The Cutaway

by Christina Kovac

  “Ian Chase was at a vigil for the missing woman last night,” I told her. “So the US Attorney’s Office is investigating, I take it? And he’s the head of Homicide Section, right? That means—”

  “There are no statements at this time,” she said, and hung up.

  I got into the car and sat staring at the phone in my hand, thinking about the conversation. Its tenor surprised me—the spokesperson’s evasion, her defensiveness that seemed almost protective, the abrupt hang up. It was rare for the US Attorney’s Office to be anything but coolly professional. Of all the press offices in the city, they ran theirs best.

  The clock on the phone showed it was midmorning, long past time to get back to the station. I called into the news desk to give my ETA. Isaiah picked up on the first ring. “Where the hell are you?” he said. “I’ve had to cover for you all morning.”

  I told him about the detour to police headquarters and the interview that ran longer than expected and was about to tell him about the journal when he interrupted me. “Well, heads up, Mellay’s on the warpath,” he said angrily. “He’s been looking for you and can’t figure out how I don’t where you are. Makes me look like I’m not doing my job. And oh, by the way, he announced layoffs this morning. Stacey is already gone—”

  “What do you mean, gone?” I said, shocked.

  “She was escorted out of the door like some kind of criminal.”

  It was outrageous. Stacey was our receptionist, the most thankless, ill-paying job in all of television, and yet she was competent and patient, dealing with the crazy callers and the on-air egos. She worked hard, and she was loyal. There was no reason for her to be gone. I imagined her dead-man’s walk as she was escorted out, carrying her personal belongings, the school pictures of her small children—

  The images made me so angry that my hands shook and the phone slipped from my hand. “You still there? Isaiah? I dropped you.”

  “You certainly have,” he said, and hung up.

  The traffic was heavy on Massachusetts Avenue, so I ran a couple of red lights on Thirty-Fourth Street to make up time. I pulled into the garage and then my parking space. The elevator to the newsroom was crowded.

  At the receptionist desk, a new intern out of J-school handled the phones, ringing more frequently than she could answer. She vibrated with nervousness or excitability—I was uncertain—and then I noticed four empty cans of diet soda on her desk.

  She handed me a pile of yellow while-you-were-out messages. The last note gave me pause. “What’s this about my mother calling?”

  “She called a couple times,” she said, snapping her gum. “I tried to put her through to your cell, but you didn’t pick up.”

  “My mother’s dead—”

  “Oh my god.” Her gum dangled on her lip. “And you didn’t get a chance to talk to her?”

  I handed the note back to her. “No, this is a crazy caller. You have to recognize them. They sound sane and their stories real, but they’re not. Be polite. Don’t engage. Get rid of them.”

  “Uh-huh. I had to hang up on some drunk girl this morning. Said she wanted to sell her story about a missing woman.”

  “What? Where’s her number?”

  She gawked at me, her face reddening, and then: “Maybe I wrote it someplace.” She sorted through scraps of paper strewn across the desk. When she peeked up again, she was teary eyed. “She had a weird name, and she wanted money. That’s not right, is it?”

  “No, we don’t buy stories, but this is my story. Those calls go to me.” I pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to her. “First lesson is there’s no crying in news.” And then I thought, no, that’s the second. The first is to get someone with experience to answer my damn phones. “You’re a female journalist. Under no circumstances can you show emotion. Do you understand?”

  She nodded tearfully.

  “Okay, good.” I glanced at my watch. “I have to find Isaiah, and we’ll get you help with these phones. Meantime, find me that number.”

  ————

  The newsroom was deserted. The studio sign requesting Quiet Please blinked on. It appeared we were getting ready for a live shot. I stood over Isaiah’s empty desk, watching how the studio lights overtook the darkness and bathed everything in a soft golden light, and then Moira swept into the room, and she, too, was in the light. It was all so beautiful it hurt.

  The teleprompter spun the words on its wheel like a slot machine before steadying. Moira squinted at the teleprompter and then to the script that lay on the anchor desk before crushing the script in her fist.

  I stepped under the lights, which warmed my hair.

  “You’re here, oh thank god, fix this,” she said, shoving the balled-up script in my hand. “Hurry, I’m on in ten minutes.”

  I couldn’t imagine the script was bad as all that, and then I read it. The diction was meant to sound hip, slangy, except I’d never heard Moira talk like that. Worse, there was an absence of facts. I picked up a Sharpie and scribbled changes.

  Behind me, a throat cleared. “What’s the problem, Moira?” Mellay asked.

  “This needs a few adjustments,” I said, marking copy.

  “I approved the script. You’ll read it.”

  She lifted her chin. “I won’t.”

  The seconds on the clock ticked. “Can we just get through this live shot?” I said.

  He cut me a narrow-eyed look, and then said to Moira: “If you don’t read the script I’ve approved, we’ll have dead air, and I promise you, we won’t have it a second time. I’ll call one of the dozens of experienced reporters who can’t find a job. Someone who’d be thrilled to read whatever I give them and who won’t threaten me with dead air.”

  She read flawlessly. When the studio lights winked out, she crumpled the script and tossed it in a high arc onto the black carpeting and walked off the set. She glided past Ben, who was leaning against the farthest wall, his arms across his chest, watchful.

  “Come out everyone,” Mellay shouted. He stepped onto Moira’s chair and climbed onto the anchor desk. “Isaiah, call everyone in. Let’s get this said, once and for all.”

  The editorial staff shuffled in—what used to be my staff—along with photographers and editors, studio techs and engineers. Ben remained with his back against the wall.

  “I look around this room,” Mellay said, “and I see the best in the city. We’re number one because of you. It’s important to recognize your talent.” He nodded, smiling, even as he held up a hand. “However, being the best does not exempt you from what’s happening all over the industry, competition from nontraditional news content providers, from culture and entertainment websites and bloggers. The audience for traditional news is dwindling, and with it, money. News requires people and equipment, and people and equipment require money. That money comes from advertisers who pay according to our audience. We have to bring in the audience to pay for our jobs, right?”

  He was nodding again. A few nods were returned, and then it went through the room like a wave and everyone was in the wave with him. Except for me. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I know how to bring in audience,” he said. “That’s what I do.”

  Someone raised her hand. He ignored her.

  “The audience wants change,” he said, surveying the room that had gone silent except for the distant chirp of police scanners. “Change I cannot make with the resistance I’ve been encountering. Each of you must make your own decision. Do you want to keep your job, or not? Think about it.”

  He hopped down from the anchor desk and everyone filed out. He crossed the room to me. “This morning I requested an update on the missing woman story, but you were MIA.”

  “Actually, I was out working that story,” I said.

  “Join us in my meeting,” he said. “Get everyone up to speed.”

  “I have to meet with Isaiah.”

  “He’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE CONFERENCE ROOM w
as crowded. Ben was at the far end of the table, his head down with his ball cap flipped backward, scribbling dark lines across a reporter pad. Nelson slouched next to him, chin on palm, half asleep. In my chair was the blond beauty queen from the lobby the day before.

  “We haven’t met,” I said.

  She took my hand. “Heather Buchanan.”

  “You’re new, so you probably don’t realize you’re in my chair.”

  “There are others,” she said, looking through me.

  She had TV starlet written all over her, and I was pretty sure, Mellay wrapped around her finger. Maybe I couldn’t help my meeting being stolen by Mellay, but I’d damn well keep my seat at the table.

  “Yes, there are,” I said. “Choose one.”

  Heather glanced beyond my shoulder to where Mellay was fidgeting noisily at the head of the table. She got up and took a seat next to Isaiah.

  “Let’s start with Virginia,” Mellay said, smirking. “She’s working the woman missing from Georgetown. What have you got today?”

  Around the table there were curious glances. Ben kept his head down to his reporter pad, so I spoke to the tuft of dark hair spilling from the hole in the back of his cap. “As you know, MPD received a missing person report for Evelyn Carney on Monday afternoon. This afternoon marks the fourth day of their investigation. Nelson has fresh video of police cadets searching the C&O. Detectives canvased the neighborhood around Prospect Street where Carney was last seen. We’ll pursue the latest in the investigation—”

  “Not what you’re pursuing,” Mellay interrupted. “What we’re reporting. What’s the lead, Virginia?”

  “There are several angles we’re pursuing,” Ben said without looking up from his doodling. “But the longer we sit here talking, the less time we have out there confirming.”

  Mellay jerked his chin toward where Heather and Isaiah sat. “We’ve been working the story at this end. Heather has uncovered some interesting details.”

  Ben looked up from his reporter pad. “Who the hell is Heather?”

  “My trainee,” Mellay said. “Isaiah’s been showing her the ropes.”

  Isaiah ran his palm over his scalp, nervously. The staff was taking it all in, rapt.

  To diffuse it, I smiled. “You’re in good hands,” I told Heather, before my gaze settled on Isaiah. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Can you tell us what you have?”

  “I have a source,” she said in a low breathy voice, holding both hands out, as if the camera were already rolling. “Apparently Evelyn Carney was having a secret love affair with a coworker who killed her and dumped the body.”

  This contradicted what Michael had just told me. “Who’s your source?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “We need to confirm it,” Mellay said. “I want to lead the six o’clock with it.”

  “Everything is protected within these walls,” I explained to her, “but if you can’t give a name, you can categorize. You know, is your source a police investigator or family member? That sort of thing.”

  She shook her head.

  “You understand it’s our story?” Ben said. “If you don’t tell us who or what’s the relationship, how can we determine reliability? For all I know, you’re talking to some nutcase or someone with an ax to grind. Could be some yahoo trying to get on TV.”

  “Don’t attack her,” Mellay said. “It’s not her fault she’s dug up more than you two award-winning journalists.”

  Ben flipped his ball cap around and tugged the brim low over his eyes. “It’s my face going on the air,” he said.

  “Not necessarily.”

  Ben rose slowly until he towered over us, pressing his knuckles into the table. Here we go, I thought: Hurricane Ben ready to unleash his fury. I didn’t know what he meant to do, but it was as exciting as a summer storm—and likely as damaging for him. Mellay had settled back in his chair, waiting for Ben to do something stupid.

  I dialed my phone quickly. “Gentlemen, please,” I said, holding up a hand for silence.

  When he answered my call with a curt “Michael Ledger,” I pressed the phone closer to my ear and told him: “I’m in a crowded meeting and can be overheard, but I need a quick yes or no. Is it true investigators believe Evelyn Carney was having an affair with a coworker who killed her and dumped her body?”

  He snorted. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “We’ve uncovered no evidence of any sexual relationships with any coworker.”

  “And you’ve looked?”

  “Of course, although we’re still in the process of interviewing.”

  “Okay. And the body-dumping theory?”

  “Can only be speculation,” he said shortly. “Now, where’s my video?”

  After I hung up, Mellay demanded to know who was on the phone.

  “An official with knowledge of the investigation,” I said. “He warns that Heather’s source is engaging in speculation not shared by investigators assigned to the case.”

  A flush ran across Heather’s cheeks, and I winced. I’d shown her up in front of everyone, which was not my intent. My only thought had been Ben.

  “You did a good job asking the right questions,” I said in apology. “Before we go on air we always confirm information with an official or someone within the inner circle of the investigation. Sometimes Ben confirms my information, sometimes I’ll check yours, that’s how it goes.”

  She flushed again, but thanked me.

  Ben rapped his knuckles twice on the table. “Well, allrighty then. I’m going to head on out and find us a lead.” He sauntered to the door and stopped, turning to me. “You coming?”

  “Will you excuse me a moment?” I asked Mellay, and then to Isaiah: “I’ll be right back.”

  When we got into the hall, I grabbed Ben’s elbow and walked him out of the line of sight.

  “Nice temper,” I hissed. “Where’s your trademark cool?”

  He ignored my scold, laughing. “Calling your official with knowledge of the investigation. What a cocky little show-off you are.”

  “You should not taunt Mellay,” I said, pointing up at him. “He’s got more power than any boss we’ve had, and he uses it. He’s not intimidated by your celebrity status or your big contract. That makes him dangerous, Ben. I don’t want what happened to me to happen to you.”

  “We’re getting your old job back,” he said, slapping my shoulder, flip as hell, and then he laughed again. “The way you shushed us—excuse me, gentlemen—in that queen-to-commoner voice you get. You see Mellay’s face? Looked like you kicked him in the—”

  “It’s called deflection,” I said dryly. “From your reckless behavior, I might add. Keep it tight, anchorman. I can’t always be around to save your ass.”

  ————

  After the meeting, I met up with Isaiah at his desk. He didn’t want to talk, not about the layoffs or the entire day thus far, which was for shit, he said. So after trying and failing to engage him, I begged for help. There was a connection between this missing woman and a prosecutor downtown, but no one would tell me what the connection was. We had to get to the prosecutor. Could he find me a home address and private number for Ian Chase without telling anyone?

  “Who wants the interview—Ben?”

  I hesitated. “Actually, it’s for me.” And when Isaiah yanked off his black horn-rims and waved them about furiously, I argued: “I just want to see how this Ian Chase guy reacts—get a read, you know? It’s my hunch to run down, and it won’t take long, I promise.”

  “Where are your priorities?” he said. “You’re needed here. You need to watch our backs. Can’t you see what’s going on?”

  I saw plenty. Wasn’t I the first demotion? But instead of arguing, I counted to ten before telling him I’d get Mellay what he demanded—the show’s lead. “So please, if you get me the address for this prosecutor, I’ll break news. Everything will be better once we get good stories on the air. Trust me.”


  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I PUT MY feet on the desk, making myself comfortable for a long read. The journal was fascinating, frustrating, full of flowery and effusive descriptions of people and places, and not one damn name or date to fact check any of it. Evelyn Carney was either naturally discreet, or she was being secretive. In either case, it seemed she worried she’d have a reader. Who? What did she have to hide?

  In one entry, she wrote fondly of a man and how he told her boyhood stories of summers spent at his family estate by a river, bow hunting and fishing in the shadows of the pawpaw trees, reciting the work of the Lost Poets to his grandpa, whose vision was deteriorating.

  And later, she described the opera, which she hated but attended anyway, accompanying a powerhouse of a woman she wanted to please. Paige, I wondered? At intermission this woman chatted with a Supreme Court justice, as if they were old friends. How did she get to this place, within striking distance of rubbing elbows with the elite, she wondered yet again, and more important, how to hold on?

  I flipped back to the beginning and started again, reading more slowly this time. The earliest entry mentioned a teacher’s great kindness to her, how he’d helped her land a job and given her good advice. He thought she was smart. No one had ever said she was smart. She liked being admired for her mind.

  This teacher appeared on CNN, wearing a pinstripe shirt that she described as jumping on the screen, and she warned him it was too distracting, a bad wardrobe choice. This seemed to me an intimate observation, the kind a wife or a girlfriend might make. Assuming this teacher was one of Evelyn’s law school professors, I had two data points—finally, something to work with.

  On CNN’s website, I searched the transcript section for George Washington University Law Professor. The query brought up too many hits, so I restricted the field to the last two years, since Evelyn’s journal appeared to have been written fairly recently. Of the legal analysts listed, two were men. I eliminated the senior legal analyst who appeared frequently, thinking he’d know how to dress properly for air. The other was Bradley Hartnett, constitutional law professor.