earthquakes in the Greater Antilles this week will only affect Cuba. And it might hamper any construction efforts being made on Isla de la Juventud.”

“Outstanding.”

“Yeah, and it wouldn’t have been possible without you. The Bureau owes you a big thank you, as does DHS.”

“Just tell them to send me a check,” Cal quipped.

“Now, that’s funny.”

“Whatever happened to Torres and Ortega? I hope you went somewhat easy on those guys?”

“They both got probation, while Waller and Hampton both got a promotion.”

“God, help us all.”

Corliss chuckled.

“What about you?” Cal asked. “Did you earn any commendations for exposing the human trafficking ring they were running?”

“No, but I did get a promotion—and a raise,” Corliss admitted.

“Excellent.”

“Well, I just wanted to say thanks. You probably need to get back to your game.”

Cal smiled. “I’ll always make time for you. Thanks again for your help.”

“Sure thing.” Corliss hung up.

Cal returned his focus to the field and proceeded to watch Prado turn in one of the greatest debuts of any Mariner in the franchise’s history. A three-run homer along with two doubles and seven runs batted in. After Prado's first at bat, the crowd buzzed whenever he strode to the plate, with fans chanting, “El Roque! El Roque!”

After Guerrero exited the game, Cal wandered down to the clubhouse to make sure he could interview Prado first before all the regular beat reporters and TV station reporters jammed microphones in his face.

Cal meandered down the visiting team’s tunnel first. He wanted to catch up with Dusty Drummond. When he entered the Rangers’ locker room, Drummond sat on a couch, staring at his phone.

“Looks like maybe you took the wrong guy,” Cal said, hoping to get Drummond to say something inane. He didn’t take the bait.

“Guerrero will come around,” Drummond said, refusing to look up. “Besides, he got a ton of guaranteed money, thanks to me.”

“There won’t be any more of it where that came from if he pitches like that every time out,” Cal snapped. “You had a chance to take both of them—you were a fool.”

Drummond sneered at Cal and returned to his reading.

Cal sauntered over to the Mariners’ clubhouse. The minute the game ended, Prado raced into the locker room.

“Prado, wanna talk?” Cal asked.

Prado’s face lit up. “Let’s make it quick before the other reporters get here.” He paused. “I can’t thank you enough for all you did.”

Cal felt embarrassed. He wanted to report the news, not make it.

But he didn’t mind too much. A story about Prado’s debut into the Major Leagues would make the perfect follow-up to his article about all the trials the Cuban defector had endured.

And judging from the grin on Prado’s face, Cal figured the journey must’ve been worth it for the Cuban who lived up to his nickname in every possible way.

THE END

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

BASEBALL WAS MY FIRST LOVE when it came to sports thanks to my grandfather delivering me a baseball signed by an unknown catcher at the time named