"Fragmented by Fiction"
by Chris Luth
Charles Cornwallis sat at his desk in the newsroom of the Brooklyn Bugle,
the second largest newspaper in New York, in the United States, in the
entire world behind the New York Times. He had turned in his story for the
day, a terrific interpretation of the strike of local newspaper delivery
boys for the Times. It was front-page material for three reasons. The
story slighted the Times, which the Bugle editors would do anytime they
could. The story was also written by Charles Cornwallis, the greatest young
star of the paper, probably of all journalism, to whom the Bugle�s marketing
team attributed nearly a half of all sales of the paper. The reason
Cornwallis was this huge was the third reason that his story would be on the
front page�it was first class prose. Cornwallis was known as one of the
nosiest, most dedicated reporters in the city. He could get a scoop, an
insider, or an interview on almost every story of any significance. What
was more, though, was Charles�s ability to write. His writing was some of
the greatest ever seen in a newspaper, and even rivaled some of the greatest
fiction writers of all time.
Charles was a physically imposing man. He was very tall, and had broad
shoulders. His body showed something of the will that was within it. He
had the ability to raise his voice so that it echoed and could be heard by
everyone in the newsroom, over the ringing phones, the loud conversations,
and the incessant typing, but he also had the uncanny ability to lower his
voice to a soft level, giving the person he spoke to a sense of security, a
sense that he was saying, by his tone of voice, that �this will always be
between just you and me.� This tone of voice earned Cornwallis many raises
for breaking stories early on, and also earned him many enemies, all the
victims of his sonic subterfuge. Cornwallis had a hard face but a soft
smile; he kept his brown hair short and business like, but always kept a
three day beard; his chin rounded softly, but his eyes stared cold and
cuttingly, able to transfix anyone by their gaze; he may not have been
handsome, but he exuded an air that made him attractive to every woman he
meant, even though he had a fianc�e, who was walking up to his desk now.
�What a crock of bull,� she said, laying a copy of his latest story on his
desk, fully edited. She always took the time to edit his stories, but he
never paid attention to any of her advice. If she were good enough to help,
then she would not be writing 200 word columns for the metro section, she
would have climbed the ladder.
"We don�t talk here." Charles face was stern.
She misunderstood his meaning. �Don�t worry, your secret�s safe with me,�
she consoled. People credited Cornwallis as having prose that rivaled many
great fiction writers. What people did not see about Cornwallis was that he
was one of the world�s greatest fiction writers. Since his first few years
in the business, when he was an energetic and genuine cub reporter, Charles
had lost his relationship with the truth. Facts had become fragmented with
fiction. His ability to write superceded the importance of truth in his
articles. It started with a change in a few quotes so that they would fit
the flow of his story a little better. Soon, Cornwallis figured, if he
could quote the interviewee better than they could quote themselves, why
even interview them. Cornwallis began to fabricate answers, and even to
skip interviews and just make them up. Pretty soon he was able to write a
story he was covering in Louisiana, about the exclusion of underprivileged
families from water supply when reservoirs began to run low, from the desk
of his fianc�e�s loft apartment, where he usually escaped to hide when he
was fabricating an assignment. A few times, Cornwallis had even been able
to completely make up stories�only insignificant ones about the New Jersey
State Fair or a fire in Queens�without anybody catching him. That was the
best part too, that nobody caught him. It made his fiction so much more
exciting to think that everybody thought it was the truth. That is fiction
writers� dream, to have their story become real, in some way, and it is the
ultimate for it to become absolute reality.
Charles's fiance, though, had misunderstood him. Since they began dating
almost a year before, they had agreed to keep their relationship �strictly
personal,� even though they worked in the same newsroom. To her, it meant
that they would not show their affections in the newsroom. To Charles, it
meant more. He was the greatest writer at the paper, and he was better than
to be seen with a low-level copy person who drafted her own stories, hoping
some day to become a writer. There was a hierarchy in the newsroom, and it
was important that Charles, with his elite status, not be considered weak
for fraternizing with the lower class masses. Charles loved his fiance
absolutely, personally, and would do anything for her, as long is it had
nothing to do with work, or at the very least would not be patent to the
other people in the newsroom. He could not risk any of his status.
�I�ll email you,� she resorted to, once she understood that Charles in no
way wanted to speak to her. She went back to her desk, and Charles secretly
awaited her email eagerly, and thought about the �crock of bull� on his
desk, covered in red. He glanced at the sheet and tossed it in the
briefcase�it was safer to shred it at home than risk someone finding it in
the garbage here and seeing a key to his lies in the editing notes. He was
proud of his latest invention. He had taken the liberty of writing nearly
two thousand words, around half a page, because the story was so
exhilarating. It was an invention of the labor talks between the Times and
its delivery boys, about how the Times had walked out on negotiations after
the deliverers had agreed to nearly all of the paper�s demands because the
deliverers refused to deliver the early edition tonight. The chief
negotiator for the Times had been quoted by Cornwallis, saying, �We don�t
need anyone to deliver the paper if they don�t want to. Our readers will
walk to our printing factory if they have to, because our newspaper is that
important. The delivery boys should feel privileged to carry the times in
their trucks. The Times is an icon, and I�ll be damned if a few union
hardheads will keep people form reading our paper.� This may have been
true, that people would walk miles to read the Times, but it probably would
not be true after many of them read this article, Charles prided himself.
He especially liked the touch �delivery boys.� It made the Times executive
seem like just that much more of a prick. This whole breakdown in
negotiations, though, was false. The paper and the union had agreed to
recess negotiations for a week when they came to a stand-still, but nobody
would report that, least of all the Times, who would rather not talk about
its failure to get its paper out to the public. The Times may try to refute
his claims, but no one would care, because Charles�s article had already
hurt the paper�s credibility. Cornwallis was safe.
"Please stay," Charles's fiance pleaded of him. "It's only that I don't
want to sleep alone tonight. I promise I�ll let you rest."
"I know," Charles told her, �I know, but I want to be at home tonight.� He
had been having a wonderful night, but it was almost midnight, and simply
wanted to go home.
"Then let me come with you."
"No. I want to read the early edition anyway," Charles used to finish the
discussion. Charles knew that she was aware when he read he did not want
anyone around to disturb him.
"You arrogant ass. You know it was a good article. Are you curious about
how darkly it printed or something?" she mused.
"The Times. I could care less about the Bugle tonight. Besides, I heard
your piece made the cut. Why would I want to read a paper with such
obviously low standards?" Charles smirked. His fianc�e punched him softly
in the arm, and he grabbed her and hugged her tightly. �Good night, call me
tomorrow,� he said, and turned to walk out the door.
"If I can't sleep I'm coming over," she called after him, but the door was
closing behind him, and Charles was rushing down the stairs. He was excited
to see the New York Times�s latest efforts to best him. It may have been a
better paper, but no one was better than Charles Cornwallis.
Charles rushed out of the building and across the street to the all-night
newsstand where he often bought the early edition of either the Times or the
Bugle when he was at his fiance�s.
"How's the Times tonight, Jack?" Charles asked of the attendant, when he
noticed him reading the paper.
"Mmmm General it's practically intoxicatin. That lead story is some
biiiig news," Jack told him. Jack always called him "General" because he
shared the name with the hero of both British (for winning) and American
(for losing) history. For a man who worked at a newspaper stand, Jack was a
pretty knowledgeable gentleman, and wise too. Charles could remember many
times when he left his fiance�s apartment very upset, only to make it as
far as this newsstand, where Jack enlightened him for up to an hour, and
Charles would trudge back upstairs to fall in love again. �It seems some
writer been doing sum�n� foolish. Been doin� the carn�l sin, been lyin'.
Jack told him. Charles often could not help himself from wondering, like
Henry Higgins, if Jack were only given power over his language, if he would
not be a much more successful man, for all his brains. Jack at least could
be a writer for the Bugle. Charles could speak from experience, it was not
difficult to catch on to.
"Sounds like a very bad man," Charles feigned, pretending to admonish the
lying writer. "Jayson Blair," Cornwall's scanned form the article. "I know
him. He sure was a weasel. I never trusted him either, to be honest."
"I ain�' gonna trust him ever again. And sos you know, some young gun in a
tie to ol� for 'im dropped off these papers," Jack alluded to Charles's
front-page story. Obviously, the Times had resorted to delivering its
papers via the copyboys. Priceless. Anything to make copyboys lives more
miserable was Howell Raines, the Times editor�s way of doing things. Even
though Charles had never worked for the Times, he naturally had friends on
the staff, none of whom were too enthralled with Raines.
"I guessed right, then."
"Mmmm hmmm. 'Tween you and this Blair cha�acte�, doubt I ever pick up the
Times again."
"Try and keep other people from picking it up, too Jack. Make an excuse
for me, though, I gotta read up on Blair. How long is that article?"
"Four page," Jack nearly marveled.
�Well, I guess I should walk home then. Take care, Jack,� Charles handed
over a few bills and walked off.
"You too, General. Thank you much."
Four pages in the Times meant serious business. Either Blair did a lot of
things wrong, or the Times just wanted to make an example of how sorry it
was for misguiding readers, Charles guessed, and guessed further at the
latter. Blair only worked at the Times for about two years, if Charles
remembered correctly, and even a conman like that could not get away with
four pages worth of lies in two years. Cornwallis, who had worked at the
Bugle for seven years, and had been lying for only about five, would have to
admit that his interpretations over the last two years would only fill one
and a half pages, maximum, and he had come up with a lot.
Blair was quite a conman though, Cornwallis had to admit. He had even
managed to fool Cornwallis a few times. Back when Charles was
editor-in-chief of the Maryland University Newspaper, Blair walked in as a
freshman in the second semester of Charles�s senior year, and immediately
took off. He was well like right away, and even Charles felt charmed by
Jayson. Jayson under pressure was quite a different story. He was just as
good of a con under pressure, able to lie just as easily as ever, but also
proved to be very unreliable, disappearing at the worst times, and usually
right when his article was due. Jayson was ambitious and charming, Charles
recalled, but had a problem with responsibility. He showed promise as a
writer, but Charles doubted he could make it as a journalist. Still,
though, Jayson could fool anyone into believing he was a journalist if he
had to. Strictly out of interest, Charles kept a completely personal
relationship with Blair, meeting him for lunch every few months to check up
on each other�s professional progress, and sometimes to go have a few drinks
when one of them broke a big story. Jayson was a nice guy, even if he was a
liar.
It turned out that Jayson had lied on nearly half of his stories since
October, and someone from San Antonio had tipped the editors off to his
creative journalism. It was amazing that the editors did not realize it
earlier, though, since Blair had kept a correction rate of nearly sixteen
percent for the past year and a half. Sixteen percent was ridiculous; SIX
percent was ridiculous, so sixteen percent was almost ludicrous. Charles
had read Jayson�s stories because of their past relationship, but had never
noticed anything about the corrections. Cornwallis himself hardly ever
needed correcting.
Charles actually had sensed a bit of fallacy in Jayson�s reporting before.
Back during the D.C. sniper case (during which Charles was breaking the only
other news around, he felt), Jayson wrote two stories about the
investigation that were refuted by the U.S. attorney�s office, one during a
press conference called just to refute the story. That situation, in the
least, was fishy. Charles never knew how deep Jayson�s lies went, but he
knew they were there; now everyone did. Jayson would need help, Charles
knew. He had a history of cocaine and alcohol abuse, especially when times
got rough for him, so now he would especially need his friends. Charles
decided he would call Jayson the next day, as he finished the article, or
what he would read of it. The first two pages were the only valuable part,
about what Jayson had done wrong. The next two were only about how sorry
the Times was over the whole mess. The last two pages were not worth the
time, and Charles had just arrived home.
He walked upstairs and into his spacious four room apartment. He checked
his mail and read the two new messages. One was from his fianc�e (�i miss
you already. lots.�) and one was from his editor (�We have important things
to discuss. Come in on time tomorrow.�). The second message worried him,
primarily because he would have trouble waking up at seven A.M. to be in the
newsroom on time. The message sounded important, so it meant he would need
to get to sleep. Charles prepared for bed, brushing his teeth and setting
his clothes to take to the cleaners. He set his alarm and climbed into bed.
But Charles could not sleep. He kept thinking about Jayson, feeling sorry
for him. More than that, though, Charles worried that he, too, might
someday get caught. It was something that he did not think about that
often. He used to think about getting caught in his lies all the time, and
consequently he never slept. He had trained himself to never think about
it, and suddenly the thought of Jayson being caught came back to him. Yes,
Charles�s and Jayson�s stories were different, and Charles felt that he was
a much better liar, at least in print, than Jayson was, but there was always
that nagging worry that someday his career could be ruined too. Ruined by
some no-name editor at a nothing paper in Texas, or even worse New Jersey.
Charles was above that, he was better than to be called out by
some unsuccessful editor stuck at a small time paper. Besides, Cornwallis�s
editors should trust him anyway. He had sold many of their papers
single-handedly. Unlike himself, Charles�s friend Jayson was expendable to
the Times. The editors would surely take Cornwallis�s word over anyone
else�s; they had been accepting and printing his lies for years. Then
again, the Times editors should have trusted Jayson. Jayson was practically
like a son to Gerald Boyd, the managing editor, and because of that
relationship, a lot of the blame could be put on Boyd for favoring Blair too
much. Cornwallis was careful never to become too friendly with his editors.
Indeed, he acted with superiority over them, often failing to return their
phone calls and dictating the time of the meetings. Even though he was not
the superior, Cornwallis had the authority in the newsroom, and the editors
would follow him on anything. Wouldn't they?
Charles would never get caught anyway, so it did not matter, was
his attitude. Jayson was an all around conman, but Charles was a con just
in the news. Except for his work, where he shunned his fianc�e and looked
down on almost everyone, Charles was usually an honest and kind person.
People liked him because of this. If any of his stories started to look
suspicious, people would just assume that Cornwallis was telling the truth,
because he was �a good guy.� That was the way Charles had it all planned.
Whereas Jayson lied too much and got sloppy, Charles was usually honest, and
people would think of him as such. He was just as skillful a liar as
Jayson, even better, but never told so many lies that he would get caught up
in them. Jayson was a con. Charles was simply a liar. Or at least that
was the attitude Charles had trained himself to have.
Nobody would point out any of Charles�s lies, anyway. Nobody
could, he was too careful. Jayson had plagiarized, and copied from other
reporters. Cornwallis never did anything that foolish. He never copied
from anywhere else, and when he did fabricate a story about an interview or
about a person he met, no one cared. Most of the people were just happy to
get their names in the paper, or happy to think that someone cared about
their situation enough to write about it. Whether the writer lied or not
did not matter. Besides, it was the common view in the American public that
journalists are liars anyway. No one was surprised to see quotes altered or
even made up when they saw their name in the Bugle, or in the Times. Jayson
was not caught on this for so long for the same reason, that every American
journalist lied as far as the public was concerned, so every patent lie was
overlooked. Charles was only trying to keep his job, anyway. If he had not
written good prose, he never would have kept his job. Unlike fifty years
before, today journalists were college graduates, taught how to write by
Pulitzer Prize winning PhD�s. Recently, American journalism had covered the
facts with the prose, and the quality of writing became much more important
for a young journalist to succeed than the quality of truth in the story.
All Charles had done was take the trend one step farther and fragmented the
facts with fiction. He was right to only be following the pack, wasn�t he?
Jayson was a completely different story, Charles told himself over and
over. Jayson was black, and that made all the difference. If Jayson had
not been black, Howell Raines would have never promoted him so fast and
given him third and fourth chances. Had Jayson been just another white
reporter, he would have been kicked out long ago, and would never have begun
lying to get caught.
"You see it�s simple logic. If he hadn�t been black, then he wouldn�t have
gotten caught," Charles suddenly began to speak aloud to himself in bed.
I'm not black, so there �s no way I can get caught."
"That doesn�t make any sense,� he responded to his own faulty logic. �It
is lying that we have in common which would get us both caught. Maybe I
started lying for different reasons than being black, but lying puts me in
the same volatile situation as Jayson. Imagine if I were caught, and
brought on trial, and I defended myself with that logic. What would they
say?"
"And what would they ask?" he continued to dialogue with himself. "Surely
they will ask me that terrible question: Why lie?'" Charles used to think
of this question all the time, when he first considered lying to take the
easy way out. Soon, though, he interpreted the truth. The question was not
why lie, but rather why tell the truth. If he told the truth, he would not
be able to tell as fantastic of stories; he would not be able to make such
strong social statements; he would have to travel so much more if he told
the truth; he would not be able to stay in New York and make love to his
fiance on his long assignments around the country; he would not be front
page news if he told the truth, he may not even be back page news; if
Charles Cornwallis told the truth, he may not even be printed�he might not
even exist. Telling the truth was not worth all of those risks to Charles.
The obvious answer was to lie, and lie he did.
Charles enjoyed the thrill of the lie, too. He was always excited thinking
that he might get caught, though always assuring himself he would not. He
liked to think of it like a football stadium at halftime, and everyone left
the dome to get fresh air. The first half interested them, and they
anxiously await the second half. All the fans know that the second half
will start fifteen minutes after the first half ended, but no one outside
has a watch. They all depend on each other, thinking that eventually one
person will have a watch and will know it is time to go back into the game,
and after the first then everyone will follow. Since no one knows what time
it is, though, no one ever is the first one to go back in, and the fans are
doomed forever to wait outside, depending on each other to eventually see
the rest of the game. Charles thought of his situation like that. He
thought that everyone was outside his door, waiting to come in. They all
stood outside, no one being the first, because no one knew the truth, that
Charles was lying, and if no one knew the truth, then they would never come
in. Eventually, maybe, someone would realize, and would come in, and then
the whole world would follow to come in and watch Charles�s game. Everyone
would watch Charles Cornwallis, fragmented by fiction.
This thought always amused Cornwallis, and he stood up to fix himself a
drink, and hopefully to bed back down and fall asleep. He had a double shot
of brandy, and climbed back into bed, rolling over to fall asleep.
And someone came in his door.