mini-bar had a problem. There were no mini-bars in any of the Omni's rooms. (p.
189)
The young liar next discovers, to his amazement, that the exposure, scandal, and
punishment that he feared do not materialize. Questions concerning the veracity of
his work can simply be brushed aside. The chief consequence of his lying is dizzying
success:
At 25, Stephen Glass was the most sought-after young reporter in the nation's
capital, producing knockout articles for magazines ranging from The New Republic
to Rolling Stone. Trouble was, he made things up - sources, quotes, whole stories
- in a breathtaking web of deception that emerged as the most sustained fraud in
modern journalism. (p. 176)
Because this, after all, was Stephen Glass, the compelling wunderkind who had
seeped inside the skins of editors not only at The New Republic but also at
Harper's, George, Rolling Stone, The New York Times Magazine, and Mother Jones.
This was the Stephen Glass who had so many different writing contracts that his
income this year might well have reached $150,000 (including his $45,000 New
Republic salary). This was the Stephen Glass whose stories had attracted the
attention not just of Random House - his agent was trying to score a book deal
but of several screenwriters. (p. 180)
There arrives a time when the young liar begins to feel himself invincible. He finds
that no matter how big his lie, he is not exposed, and he extrapolates to imagine that
he leads a charmed life and that his good fortune will continue forever. In view of his
perceived impunity, he sees no need to moderate lying, and so he escalates it:
Stephen Glass rode the fast curve of instant ordainment that encircles the
celebrity age of the 90s; his reputation in the incestuous world of Washington
magazine journalism exploded so exponentially after a few of his better-than-true
stories that he could basically write anything and get away with it, regardless of
the fact that his reporting almost always uncovered the near incredible and was
laden with shoddy sourcing. His reports described events which occurred at
nebulous locations, and included quotes from idiosyncratic characters (with no
last names mentioned) whose language suggested the street poetry of Kerouac and
the psychological acuity of Freud. He had an odd, prurient eye for a
department-store Santa with an erection and evangelists who liked getting naked in
the woods. And nobody called his bluff. What finally brought Stephen Glass down
was himself.
He kept upping the risk, enlarging the dimensions of his performance, going
beyond his production of fake notes, a fake Web site, a fake business card, and
memos by pulling his own brother into his fading act for a guest appearance.
Clearly, he would have done anything to save himself.
"He wanted desperately to save his ass at the expense of anything," said
Chuck Lane. "He would have destroyed the magazine."
The saga of Stephen Glass is wrenching, shameful, and sad. His actions are
both destructive and self-destructive, and if there is an explanation for them,
his family has chosen not to offer it. Repeated attempts to interview Stephen
were rebuffed, and all his father, Jeffrey Glass, said in a phone conversation was
this: "There's a lot unsaid. You can do whatever you want to do. There's no
comment." (p. 182)
But the result of such a course, at least in some perhaps rare cases, is discovery and
discredit:
Nothing in Charles Lane's 15 years of journalism, not the bitter blood of
Latin America, nor war in Bosnia, nor the difficult early days of his editorship
of the fractious New Republic, could compare with this surreal episode. On the
second Friday in May in the lobby of the Hyatt hotel in the Maryland suburb of
Bethesda, near Washington, nothing less than the most sustained fraud in the
history of modern journalism was unraveling.
No one in Lane's experience, no one, had affected him in the eerie manner of
Stephen Glass, a 25-year-old associate editor at The New Republic and a white-hot
rising star in Washington journalism. It wasn't just the relentlessness of the
young reporter. Or the utter conviction with which Glass had presented work that
Lane now feared was completely fabricated. It was the ingenuity of the con, the
daring with which Glass had concocted his attention-getting creations, the subtle
ease with which even now, as he attempted to clear himself, the strangely gifted
kid created an impromptu illusion using makeshift details he had spied in the
lobby just seconds earlier - a chair, a cocktail table, smoke from a cigarette.
(p. 176)
The New Republic, after an investigation involving a substantial portion of its
editorial staff, would ultimately acknowledge fabrications in 27 of the 41 bylined
pieces that Glass had written for the magazine in the two-and-a-half-year period
between December 1995 and May 1998. In Manhattan, John F. Kennedy Jr., editor of
George, would write a personal letter to Vernon Jordan apologizing for Glass's
conjuring up two sources who had made juicy and emphatic remarks about the sexual
