by Josie Brown
Larry nudges me to say something.
“Mr. Courtland, certainly you can understand why the American public might find the matter somewhat dismaying—”
“‘Dismaying’?” Larry hisses. “What is this, a garden party?”
I pinch him to shut him up. “And to make matters worse, the one person who should be questioned in the matter, the fund’s manager, Helen Drake, is nowhere to be found. Truly…disconcerting.”
I feel like a traitor playing along with this ratings hound.
“As it is for the president,” Todd assures us. “Again, he is cooperating fully with the investigation. In the meantime, he is carrying on the business of his administration, including negotiating with other nations for a slowdown in the production of even more nuclear weapons.”
“Gotcha,” Larry retorts. “Except for Russia, which is ramping up. So, if we slow down, they win, thanks to President Chiffray. What part of this doesn’t smell like a payoff? And if it is, why shouldn’t the Senate try him for high crimes and misdemeanors?”
“Larry, you’re jumping the gun, guy! The investigation will demonstrate who, if anyone, is guilty.” Todd sounds exasperated. “We are a country of laws; a country that believes in a person’s innocence until proven guilty. We’re not going to try President Chiffray in the court of public opinion!”
Larry lifts my hand to slap me high five.
He then sticks my middle finger in his mouth.
At that point, I slap his face—something I realize I should have restrained from because he seemed to like it.
That does it.
As the producer cues the bumper music for the commercial break, I grab the mic. “Thank you, Mr. Courtland, for putting things in perspective for our listeners. Like you, they believe in this great country of ours. And thus far, our president hasn't done anything to sully his high office. In fact, the thought of him doing so would be…Well, it would be unimaginable.”
As the commercial runs—for Get Outta Here, of all things—Larry exclaims: “What the…have you lost your mind?”
I smile benignly. I’d rather think I’ve found my voice.
The listener phone lines are ringing nonstop.
According to the producers, ninety percent of them feel like me: Lee has been a great president and a good man. So, he made a mistake. Let the investigation play out. If he was negligent in choosing the wrong person to run his business, he’ll take his lumps. Most politicians don’t get more than a slap on the wrist.
For the hour’s other two interviews, Larry is as pale as a ghost and sticks to the cheat sheet. He’s somewhat relieved that I’m doing this too.
At the end of the show, he looks exhausted.
“What’s with you?” I ask.
“I told you already: we have a job to do,” Larry growls. “Look, if you're going to make a habit of going off-script, maybe you’re not right for this gig—”
He stops when he sees someone over my shoulder. I turn to see who it is.
Our producer motions to us. “Harold wants to see you. Both of you.”
“Damn it,” Larry grumbles. The way his shoulders drop, you’d think he was going to the electric chair.
I follow him down the hall and into the elevator.
Like that of his sister and father, Harold’s executive office is on the top floor of the seventy-seven-story Hart Media Corporation Building. From this height, it towers over the other Times Square buildings and has a bird’s eye view of Central Park to the north.
The phalanx of assistants outside Harold’s office is all of a kind: buxom and bored. When we enter, they look me up and down. One of the women picks up the phone to inform Harold that we’re here.
I take their stares head-on.
Not to worry, ladies. I wouldn’t be you for a million dollars.
But then, I realize if I get canned here and now, I’ll either have to infiltrate Hart Media again or be taken off the mission altogether.
So groveling may be in order.
From the way Larry is sweating, he must be thinking the same thing.
The assistant on the phone with Harold nods us through.
As we walk toward the door, Larry mutters, “Lady Gwen, this time let me do the talking.”
I nod, but there are no guarantees. Whatever Larry has on Harold, it’s every man—or, in my case, woman—for herself.
Harold stands midway in his football-field-sized office. He stoops over the golf club he holds with both hands. Silently, Larry and I wait while Harold lines up the shot on the golf simulator's putting green. Suddenly he slices—
Hitting Larry in the gut.
Larry doubles over in pain. He gasps. “What the hell?”
“What happened on your show?” Harold scowls from Larry to me, and back again. “Why the hell did you ignore the cheat sheet?”
Larry glances over at me.
He’s doing his best not to sell me out, and I appreciate that, so I speak up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hart. I misread the phrases on the card.”
Harold’s eyes move to me. A cruel smile breaks on his lips. “You’re the new sidekick, right?”
I nod.
He takes a few steps closer. Too close.
Still, I hold my ground.
Larry’s plaintive whine interrupts our staring match. “The audience ate it up! They like her. And actually, they liked what she said.”
“Yeah, I know,” Harold retorts dryly. “Even Hart Media’s newspapers picked it up!” He points to the cover of the company’s flagship newspaper, The New York Examiner. The headline screams:
‘Hot Topics with Larry’ News Commentator Empathizes with Chiffray’s Woes
“At least the paper had the right spin on it,” Larry points out. “‘Woes’ works.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because the editors took it from the cheat sheet!” Harold barks. “And you, Mrs.…or is it Ms.?”
“Ms. Durant,” I answer. “Gwendolyn.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?” I squelch the urge to back away.
His eyes lock onto mine. “Do you sympathize with the president?”
Play it cool.
“I…I feel, as most Americans do, that one is innocent until proven guilty.”
“Huh.” He chews on that for a moment. Finally, he retakes his place on the simulated putting green. “You’re a waste of Hart Media’s time and money—”
Oh, hell! Here it comes. I’m getting fired.
“—by being tied to Larry’s show,” Harold continues. “Anyone can shoot the breeze with this blowhard.”
“Hey…Wait!” Larry whines. “I resemble that remark!”
Harold shuts him up with a chip shot that sends Larry ducking.
Now that Larry has gotten the message, Harold continues: “As I was saying, you’re much too valuable an asset to be heard and, frankly, not seen.” His lips lift into a leer. “How would you like to be Hart Television News’ newest White House correspondent?”
“The…White House?” I’m so shocked that I almost lose my accent.
He nods. “Larry, get lost. Gwendolyn and I need to go over terms.”
“But she gives great patter! We were developing a rhythm and we’ve got sexual tension! It’s obvious in our voices!”
Harold jerks his thumb toward the door. “There’s a whole office of sexually tense talking-head wannabes out there!” he shouts. “Choose one, for Christ sakes! Only this time, make sure the next one keeps to the cheat sheet! And don’t marry her! I’m tired of paying off your alimonies!”
Larry frowns. Still, he takes the hint and scurries out the door. His one act of defiance is to slam it behind him.
Harold rolls his eyes. Then he plops down on the couch and pats the seat beside him. “Gwendolyn, what say you and I come to an understanding?”
When I sit down, it’s far enough away that any manspreading would be too obvious a ploy.
Not to be deterred by my reticence, Harold sidles closer. “I think this
position will be right up your alley. Considering all that is currently going down in Washington, we need someone who will treat it as a war zone; as if reporting the decline and fall of the Third Reich. You know, when Hitler cowered in the bunker.”
“You’re comparing Lee Chiffray to Hitler? Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?”
“Not if I say so. And I do. The press corps are bloodhounds, and they’re all over Chiffray's trail. He's already cracking under the strain.”
“Who says he is?”
Harold’s eyes narrow. “I just did.”
“Will it be on tomorrow’s network-wide cheat sheet?”
“What if I say yes?”
“Ironically, I’d believe you,” I retort dryly.
“Ha, ha! You’re a very clever girl. Too clever, I hope, to turn down the position. It comes with a six-million-dollar-per-year salary and a five-year contract. Additionally, your compensation package will also include a chauffeur-driven town car and an expense account for entertaining, and an allowance for clothing and a personal trainer. As for a residence, you’ll be given a key to a penthouse a few blocks away. It’s owned by the corporation.”
“That’s…very generous!” Cha-CHING! Gee, maybe I’m in the wrong business after all. “I gather that the position entails reporting on the administration's daily press briefings?”
“For six mil a year, I’ll expect a bit more than that.” He smirks as he moves in closer still. “Your job is to get into the bunker with the president and report back.”
I inch back from him. “You’re really going to stick with that Hitler theme, aren’t you?”
“Hey, who knows? If Reynolds rattles him enough, he might actually put a gun to his head! Now, wouldn’t that be a scoop for Hart Media!” He closes his eyes as though the thought makes him practically giddy. When he opens them again, he scrutinizes me. “Have you ever met Lee Chiffray?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Our paths never crossed in any of the war zones I covered.”
Harold shrugs. “Good, then you’re fresh meat. And you’re right up Chiffray’s alley. He likes icy blondes. Just look at the cold mannequin he married!”
“As for ‘being right up his alley,’ if we’re to talk at all, it won’t be one-on-one, and certainly not over candlelight and champagne.” I try to keep a straight face as I add, “And besides, the Chiffrays are happily married.”
Harold chortles at what he thinks is my naivety. “Don’t be so sure. In fact, the disappearance of this Helen Drake person may be proof of it.”
“Pray tell,” I murmur.
“Rumor has it she wasn’t just his financial manager. She was also his mistress.”
“Did you hear this rumor, or did you start it?”
“I think we’ve just established the fact that neither matters.” He chuckles. “And here’s another reason it shouldn’t matter to you. There’s a bonus in it. Half a year’s salary, for the run of your contract—if you get the scoop that proves the rumor is right.”
“You mean, the rumor you just made up?”
He sighs exasperatedly. “Another definition for a rumor is a yet-to-be-proven truth.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say coolly. “Mr. Hart, I still don’t know how I’m supposed to wheedle my way into the president’s confidence. Most White House correspondents never get any further than the press fence as he crosses the White House lawn toward Marine One, or to shout out a question in the oval with a scrum of other reporters. If he’s lying low, what makes you think he’ll take an interview with me?”
“That may be the easiest part of all,” Harold counters. “After Todd Courtland’s interview with you and Larry, he called me. He says that the Administration was heartened by the listener response to your platitudinous pandering—so much so that the president is open to a no-holds-barred interview with Hart Media. The president feels it will clear the air about…Let’s see, how did Todd put it? Oh yeah! ‘This sad misunderstanding of the president’s role in his blind trust.’”
“Did Mr. Courtland suggest that I conduct the interview?”
“No. It came from the big man himself.”
Darn it! Did Lee listen in and recognize my voice?
“Well, if the president asked for me, I guess I should.”
Harold guffaws. “Not him! I meant the CEO of Hart Media: Randall Hart.”
“Oh…your father!”
Although he can’t guess the source of my blatant relief, he frowns, as if it’s an affront to him. “Nepotism isn't the only reason I’m the boss of several thousand employees, including you, Gwendolyn.”
“No, of course not! I didn’t mean to imply—”
He stops me by putting his tongue in my mouth.
I’m too shocked to react.
Then again, considering that my first instinct is to chomp down on it, maybe it’s for the best.
He pulls back with a smug smirk. He liked having caught me off guard. “Let’s not keep the old man waiting.”
He points to a double interior door. “Ladies first.”
It doesn’t surprise me when I feel him nudging me forward with a hand on my bum.
Randall Hart is tall but stooped enough to now lean on a cane. His shoulders are no longer broad enough to fill out his elegant bespoke suit. His eyes sink into the sagging flesh beneath them, like an aging Halloween mask. The sharp cheekbones that once anchored a full, florid face now protrude from his sunken skin.
Interesting. I guess the photo of Randall used in the company’s investment prospectus was digitally enhanced to make him look as virile as he once was.
Ignoring Harold, he squints through his glasses at me.
“You did the reporting from the Russian parade.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Gwendolyn Durant.”
“It was a good piece of journalism.” He sighs. “It’s why I agree with Harold that you take the White House beat.”
I have to ask: “Why me?”
A slim grin breaks his lips. “Are you looking a gift horse in the mouth?”
“Not at all. I’m just wondering why others who have been with the network longer weren’t considered.”
He bends to glare at a sheet of paper on his desk. “Your background is perfect. Foreign correspondent, broadcast, and print. War zones, political unrest, deep investigative pieces. Let’s make one thing clear. This assignment shouldn’t be a puff piece or a hit piece. A comprehensive investigation is warranted. And you have the on-air presence to weave our president’s sad, complicated tale into a cohesive tapestry: one that the world wants to hear. One it should hear.”
My eyes go from Randall to Harold and back again. “Even if the president is innocent?”
When he smiles, he resembles a cadaver. “Especially if he’s innocent.”
“Then yes, I’ll do my best to report the facts, wherever the investigation leads.”
More so, to stall until Acme untangles the financial threads that bind the Hart Media Network to Russia.
“One last thing, Ms. Durant. Has my son propositioned you in any way?”
The color drains from Harold’s face.
I hesitate, wondering how I should answer him.
“Your silence speaks volumes.” Randall’s cane smacks Harold in the face.
His son yelps and holds his cheek, which is already reddening.
“Ms. Durant, you’ll report only to me. I won’t let our network be dragged through the mud because my egotistical son has no self-control.” He shudders at the thought. “My secretary has your new contract. Take it home with you. Today is Friday. Take the weekend to go over it with your attorney. The offer is good until noon on Sunday. Should you sign it, tell your legal counsel to email a signed PDF version to me.” He hands me a business card with his private email. “Report to our D.C. news bureau on Monday morning.”
I nod goodbye and leave.
Harold faces away from me.
Are these men in league on the mission to destroy Lee?
It
sounds as if they're at cross purposes.
I'll know one way or another if Harold reaches out to me.
11
Puff Piece
The journalistic definition of a “puff piece” is a feature article that is excessively complimentary about a person, an event, or a product.
You hear puff pieces all the time, and not just on TV.
For example, when your husband is teased by his work buddies about some cute co-worker who makes it a point to bring him his coffee every morning. However, Hubby insists on laughing it off, but at the same time, he opines on this adorably sweet act of kindness.
Well now, there’s a puff piece for you.
Solution: Send him into work with a thermos of his favorite brew!
Should Cute Co-Worker figure out another way to wile her way into his heart, send her something too: perhaps a cute coffee mug laced with something that will have her thinking twice about her morning caffeine and his.
Jack’s hotel room connects to mine, allowing us to enter and leave separately.
He’s not at the hotel when I get there. I yank off my wig. It’ll stay off until Monday when I’m due at the Hart Television Network’s Washington D.C. Bureau.
As I hoped, Emma has already uploaded Jack’s first day at Good Morning Hartland and intercut it with actual footage from his first appearance on the show.
The footage starts with Jack’s initial meeting with his producer, Suzanne Pettigrew.
As he shakes the hand of this aging Bronx babe, Jack apologizes for being a few minutes late. “Your building security was a lot tougher to get through than I anticipated.”
“Hey, at least you didn’t ditch on us! I thought maybe you’d believed the rumors. Ha, ha!” She takes a good look at him. Then, in a rapid-fire patter, she exclaims, “My Lord, Grant Larkin! You are even more handsome in person than you are on TV! Be still, my heart!”