The Separatists

by Lis Wiehl

  Erica loses the game and tosses the cards aside. She goes over to the dresser and picks up the barely edible turkey sandwich she picked up at the small shop in the lobby. She and Gloria had agreed to go out for a nice dinner, but then Gloria begged off, saying she had a lot of paperwork to do. She seemed oddly distracted after Erica told her about her detour to Winnipeg. Maybe she was trying to figure out how newsworthy, nationally, the Marcus/Lundy story is. Gloria likes to stay one step ahead of the game, which is a valuable quality in their business. Still, Erica is seeing another side of her producer: moodiness, flashes of suppressed anger, impatience. She’s probably just lonely; she’s been working so hard, and she misses her man.

  Erica sits down at the desk and googles Fred McDougal Winnipeg. There are stories about his development plans for downtown, but then, on the Winnipeg Free Press site, she reads:

  BREAKING NEWS:

  Winnipeg businessman Frederick McDougal, 52, was killed this evening in a hit-and-run accident downtown. McDougal, who owns numerous properties and businesses in and around downtown Winnipeg, was struck by a black pickup truck as he crossed the intersection of South and Lovell Streets. His body was thrown over 30 feet. The pickup then sped away. Witnesses say the truck was traveling at high speed when the accident occurred. The Winnipeg police have no further details at this time. McDougal leaves a wife, Janine.

  Erica’s breathing goes shallow and she closes her eyes as she absorbs this news. A hit-and-run? Yeah, right. Freddy McDougal was murdered because he spoke to Erica.

  And then there were five.

  CHAPTER 40

  ERICA IS BONE-TIRED WHEN SHE gets back to New York on Sunday evening. As the car approaches her building all she wants is a hot bath, a chunk of dark chocolate, and some affection from her husband.

  She’s been following the McDougal hit-and-run “accident” all day and there have been no new developments, except that his funeral is scheduled for early Monday. In the morning Erica appeared via feed on Face to Face, GNN’s Sunday morning interview show, to discuss the Take Back Our Homeland movement. And all day she was haunted by her own role in these unfolding events. Now she just wants to forget all of it and relax.

  Good luck on that one, Erica.

  She walks into her apartment. All the lights are on and Bing Crosby is softly crooning “Night and Day” through the speakers. “Hi, honey!” Erica calls.

  No response. Erica strides into the living room, filled with expectation.

  Sitting on a couch, glass of wine in hand, looking very much at home, is Leslie Burke Wilson.

  CHAPTER 41

  “ERICA,” LESLIE SAYS, GETTING UP, putting her hands on Erica’s shoulders, and giving her an air kiss. Erica tenses.

  “Where’s Greg?”

  “He should be home any minute. He drove Jenny out to LaGuardia.” Erica looks at her blankly. “Oh, didn’t they tell you? I thought they would surely have told you. Maybe they didn’t want to make you jealous. I was able, through some miracle of fate, to score three tickets for today’s Hamilton matinee. One was for you, of course, but you were out in the hinterlands. By the way, I thought your reporting was terrific, and you were marvelous on Face to Face. Spotlight’s been fantastic for me too—my publisher wants me to write a book on American secessionist movements. They’re waving fistfuls of money in front of my face. So thank you!” Then she plops back down on the sofa.

  Erica feels like an interloper in her own home. Okay, so they went to Hamilton. Did that mean Leslie had to come back to the apartment with Greg and Jenny?

  “Erica, what is it? You look pale.”

  “I’m just a little tired. Been a long weekend.”

  “Oh, I wanted to talk to you, but we can do it another time.”

  “Give me five,” Erica says, heading back to her bedroom without waiting for an answer. She drops her bag on the bed and goes into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face again and again. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees an overwhelmed, confused, hurting woman staring back at her. Hamilton with Jenny? And Greg. And here alone, in Erica’s apartment, the one she paid for with her salary, the salary she earns by regularly putting in seventy-hour weeks. How could Greg let this happen? What kind of game is he playing? Yes, Leslie was important to the success of Spotlight and, yes, Erica covets entrée into her world. But at what price?

  Erica changes into a pair of loose shorts and a T-shirt and walks back out into the living room. Leslie is still sitting there, still looking very much at home. “I won’t stay a minute, Erica, but . . .”

  “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea,” Erica says, heading into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Leslie follows. Erica actually wants something a lot stronger than tea, like a tall glass of vodka with a splash of tonic—on second thought, hold the splash. But green tea will have to do.

  “I’m tremendously grateful to you, Erica.”

  For loaning you my husband?

  “I feel the same about you,” Erica says.

  “I’ve done my share of television, but Spotlight gave me a whole new platform. We’re a strong team. I would love to come on board as a permanent consultant.”

  Erica pours the boiling water in her mug a little too vigorously and some splashes out, scalding her fingers. She bites down to avoid yelping—she doesn’t want to yelp in front of Leslie. She turns on the cold water and holds her hand under it.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I want this woman out of my apartment. “I think it’s too soon to make any decisions on Spotlight. Yes, the ratings were good, but they could drop off if we don’t sustain what we’ve started.”

  “That’s where I think I could be helpful. I’ve drawn up a list of six possible topics for future episodes. I can draw on a deep well of contacts to help you book the most prominent and insightful thinkers on each one. Want to hear my ideas?”

  No!

  Thankfully the front door opens. “We’re in the kitchen, honey,” Erica calls.

  Greg walks in, looking casually handsome in cords and a well-worn denim shirt. “Did I interrupt something?” he asks.

  “We were just brainstorming ideas for future Spotlights,” Leslie says.

  (A) That’s not true, and (b) Leslie is trying to co-opt Erica’s show. It’s the last straw. “Listen, I had an exhausting weekend. I’m running on fumes, not really thinking straight. Let’s pick this up another time.”

  Leslie is suddenly all empathy—funny how that happened as soon as Greg walked in the door—and she says, “I’m sorry. I was just so revved up I forgot my manners.” She crosses to Erica and gives her a little kiss, then lowers her voice. “Jenny is so bright and curious and funny and, best of all, interesting. You’ve done a wonderful job. And she adores you. Now get some rest. Talk soon.”

  And then she’s gone. As soon as Erica hears the front door close, she wheels on Greg. “Are you sleeping with her?”

  Greg takes a step backward and then says, “No.”

  Erica just stands there looking at him. Is this the same man she fell in love with? Or have the stresses of their marriage twisted him into someone else? “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  He steps a step toward her. “Honey, please—”

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “Erica, I have not slept with Leslie Wilson. Do you really think I would jeopardize our marriage that way?”

  “Well, it’s a pretty serious flirtation then. How do you think it felt to come home from a tough weekend to find her alone in the apartment?”

  “I hinted that she should leave, but she really wanted to talk to you. She’s on a big high because of Spotlight. She has some ideas, I thought it might be fun for you to hear them.”

  “I don’t think we should see any more of Leslie and Stan for a while.”

  Greg looks away and rubs his chin. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I need them, we need them. They’re very . .
. helpful.”

  Greg’s point is well taken, even if she doesn’t tell him so.

  “Erica, you know this consultancy business isn’t making me happy, that I want to get back into the action. Stan Wilson can be very useful. Just being in their circle is useful. It’s certainly helped you.”

  “Greg, I do not need Stan and Leslie Wilson. I have the highest-ranking news show in the country.”

  “Leslie’s participation gave Spotlight a real jolt of prestige, even cache, and you know it. Look at the reviews, they all mentioned her.”

  “So you’re basically saying we should use them?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that bluntly. It’s a quid pro quo.”

  “I’m not sure I belong in their world. I’m not sure I like their world.”

  “Well, I do!”

  “That’s pretty obvious!”

  Suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, Erica is hit with a wave of exhaustion so strong she puts a hand on the counter to steady herself. Spotlight, Winnipeg, Bismarck, the murders, Face to Face, Leslie sipping wine, it’s all just too much for her.

  “Erica . . .?”

  When she speaks it’s in a deliberate monotone. “Listen, Greg, I’m going to go pass out. Would you like to sleep in the guest bedroom or should I?”

  CHAPTER 42

  IT’S THE NEXT AFTERNOON AND Erica is in her office. Greg slept in the guest bedroom and she slept like the dead—and woke up feeling half alive. Still, she’s happy to be at her desk, at work—her refuge, her salvation. Leslie Wilson aside, she does have to pick a subject for the next Spotlight. Mort Silver sent her a memo saying the network is thrilled by the response to the first and wants to know the topic of the second show, which needs to go into production immediately. Erica is inclined to devote the second show to what’s unfolding in North Dakota—the whole nation is now following the story and Erica is their go-to source for the latest developments. The election is still almost two months away, but interest in the story is only increasing, and the secession movements in neighboring states are gathering steam. On the other hand, the polls remain iffy, with Mary trailing by the mid-single digits. If it looks like she’s going to lose, the nation will turn its fickle attention elsewhere. A new batch of polls is due out midweek. She’ll meet with Gloria then, and they’ll make a decision.

  It’s a busy week. She’s going up to the Kennedy School of Government in Boston on Wednesday to be part of a symposium on the current state of journalism. It’s a prestigious gathering, and she’s going to be on a panel entitled “The Whole Truth and Anything But”—Tom Brokaw is moderating. She wishes she hadn’t accepted, but pulling out at this late date is out of the question.

  She told Jenny about it and invited her. Will she show up? Erica hopes so, even though they’re still estranged. Jenny’s sweet texts the night of the Spotlight premiere helped, but Jenny and Beth’s video stunt ripped the lid off Erica’s denial: Jenny wants to hurt her, resents her work, is jealous of her. Erica is still waiting for an apology. Although a part of her wants to call Jenny and tell her she loves her and spoil her rotten, Erica is holding her ground. She wants Jenny to understand that actions have consequences. That privilege isn’t a license to behave badly. And that her mother deserves respect and consideration. Which is why she hopes Jenny makes it to the symposium—she wants her daughter to see her at her best.

  Erica’s phone rings: it’s Mark Benton out in Portland.

  “Mark.”

  “I just sent you the image blown up thirty times. Take a look.”

  Erica clicks on the attachment and it fills her screen. On first glance, it looks the same as it did as a small scrap—black at the top, bleeding into a muddy gray section at the bottom. But is that something, barely discernible, in the black field?

  “Is that some kind of delineation or margin in the black there?” she asks.

  “I saw that too, but it’s so indistinct.”

  “Does it look a little circular to you?”

  “It does.”

  “This is tough.”

  “I think what we need, Erica, is to take this to the next level. There are experts in the field of reading photographs who use sophisticated technology that can heighten contrast. Law enforcement uses them all the time. I’ll see if I can track one down.” There’s a pause, and Mark lowers his voice. “Listen, Erica, I’ve been reading up on Joan Marcus’s murder, and George Lundy’s, and the ‘accidental’ deaths of Marcus’s daughter and son-in-law and Freddy McDougal. Are you putting yourself in danger again?”

  “I’m more concerned that I may be putting you in danger.”

  “I don’t think anyone is going to be gunning for me because I blew up a photograph. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “I appreciate the thought. I’m being careful.” Are you really, Erica? “And I appreciate you, Mark.” Erica feels a sudden and unexpected wave of emotion, affection, for Mark. He’s been there for her again and again, a steadying force, an ally, and she’s feeling so lonely right now.

  “Will you promise me you’ll stay in close touch?”

  “Yes, sir!” Erica says with good-natured bravado that feels completely false.

  Erica hangs up, goes into the kitchen, and makes herself a cup of tea. Then she returns to her desk and calls Moira Connelly, her best friend from her first days in the business. They worked together at a local Boston station; Moy had been there for a few years and she mentored Erica generously, kindly. And when Erica fell, and she fell so far, Moy was right there to pick her up, almost literally—she got her into that respected rehab, drove her out to it, kept tabs on her, and picked her up after twenty-eight days. Moy is the sister she never had. These days Moy is anchoring the local news out in Los Angeles, so the two don’t see each other all that often, but when they connect they effortlessly pick up right where they left off.

  “Hey, doll,” Moy says.

  “Rag doll at this point.”

  “You’ve got yourself back into it, haven’t you? With the Marcus murder.”

  “Tell me about it. Listen, you have good contacts with law enforcement, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, they’re pretty good.”

  Erica brings Moy up to date on the scrap of photograph, Lundy’s murder, and the rest of her nascent investigation. Then she sends Moy her images of both the original scrap of paper and the blowup.

  “This all looks so hazy,” Moy says. “There is a guy in forensics down at police headquarters, Detective Chester Yuan, he has an amazing eye. I’ve covered a couple of trials where he’s been called as an expert witness. I’ve seen him show the jury a blowup that looks like the inside of an impenetrable fog bank. Then he’ll pick up a pointer and five minutes later the jury is slack-jawed in amazement at what they’re seeing. I could ask him to take a look.”

  “That would be fantastic.”

  “So listen, are you sure you’re okay?”

  Erica gets up and goes to the window and looks down at the city, the city that never stops demanding your best. The city that inspires and energizes, that drains and depletes.

  “My marriage is in the tank.” Just opening up, saying the words to Moy, makes her feel a little less alone.

  “Those are strong words. Things may not be going well, but in the tank?”

  “He’s been spending a lot of time with Leslie Burke Wilson.”

  Moy sucks in air. “Okay. Yes, she was brilliant on Spotlight, she’s brilliant in general, but something about that woman scares me.”

  “She’s reached out to us socially, and it’s flattering, but . . .”

  “Are they . . .?”

  “He denies it, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “Erica, don’t get ahead of yourself. People flirt. Greg is a pretty great guy, and he adores you. I just don’t see it.”

  Erica wants to believe Moy, she wants it so badly. She turns away from the window. “Enough about my traumas and dramas. How’s your love life?”

  “Actually kind of amaz
ing at the moment.” Moy has been dating Jordan Monk, a television writer, for about a year. “We’re thinking about getting married.”

  “Oh, Moy, that’s wonderful,” Erica says, and then she has a moment of jealousy. Moy seems to glide through life, whereas for Erica it’s always a push. Moy grew up in a stable household in south Boston with a black mom and an Irish dad, both cops. She’s always known she was loved. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy for her to love, and Erica has been a beneficiary of that love. Her jealousy evaporates as quickly as it struck, and she feels a surge of happiness for her dear pal.

  “Listen, I’m going to call Chester Yuan right now. Talk soon,” Moy says.

  There’s a knock on Erica’s open door, and she looks up to see Gloria standing there. In contrast to her usual professional manner, she seems keyed up. And she’s wearing a flattering dress and her hair looks just-done.

  “Bad time?” she asks.

  “Not at all.”

  Gloria comes in and sits opposite Erica. “I’m just looking ahead. We don’t have a lot of time to pick the next Spotlight. We want to make sure our researchers and associate producers have time to prepare.”

  “Let’s wait for the midweek polls out of North Dakota. If Mary Bellamy’s numbers are up, I think we should do a second show on the situation out there.”

  “I agree. If it looks like Bellamy is going to win, things are going to get very interesting. By bringing in all these so-called pioneers, she’s basically building herself a rock-solid political base. It will overwhelm any opposition to her agenda in the state legislature. But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I think we need a backup topic. If polls show Governor Snyder with a growing lead, we’ll have to pivot quickly. I think we should be moving forward on parallel tracks, then we’re ready no matter what happens.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  Gloria smiles and smooths out her dress. Then she says, “There are the literally thousands of earthquakes in Oklahoma that are being caused by fracking. That story has a lot of compelling elements—climate change, science denial, human interest, political drama.”