If you were a certain kind of newspaper reporter at the Texas Capitol you knew in your heart of hearts that there was a shortcut to the front page.
If for example you didn’t want to spend time looking at airplane flight logs, to see if a public official like Comptroller of Public Accounts Bob Bullock was using state-owned aircraft for campaign purposes, which is illegal, or if you didn't want to look at Mr. Bullock’s campaign expense accounts or try to turn his aides and get them to rat out the Big Guy—which was impossible without the threat of jail—which was impossible even with the threat of jail, because that’s what the District Attorney had tried and none of Bullock’s people rolled over. To set the scene.
There was another way that was faster, cheaper and sexier to get your byline on the front page. Not that that’s important—but maybe a blowjob later, during a night out drinking, after putting the newspaper to bed, which is. My idea was to find the target of the D.A.'s investigation and try to sweat him. Or her. In other words in this example to give Mr. Bullock the third degree. It made so much sense to me at the time that the only surprise was nobody thought of it before. Too late it became clear why nobody else tried. The science was good, certainly. The theory was excellent. The practice was just a tad iffy.
There is a preliminary question to answer. Do you know why cops are such assholes? Why they’re so obnoxious? Not because only assholes go into police work although that’s a good guess. But because the police want to piss you off intentionally when they’re talking to you.
They want to see which way you jump—to see if you’ll make a mistake, to see if you “act guilty,” whatever that means to a white guy with a badge and gun.
They do it by holding onto your driver’s license or passport for a couple of minutes longer than necessary or by acting like they don’t believe your answer whatever your answer may be. They do it by pursuing a line of inquiry past a logical end, in other words by being pricks. For most cops it's a kind of a job requirement, really. Sometimes you just have to make people sweat. My idea was that a reporter can achieve good results if he or she has a similar technique. It only takes practice.
My idea which seemed like a good idea at the time was to intimidate the Texas Comptroller of Public Accounts, aka the Taxman. To get Mr. Bullock alone, at his house, sweat him a little, make it sound like the District Attorney’s investigation was coming to a head whether it was or not and see which way Mr. Bullock jumped. Not lie to him exactly because that would be unethical but somehow lead him to believe the noose was tightening. Get him to comment on his own indictment before the indictment was filed, that kind of thing. Not technically unethical but close enough to be fun.
It would give me a piece of the story and get me into print where my presence was so far lacking. This was technically a courthouse story because there was the possibility of criminal charges—my beat, my backyard, my hunting ground, you feel me? Key was D.A. Ronnie Earle and the key question to put to him was this, “Where does Bullock live?"
The Comptroller’s home wasn’t in the telephone directory. You weren’t going to find him under Corrupt State Officials or “Targets of the “Travis County Grand Jury”. The word at the courthouse was that Bob Bullock, who made paranoia look like a reasonable state of mind even when nobody was after him, moved around a lot. He was married to a real estate agent which helped. D.A. Ronnie Earle would know where he bedded down though. Or Ronnie’s people would know. The D.A. kept on staff a couple of ex-police detectives who served as muscle and who did most of the legwork of the inquiries. Those guys would know. That was my theory. Ronnie’s people would've checked out Mr. Bullock’s house for signs of ill-gotten gain, maybe even served a search warrant, or two, just to rattle the big man, which was my idea too, to frighten Mr. Bullock and see which way he jumped. The D.A.'s people weren’t going to tell me where Bullock lived but Ronnie might, if it was done right, with the subtlety and style that had already, at that point in time, become the hallmarks of this member of the Black Press. My level of anxiety about running a trap on the D.A., you may ask?
Zero.
Ronnie had pulled my strings often enough. It was time to make him dance.
First and foremost in order to keep his or her credibility the reporter of color has to show independence from "the authorities” —that we’re not mere pawns of The White Man.
So, like, one day me and the Honorable Ronald Earle, Esq. were chatting in his office in the Travis County Courthouse about something entirely different and just, you know, real casual like, you know—my question to him was, like—like it was something just occurred to me and not the whole fucking purpose for calling his secretary in the first place. My question to Ronnie was something, like, “Hey, by the way, where does Bullock live?” And Ronnie replied, equally casually, like he wasn’t paying attention which he wasn’t. “Up on Cat Mountain,” he said. Didn’t raise that right index finger, either, to signal something in our conversation that couldn’t be used. Ronnie didn’t know the address—and he wasn’t going to call his chief investigator to find out. There was nothing to do but go look for myself. Which was cool, a little legwork, you feel me, sometimes that’s the nature of the job, actually, like tracking gazelle on the savannah used to be for my hunter-gatherer ancestors, on the Dark Continent, back in the day. This was instinctive for me. Sometimes you have to track your prey.
Ambush is better.
Still, not yet being that well-acquainted with River City and this being outside my usual sector of operations, which was mostly downtown, near the State Capitol, near the triangle formed by the Governor's Mansion, the Capitol and Courthouse where me and Ronnie were talking. My first thought was that Cat Mountain must be a real mountain, at least a hill. But it was also a street, a dead-end street, north, northwest, not exactly B.F.E. but pretty damn close, up there in the beginnings of the white suburban wasteland, almost—oh my God—Williamson County! Driving there, a sense of primordial dread filled my soul. This was a part of the White Homeland where only Caucasians ventured, not at all the kind of place where a black man or a Mexican wanted to be seen after dark. This occasion warranted an exception. Went to check it out, boots on the ground and all that, not to sound noble or anything. As the American-Statesman staff car rolled into The Man's backyard the only comforting thought was that anyone encountered in this neighborhood would be fair game. And my luck held. There, in the fading light, parked in front of an inconspicuous house that did not signify wealth or power was a car that did both. A shiny white Cadillac with “State Official” license plates. Mrs. Bullock answered the door.
This was wife number one, or two, who later did time as wife three or four, can’t remember which, Bullock got around with the ladies and actually married this one, named Amelia, twice. She was in real estate not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Mrs. Bullock was a petite attractive woman with a cute haircut and a nice rack who looked at me, read my business card or whatever and gave me a last apprehensive glance before going to get her husband. In different circumstances we could have been friends. She didn’t warn me off explicitly although you could tell she wanted to say something. Left me standing in the doorway, actually, and in light of later events what she was doing could have been interpreted as offering a last chance for escape. Her facial expression as she stepped away was a sign saying “Trouble Ahead.” A moment later Mrs. Bullock returned to the door. Mr. Bullock was following. Bob Bullock was a little guy, trim, built wiry like a young Sinatra. The statue in the State History Museum that bears his name, down the street from the Capitol, is a pretty good likeness in proportion if not in detail. That night he smelled of booze which was also true to reputation, it was late enough that he had his first few after coming home from running the State of Texas, that part of my plan was working, yeah. My belief even at a tender age as a cub reporter was that you always have to have a plan so that later you have something or someone to blame later, other than yourself. You didn’t fuck up personally. The plan was just no good. Not appropriate to the circumstances or the circumstances changed.
Bullock's eyes were red, on a 1 to 10 redness scale his were like 11, maybe 12. We didn’t shake hands. There was nothing to do but introduce myself, give him my rap and start trying to pull his chain. Luckily fucking with public officials came to me pretty naturally from the very beginning of my career. The higher up they were the more natural it felt. And this guy was white, not to repeat myself, they all were white at the State Capitol at that time and mostly still are. But we digress.
The weird thing, the only aspect of Mr. Bullock's demeanor that worried me inordinately, standing there in his doorway, not having been invited in, he never looked directly at me. Those red eyes were focused about shoulder-level and just to my left side. He interrupted me half-way through my rap about District Attorney Ronnie Earle and the Travis County Grand Jury.
“Lucius,” Mr. Bullock said, kind of slow, but without any noticeable slurring or impediment to clear speech, “if you ever come to my house again I’ll shoot you.”
What struck me at once was that it was an awkward moment socially. A death threat from your host stops so many conversations. There was no slurring, no drool, no hesitation, to his credit he didn’t shout or anything, Mr. Bullock just said “I'll shoot you” the same way he would have said, “No comment,” or “Pleased to meet you.” Or the way Willie Nelson greeted me once so graciously at his door. Something that custom called for. The way he still wasn’t looking me in the eye was pretty spooky, though, yeah, got to admit that.
My options at that point were limited. My balls got a little tight and may have moved up an inch, or two, closer to the top of my scrotum. So they wouldn’t be in the way, like, if it came to a sprint. That's only natural when you have big balls like mine, you have to get them out of the way in case of emergency, cleared for action so to speak. Fear had nothing to do with it actually. It was more surprise. Did the most powerful official in state government just threaten to shoot me? But my reaction was purely analytical—not emotional at all—not to beat my own drum or anything.
The math, the mental calculus, did not look good.
Bob Bullock was known to be a gun nut so if he didn't have a piece under his shirt, there was certainly one in the house. He was under the stress of a criminal investigation and he was also the single most important public official in the Lone Star State, including the governor. He controlled the state’s purse strings with an iron fist. Mr. Bullock was also famous for doing the unexpected. That was his trademark. He had just threatened to shoot a black reporter after warning the aforesaid Negro to leave. The word at the Capitol was that Mr. Bullock himself did not hold racial animus, at least no more than any other Texas-born cracker-Democrat of his generation. He was a populist not a racist. But at that particular point in time, in bucolic River City, black people were still niggers in the original sense of the word. That was just a given at the Capitol, not considered real prejudice, not by anyone in power. If Mr. Bullock did shoot a nigger—under the right circumstances—he might be elected governor. Which was what he wanted most. So, like, a minute later the American-Statesman staff car was rolling, at a pretty decent speed, down Cat Mountain, which is a street and maybe a hill, up in B.F.E.
Over the years the story of my encounter with Mr. Bullock has gone through a few changes. Like, in bars, you have to jazz it up a little, especially if you want to make it good enough for somebody to buy the next round. The major alterations have been two additions to the narrative: The slow closing of my reporter’s notebook, completely unhurried—handing Mr. Bullock my business card and telling him to give me a call if he wanted to talk. That was one. And saying, real cool-like, “Thank you, Mr. Bullock, for your time.” None of which actually happened. Nothing else was actually said.
The next sounds were my heels on his driveway and the car engine starting up.
The better part of valor, and all that. But also the realization that the ploy hadn’t worked.
Bob Bullock wasn’t the deputy commissioner of the Texas Department of fucking Health. He wasn’t the assistant executive director at some screwed-up state agency. He ate those people for breakfast. This was el patron, who ran the State of Texas by controlling its finances. Mr. Bullock knew more about pulling people’s chains than my entire newsroom. He saw me coming a mile away, even with his bloodshot eyes. There's something else. Even thugs have a code. That's the takeaway lesson for the young reporter here. My plan was to go to Cat Mountain to push Mr. Bullock's buttons. Instead he pushed mine.
Lucius X
