would keep him out of harm’s way—the mob code that said you never killed a cop or a reporter, because the repercussions were too severe. Scare them, beat them up, okay, but never kill them. At least that’s what everyone thought until they killed Bolles.
Joya always wished she’d known Bolles, that she could have been one of his students. He was one of her idols—right up there with the first “muckraker,” Ida Tarbell. As she nursed her bruised knee and bruised ego this Saturday morning, she thought of how he’d have handled this Sammy story. She smiled, thinking he’d be jumping with glee, much like she was.
Then she remembered something else they’d taught at those workshops. Don Bolles knew what “be careful” meant, and he took precautions so nobody could ambush him. Joya so clearly remembered that he stuck scotch tape on the hood of his car, always checking to be sure it wasn’t broken by someone tampering with the engine. The tape was still on his white Datsun when it blew up at a hotel in downtown Phoenix. The precaution had been worthless because nobody tampered with his engine. They put the bomb under his car—right under his legs.
Joya let her mind page through that horrible day, which had been chronicled in newspapers across the nation. Bolles got a call from a dog breeder and small-time hood named John Adamson—he claimed to have information on a new Mafia scheme in Arizona. Bolles should have ignored it. He’d walked away from investigative work when he found his own newspaper wouldn’t push for the reforms that were needed.
Instead, he was covering the Arizona Legislature—he joked that he’d gone from the sublime to the ridiculous—and, by all rights, should have told this Adamson guy he wasn’t interested.
But even old dogs still like to hunt, and seasoned investigative reporters are like old dogs. He couldn’t help himself. If there were something new he didn’t know about, he wanted to know. Bolles agreed to the meet, demanding—yet another of his precautions—that it be in a public place. Adamson suggested a downtown hotel, and that sounded fine to Bolles. They’d meet at 11:30. Bolles hung around the hotel for a half hour before he gave up and left to find himself some lunch. That night—his wedding anniversary—he was going to a nice dinner with his wife before they took in the hottest new movie, All the President’s Men . He got into his car and turned the key.
Bolles lived for eleven days after the bombing, as they amputated one limb after another. By the time he died on June 13, they’d taken both legs and an arm. The entire nation was reeling in disbelief. All the time, the police chief of Phoenix was swearing his men and women officers would find the killers and bring them to justice. The chief had personally made that pledge to the packed Republic newsroom.
Every story Joya ever read about Don Bolles included the awe that he named his killers as he lay dying.
“They finally got me. The Mafia. Emprise. Find John [Adamson].”
It was years before anyone knew that while Bolles lay dying, the police department’s Organized Crime Bureau was purging files on some of these very people, as well as the leading politicians of Arizona. They shredded some files; threw others away; renumbered their file system trying to cover up the deletions. Nobody ever explained why they were protecting the very people Bolles had named in his last cogent breath, but protecting them they were.
Joya always regretted that she hadn’t discovered the deceit. Her paper’s competition, the Phoenix New Times , broke that story. Besides her own alternative weekly, nobody much cared why there was a purge or what was lost or why the investigative unit had gone to such trouble to cover it all up. The Republic ignored the story—their own guy had been murdered, and they ignored the story! Television stations took their cues on what was news from the Republic , so they were mute, too. Besides,
Joya always wished she’d known Bolles, that she could have been one of his students. He was one of her idols—right up there with the first “muckraker,” Ida Tarbell. As she nursed her bruised knee and bruised ego this Saturday morning, she thought of how he’d have handled this Sammy story. She smiled, thinking he’d be jumping with glee, much like she was.
Then she remembered something else they’d taught at those workshops. Don Bolles knew what “be careful” meant, and he took precautions so nobody could ambush him. Joya so clearly remembered that he stuck scotch tape on the hood of his car, always checking to be sure it wasn’t broken by someone tampering with the engine. The tape was still on his white Datsun when it blew up at a hotel in downtown Phoenix. The precaution had been worthless because nobody tampered with his engine. They put the bomb under his car—right under his legs.
Joya let her mind page through that horrible day, which had been chronicled in newspapers across the nation. Bolles got a call from a dog breeder and small-time hood named John Adamson—he claimed to have information on a new Mafia scheme in Arizona. Bolles should have ignored it. He’d walked away from investigative work when he found his own newspaper wouldn’t push for the reforms that were needed.
Instead, he was covering the Arizona Legislature—he joked that he’d gone from the sublime to the ridiculous—and, by all rights, should have told this Adamson guy he wasn’t interested.
But even old dogs still like to hunt, and seasoned investigative reporters are like old dogs. He couldn’t help himself. If there were something new he didn’t know about, he wanted to know. Bolles agreed to the meet, demanding—yet another of his precautions—that it be in a public place. Adamson suggested a downtown hotel, and that sounded fine to Bolles. They’d meet at 11:30. Bolles hung around the hotel for a half hour before he gave up and left to find himself some lunch. That night—his wedding anniversary—he was going to a nice dinner with his wife before they took in the hottest new movie, All the President’s Men . He got into his car and turned the key.
Bolles lived for eleven days after the bombing, as they amputated one limb after another. By the time he died on June 13, they’d taken both legs and an arm. The entire nation was reeling in disbelief. All the time, the police chief of Phoenix was swearing his men and women officers would find the killers and bring them to justice. The chief had personally made that pledge to the packed Republic newsroom.
Every story Joya ever read about Don Bolles included the awe that he named his killers as he lay dying.
“They finally got me. The Mafia. Emprise. Find John [Adamson].”
It was years before anyone knew that while Bolles lay dying, the police department’s Organized Crime Bureau was purging files on some of these very people, as well as the leading politicians of Arizona. They shredded some files; threw others away; renumbered their file system trying to cover up the deletions. Nobody ever explained why they were protecting the very people Bolles had named in his last cogent breath, but protecting them they were.
Joya always regretted that she hadn’t discovered the deceit. Her paper’s competition, the Phoenix New Times , broke that story. Besides her own alternative weekly, nobody much cared why there was a purge or what was lost or why the investigative unit had gone to such trouble to cover it all up. The Republic ignored the story—their own guy had been murdered, and they ignored the story! Television stations took their cues on what was news from the Republic , so they were mute, too. Besides,
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