Freedom of the Press
They started by banning pornography. The issue had been solved for decades. The People vs. Larry Flint, US vs Playboy, Ashcroft vs the Free Speech Coalition, Miller vs. California and on and on. None of that mattered.
New hand-picked court.
New rulings.
Then they came for the tabloids.
No one cared.
Not the politicians, not the respectable journalists, not even the readers who clicked on their headlines with guilty pleasure. The National Ledger, The Capitol Times, the late-night talk show bloggers—shut down overnight under the new Clean Slate Initiative. The administration’s press secretary called it an “ethics reform,” an effort to restore trust in journalism.
It wasn’t until they came for The Washington Standard that I realized what was happening.
I was at my desk when the email hit my inbox.
Subject: Urgent Staff Review - Clean Slate Compliance
From: Corporate Legal
To: All Editors & Journalists
“Dear Staff, the Bureau of Media Oversight has flagged several of our recent articles as potentially misleading or misaligned with the new accuracy standards. As a result, all publication activity will be paused for review. Further communication will follow. Please do not contact outside media until this matter is resolved.”
I looked around the newsroom. Phones were ringing. People were checking emails, whispering in frantic tones. The TV in the corner, tuned to a competing news network, showed a breaking report:
“Federal regulators revoke Standard’s media license pending investigation.”
My mouth went dry.
Then my phone buzzed.
COLE: They’re coming for all of us.
Cole was my last contact inside the Bureau of Media Oversight. We’d known each other since college, back when idealism wasn’t a liability.
I grabbed my coat and left.
The apartment smelled like dinner. Spaghetti, maybe. I barely noticed.
“Alex?” Claire stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her apron still tied around her waist.
I ignored her and went straight to my office, closing the door behind me. My heart was hammering. I needed to think.
I heard her sigh from the other side. “This isn’t just another story, is it?”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I plugged the flash drive into my laptop and opened the files Cole had given me. Memos. Blacklists. The administration’s new media strategy. It wasn’t just about shutting down news outlets—it was about replacing them.
A list of “Recommended Media Personnel” caught my eye. Names I recognized. TV anchors who smiled through press briefings. Journalists who never asked for follow-ups. Bloggers who peddled state-friendly narratives.
My name wasn’t on the list.
My phone rang.
Brad.
I didn’t answer it.
The door opened behind me. I stood and pushed past her into the living room.
“Alex,” Claire said, insistent now. “What the hell did you do?”
I exhaled and held up a file. She took one look at my face and paled.
“What is that?” she asked cautiously.
“It’s bad,” I said.
She untied the apron and tossed it on the couch. “How bad?”
“They’re taking over everything. Not just shutting down outlets—replacing them with state-controlled media. It’s already happening.”
Her arms crossed. “And you’re going to fight them.”
I hesitated. “If I don’t, who will?”
She closed her eyes. “Jesus, Alex. Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t some scandal about a senator’s offshore account. These people play for keeps.”
“He’s not a king,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Think about your family.”
I took her hands. “Claire—”
“Don’t.” She pulled away. “Alex, we have a life. A home. And if you push this… they’ll take it all. Do you understand that? They serve him with religious devotion. They’re never going to see the light. Don’t you get that? You can’t stop them!”
I did. And it didn’t matter.
“I can’t just walk away,” I said simply. “This is why my job exists.”
“Existed,” She replied, correcting me. “Mike called. He saw your name on the termination list. Brad was ordered to fire you. You just didn’t know when to stop.”
“Ordered? By who?” I demanded. I could feel my face growing hot. “He’s the owner of the damn company! No one orders Brad Sherman to do anything. You must have gotten the message wrong.”
“I didn’t get it wrong.”
“You had to. There’s no way that—-“
“Have I ever once on the whole time we have been married ever gotten a message wrong?”
I stared down at her—angry. I closed my eyes and inhale deeply and released it.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Start from the top. What exactly did he say.”
She told me again.
“Fuck!” I shouted. It felt soothing in my throat even as it ripped my voice to shreds. I shouted again— louder—with all my energy, bending into it as drops of spittle flew from my mouth. I picked up a lamp from a nearby end table and with both hands, as hard as I could crashed it to the floor, breaking both the lamp and the tile underneath. It exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces ricocheting off of every hard surface they met. Lily, our six-year-old opened her room door and started to emerge.
“Go to your room!” Claire and I both ordered in stereo.
She did, but not before her face erupted into a cacophony of tears.
“Claire flashed an Angry scowl at me—a hatred I had never seen. “Look what you’ve done!” she screamed as she followed after Lily. “Clean this shit up!” she said as she sidestepped broken bits of lamp on her way.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I went to the broom closet and then obeyed. As I surveyed the damage to the broken tile, I knew what I had to do: My blog. I knew my work accesses would all be revoked by now, but my blog was mine— personally. It only had 200,000 subscribers but that would have to be enough. It had to be. Dear God let it be enough! I rushed into my office and logged in and then furiously began to type, this time, leaving the door open.
I was midway through my third draft and didn’t hear her when Claire crept into the office behind me and looked down at what I was writing. Then she sighed.
I turned. “I didn’t hear you come in,” I said.
That same hate flashed across her eyes, chilling me. She spoke softly but firmly through gritted teeth. “If you publish this, I’m taking Lily and going to my parent.”
That hit me harder than I’d expected.
“Claire—”
“I’m not doing this with you again, Alex. You can be a journalist, or you can be a father. But you can’t be both. Not this time.”
“Someone has to tell the people,” I protested.
“This is what half of them voted for, you self-righteous jackass! Why does it have to be you?”
Tears formed in her eyes and she flung her arms to her sides. “Why does it always have to be you?”
I reached for her to pull her close but she pushed back.
“Don’t!” she said angrily
“Claire,” I said softly, reaching for her again.
“I said don’t. Don’t touch me!” she said.
We locked eyes. “Ever again,” she said.
She turned and walked toward the bedroom. The door shut behind her.
I stood there for a long time.
The next morning, I met Cole in an empty café on the outskirts of town.
“You shouldn’t be seen with me,” he said as I sat down.
“I’m already flagged, too—and fired. And I’m pretty sure my wife just left me. I’ve got nothing else,” I replied. “Might as well get something useful out of it.”
“Claire?” He asked dumbfounded.
I nodded. “I’m pretty sure she’s packing up right now, I said. I really don’t wanna talk about it. Give me the file.”
He slid another flash drive across the table.
“More of the same?” I asked.
“This is worse.” His voice was low, urgent. “It’s not just journalists, Alex. They’re targeting families; anybody who gets in their way.”
The air between us went still.
“What?”
Cole swallowed hard. “Spouses. Kids. Anyone connected to flagged reporters. They’re losing jobs. Getting harassed. Some are just… disappearing.”
A chill crawled up my spine.
“Jesus,” I whispered.
Cole gave me a hard look. “If you’re in, you need to move fast. If you’re out, you need to run.”
I hesitated. “If I broadcast this—”
“They’ll come for you,” he said. “And not with a lawsuit.”
I clenched my jaw. “I don’t even know how to send this. I’m flagged.”
He scribbled something on a napkin and slid it over. “Use your blog,” he said, “and that’s my password. You can post on mine as well. Five thousand contacts is five thousand contacts.”
I stared at the napkin. I reached for it.
“You sure about this?” Cole asked.
I thought of Lily’s laugh. The way she held my hand. The way Claire smelled when she kissed my cheek in the mornings.
And then I thought of a world where my daughter grew up only knowing their version of the truth. And I made my decision.
I picked up the napkin.
“I’m sure,” I said.
Cole nodded once. “Good luck.”
I hit publish at 3:17 PM.
By 6:00 AM, my blog account was deactivated.
By 7:00 AM, my bank accounts were frozen.
At 8:00 AM, my phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: You should have listened to your wife.
At 8:15 AM, I checked the security camera app on my phone.
A black SUV was parked across the street.
By 8:30 AM, I was gone. Not imprisoned. Not taken. I’m not even sure killed—or I am sure. Yeah. I’m dead. I know it but I don’t really know how. I guess that’s the best way to put it.
I thought death would hurt, but it didn’t. I never even saw it coming. They say the soul lingers for a while after it leaves the body. That must be what this is. What I know for sure is one minute I was struggling for the freedom of press and the next moment I was gone. And no one will likely find out what happened. Ever.
as frightening as this is, I can honestly say, I see this happening....