TV reporters in those days were hired for their good looks and stay-in-place hair, not their investigative skills.
What should have been a permanent stain on the Phoenix Police Department—should have opened up new investigations and maybe solved the question of who ordered Bolles’ assassination—went away because the media didn’t push. Whoever or whatever convinced the Republic to stonewall the shredding assured that Bolles’ murderer went free. Bolles himself would have laughed. “Business as usual,” he’d have said.
For Joya, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Kill a reporter. Get away with it. She had never trusted a cop since. Her disdain for the Arizona Republic was irreversible.
Now she was in a horrible position. Could she trust the cop she was dating? Could she trust his higher-ups, who would have to sign off on the deal? Could she trust a law enforcement agency that had betrayed Don Bolles? Sure, those guys were retired now, but did they leave a lingering taint? Could the same kind of corruptions happen today? She had trouble thinking of anything else.
She was relieved when her heavy eyes led into a long Saturday nap. She dreamed of celebrations, not murder.
She awoke and scolded herself. “Shake it off, Joya. Shake it off.” She watered plants in the backyard and filled the bird feeders and grabbed a banana before she got herself ready for the library dinner. She dressed in her beaded black gown; she acted like everything was fine.
***
Joya’s usual Sunday had its own rituals, even if they didn’t resemble the way she’d been raised. For the first seventeen years of her life in Northville, North Dakota, Sundays meant St. Vincent’s Catholic Church, a magnificent cathedral with two-story stained-glass windows and elaborate statues of the saints. The Stations of the Cross weren’t pictures on the wall, like in many Phoenix churches, but carved statutes depicting the agony of the crucifixion. As a little girl, she’d loved going into the church alone and kneeling at the communion rail that separated the congregation from the altar and the priest. She’d wanted to be on that altar, to help serve the mass, but girls weren’t allowed. Only altar boys. That had changed, but too late for her.
Now the railing was gone and the priest faced the congregation—but none of those changes had been enough to keep Joya Bonner a “capital C” Catholic. Still, she had a soft spot in her heart for the church where she made her First Communion, walking down the aisle in a white dress with a white veil, like a bride. There were a dozen pictures of her from that day, and an ornate certificate that her mother framed. St. Vincent’s was the church where she made her confirmation, and where, as a teenager, she dreamed she’d be married.
But life had taken a different turn. Sundays weren’t spent in church, but with a group of friends over brunch. Little Northville couldn’t hold her like big Phoenix could. For the last decade, she’d worked for an irascible weekly where she had made a name for herself as a journalist no one messed with.
Still every Sunday, Joya dutifully called home to her folks. Most of the time, she was the one doing the sharing—telling them about her week and what was going on in Phoenix. Their news was usually pretty skimpy—what Grandma was up to and anything new with the aunts and uncles, how Dad’s garden was progressing or if the leaves had turned. It was normally the conversation of people whose lives were going along quite nicely with no traumas to report. But that wasn’t the visit they had this Sunday.
“You aren’t going to believe the tragedy here,” her mother began and Joya held her breath, praying it wasn’t someone in the family. It wasn’t, but it came close enough.
“It’s Amber Schlener—Nettie’s daughter? You went to her basketball game last Christmas. Remember?”
Of course Joya remembered. The Schleners weren’t close relatives, but
What should have been a permanent stain on the Phoenix Police Department—should have opened up new investigations and maybe solved the question of who ordered Bolles’ assassination—went away because the media didn’t push. Whoever or whatever convinced the Republic to stonewall the shredding assured that Bolles’ murderer went free. Bolles himself would have laughed. “Business as usual,” he’d have said.
For Joya, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Kill a reporter. Get away with it. She had never trusted a cop since. Her disdain for the Arizona Republic was irreversible.
Now she was in a horrible position. Could she trust the cop she was dating? Could she trust his higher-ups, who would have to sign off on the deal? Could she trust a law enforcement agency that had betrayed Don Bolles? Sure, those guys were retired now, but did they leave a lingering taint? Could the same kind of corruptions happen today? She had trouble thinking of anything else.
She was relieved when her heavy eyes led into a long Saturday nap. She dreamed of celebrations, not murder.
She awoke and scolded herself. “Shake it off, Joya. Shake it off.” She watered plants in the backyard and filled the bird feeders and grabbed a banana before she got herself ready for the library dinner. She dressed in her beaded black gown; she acted like everything was fine.
***
Joya’s usual Sunday had its own rituals, even if they didn’t resemble the way she’d been raised. For the first seventeen years of her life in Northville, North Dakota, Sundays meant St. Vincent’s Catholic Church, a magnificent cathedral with two-story stained-glass windows and elaborate statues of the saints. The Stations of the Cross weren’t pictures on the wall, like in many Phoenix churches, but carved statutes depicting the agony of the crucifixion. As a little girl, she’d loved going into the church alone and kneeling at the communion rail that separated the congregation from the altar and the priest. She’d wanted to be on that altar, to help serve the mass, but girls weren’t allowed. Only altar boys. That had changed, but too late for her.
Now the railing was gone and the priest faced the congregation—but none of those changes had been enough to keep Joya Bonner a “capital C” Catholic. Still, she had a soft spot in her heart for the church where she made her First Communion, walking down the aisle in a white dress with a white veil, like a bride. There were a dozen pictures of her from that day, and an ornate certificate that her mother framed. St. Vincent’s was the church where she made her confirmation, and where, as a teenager, she dreamed she’d be married.
But life had taken a different turn. Sundays weren’t spent in church, but with a group of friends over brunch. Little Northville couldn’t hold her like big Phoenix could. For the last decade, she’d worked for an irascible weekly where she had made a name for herself as a journalist no one messed with.
Still every Sunday, Joya dutifully called home to her folks. Most of the time, she was the one doing the sharing—telling them about her week and what was going on in Phoenix. Their news was usually pretty skimpy—what Grandma was up to and anything new with the aunts and uncles, how Dad’s garden was progressing or if the leaves had turned. It was normally the conversation of people whose lives were going along quite nicely with no traumas to report. But that wasn’t the visit they had this Sunday.
“You aren’t going to believe the tragedy here,” her mother began and Joya held her breath, praying it wasn’t someone in the family. It wasn’t, but it came close enough.
“It’s Amber Schlener—Nettie’s daughter? You went to her basketball game last Christmas. Remember?”
Of course Joya remembered. The Schleners weren’t close relatives, but
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