Chapter 13
Jackson
Jackson expects the old thrill: a rush of triumph as the case begins to unveil its nature, as dominos begin to fall into place.
But when he’s confronted with the reality of Ben, eyes hollowed out with panic, clutching that binder in a death grip, the usual rush doesn’t come.
For once, the story doesn’t feel like the point.
“There’s a cat around here somewhere,” Jackson says lightly, toeing off his boots as the apartment door clicks shut. “Name’s Smokey. She’s deeply unfriendly. I respect that about her.”
Ben doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just stands in the middle of the room like he blundered into quicksand while traversing it.
“Make yourself at home,” Jackson adds, gentler this time.
Ben still doesn’t move.
Jackson nods toward the couch. “Sit. Do you want something? Coffee? Red wine? I’ve got whiskey and rum too, if we’re going that route.”
“The wine,” Ben says, pulling the words from far away. “Please.”
Jackson grabs a half-decent Pinot Noir from the kitchen rack, pours a glass, and hands it off just in time to watch Ben down it like a frat boy with something to prove.
Okay then. He refills the glass, sliding it back into Ben’s hand without comment. Ben finally takes a seat on the couch.
Smokey turns Jackson into a liar in thirty seconds flat, slinking out from under the coffee table to hop daintily into Ben’s lap.
Ben starts stroking her fur in slow, mechanical motions.
His fingers remain mysteriously unbitten.
His gaze drifts from the binder to his watch.
His watch to the bookshelf. The bookshelf to the binder. A steady, unconscious loop.
“Before I say anything,” Ben asks, voice threadbare, “this is off the record, right?”
“Yeah. Off the record,” Jackson says quietly.
“Just you and me. But I want you to understand, just because something is off the record doesn’t mean I don’t know it.
That I won’t seek to corroborate it. I can’t promise you that you can control everything that happens.
I can only promise that I will do my best with the trust you place in me. ”
Ben finally meets his eye. It’s not confidence there. It’s not even hope. It’s something closer to surrender. Like he doesn’t have anywhere else to put what he’s carrying, so here, please, you take it.
Once, that would’ve been an unadulterated thrill for Jackson. Now, he feels the nagging burden of responsibility.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Jackson fills his own glass with wine and eases down into the armchair, quiet as punctuation. “Well the good news is you already did; you’re here, talking to me. Which is very brave.”
Ben gives a huff that might be a laugh. “I’m pretty sure brave people don’t feel this nauseous.”
“Oh, buddy,” Jackson says, lifting his glass. “Do I have some disappointing news for you about literally every brave person I’ve ever interviewed.”
“Is this an interview?”
“It’s just a conversation, Ben.”
“Right.” Ben nods, fast, tight. He’s less man and more a collection of nervous ticks: tapping the pads of his fingers against the glass, bouncing his knee, chewing his lower lip.
“Okay. I found something today. A contract. I didn’t approve it, but it has my signature on it, authorizing a waste management vendor we’ve never vetted.
“I drove to their address. It’s not a facility. It’s barely even an office. There’s no yard, no equipment. I don’t even know where they’re sending our waste.”
Right to the bottom of Scrimshaw Cove, Jackson thinks grimly. Straight into the ocean.
It’s all snapping together in an instant; of course, as always, the answers beget more questions.
“And you’re sure you didn’t sign it?” Jackson asks, voice low, even.
“If I did, I don’t remember,” he says. “But, Jackson, I know myself. I read everything I sign. I don’t skim.
I’m careful. I swear I’m careful. This was hidden purposely from me.
” He looks like a man in front of a jury pleading not-guilty to a crime.
Jackson has no reason to doubt the man. Ben is risking his future by sitting here, but he is conscious of how badly he wants to believe in Ben Whitaker in a way that doesn’t feel fully located in journalistic ethics.
Jackson keeps his voice soft. “But the paperwork says it’s all you.”
Ben nods, small and miserable. “The paperwork says it’s all me.”
“How long’s this been going on?” Jackson’s hand itches for his notebook, but he stops himself.
“The agreement’s dated mid November.” Ben’s throat bobs in a dry swallow. “The thirty-day probation period ends Monday. Same day our Massachusetts Department of Environmental Protection audit starts.” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “Convenient, right?”
Jesus, Jackson thinks. That’s not a mistake, that’s a goddamn setup.
Ben sets the glass down carefully on the coffee table. Smokey nudges his hand with her head, but he’s gone rigid, like every word has pulled him tighter into himself.
“They’re going to find it,” Ben says, voice tight.
“They’re going to find it, and I should’ve seen it before now.
I should’ve caught it earlier. I should’ve been watching closer, asking more questions.
You were asking questions. I just let it happen.
It looks like a cover up. It looks like I was hiding.
I didn’t want to believe it was possible. ”
It’s not just that Ben’s scared, he’s furious with himself. He’s as eager to blame himself as the person who forged his signature.
Jackson chooses his next question with care. “Have you talked to your father?”
Ben shakes his head sharply. “My dad can’t know. Not yet.”
“You’re sure he doesn’t know already.”
Ben’s eyes fill with more certainty than Jackson has yet seen.
“He would never take this kind of risk. The plant is his life. I’m just scared how he’ll respond to this kind of existential threat.”
“You don’t think he’d step in?”
“He would. Immediately. That’s exactly the problem.
He’d take it out of my hands. Make a few calls, sweep the whole thing under the rug, and tell me it was handled.
And then I’d never touch a real decision again.
And nothing would really change to stop this from happening again. ” Ben pauses. “That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want, Ben?”
Ben looks up at Jackson instantly, wide-eyed and startled, like the question knocked something loose.
Like no one’s ever asked before. Like it’s never once occurred to him that he gets to want anything at all.
Then he answers, quietly, intensely: “To fix it. To prove I can fix it. Really fix it.” His voice cracks.
“And you’re the only one I can think of who can actually help me do that. ”
There is a naked sincerity in his voice. It’s hard not to just tell him everything is going to be fine.
“We’ll get through this.” It comes out automatically, but Jackson’s surprised by how much he means it.
We. “But once we start, there’s no turning back.
We’ll need evidence. Names, details, documents, people you can trust who will support your side of the story.
And it’s your name on that document, Ben, so you have to be ready to tell people the truth.
We can delay that, we can build a case, but at the end of the day, sunlight is the best disinfectant. ”
“Jackson, if I do this wrong, if I mess this up…” Ben’s throat works around the words. “My dad’ll never forgive me.”
Jackson sits back but doesn’t relax, his hand curling into a fist against his knee.
“Ben, no one is in a great position here. Including your dad. But you are the one sitting in the electric chair and we have to figure out who plans to throw the switch. If we’re smart about it, we can protect you and the plant. ”
Ben nods, but his shoulders are stiff, locked in place, holding himself with unnatural stillness. He’s a concerning shade of pale.
Even Smokey senses things going wrong, slipping off Ben’s lap and vanishing beneath the couch.
“Ben?” Jackson sees it tightening around Ben, closing in. “Hey, eyes on me. What do you need?”
Ben doesn’t hear him. His breathing only gets louder. Shallower. Quicker. “I…I shouldn’t have come here. This was stupid. You can’t fix this. No one can fix this. It’s already—” He cuts off sharply, voice breaking on a gasp. “It’s already happening.”
And then he folds.
Shit.
Ben’s head’s between his knees. One of his hands goes helplessly to his chest, pressing flat over his heart, like he’s physically trying to push back the panic.
Jackson drops onto the rug in front of him. “Hey. Ben. Look at me. It’s alright. You’re alright.”
But Ben isn’t. Not by a long shot. Eyes screwed shut, face crumpling, his whole body trembling against it.
Jackson feels a little like crumpling too; he’s powerless as this thing grabs Ben’s body and takes him far away.
“Deep breaths,” Jackson says, trying to steady his own voice. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Nice and easy.”
Ben gives a harsh, ragged little pull of air that doesn’t sound like it’s getting anywhere.
Jackson’s watched panic curl people into themselves before, but it’s always been from a distance. On gurneys, in alleyways, behind police lines. Something to observe. Something to document. Never like this.
Ben’s fingers grip his own sleeve, an ugly little contortion of muscle and bone.
Jackson cups that hand instinctively. He tries to be gentle, but he can feel the internal tension twisting at it.
“You’re safe,” Jackson murmurs. It sounds ridiculous, but he says it again. “You’re safe. You’re not alone, okay?”
Ben makes a small, awful sound in the back of his throat. Not a word. Just the kind of noise you make when something inside you is caving in.
Jackson breathes for them both, slow and deliberate. “Just follow my lead,” he says. “Right here, Ben. I’ve got you.”