Sunken Graves, Alan Lee [all ebook reader .txt] 📗

at my photos. He picked out the restaurant at the last minute to make sure he wasn’t walking into a trap. He watched me arrive, now he’s working up the courage.

Can’t blame him. I did the same.

Patel walked in. A short Indian man, thin, a lot of black hair.

Jennings stood. Made sure not to use his name. “Good evening. Thanks for meeting.”

“Do you understand this conversation is not happening?”

“I do.”

“If I determine you are using a recording device, I will leave.” Patel took off a cheap shoulder satchel and set it on the table. “I apologize for making you drive.”

“You’re being safe. I get it.”

The waiter came and Patel ordered coffee and the tuna teriyaki. Jennings asked for a reuben.

They were alone again and Patel said, “In your note, you mentioned an unnamed source who referred you to me. Was it a young woman?”

He meant Kelly Carson and he was wary of being recorded.

“It was a woman in her early twenties,” said Jennings.

“How is she?”

“We had a short conversation. She seems…angry. And cautious.”

“In general terms, tell me why you are here, please.”

“I want to learn more about a man you investigated. That man is harassing me.”

Patel held up his hand. “Harassing you?”

“Yes. I think he’s angry about several things, including a woman.”

“A woman. Go on.”

“I suspect he beats his kids. He threatened my job and the job of my colleague. He’s making passes at a friend, the woman. He threw a dead animal through my window and destroyed my truck. And I want to know why the previous investigation has been erased from the internet.”

Patel reached into his satchel and withdrew four printed pages. He held them up.

“No photos, please. When you finish, you will return the pages.”

“Okay. Deal.”

Patel handed the top two papers to Jennings.

Here’s the story.

I was a reporter working for the Roanoke Post when Kelly Carson made her public allegations. There was significant evidence against Peter Lynch. I obtained photographs of Kelly and her mother displaying their bruises and bite marks, and I heard their testimony. The story was heating up until Lynch got the evidence sealed. The mother and the daughter signed agreements to stay quiet in exchange for monthly payments. $10,000 a month each, for the rest of their lives. Those facts should have made the news but they didn’t. I was told to drop the story soon after, but I kept digging. I even hired a private investigator with my own money, looking for dirt. Off the record I was told by producers at local news stations that Peter Lynch is their largest advertiser, buying up commercials and keeping them solvent. The same thing for the newspaper, Lynch was a Godsend. He spends over five million a year on commercials, and the loss would be devastating. He threatened to pull his advertising from any outlet that disparaged him.

I turned in my story anyway and I told the editors that if they didn’t run the story I would go public with it. I knew I would be fired but the exposé would be big enough that I’d be headhunted into a better position soon after. The next day, Peter Lynch himself barged into my home. He dropped a thick stack of papers onto my kitchen table. A lawsuit. He was prepared to ruin me. Slander, defamation, all of that. Someone had snitched to save the paper.

Jennings blinked and looked up as the waitress set plates in front of them. He took a bite, wiped his mouth, and kept reading.

On top of the lawsuit, he listed recent headlines I knew well. Reporters like me losing their jobs and going broke chasing scandals. The message was clear—I would lose and I wouldn’t find help in the legal system. No defense attorney wants to end up like Rob Bilott in the DuPont fiasco. Lynch told me not to get myself killed. Before he left, he unzipped his pants and urinated on my couch. I’m not kidding, he ruined two cushions and he laughed while I watched.

The next day, two things happened. I got fired from the Roanoke Post. And I got a job offer from the Richmond paper with a bigger salary. On the phone, the woman said, We’d love to have you work with us as long as you don’t bring any baggage. This is a one-time offer.

I panicked. I had a wife and no job, and here was a big offer, especially in an age where most reporters are being laid off. So I took it. I am ashamed.

Soon after, all the stories began vanishing from the internet. The local media was protecting their advertising budget. And that is precisely how crime gets covered up.

Jennings laid down the papers.

Patel’s food was half gone. Eating quick. He smiled without joy, like a man embarrassed of his scars, and nodded at the papers. “Do you understand?”

“I do.” Jennings' mouth was dry and he drank the rest of his lukewarm coffee.

“Don’t mention names out loud.”

“Got it.”

“He preys on the weak, like me. His advertisements bring in a constant stream of victims and he never goes to court, settling cases as quickly as he can. He settles them for fifty cents on the dollar, churning through volume. The victims are disabled or poor and they are happy to get some money quickly, and they do not understand their case is worth far more. He hires unscrupulous young attorneys to do the work.”

“How can he get away with this?”

“Money and power. And he’s very intelligent.”

“Do you know his brother?” asked Jennings.

Patel handed him another paper.

Peter and Francis Lynch. The private detective I hired dug into them.

They were orphaned when Peter was five and Francis eight. Thrust into the foster system.

Their files were TAMPERED with. It’s illegal and it’s maddening. The detective determined they were adopted but the evidence is gone, beginning when Peter was seven. It’s like they didn’t exist for ten years. I suspect their names were changed more than once.

No school records until they begin college. We contacted references