The Hostage

By DF Doran

A Prison Riot.

A reporter in over his head.

What happens when he's taken hostage by the prisoners?

Will he be able to escape with his life?

It's 1972. The last troops are withdrawn from Vietnam. Watergate is about to break.

Jim Monaghan's drinking is out of control. His marriage is on the rocks. His job is teetering on the brink. Then the story of a lifetime falls into his lap.

A riot breaks out at the Ohio State Penitentiary and he's the first journalist on the scene.

There's only one problem. Jim is taken hostage by the prisoners and now he has to do everything in his power to get out. But will that be enough?

Praise for DF Doran's Jim Monaghan thrillers

"a fascinating book, which certainly kept me reading right up to the end…" - Amazon Review

"an emotional roller coaster…" - Amazon Review

"Jim Monaghan is a very interesting, multifaceted character with baggage…" -Amazon Review

"crisp writing and accelerated page-turning as funeral home intrigue encounters investigative journalism. Romance, murder and '60s nostalgia" -Amazon Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: DF Doran
• Release date: Aug 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781632250278

Book preview

One

Ten A.M. - Thursday, June 22, 1972

The incessant throbbing in his head reverberated like a bass drum thumped by an angry giant.

Despite the frigid blast of the air conditioner, beads of perspiration trickled

down his face. With each breath, he swallowed hard trying not to gag.

The paper in his black IBM Selectric typewriter was blank.

Why did I drink so much last night?

His aching head arched back violently at the loud whine of leaf blowers. The groundskeepers at The Masters Country Club were manicuring the 17th green. Throwing open the double doors to the second-floor deck off his office, he yelled, Hey, shut those things down! People are trying to work.

The always friendly groundskeepers waved at him.  It wasn’t the first time he had yelled.

He slammed the doors, headed to the bathroom and dry heaved.

Jim Monaghan was miserable.

Back at his desk, staring morosely at the blank sheet of paper, Jim had only eight hours to write the Sunday edition of his twice weekly column for the New York Times, and he didn’t have a clue what to write about.

And worse, he was beginning not to care.

Crap, I am turning 30 in a few weeks and our sixth wedding anniversary is Sunday. I have a great job, I have a great marriage, and two wonderful children. Why am I so miserable? Jim didn’t have an answer. His column was due by six p.m. He called his editor in New York.

I have to tell you, I am stuck, Jim told his editor, who was totally unsympathetic.

That’s why you get paid the big bucks, Jim.  You only have to write two columns a week, and it’s getting to be a habit, you calling within hours of your deadline telling me you are stuck. Not sure if you are keeping track, but you have cancelled out on us twice in the past few months. The Publisher is beginning to ask questions about you.  What’s going on in your life that is causing these problems?

Ignoring the question, Jim answered, I’m not going to cancel.  I just wanted to bounce some ideas off of you before I started to write.  There is so much out there. Nixon and Agnew are always good, and it looks like the Democrats are going to nominate McGovern, who will be a joke.  But everyone is writing about that. I was thinking of doing a humorous column on Nixon’s wage and price controls. They have been in place for a year, and they are a disaster. I could write a parody.  They should be called exception after exception.

That sounds good, Jim. The success of your column is your perspective.  Your readers appreciate your passion, and a little humor might be just the ticket this Sunday. Get it to me before six today.

Jim unlocked his bottom drawer, pulled out a bottle of Bushmills, and poured himself a half glass. A little hair of the dog won’t hurt. As usual, once his mind was made up, his writing was quick.  He finished before noon, and, using his new telecopier, sent the column off to New York.

Two

His headache abating, Jim poured another glass of Bushmills and walked out to the deck. The view was magnificent, overlooking the well-manicured seventeenth green and the eighteenth tee at The Masters Country Club, the oldest and most prestigious country club in Ohio.

Jim hated the country club and he hated his house, despite the fact it was beautiful. Two stories and six thousand five hundred square feet of luxury. There were quarters for the maid and nanny in the basement. Located on a circular driveway in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods of Columbus, the home was painted white with black shutters and copper drain pipes and a black slate roof.

But there was more discomfort. He was beginning to hate his job, both of them. The Times column was beginning to be a burden and his role as News Editor at The Lincoln News Tribune was almost non-existent, due to his absenteeism at the newspaper.

And deep down, he knew his marriage was in trouble.  From the outside, it appeared Jim and Jenny Monaghan were the happiest and luckiest couple in Ohio.  Jim was still the News Editor of the Lincoln News Tribune and wrote a column twice a week for the New York Times that was syndicated in 500 newspapers across the United States and Canada.  Jenny was an Assistant United States Attorney, specializing in white-collar tax crimes. They had two beautiful children, Patrick, five, and Sarah, two. But Jim and Jenny argued frequently, and the previous evening the argument escalated to the point that Jenny told Jim to sleep in his office, again.   

He brought his phone to the deck and called Dr. Nance, his psychologist and chairman of the Hamilton University Psychology Department, who had been so helpful to him since his aborted suicide attempt six years ago.

Don’t tell me you are miserable, Dr. Nance preempted the conversation. The last few times you have called, you complain about your job, your house, and your wife.  My question is, what you are doing about it?

Jim was taken aback.  He was hoping she would listen and be sympathetic. He took a drink of his Bushmills and started to reply, when Dr. Nance said sternly, It’s eleven-thirty in the morning. That better be orange juice or coffee you are drinking, because if it is alcohol, I am going to hang up.  We have talked about your drinking for years and if you are drinking before noon, you and I are through.

Jim replied icily, I’ll call later, and he hung up.

He stared at the phone and reached for his glass of Bushmills. Bringing it to his mouth, he stopped, took it to the bathroom, and poured it into the sink. He called Dr. Nance back.

I apologize for hanging up the phone, and, yes, I was drinking a Bushmills, but it was just to take the edge off. I have an awful hangover from last night. I poured the drink out before calling you back.

Jim, thanks for calling back.  I meant what I said when I told you if you were drinking in the morning, you and I would be through.  I will work as hard as you will. I want to help you through the crises you are facing, but you must be willing to work, Jim.  And I mean work, Dr. Nance counseled.

Jenny and I had another fight last night and she told me to sleep in my office.  Sunday is our sixth anniversary. I am not looking forward to it because we haven’t been getting along. I am really worried about our relationship, but I bought Jenny a diamond tennis bracelet. It’s beautiful, and I hope she likes it. Hopefully that will make up for some of our bad times.

Do you really think that’s what she wants, more jewelry, for an anniversary present?  Don’t you think she wants a happy and fulfilling marriage? Dr. Nance gently asked.

"Dr. Nance, I hate it here.  I hate this house. I hate The Masters Country Club. I hate the members except for Governor Anderson, his wife, Ann, and Ann’s parents. I mean for God’s sake, Jenny bought this house and then told me she had a surprise for me.  We drove up and that’s the first time I saw it. I thought we were going to the Governor’s private residence-their getaway from the bustle of the governor’s mansion. Their home is only three houses down the street. She and Ann Anderson picked out this house and decorated it. Then she gave me the membership to the country club.  She said I needed someplace to play golf.

The first time I was there for dinner I didn’t know most of the men wore tuxedos, and I was wearing a blue blazer and slacks and no tie. I stood out like a rube. One of those old bastards quipped, ‘How nice of your wife to buy you a place to play golf. Then he laughed. They are all assholes. The only time I go to the dining room is when the Andersons are there.

Jenny apologized and said I should have been involved in picking out the house, but she has so much money. Hell, she paid for it out of petty cash.

Jim, you knew she had money when you married her.  You had to have thought that out.

"Normally, it’s not a problem, but lately…I feel resentful when I walk around this house.  The place is beautiful, but I don’t feel at home. And all this crap is affecting my work, and I am beginning to hate that, too.

And that’s another thing, she is so happy at work. Jenny loves her job as an Assistant United States Attorney.  As you know, she went to work there right out of law school, and no one else in her class has been so successful.

Jim, you have to be honest with her and tell her your concerns.  Perhaps it would be best if we did a couples counseling session or two to get these topics out in the open.

That may be a good idea, but I have to cut this conversation short.  The nanny is bringing the kids up for some play time.

Be positive, Jim, and don’t forget you are a very successful newspaper person.  You have won two national Associated Press Awards and you are a syndicated columnist with the most prestigious newspaper in the country.  I know you make really good money yourself, so you don’t have to take a back seat to anyone.

Thanks, Dr. Nance, but you know when Jenny turns thirty, in a couple of years, she will get the balance of her trust fund. It’s a shitload.

With work, Jim, that won’t be a be a problem, Dr. Nance concluded.

Three

The nanny dropped Patrick and Sarah off in Jim’s office.   Jim loved his time with his children. Patrick was a precocious six-year-old. His blond hair drifted over his ears, with just a hint of curls, and his blue eyes reminded Patrick of Jenny’s. Sarah’s blond hair was filled with curls. Her blue eyes hinted at mischievousness. Jim was fascinated watching them grow up.

Jim had modeled his office after the late publisher of the Lincoln News Tribune, Bernard Hill’s library. Two walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves.  Four brown leather chairs surrounded an antique mahogany desk, and a matching sofa anchored the oriental carpet on the gleaming oak floor. Sitting at his desk, Jim could look out onto The Masters Country Club golf course through the floor to ceiling windows and glass double doors.

Patrick and Sarah jumped on the couch. Patrick insisted, Catch me, Daddy, catch me. Sarah tried to copy her brother but had trouble jumping and talking at the same time.

Sitting between them, Jim said he and mommy were going to celebrate their sixth wedding anniversary on Sunday and asked what they should do that would be special for mom.

Patrick ran to the bookcase and pulled out Jim and Jenny’s wedding portfolio.  Show us, Daddy, when you got married, he said smiling. Sarah echoed, Show us.

Jim opened the book and started leafing through the pictures. How happy, we were that day, he thought.

Jim paused at the official wedding picture.  His brother Hugh was best man, and Audrey Hill, publisher of the Lincoln News Tribune was the matron of honor.  Governor Anderson was a groomsman as was Edgar Johnson. Patrick pointed at Edgar and asked, Daddy, is he a nigger?

Patrick, where did you ever hear such a word?  I never want to hear you use that word again. It is an awful word.  Where did you hear it?

That’s what our nanny says.  She says it all the time.

Jim knew his first discussion that evening with Jenny would be to tell her that the nanny was gone, and he wasn’t going to argue about it. There was a line he allowed no one to cross.

He thought of Edgar with pride.  His friend, born and raised in the public housing projects of Lincoln, was an archrival in high school and American Legion baseball. Through their battles they became fast friends. After Jim’s parents died, Edgar and his mother, Maybelle, were a source of strength and comfort. Edgar had graduated with honors from Ohio State University and was now a manager in the Lincoln Park District. He was an up-and-coming political force in Lincoln, and he had replaced Reverend Jefferson as a member of the Lincoln City Council.

Jim turned the page and saw a picture of Edgar and his mother, Maybelle, and realized he hadn’t seen them in a long time.  Another problem with living in this place, he thought. I don’t spend enough time in Lincoln.

The kids enjoyed looking at the pictures.  They giggled when they saw the picture of Jenny’s father’s family.  They look mad, Patrick said. Look mad, Sarah echoed. Jim remembered that moment as the time they had realized Edgar was going to be a groomsman and not a waiter.  Jim joined in his kids’ laughter.

The maid called up to Jim telling him he had a policeman at the door who wanted to see him.  It was not unusual for police officers to stop by. Many columns came out of those off-the-record conversations.

Come in, Jim answered the knock on the office door. He didn’t recognize her at first but, standing in front of him in the uniform of an Ohio State Highway Patrolman was Anita Winston. She was stunning. Petite in stature, the five foot five inch Anita exuded sexuality. Her ample bosom pushed out from her uniform and her creamy complexion was absent the heavy makeup of Jim’s memory of their first meeting. Her formerly blonde hair was now black and was neatly trimmed around her ears.

She opened her arms and gave Jim a tight hug.  She stared at him, with her brown eyes inviting, her face inches from his and told him how grateful she was for his helping her leave her former life.

Much to Jim’s surprise, she kissed him on the lips.

Patrick giggled, Daddy is kissing a policeman.  Sarah copied her brother.

Whoa, that’s quite a hello, Jim said. What are you doing here, and why are you in the uniform of an Ohio State Trooper?

Anita sat down and the nanny came for the children. As the nanny turned to leave, Jim told her they needed to have a serious chat.  

The nanny, a sixty-year-old immigrant from Germany, was dressed in her usual black dress. Her graying hair was pulled back harshly in a tight bun, which highlighted her makeup free wrinkled face. She stared at Jim. I will check with Mrs. Monaghan, she said.

No, you will check with me.  Mrs. Monaghan may or may not be here when we talk, Jim replied.

Even the Nanny pays no attention to me in this house, Jim thought.

Four

Anita asked, What was that about?  Domestic problems for Jim Monaghan? It’s a long way from Dale, Anita said playfully. Dale was Jim’s hometown, a small farming community thirty miles east of Lincoln.

It’s a long story.  Now, what about you? It has to be a fascinating story.

"Well, Jim, it was August 1964 when you put me on the bus back to Texas.  I was at a crossroads in my life. Cindy’s murder jarred me into rethinking the life of prostitution she and I were living.  Even though it was high-end prostitution, it was still wrong. After Cindy’s death, you came into my life and everything changed.  You treated me like a woman, not a whore. On the long bus ride to Texas, I did a lot of thinking, and I decided to take the right road and turn my life around. You played a big role in that decision, and I wanted to tell you about it. And now I am sitting in this palatial home of yours. You, too, have made some changes. This place is a long way from that dreary apartment we slept in.

Anita, we didn’t sleep together in an intimate way, we just slept in the same bed.

"I know Jim, Anita laughed. I am just pulling your chain. Anyway, arriving in Texas with real trepidation, I called my dad from the bus station. I was surprised and grateful that he was excited to hear from me.  He was delighted I was in Dallas and I think he broke speed records driving to the bus station. He took me home and I told him and mom the truth, all of it. I expected them to throw me out of the house, but they were sympathetic and asked what I wanted to do next.

I told them I wanted to go back to school and my dad was so excited. He is on the Board of Regents at the University of Texas and he made some phone calls and suddenly, I was a student.  I graduated in three and a half years with a major in criminology and was hired by the Texas Rangers, you know, the Texas State Troopers.

Wow, that’s wonderful news Anita.  You know your recollections and inside information about prostitution in Lincoln and Columbus helped indict some of those people involved in the Ronald Pugh conspiracy. I appreciated it.

Glad to hear that but let me tell you more.  The Rangers assigned me to sex crimes. Can you imagine, a former prostitute, whose motto was, ‘I choose who I do it with, when I do it, and where,’ is now a cop investigating sex crimes?

Sounds like a natural, but what are you doing in an Ohio State Patrol uniform?

That’s where it gets interesting.  We busted a sex ring in Dallas, where young girls were promised modeling and acting careers, but it was just a front for prostitution.  My team kept investigating and found it was a nationwide ring, but mostly in the Midwest, Texas, and Florida. But all roads kept leading to Columbus. I came up here several times and, about six months ago, I called Governor Anderson.  As you may know, my dad and Lucas were on some NCAA committee a few years ago. They are friends. He put me in touch with Major Malcolm of the Ohio State Patrol who convinced me to transfer. I always liked Ohio better than Texas, so here I am.

Wow, I think if you can uncover who is running this ring, it will make a great story, Jim enthusiastically responded, his headache, now only a memory.

I have to be leaving soon, but one of the interesting leads we have is there is someone at the Ohio State Reformatory who is one of the ringleaders, but we are a long way from finding out who it is.

Anita, I am so happy for you, and I can’t wait to work with you on telling this story.  It sounds fascinating, but like most criminal activity, very sad. Young girls being promised modeling and acting careers only to end up as prostitutes.  An amazing, but tragic story.

After another sustained hug, Anita left, and Jim turned to his typewriter and wrote up notes from the unexpected meeting.

Five

Jim knew Jenny would be home in less than an hour, and he was determined to get his head screwed on right before she got home.  He hoped she wouldn't still be angry about the argument the night before. Jim couldn’t remember what they’d argued about, but he knew his drinking played a major role.

Damn, I feel good, he thought.  It must be the possibility of a great story about young women being recruited into prostitution by some sleazebag with promises of exotic careers.

Tempering his excitement, Jim remembered conversations with Dr. Nance. She had warned him many times that he had to be careful about becoming an adrenaline junkie. She had reminded him he was happiest in his early days at the Lincoln News Tribune, when a phone call from a widow jump-started his career.  The widow, Irene Dunn, told Jim her husband’s copper casket had been switched.

For the next few years, Jim’s investigation proved dangerous to him and deadly to Mary Ryan, his first love.  The investigation finally came to a head during the incident at the intersection of Fourth and Bradley, when Jim was shot by an employee of Ronald Pugh, who Jim discovered was behind the copper casket conspiracy and was running a nationwide criminal conspiracy involving money laundering, drug sales, and extortion.

But when there was a lull in Jim’s reportorial career, he often sank into depression. "Jim, you have to be careful about getting emotionally too high or too depressed.

Dismissing his thoughts about Dr. Nance’s warning he thought out loud, This is going to be a good evening with Jenny. He picked up the tennis bracelet, wrapped in the traditional aqua Tiffany box, slipped it into his pocket and waited for his wife.

Jenny arrived home with a smile.

I apologize for being late, but fortunately we are just going over to the Anderson’s for dinner, Jenny said as she scurried through the first floor of their estate, hugging Patrick and Sarah. She told the nanny to get them dressed for dinner. She hugged Jim and asked him to join her in the bedroom as she needed to change clothes.

Jim watched in admiration as Jenny changed out of her blue St. John Knit dress. She asked him to unclasp her gold necklace, which was a wedding gift, from their friend Audrey Hill, publisher of the News Tribune, and owner of the Hill Family Enterprise, a conglomerate of ten weekly newspapers, radio stations and two television stations, of which the News Tribune was the flagship.

Jim couldn’t keep his eyes off his wife as she walked to her personal walk-in closet in her black underwear.  She was beautiful. Her tall and athletic physique began with her honey blonde hair, which was beginning to brown. She kept it short, just hitting her shoulders.  Jenny’s body gave no indication of having birthed two children, though there was a hint of stretch marks. Her face was creamy smooth and unblemished, and her makeup was perfect. Her long legs did not have their normal tan, as the former collegiate tennis champion had not found time to be on the courts.  Too much work and children, she would explain.

What are you looking at Jim Monaghan.  Are you leering at me? she asked mischievously. I know what you are thinking, but no, not now. And they both laughed.

As Jenny finished dressing, Jim stole a glance at himself in the full-length dressing mirror.  Dressed in the traditional green Augusta National Golf shirt, black slacks with matching black loafers, Jim thought, My God, am I getting fat?  Jim’s athletic six foot, one hundred eighty pounds of chiseled physique was turning soft.  Jim turned around, looking in the mirror, and grabbed a handful of fat that was beginning to overcome his belt. Even his hair had changed with a receding hairline becoming more prominent. And, it must be dandruff, that can’t be gray hair coming out on my temples, he thought as he ran his hand through his hair.  He flexed his biceps and there was still muscle there, but it too was getting soft.

I must get back into the gym, he thought. I haven’t been on the scales in quite a while.  First thing tomorrow.