by Julia Dahl
An easel displays a poster with the future DA’s face on it: THE NEW YORK WOMEN’S LAW COALITION HONORS SANDRA MICHAELS. I approach the check-in table and say I am from the Trib. Both women manning the table look up from their clipboards aghast. Clearly, they’ve seen the article about her ex.
“ID please,” says the one wearing a “J” necklace around her neck.
I show her my Trib badge. She looks at it longer than she needs to, hands it back, and says, “Table fourteen.”
The room fills up quickly. Everyone is fanning themselves with their paper programs and motioning to the waiters for more ice water. My tablemates are three third-year law students on scholarships from the NYWLC, a reporter from the East Coast Law Review, and an intern in Michaels’ office. Of the four, only the girl from the office had read the article about Michaels’ ex.
“I didn’t write it,” I say.
“What a fucking asshole,” says the intern. “Guy should be embarrassed his ex-wife had to give him money.”
Well said.
While we wait for the program to begin, I grab the breadbasket and take two rolls and a pat of butter. Assignments involving free food are rare. Every once in a while I cover a press event with snacks, and last year I got sent to the annual chocolate show at the Javits Center; that was a highlight. But this is my first sit-down meal. After the waiters serve the entrée, the president of the NYWLC makes a speech and solicits donations for the organization’s scholarships, gesturing to the girls at my table, who stand and smile to applause.
“And now,” says the president, “it is my great pleasure to present this year’s NYWLC Woman of the Year, soon to be the first female district attorney of Kings County, Sandra Michaels.”
Everyone claps, and Sandra Michaels stands up from her seat at the table by the little stage. Sandra is wearing a stylish sky-blue and cream suit and low beige heels. She’s had her well-cut blond hair blown out this morning. I’d guess she’s in her late fifties. She was in black-and-white on the cover of New York magazine. A Hillary-style headshot and the coverline “The Next DA of Brooklyn.” They ran the statement without a question mark, which caused a fuss. When I saw it I wondered if she knew they were going to do that, or if they pulled a reverse Sex and the City and surprised her. According to the article, Sandra grew up in Brooklyn Heights, one of two daughters of a history professor and a piano teacher. She went to Fordham, then Columbia Law, and spent two years at the Children’s Defense Fund before taking a job in Morrissey’s office in the late 1980s. She started with drug cases, then got a chance at homicide in 1992 and rose quickly, “prosecuting some of the most complex cases of the crack era.” Now, she teaches a course at NYU, and when Morrissey retires next year, will likely run for—and win—his position, making her just the second female district attorney in New York City history. The New York magazine profile did not mention her personal life at all. Not even a line about marriage or children, but I know from the Trib that she’s been married at least once and has an adult son.
“I had a speech prepared, but honestly, it’s too hot to listen to me talk for long.”
Everyone chuckles.
“This award is especially meaningful to me because when I made the choice to leave advocacy law and begin prosecuting cases, I worried that many of the women I admired in law school and early in my career would think that I had abandoned those who were most needy in order to become part of the big, ugly machine. Don’t get me wrong, the machine can be big and ugly. But I believed then and I believe even more strongly now that we cannot surrender the functioning of our justice system to men. We need women of substance, women with backbone, women with righteous anger. We need them to go after the child killers and the rapists and the stalkers and the abusers. As women, we must be present at the prosecutor’s table, on the bench, and on the ballot.”
She fans her face with her hand, and someone sitting at her table passes her a glass of ice water.
“God, it’s bad in here. I’m going to cut it short so we can all escape. Thank you so much for recognizing the work prosecutors do. Thank you.”
Everyone claps, and the president comes back, gives Sandra a hug, and reminds the audience to check the organization’s Web site for upcoming events, job opportunities, and the mentorship program. People gather around Sandra at her table. I better just get this over with. I wait in a not-insignificant line of well-wishers, and a couple other reporters, who either congratulate, question, or take a photo with the honoree. Close-up, Sandra Michaels is wearing a little too much makeup. Her nails are French manicured and a tasteful emerald band encircles the ring finger of her right hand.
“My name is Rebekah Roberts,” I say, when it is my turn. “I’m a reporter with the Trib, and I wondered if you have any response to what your ex-husband is saying about child support.”
I speak quickly, assuming she read the article I’m referring to. The way you articulate a question as a reporter is very important. You often only have one chance before whomever you’re talking to moves on to another reporter, hangs up, shouts you off the lawn, or, in this case, potentially chases you out of the room.
Sandra Michaels flinches, and the president of the NYWLC, who is standing beside her, gasps.
“Who let you in? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Sandra lifts her chin and shakes her head slowly: tsk tsk.
“It’s hard to believe this is the best use of your time,” she says, almost cordial in her condescension.
“I know … I’m just…”
“Oh, please don’t even say you’re just doing your job,” says the young woman in line behind me.
I look at my notebook. All around me, women murmur their assent.
“Sandra paved the way for female prosecutors in the city. And this is what you want to write a story about? It’s so anti-feminist!”
“As you would have known had you talked to a single source other than my former husband for your story,” says Michaels, “the period of time during which I did not send child support checks to Tom was a period of time when my son was living with me, and Tom was hospitalized for depression. Feel free to call the Marymount Psychiatric Center in Roslyn for confirmation. And feel free to request the rest of the public documents on the situation, which tell the story quite clearly.”
I don’t bother protesting that I had nothing to do with the original story. All I want is out of there.
“Got it,” I say, stepping back. “Thanks. Sorry.”
I beeline out of the hotel, half expecting to be pelted with scones, and jog across Fifty-ninth Street to the sidewalk at the top of Central Park. The horseshit smell is practically visible, hovering at nose level as the carriages wait for tourists to spend thirty-five dollars for a fifteen-minute memory. I call the city desk and am routed to Marisa, who used to run with me but switched to rewrite after she got pregnant.
“This story is so gross,” she says.
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” I say. “It’s not even true.”
I fill her in, she tells me to hold, and after about four minutes she comes back on to tell me I’m done for the day.
“Aren’t you glad you majored in journalism?” asks Marisa. “We’re really doing God’s work.”
Most of the people I know that work at the Trib have a love-hate relationship with the paper. They complain and talk shit and make jokes about the managing editor, Albert Morgan, “going for a Pulitzer” when there’s a spread or a series on something borderline ridiculous—like a map of the venues where Shia LeBeouf has been arrested. But they also talk shit about The New York Times, and the ridiculous stories they do about rich people decorating their TriBeCa lofts with driftwood from Hurricane Sandy, or the home fermentation “craze” in Williamsburg. Trib reporters take pride in the fact that we cover the murders and trials and corruption and union disputes that The Times ignores. Still, we’d all jump if The Times—or just about any other news organization—came calling.
I kill the rest
of the afternoon in the air conditioning of the Barnes & Noble at Union Square, then head to the Village for the Center’s cocktail party. The bronze plaque on the door of the brick townhouse just off Washington Square Park reads: THE UNDERHILL CLUB, est. 1913. In the foyer there is an easel holding a poster that bears the Center’s name and the phrase WELCOME FELLOWS! Two easels in one day. Printed around the greeting are the names of news organizations that, presumably, my fellow fellows work for: NPR, the Guardian, ProPublica, Frontline, Mother Jones, The Marshall Project. A piece of paper with an arrow printed on it directs me upstairs. There are probably twenty-five people in the room—that perfectly awkward size between intimate and anonymous. Iris’s borrowed heels knock against the old wooden floor as I make my way to the bar: a card table set with bottles of wine, plastic glasses, and bowls of mixed nuts. I pour myself a glass of the chardonnay—it’s too hot to even consider red wine—and scan the room for a familiar face. Valerie, the woman who gave me the fellowship and helped me place it with American Voice, appears deep in conversation with two women and a man. It’s funny: I can walk up to a cranky stranger and bug them about why they’re waiting in line for a pastry, or whether they’d be willing to share a memory of their just-murdered next-door neighbor, but the idea of starting a conversation with one of the people in this room terrifies me. If Iris were here, she’d drag me to Valerie. Don’t be lame, she’d say. Just because they have fancier jobs than you doesn’t mean they’re better than you. I take a wide swallow of the lukewarm chardonnay and head over.
“The problem isn’t space,” says the older of the two women talking to Valerie. “It’s not even will. Young editors have visions of Pulitzers, too. If they can get somebody else—somebody like the Center—to pay for the reporting, they’ll run a big investigation. The problem is the readership. They don’t fucking care! We exposed what agribusiness was doing to the California water supply five years ago! There were literally thousands of people who had no water all over the Central Valley—even back then. We’re talking people—working people, people who own their homes—who ate exclusively microwave dinners so they didn’t have to do dishes. But no one gave a shit. They held one hearing—one—in Sacramento. A couple CEOs got questioned, said they’d do better. It was utter bullshit. The only people who made the effort to come to the capitol and show support were four families who had been showering at a gym five miles from their home for literally two years. No one else cared enough to even, like, hold a fucking sign outside the hearing.”
“That was at The Chronicle, right?” says the man. He’s a little older than I am, possibly Filipino. He’s wearing khakis and a seafoam polo shirt. “Didn’t you guys win an IRE medal for that?”
“Sure. But do you know how many clicks the story got? Like, fifty. Seriously, the science page did better that week.” She hikes up the soft briefcase she is carrying on one shoulder. “I mean, if people don’t care, what the fuck are we doing? My sister says I should go into PR. I’ve got two kids about to take on huge student loan debt because I’ve been banging my head against a wall for fifty grand a year.”
Valerie and the younger woman look mildly uncomfortable. Each nods and sneaks a look around them, which is good for me.
“Rebekah! So glad you could make it,” says Valerie. “Kate, Domanick, Amanda, this is Rebekah Roberts. She wrote the piece for American Voice about the aftermath of the Roseville massacre.”
“Great piece!” says Domanick. “I remember thinking when it happened that we were never really going to know what was going on. I learned a lot. And the writing was really beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I say, unable to suppress a smile. “You just made my day.”
“Domanick was a fellow, what? Two years ago?”
“Four.”
“Four! John Jay College had collected a ton of great data on people who confessed to a crime but were exonerated by DNA. Really groundbreaking stuff, but they needed personal stories to drive it home. We hooked them up with Domanick.”
“And I am forever grateful,” says Domanick. “I was freelancing doctor profiles for a medical newsletter out of Pennsylvania to make rent. All of a sudden I got the cover story in The Atlantic.”
“Not all of a sudden,” says Valerie. “It took you, what, nine months of reporting?”
“At least.”
“I remember it,” I say. “We read it in school, in my investigative reporting class.”
“Yeah? Well, that makes me feel good—and old.” Everyone laughs. “It got a good response. I don’t know about the clicks. I try not to pay attention, honestly.”
“I learned a lot,” I say. “I mean, it’s hard to imagine why somebody would say they committed a crime—especially something like murder—when they didn’t. But you made it come alive. How it felt to be in that room. You know, scared and tired and just wanting to go home. I remember one guy you profiled said he actually knew the kid who had done the shooting. He said a bunch of people saw it, right? And he was like, they’ll figure it out eventually so, yeah, sure, I did it.”
“Marco King,” says Domanick, nodding. “He was seventeen. Did twenty-six years inside.”
“That’s what you get for trusting the system,” says the younger woman.
“Amanda, I’ve been meaning to introduce you and Rebekah,” says Valerie. “You’re both in Brooklyn. Amanda does the Homicide Blog.”
“That’s you?” I say.
“That’s me,” she says.
I’ve heard of the Homicide Blog—the Trib did a short piece on it last year. Basically, they track every single homicide in New York City. I think there were around 350 murders last year, but they don’t all make the paper. And a lot of the ones that do only make the blotter, often without a name. Just: victim. Amanda’s blog makes a new page for every person killed. She maps the deaths, too. And updates the pages if there’s an arrest.
Amanda does not look like a gritty homicide reporter. She’s wearing what is essentially a muumuu, and, if I had to guess, I’d say she is pregnant.
“I’m a big fan,” I say.
“Thanks.” She smiles and I see she’s got something stuck in between her two front teeth. Part of a nut shell, probably.
“Where are you now?” asks Kate.
“I’m at the Tribune,” I say.
“Oh, yeah? Chicago’s a great news town. I was at the Sun-Times in the nineties. Couldn’t take the fucking cold, though. Damn.”
“Not Chicago. The New York Tribune.”
“The Trib?” Kate doesn’t even attempt to hide her disdain. “Really? Tell me you didn’t work on that bullshit from Sandra Michaels’ ex.”
I shake my head.
“Fucking bullshit,” she continues, raising her voice. “Did you guys see it?”
Head shakes all around. Now all three of them are looking to get out of this conversation.
“You read the profile in New York, right?” Kate doesn’t wait for a response. “Sandra Michaels has the best record of convicting violent domestic offenders in the city. She’s going to be the next Brooklyn DA. Anyway, the fucking Trib digs up her ex-husband—who she divorced fifteen years ago and who I happen to know hasn’t been employed since—to talk shit on her.”
I decide not to mention the Palm Court luncheon.
“Sounds awful,” says Valerie. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I think we need to get this started. Are you all coming to the panels tomorrow?” The Center is hosting a conference on criminal justice reporting.
“Of course,” says Kate. “I’m moderating the environmental crime panel.”
“I have to work,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
“We’ll miss you,” she says. “Keep in touch. I’d love to fund something else from you. We’ve gotten really great feedback on the American Voice article. That peek behind the curtain of the Hasidic world was really powerful.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll definitely be in touch.”
“I was telling these guys that w
e just got funding to dig into wrongful convictions. Thanks, in part, to Domanick. So let me know if you’ve got anything there.”
“Definitely.”
Valerie walks away. Kate follows her without saying good-bye.
“Great meeting you ladies,” says Domanick. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Amanda?”
Amanda nods.
“Good luck, Rebekah,” he says, handing me his card. “Let me know if I can ever help you with anything.”
“I will,” I say. “Thanks.”
Domanick heads to the bar, where he immediately starts chatting with another group of people.
“Kate’s an asshole,” says Amanda. “She’s the perfect example of people stuck in the old media model. I mean, come on. What did you think when you got into public service reporting, that you were gonna be able to pay for your kids to go to Yale? Please.”
I smile, then lean in and whisper, “You’ve got a little something in your teeth.”
Her hand goes up to cover her mouth.
“Oh, Christ,” she says. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I’d want to know.”
“Exactly.” She pulls out her phone and grins at the screen, picks the nut shell out with her fingernail. “All good?”
“Gone.”
“I hate these things. I wouldn’t have come except that Valerie’s been really supportive of the blog. She recommended us to a couple other organizations that give grants, and without those we would be under.”
“How many people work for you?”
“It’s just me,” she says.
“You do all that yourself?”
“Well, my husband helps with the back end. But basically, I never leave the house. And when this one comes I will officially never leave.” She puts her hand on her belly.
“When are you due?”
“September.”
“Is it your first?”
“Ha! I wish. No, I’m kidding. This’ll be my third.”