The Fourth Awakening

The road to enlightenment is long and difficult. Bring snacks and a book to read.” Anonymous “Nellie! Why do you even bother to carry a cell phone when you never answer the darn thing?” As usual, with the phone buried in her purse, Penelope Spence hadn’t heard it ringing. The familiar baritone on her voice mail brought a smile to her face. Mark Hatchet, Managing Editor of The Washington Post, was the only person on the planet who still called her by her old college nickname of Nellie; to everyone else she was, and always had been, Penelope. It was ironic that he should call. She had been thinking about him recently, hoping he would have another assignment for her; maybe this time he had one with a bit more meat on it. “Call me. It’s important. Don’t go through the switchboard, use my cell.” Penelope frowned. It was an odd request. She dialed his number and he answered on the second ring. “Mark Hatchet.” “Penelope Spence.” When they were journalism majors at Columbia, they had worked on the school newspaper and been less than friendly rivals for the best stories and the editorship of the paper. After college, as their careers moved in different directions and real life settled in, they became the kind of old friends who stay in touch and talk a few times a year



1 “Thanks for returning my call so quickly,” he said, a bit stiffl y. “So, what’s the big story this time? Problems with the strawberry crop in Georgia?” “No, a little better than that.” Mark’s voice was strained and he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. She could hear other voices in the background. “Want me to call you back?” “No,” he said. “Hold on one second.” The background noise faded and Penelope heard a door click shut. “I can’t really talk right now, but I have a potential story for you.” “Potential? What does that mean?” “The story is big enough that it can’t go to print without multiple confirmations. So far, no one has been able to get even a single person to go on the record.” “What’s the story?” “Not on this line.” “What do you mean, not on this line?” Normally their conversations were light and breezy, but not today; he was deadly serious. “Someone may be tapping my phone,” he said. “What have you been smoking? No one in their right mind would tap the phone of a senior editor of a major newspaper.” “Don’t be so sure.” “Okay,” Penelope said as she sat up straighter. “You’ve got my full and undivided attention.” “I sent you a package by courier. Inside are an envelope and a cell phone. Do not open the envelope or show the contents to anyone under any circumstances until we’ve talked. And don’t mention this conversation to anyone.” “That sounds ominous.” “This is serious enough to cost me my job if any of this gets out.” Penelope stood up and began pacing in a tight circle Zero Moment Of Truth.



“You’re kidding, right?” “No. I don’t want to go into any details until you have the package. But it is critical that no one else sees the contents until we talk. Okay?” Penelope’s brow furrowed so deeply her eyebrows touched. “Okay. But you’re starting to scare me a little bit.” “Don’t worry,” he said with a forced laugh. “There are some issues in 2 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin play here that I’ll explain when you have it in front of you. This is right up your alley.” “What alley is that?” “A government cover-up at the highest level,” Hatchet answered with a laugh. “Let me ask you a question. When was the last time you had a front page byline?” Penelope felt a tingle of excitement. “It’s been awhile.” “Well, this may be the story you’ve been wishing for. Promise me you won’t open it or mention this conversation to anyone until you talk to me.” “I promise.” The phone went dead in her hands. The path not chosen. After winning a Pulitzer for investigative reporting at the tender age of twenty-three for exposing corruption in the South Carolina Statehouse, Penelope could have gotten a job with any paper in the country Academic alliance.



In fact, many sent out feelers and lunch invitations to see if she would jump. Instead of punching her ticket to a big-time newspaper in New York or Washington, her wedding to Bill Spence was only a few months away and she decided to stay in Charleston and get married. Their wedding was the social event of the season. With a guest list that included two former presidents and an assortment of senators and congressmen; to change her mind at such a late date would have been the death of her mother. Two days short of the anniversary of her Pulitzer, her fi rst daughter, Carrie, was born. The Post & Courier let her work part-time, for awhile. But with three children born in just under four years, she found herself declining more and more assignments. They kept her technically on the staff for a few years, mostly for the prestige of having a Pulitzer Prize winner on the masthead, but eventually even that illusion vanished. A couple of decades later, aft er Bill left and she had decided to take another shot at reporting, she was so far removed from journalism that the paper didn’t even offer her a job. Advertisers weren’t buying ads like they used to and they already had a newsroom full of ambitious J-school reporters who were half her age, and a fraction of her salary.