Page 71 of Precise Justice

“There’s some guy who says his name is Philo Anson on line two for you,” Ryan yelled through Marc’s open door.

Marc had called and left a message.

“What kind of name is Philo Anson?” Ryan asked.

“You know that’s a good question. I’ve got it, thanks, Ryan.”

Marc picked up the phone and before saying hello, first said, “Hang on, I’ve gotta shut my door.

“Hey, Philo,” Marc said after returning to his desk and answering his phone call.

“Tell me you’re calling to let me know Maddy came to her senses and dumped you,” Philo said.

“Any day now. She’s been looking at me lately with a questionable expression.”

“Be still my heart. I know you’re lying, but it still brightens an otherwise miserable day,” Philo said.

Philo Anson was a five-foot, nine inch tall, Wisconsin dairy farm child. He escaped the farm through college, where he found out he could write. With a journalism degree from Northwestern, he caught on with Minnesota’s largest daily newspaper. Ten years later, he still had dreams of becoming managing editor of the New York Times. In the meantime, Philo was finding out writing a newspaper report was a lot easier than a three-hundred page novel.

“That’s what gets me out of bed in the morning. That and watching Maddy in the shower,” Marc said.

“Thanks, now I’m gonna kill myself.”

“Stick around. You never know. I could get run over on the street, gored by a Rhinoceros. I may have cancer and could be dying even as we speak.”

“Thanks, Marc, for giving me a reason to live. Comforting Maddy after your demise.

“So, what’s new? What do you have for me? My first Pulitzer?”

“I like the way you say first Pulitzer. Confidence. Okay. I do have something for you,” Marc said.

Marc explained what he had. While he did so, despite a photographic memory, Philo took notes.

When Marc finished, Philo said, “LGBTQ, rapes and cop indifference. That’s hot. I’ll take it.”

“Remember, all these sources, especially the victims, are anonymous unless you get written, signed, consent to use their real names. That goes for me too.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Philo grumpily agreed. “The people upstairs would insist anyway for something like this.”

The people upstairs were the managing editor, other editors, Philo’s boss and legal.

“This trans girl, Robbie Craig, is expecting my call. What’s her number?”

Marc read Robbie’s number to him then said, “Give me five minutes to give Robbie a heads up. Then go ahead even if I don’t get her.”

“Will do. How do you know Robbie and why did she call you?”

Instead of answering because of attorney-client privilege, Marc said, “Five minutes, Philo. I’ll tell Maddy you said hello.”

“Tell her what you said about watching her shower. Hopefully, that’s an image I’ll never get out of my head,” Philo said.

“Yeah, I’ll call her with that right after I call Robbie. Then I’ll just go ahead and cut my balls off myself and save her the trouble. Keep me informed about this.”

“You’re gonna cut your balls off to save who the trouble?” Connie Mickelson said while opening Marc’s door and walking in. “You must mean Maddy. What did you do now?”

“Nothing, have a seat. Please, smoke a cigarette with the window open,” Marc answered.

With his desk phone still in his hand, Marc dialed Robbie’s number. It was answered on the first ring.