2: Bias
Lex asks Clark about his friend, The Reporter, and receives a glib response of, "Oh, Chloe. Yeah, she's great."
They're standing in Clark's barn loft, which is basically the boy's treehouse. Honestly, Lex is a little jealous. He never had a secret hideout while growing up, never had anywhere to go that was really his, a safe space from the world. Clark is lucky. Even if his supposed "fortress of solitude" smells like hay.
"Great how?" Lex prods.
Clark shrugs. He's fiddling with the dials of his telescope, which Lex doesn't bother to tell him isn't even pointed at the night sky.
"I've always kind of known her," Clark finally says. "Mostly because Pete thinks she's cute. But she's a senior—different classes and all that. Once we hit high school, Pete volunteered to do articles at The Torch, trying to catch her eye, and somehow, I got roped into that too. She's a taskmaster about deadlines."
It's tempting to let his lips twitch, but Lex resists. "She came by the mansion last week to interview me."
"Yeah, she talked to me about it."
Even though Lex waits, Clark doesn't add any details. It's hard to get a read on his new friend to determine if Clark is purposely secretive or just naturally shy. Maybe both.
"Did she say anything nice?" Lex finally asks. He can't get more pointed than that.
"In the article? I didn't read all of it, but yeah, it seemed nice. Of course, I'd expect Chloe to have a better opinion of LuthorCorp than most people in town, since her dad works at the plant and all."
Secrets. Every reporter has secrets. Biases they won't acknowledge, sources they don't disclose. Every time Lex gives his time to a reporter, it seems, he gets burned. Some worse than others.
His lips harden to a line. "She failed to mention her father's employment. Do you have a copy?"
"Uh . . ." Clark turns from his telescope to the loft's futon, digging through his red backpack until he finally produces a wrinkled newspaper. "Here you go. Front page."
Lex snaps the paper straight, or as straight as it can get with the creases. He reads in silence, dissecting the words, and in the end, he says, "Thanks, Clark. Mind if I hang onto this?"
Of all the people to be emailing her, Lex Luthor is an unpleasant surprise. Chloe groans when she opens the email to find it's basically a formal summons to Luthor Mansion, a place she's gone once with no desire to return.
But when the final bell rings, she packs up her bag, climbs into her red VW bug, and drives to the looming horror on the hill. (It's not actually on a hill, and it's more beautiful than horrifying, with stone architecture and stained-glass windows, but sometimes it feels good to be dramatic.)
There's no slipping the guards this time. One of them—broad-shouldered and stern-faced, with a pistol holster Chloe hopes is just for show—escorts her to Lex's study. It looks the same as before, with the fireplace and chairs, the desk in front of the window, the pool table and the bookshelves and the brandy tray, and yet, somehow, it feels smaller. More like a cave. More like a trap.
"Mr. Luthor," she says with forced cheer. "You asked to see me. Here I am."
Slowly, Lex closes his laptop, leaning forward at his desk and twining his fingers. His storm-colored eyes are piercing even from across a room.
"Are you familiar with The Art of War, Ms. Sullivan?" he asks, almost lazily.
People always say not to get involved with the Luthors. Lionel Luthor is supposedly as corrupt as they come, and there's speculation about toxic chemicals in the LuthorCorp fertilizers infecting the town's soil, even poisoning the water. Chloe has never investigated that personally, but she suddenly feels like she's crossed a Luthor just the same, like she's declared war when all she meant to do was write an objective article about job options.
She speaks carefully, like her words are stepping out onto a minefield. "Familiar, yes. But I've never read it."
"Allow me to share a favorite quote." Lex stands, trailing one hand along his desk as he steps around it. "Treat your men as you would your own beloved sons. And they will follow you into the deepest valley."
Chloe blinks. While she's flailing, Lex makes a dismissive gesture toward his security guard, and the man leaves. Then it's just the two of them in the room together.
Lex moves to the decorative table holding his brandy glasses, and from behind the silver tray, he pulls a copy of The Torch.
"When you interviewed me for this"—he flaps the newspaper lightly—"you asked, 'Mr. Luthor, what are your hopes for your position here?' I've since rethought my answer and found it aligns with the admonition of Sun Tzu. I want my employees to be willing to follow me into the deepest valley. I want to have earned that devotion. My hope would be that I can balance concern for my employees with concern for profits, and, as a result, run the most successful and beneficial plant in LuthorCorp industries."
He waits, newspaper still in hand, eyes trained on hers.
And Chloe can't fight her growing smile. "You got a copy of The Torch."
"I did."
"You read my article."
He lifts it, self-explanatory. "Well, it is about me."
"No, it's about jobs." She emits a small laugh. "Now, had you given me the answer you just gave me, about earning devotion and balancing concern for employees with concern for profits, then the whole article would have been about you. I think that's really great, Lex."
Her cheeks flush immediately at the name slip, but he doesn't call her on it.
Instead, with a smile, he says, "Thank you, Chloe."
The heat in her cheeks sinks a little deeper.
"This is impressive writing," he adds, opening the paper, glancing across the articles. "At least as good as any cutthroat columnist at The Daily Planet."
"Ha, ha," she deadpans, rolling her eyes.
His gaze flicks up to catch hers once more. "I'm serious, Chloe. This line, here." He folds the paper over itself. "'No matter how long one has been awash in a sea of indifference, there is always a rope leading to shore.' This is a plea that could convince people to fight for freedom and country, and here you're just trying to rally votes for—what was it? A cafeteria extension?"
Chloe laughs, pushing her short hair out of her face as it tumbles forward. "I happen to care very deeply about the lack of cafeteria seating at Smallville High."
"I can tell."
His words are like a warm rock, glowing in her chest, until she sees his expression dim. Until he folds the paper and sets it back on the table.
"You didn't tell me your father works for LuthorCorp."
She frowns. "Does it matter?"
"It's a bias. You have a personal stake in speaking well of my father's company."
Heat creeps up her neck. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. "What I have a personal stake in is reporting the objective truth, whether that's about cafeteria seats or about job opportunities. All I did here was report the facts. There's no bias about it!"
And why is he calling her out when she spoke favorably about his company? If anything, it's a bias in his favor.
Something itches inside, the curious little worm that always sends Chloe hunting for the truth. But just as she's gearing up to speak again, Lex cuts her off.
"Alright," he says.
She stiffens. "What does that mean?"
"As a wordsmith, I'd expect you to know."
"I know what alright means. I meant your inflection, your connotation. Is that 'Alright, Chloe, it's your funeral'? Or is it 'Alright, Chloe, you're right about everything and I'm very sorry'?"
Clearly, he can't fully repress his smile, because it's there like a shadow, lurking at the corners of his mouth. "Alright, Chloe. Thank you for being the first reporter I've ever spoken to who didn't twist the truth."
There's some pain in that—she feels it deep in her chest, like the words reached in and pinched a nerve. "That many bad reporters, huh?"
"I'm the son of Lionel Luthor. What do you think?"
The way he defines himself speaks volumes. Not by his name or position, not by his best traits or even his mistakes. Just by his father. Is that how the aforementioned reporters defined him?
Is that how everyone defines him?
"Well, Lex"—she emphasizes his name—"I'm not interested in twists. Just in truth."
He looks dubious, and the silence is awkward, since they seem to have discussed everything there is to discuss. That is, unless Chloe wants to start another interview. She does—she always does—but for once, she thinks maybe this isn't the time to push. Maybe, despite all her burning curiosity, she can let him be. As a thank-you for saying her writing is good, for reading not just the article related to him but even one as inconsequential as a petition for cafeteria seating.
Chloe can leave Lex Luthor as an unsolved mystery. For now.
"Bye, Lex. Maybe we'll run into each other at The Beanery or something."
After flashing him a smile, she leaves. But the thought of him lingers. In fact, she can't seem to get him out of her head no matter how she tries.
So finally, she sends him an email.