NINE
Freddie had just walked into the newsroom at the San Francisco Sentinel when a man in his late 30s with black curly hair and a goatee motioned to him. He wore Dockers and a button-down shirt and tie, and he was standing outside one of the glass offices that ringed the newsroom. Freddie nodded. Here it comes, he thought. He could feel the dread in the pit of his stomach. Was everyone staring at him as he made his way through the sea of desks and cubicles in the crowded newsroom? Or was it his imagination? He was used to it by now, or at least he tried to convince himself that he was used to it.
“You interview the source, Freddie?” the man said as Freddie came up to him.
Freddie looked up at him. “Not yet.”
“What happened? You talked to her, right?”
“Yes, well, I tried, Tom, but sh
