Martin Towers did not try to return to the Koala Bay Bugle. Miles took what revenge he could by making sure that the Telegraph’s news editor knew that Towers had stolen the story and had never been at the incident. That senior editorial personage pointed out that it was hardly the Telegraph’s problem if the Bugle Group could not keep its stories under wraps until publication, but Towers’ byline did not appear in any of the major papers for a long time after that. The other major result from the incident was that for weeks afterwards Miles kept seeing stories in various media about renewed faction fighting in the state Labor party. A Labor party official also rang him to check, off the record, whether Barry McKinnon had made the threat described and, by the by, what was the involvement of Martin Towers? Miles set him straight.
He would have made sure that his fellow reporters knew all about incident but before he even thought to pick up a phone the story had flashed all around the Bugle group of its own accord, with the details being exaggerated to the point of Miles pushing Towers all the way downstairs. Apart from head shaking and frowns from the women reporters about the use of violence in the office the general feeling among the oppressed journalists of the Bugle Group was that Miles had struck a blow for their side, with the incident adding weight to the general opinion that Miles was an “operator”.
As for the consultant himself, he tried visiting the other Bugle offices as if nothing had happened, but was treated warily. Certainly no one made the mistake of showing him their lead stories. When he asked to see stories he was shown items about sports star of the month, missing war medals, local kids suffering from cancer, brawls over rubbish collection days, attempts to preserve disused railway stations and vandals tearing down soccer goal posts. What could he say about those stories? Towers looked at them blankly. He tried speaking to the subs at South Forest but they soon worked out that he knew nothing about subbing or production, and had no idea about the pressures under which they worked. Then the health of Tom, the senior reporter on the South Forest paper and Jake’s immediate senior, took a turn for the worse. The doctors told him to retire. By that time Jake was quite capable of doing the job if given some assistance but Justin, who had taken Martin to the pub every time he showed his nose at South Forest, had the bright idea of putting in the consultant as a relief senior reporter to show the other reporters in the group how it was all done. After some hesitation, an assurance that it was only temporary and that he need only worry about “big” stories, Towers decided he would rise to the challenge. He thought it might be good for a few amusing stories for his colleagues when he got back to a “real” newspaper. No-one bothered to tell Jake, who only found out about the appointment to his own newspaper when Towers started sitting at Tom’s desk. After two days he rang Miles to ask why his friend had not pushed the consultant harder.
“Don’t reckon it’s even registered with this guy that I’m on the same paper,” Jake said. “He thinks that paper fills itself. Reckon I can get him to the top of the stairs here and give him a shove?”
“Been done. Its passe,” said Miles. “You think up your own way of getting rid of the bastard.”
“Hmm! What about those big rolls of paper the printers use.” (The rolls stood waist high and could only be moved with a specially adapted fork lift truck.) “Lure him out there; get the printers to push a stack on him and send for the hearse.”
“Maaaate, those rolls cost money. Don’t damage ‘em. Why not try lecturing him in philosophy? If that doesn’t get rid of him then nothing will.”
“Could try telling him about Derrida, the French deconstruction guy. Even philosophers describe him as ‘subtle’, so no one else has a hope in hell of understanding him. I’ll give him a shot.”
“What’s Towers doing anyway, if he’s not writing stories?” asked Miles.
“Fucked if I know. Looking for big stories I think.”
“Good luck in South Forest.”
Despite Jake’s best efforts, Towers was able to cause Miles yet more trouble. After two days the consultant “found” a story about faction fighting on McCarrs council. The senior reporter on the McCarrs paper tried telling the consultant that his big story was a minor dispute about parking on the main street of McCarrs CBD, and barely worth reporting, but his objections did not register. Towers insisted that two pages be cleared of ads for a host of stories on this monster scoop. He succeeded in filling both of them plus the front page and, to Miles’ disgust, a cut down version of the main story appeared in his own paper. All that nonsense triggered a steam of calls and letters to Justin who finally reacted by taking Towers out for drinks one day and not bringing him back. Jake was left to fill the paper without any help.
For Miles, the affairs of both the group political journalist and the editorial consultant would have completed his disillusionment with the Bugle Group if he had not already been fully disillusioned. He knew that he should move on, but where? Having slaved away for a year and a bit his CV had improved, and he had a few stories of interest to attach to it. But now he was reluctant to leave Sydney as that would mean leaving Anne. They had started going out, with her insisting that they do things on the cheap, and riding determinedly in his Orange utility.
To keep up with all these delights and still take a step up professionally, the Newcastle Herald was a good bet, being close enough to northern Sydney for him to continue to see Anne and play football. The editors on the Newcastle paper said they would keep him in mind but they were not hiring yet. What about a radio station in Newcastle? Miles also tried the metro media outlets, more in hope than expectation. He put his CV out to the papers, all the magazines and wire services and followed up with phone calls. In other words, he did the rounds, but with little success. The fortunes of the news media in general were still down and the supply of journalists well up.
In all of this the Koala Bay Tower Complex went through the final round of approvals, with one of the last hurdles being an evening meeting convened by council to consult with residents over last minute changes to the complex. Miles felt obliged to attend, which meant extra time for no thanks and no reward - requests to be paid for overtime were futile - and had little to show for his efforts except for one incident.
Only a handful of residents bothered to attend, mostly retirees with time on their hands, plus the odd activist still hoping that the project could be stopped. Miles took in the state of the meeting at a glance but had to stay to the end when the convener asked for questions. The one question was a query about when the project would start. Miles was walking out when he met the city manager, Michaels, going in.
“Just checking up on the meeting, Miles,” he said. “No quotes today.” Then he dropped his voice. “Miles have you been going through your mail recently?”
“You mean the ordinary mail? If I get any. Why?”
“Just keep looking out for your mail,” he said and walked on.
The next morning a plain white envelope arrived in the mail. Inside was a copy of the council planning report for the foreshore development. Miles knew it was the planning report because he had done a story on it when it had been issued by council. It had given approval for the monstrous building. So what else was new? Clipped to the front was a note, reading
“Read and ring me – BM”.
So why was Michaels sending him a copy of the planning report which he already had? thought Miles. He flipped over a few pages, puzzled, glanced at the conclusion and his eyes widened. He read the passage again, then re-read it, then closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head, and read it again. The conclusion was different. The development could not be allowed to go above six storeys, not 11 as proposed. The first report said 11 was permissible. Miles looked back through the report. What had changed? After a few minutes hunting he found it. Two long paragraphs in the main body of the report he had, which were not in the report issued by council, cited an old council regulation forbidding development within a set distance of the beach to be higher than six storeys. The developers could have 11 if they sited the project further back from the beach, but not 11 on the allotted site. They had to stick with six, unless council changed the regulations. Council could vote to change its own regulations, said the report, but state government laws concerning the foreshore had also changed since council had passed the bylaw. Councils were free to administer existing bylaws, but changes to bylaws concerning foreshore developments, such as the one under discussion, had to be referred to various government departments including, crucially, the Department of Environment and Conservation. Any one of those bodies could delay or even reject the changes.
How had the report come to be altered?
“Miles, been expecting your call,” said Michaels, when the reporter rang. “It has occurred to me you haven’t seen my own little place. Modest compared with your father’s stud but it has its moments.”
“Sure,” said Miles taking the hint. “Sounds great. Is it possible to do it tonight?”
“Miles, you’re an impatient young man, no one else has what you’ve got. Saturday will do. Have lunch. Then you can go off to your girl.”
There is nothing worse than having a potential block-buster page one story and then having to sit on it, while sources got around to telling you vital pieces of information. To make things worse, there was simply no way the story would go into the paper for the following Tuesday. He had to get a formal response from council and then fight with the company lawyers, and who knew how that would work out?
He was there on the dot of 12. It was a sizable piece of land about an hour’s drive north and west from Koala Bay CBD, but hardly large enough for a proper stud. Coming out to greet his guest, Michaels could see the high countryman’s eye gauging the size of the place and quickly pointed out that the horses could be run on public land down the road. Apart from the space, Miles could find little to criticise in the city manager’s property, right from the horse’s accommodation through to an almost adequate sprint racing track, and the three horses actually in residence at the time. One was a promising young thoroughbred mare who came over to the paddock rail to inspect the newcomer. Expecting to meet horses, Miles had wrapped up a few sugar lumps in his pocket. He gave one to the mare, who visibly warmed to the stranger.
“Misty Bay here could do with a bit more exercise,” said Michaels. “Care to take him over a few jumps?” Michaels had a few small jumps set out in his extended backyard on which he was teaching his grandchildren to jump horses.
“Is that okay?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Miles adjusted the stirrups to his height, mounted and swung Misty Bay to the miniature jumping course. The horse and rider team sailed over the obstacles at an easy canter almost, it seemed, without breaking stride.
“You are from Snowy country,” Michaels said when the pair returned.
“Born to the saddle,” said Miles then swung off the horse. “He’s a heap different from the horses they’ve got at the riding stable.”
“You can stay on a while longer. Misty Bay could do with a bit more exercise.”
Miles smiled and shook his head, a little sadly, Michaels thought.
“No. Thanks but no. I like Misty too much already. If I stay on I’ll get the urge to go back home. I’m out now…” Misty Bay nudged Miles in the hope of another sugar cube, which she got, “and I’m going to stay out.”
They talked about Misty Bay while they took her to the stable, rubbed her down and put her in a stall. By then Miles had ran out of sugar cubes, so he gave the horse one last, regretful pat on the snout and followed Michaels inside. He did not get a sit down lunch; Miles did not see any of Michaels’ wife or family. Instead he got sandwiches on the back porch, where they could have a quiet, off the record chat.
“Didn’t anyone spot the problem with approving 11 storeys,” Miles asked.
“Outside the planning staff? No, the by law is old and obscure. I didn’t realise it was there until I saw the original report and went searching for it, and I’ve been city manager for five years. It’d come out if anyone challenged approval, but no one’s going to do that.”
“But what happens if they started building it, and someone finds out about this bylaw?”
“Once the building’s started it’s hard to stop it or not ask the courts for an exemption. Maybe they can keep on building; certainly they can sue council. I’d have to ask our own lawyers what would happen. But the regulation mightn’t have come to light until after the building is finished, or not even then, as council just don’t want to know about any problems with it.”
“I see.. so this was the doing of the planner.. Jon Watkins.” Watkins was the head of the planning department.
“Don’t know, Miles,” said Michaels firmly. “Maybe it was changed somehow after he saw it but I doubt it. For something this important he’d know what the report had said, and have consulted all the bylaws.”
“Must’ve been a lot of money involved?”
Michaels, who had been looking out over his property, glanced sideways at Miles and nodded. “Guess so.”
“Any idea, how much?”
Michaels shook his head in mild irritation at the question. “Only way to find out is to start asking questions and he’d know someone had given me a copy of the original report. What I want to know is why the born fool didn’t hunt out all copies on his computer, and the backups on the system drives but he didn’t and someone found the original – I won’t say who. Now that the original is about to become public, he’s for it. The police will be called; corruption investigators will have a field day. I’ll have to testify. I’ll have to prove I didn’t know about this. Half of my staff will be called to the stand; there’ll be articles in the media.”
“Sounds messy.”
“Miles,” said Michaels turning to fix the reporter with a stare, “it’s very, bloody messy. I don’t want to do it. I would do a great deal to avoid doing it.”
“But you’ve given the report to me.”
“Yes, I’ve given it to you. Any complaints?”
“Not likely, but why give it to me? Why not report it to the Mayor or council?”
“Like any council manager I am, of course, the loyal servant of the Lovett Bay council but, as a good servant, I know when to shield my masters from temptation. They’re all in favor of the project, and they may make an improper request of me. If we try to pretend the report hasn’t been altered, we’d become just as guilty as Jon and he could keep on doing it. Start offering his services. Maybe he’s already been doing it. Then he’ll get caught doing something else and they’ll come asking questions of the city manager who allowed him to keep operating. No thanks. I’m too close to retirement.”
“On the other hand, if the report should happen to fall into the hands of the media which then writes about it – well, there you are. I’m not labelled as a whistleblower; and council won’t be tempted to shove it under the carpet. They’ll be forced to follow procedures - there’ll be no silliness’ or, heaven help us, breaches of the Local Government Act. And if the Local Government Act is breeched then you never know where you are, do you?”
As he sat there in the sun on Michaels’s stud, Miles was not thinking of the story he had to write - it was not that difficult - he was thinking that the story would not be popular with a lot of people.
“So are you in favour of the project?” he asked Michaels.
“’Course I’m in favour of the project. Just what Koala Bay needs, some sort of landmark. Pity we now all have to follow procedure but there ‘tis. We follow procedure. Ring me during the week and tell me about this report you’ve been handed. I shall be suitably horrified, check the regulation and inform the mayor. We’ll work up a public comment, confirming its existence and saying that we have started an investigation. We’ll tell the developers the bad news and then crucify Jon.”
They were silent for a moment.
“I like Jon,” said Miles. He had met the planner once.
“I like him too and he has a young family, but he’s been naughty. I just hope it’s not too bad in his section… Good town planners are hard to come by.”
The next week Miles went through hoops as he had been instructed. The story had literally been dropped in his lap but he still had to do a lot of work on it, including getting comments from all parties. He officially contacted council and, in short order, he had both the mayor and Councilor Coustas on the phone cross-questioning him about the report. Then the council came back with an official comment, confirming the existence of the overlooked regulation, that approvals for the project had been withdrawn and that town planner Jon Watkins had been stood down pending further investigation. The developer Graeme Clark rang him before he could ring Clark. The developer had long been disgusted over Miles’ refusal to act as unpaid publicist for the project, and now that disgust had developed into hatred.
“You’re a disgrace!” he said, the moment Miles picked up the phone.
“Sorry?”
“You heard me. Everyone’s in favour of this project; everyone except a bunch of half-arsed Greenies. Who cares about this fucked bylaw.”
“Well sure, Mr. Clark, but I didn’t make it a bylaw. All I’m saying is that it’s there.”
“Bullshit! You’re a parasite. A good for nothing low life that wants to throw muck.”
“You are entitled to your opinion of me, Mr. Clark,” said Miles, thinking that when the police came for Clark – the developer had almost certainly bribed Jon Watkins - he would take great pleasure in writing about it. “But I’m interested in any printable comment you have to make about this. Development approvals have been withdrawn and the project has to be redesigned for six storeys, before it can go ahead. What do you intend doing now?”
“I’ll tell you what my comment is,” said Graeme, almost snarling into the phone. “My comment is that if you print this you’ll be in disgrace – you’ll be disgraced in all of Koala Bay.”
With that he hung up.
His friends took the news of his declared disgrace lightly.
“You’re socially ruined aren’t you,” said Anne, laughter in her voice. “I don’t know if I can go out with anyone who’s in disgrace in Koala Bay. What will my friends think?”
“Your friends don’t know where it is?”
“I can point it out to them on a map.”
Jake had his own tale of woe.
“I was disgraced once in all of the philosophy department after a particularly nasty incident involving a professor’s bar fridge.”
“Sounds grim. Was it you?”
“Nah, nah! I wus framed. I’m sure it was the post doc, but I was blamed because they found an empty can of VB under my desk. I ask you, what philosophy student doesn’t have an empty can of beer under his desk?”
One immediate result of the story about the report was to land him straight back in Justin’s office with Eve and this time just the female lawyer, Ms. Moore.
“You’re becoming a fixture here, Miles,” said Justin, with some semblance of bon homie. He wanted to put on a show for the lawyers. Miles did his best to smile but he was thinking of the time that the lawyers had killed his, as it turned out, completely accurate report on Werribee and Wilson.
“Whatever happened to Werribee and whatsit?” asked Justin, as if he had been reading Miles’ thoughts.
“Closed up shop and gone. They weren’t much interesting in telling me where.”
“Funny about that,” said Justin.
“Yeah, funny,” said Miles, smiling, trying to show that he too could exchange banter.
“Look the story is just completely unusable,” said Ms Moore, interrupting all this camaraderie and shaking her head. “We can’t write ‘Council town planner Jon Watson could not be contacted for comment.
“Why the hell not?” asked Justin.
“Because its implying he wrote these various reports.”
“He did.”
“How do we know that?”
“He’s head planner and the report has his name on it,” snapped Miles.
“Hmm! Well, what about this opening sentence, ‘An overlooked council regulation concerning buildings on the foreshore omitted from the original council planning report has derailed the $30 million foreshore club development.’
“So what the fuck’s the problem,” said Justin.
“Well, we’re saying the project won’t go ahead.”
“So? Council’s already said they’re going to can it.”
“But it’s a big project and this is just a.. just a local paper.”
“We’re too small to write the truth?” said Miles, deciding that he hated this woman. She had been tolerable over the Werribee and Wilson story, even ringing him to tell him not to worry, but now she was being deliberately obstructive.
“Well, yes,” she spread her hands. “I mean, too small to write the truth when it’s this damaging. I know you guys want to be a great big watch dog just like the Herald or the Telegraph but you guys are more like.. like..”
“Like lap dogs?” inquired Miles, a dangerous edge to his voice.
The lawyer missed the edge entirely and smiled, glad that her listener had grasped his point. “Yes, that’s it a lap dog.”
“A poodle then?”
She smiled again, although more nervously. “Well, you can be whatever animal you want…”
“So what’s behind this?” snapped Justin. “You haven’t called us poodles before. Lawyers don’t insult clients unless there’s a reason.
Her smile faded. “Well, we’ve had a letter from a firm Clark and Hart, threatening us with substantial legal action if there is any matter arising in the story.”
“Sounds like you have a problem there,” said Justin.
“Mr. Clark is a very well-known lawyer.”
“He’ll be even better known,” said Justin, “when the Independent Commission Against Corruption starts to look at this.”
“He is very respected.”
“ICAC spends a lot of time talking to respected guys, just like the police fraud squad. At their headquarters, I’m told, there’s one line for ordinary people and another for respected people. They say the respected person’s line is longer.”
“I don’t think you’ve taking this with the seriousness that it should be taken.”
“I’m taking it very fucking seriously.”
“We could be sued.”
“More work for you in fighting it.”
“We can’t run with the story as it is,” she wailed wringing her hands.
“Why the hell not. We have the original draft report and Council’s confirmed that there is a problem. They’ve even rescinded approvals for the project, which the paper has to report. I dunno if the Bugle Group is a lap dog, but even lap dogs bark occasionally, especially when a fucking huge story drops right on top of ‘em.”
“But I just can’t authorise it as it is.”
Justin sighed. “Well, what do you need to do, to minimise damage. What will make it easier for you to defend. We can’t not run it, and that‘s flat.”
The lawyer thought about that for a moment. “Well, cut it back to talking just about the original report and a different report which has – what – ‘come into the hands of the Bugle’. Cut out mentions of altering or doctoring, and just stick to the statement put out by council.”
“Got that Eve?” asked Justin. Eve marked her copy of the story with a red pen. Miles looked on sourly at his beautiful story being tampered with. “Now I can’t see a problem with the rest. So if that idiot senior partner of yours..”
“Mr. Bosworth?”
“That’s the lunatic. If he interferes tell him that I said get fucked it runs. If Jim Charles tries to stick in his ore, tell him I said ‘get fucked it runs’.”
“What happens if Ros calls?” said Eve. “Sometimes she does.”
Miles had not known this and it was an indication of how unimportant Ros was, that even Eve had not thought to mention the calls.
Justin’s face showed his contempt of the subject raised. “Oh that’s different. Ros can drop dead in a fucking ditch.”
“Amen,” said Miles.
Much later, when the excrement had indeed hit the fan and several different kinds of law enforcement officials had descended on Lovett Bay Council, Miles looked at his CV again, wondering if there was any way he could modify the achievements section. He typed in ‘Disgraced in all of Koala Bay’. It seemed to fit.