“You don’t have to cover this, Casey,” Gloria had said. “We can send Hunter. I’d rather have you working on the next segment of the special report.”
Whatever that was. With everything that had happened, did it even make sense to interview the families and victims of the Morena shooter? It would be better if they could take a closer look at the connections between Alan Jay Chastain and Lucas Derry, but was there anything to tie the two together beyond Lucas’s words and a comic book?
“I want to.”
She needed some time to figure it out, and besides, whatever the original intentions had been with the series, she owned the Cason shootings now. She wasn’t about to give that to Hunter or anyone else if she could help it.
Maybe she could get an interview with Cason. Give him a chance to respond to those images.
She sat in the front seat of the station Prius after her live shot to wait for Cason’s appearance, a light, asphalt-scented breeze blowing through the open windows. They’d talked about taking a live truck, but the assignment editor figured a Dejero was good enough for this: “Presser, static shot, he talks for five minutes and that’s it.” The van cost more to use, and besides, the Prius was easier to park.
They’d lucked out and found a parking space on the road in front of the hospital complex paralleling the freeway while the other stations’ trucks were still circling the block.
Diego had staked out a prime spot in front of the hospital entrance, where they’d been told Cason would speak. Which was a good thing, because this was shaping up to be a crush. All the local stations had sent people, and she was pretty sure she’d spotted journos from CNN, Fox, and MSNBC, along with a network guy from CBS. Print was out in force, from here and out of town—was that a WaPo reporter?
This story was blowing up, and that was exactly why Casey had wanted to be here. She’d had a feeling. How could it not? A would-be political assassin connected to a mass shooter? A congressman who’d taken out his assailant with his fists? And all those awesome photographs and videos.
We own this, she thought. No one else had come close to getting what News 9 had gotten.
“Matt should be making his statement in about a half hour.” That was the campaign manager, Jane Haddad, a dark-haired woman with an intense expression who’d come out to address the scrum while they were setting up.
Casey felt bad leaving Diego standing out there by himself. It was a hot day, and there wasn’t any shade where he’d set up. But standing that long was an ordeal for her, and they both knew it.
She had her iPad out, with the idea that she’d brainstorm. Make some notes anyway. What would the next segment be? What made sense as a follow-up to what happened yesterday?
Her cell rang, a snippet of a song by Florence and the Machine—Rose’s ringtone.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“The girl from the park, the campaign staffer. Her name’s Sarah Price. She wants to talk to you.”
“This is the only interview I’m going to do.”
The voice on the phone was young. Hesitant. Almost flat. Like the emotion had been drained from it, or was somehow disconnected from the words.
Well, she’d had a traumatic experience yesterday, Casey thought. She was probably still in shock. Or maybe she was just shy.
“Understandable,” Casey said. “Thank you for trusting us with it.”
“I want it to be short.”
“All right.” Dang, Casey thought. She’d hoped there might be enough to Sarah’s story to warrant making her the focus of the next segment. But it would still be a scoop, and there were plenty of other people on the Cason campaign who’d been affected by the park shootings.
“And … I really only want to talk about what happened in the park. I mean … that’s what you wanted to interview me about, right?”
“Well, that’s what prompted us trying to get in touch with you, so yes, we’ll focus on that. But I’d like to talk to you a little bit about your work on the campaign, how you got involved, that sort of thing.”
“I’d really rather not talk about personal stuff.”
Casey found herself leaning forward in the car seat. Interesting. She hadn’t thought those topics were particularly personal. They were just background. “Could I ask why?”
A pause. “It’s just … did you see what people are saying about me? On those tweets?”
Now she heard emotion. An edge of panic, choked back like a bridled horse.
“Oh,” Casey said. “Yes. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“You posted the photo.”
Was that anger?
What should I say? she wondered. It was a powerful image that captured a moment. It was an exclusive. That kid photographer will be up for awards at the end of the year. Of course we posted it. We’re kicking the ass of every other station in town on this story. Hell, we’re kicking the ass of the nationals on this story.
I can’t say that, she thought.
“We did. It was news. Look … ” Don’t lose control of this conversation, Casey told herself. “I understand. You’ve been through a horrible experience, and we don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
An unexpected snort. “I’m not comfortable with any of this.”
Fair enough.
“I really am sorry,” Casey said. “I get tweets like that. It’s just what happens to women on the internet sometimes, and … it’s not fun.”
Casey waited for Sarah’s response. At first there was none, other than a sharp sigh. Then finally, she spoke.
“Yeah. It’s not.”
“They’ll let us shoot there?” Rose asked. Casey could hear a snippet of voice-over in the background—maybe Rose was in the edit bay at the station.
“So far I haven’t heard a no,” Casey said.
“That would be awesome. We could open with some general commentary about how the shooting’s affected the campaign, see if we can grab anyone else for a quick bite.”
“Maybe we’ll get a couple good lines out of Cason today. That would round it out.” She tapped a finger on her virtual keyboard. “It’s weird,” she said. “I don’t really get why Sarah’s giving this to us. She seemed very upset that the photo’s gone viral. If I didn’t want that kind of attention, why would I want to help the people who put it out there?”
“Well, why is she upset?” Rose asked. “Is it a specific privacy thing? Or just a general, ‘I’d rather not have my personal trauma retweeted a few thousand times’ deal?”
“She mentioned the trolls, but … I think it’s more than that.”
Something about Sarah Price seemed off. Anyone who was that eager to tell you what she was willing to talk about had something she didn’t want to discuss.
“This story’s really bringing out the trolls, that’s for sure,” Rose said. A slight hesitation. “Have you looked at your Twitter account today?”
“No … I should, I’ve just been too busy. Figured I’d be tweeting from here.”
“There’s some pretty ugly stuff.”
Casey shrugged, though of course Rose couldn’t see that. “I’m used to it. Haters gonna hate and all.”
“Yeah, I know, but … this is a little extreme. They’re using the AJLA, the Alan Jay Liberation Army, hashtag, and there’s a lot of them.”
She felt a shudder rise, pushing against her skin from the inside. “Oh, poor little loser boys in their mommy’s basement,” Casey said, trying to keep it light.
“I’m sure that’s most of them. Look, let’s talk about it after you’ve wrapped there.”
Casey knew Rose well enough to guess that Rose didn’t want to distract her before the press conference. Which should be happening in about ten minutes, if Jane Haddad’s estimate was correct.
I should tweet anyway, Casey thought. I’m here at
Sharp Hospital, where we expect @RepMattCason will be making a statement soon. Something like that. Snap a photo of the hospital entrance to include. And she could get some video of Cason on her phone for immediate upload to Twitter, Facebook, and Snapchat.
She got out her phone and opened Twitter.
“Thank you all for coming.”
Matt Cason wore a crisp blue Oxford shirt that looked a little too big for him—maybe so his splinted arm and hand would easily fit through the rolled-up, unbuttoned sleeve. He was freshly shaved, his hair neatly combed, his expression calm and thoughtful, looking nothing like the wild-eyed man who’d beaten a killer into a coma with his fists.
He stood behind a portable lectern, flanked by his wife, the campaign manager, and several uniformed police officers. There were a lot of police here, Casey noticed, ringing the perimeter, keeping watch.
“First, I want to express my deep appreciation to all the first responders, the police and paramedics and other emergency personnel whose prompt actions undoubtedly saved lives yesterday.”
It’s #AJLAActionDay, anybody wanna find out where that ugly whore @CaseyChengNews9 lives and celebrate it with her? #AJLA #TrueMen
Bet her cunt looks like a fortune cookie LOL!
Hey @CaseyChengNews9 Next time we wont miss, third times a charm bitch #AJLAActionDay #AJLA #TrueMen
Don’t think about that now, Casey told herself.
Cason paused for a moment. Drew in a deep breath. “I’ll be honest, I can’t believe I’m standing here right now, talking about another mass slaughter of people in our community. I can’t believe that a man I was hugging a moment before died right in front of me. That one of my staffers is fighting for his life in this hospital. That a little boy out for a fun day at the park was shot to death for no reason at all. This … ”
He closed his eyes. Shook his head. Next to him, his wife, Lindsey, squeezed his hand and then put her arm around his shoulders. Cason stood there silently a moment longer, his eyes still closed. Finally he opened them.
“This is what happens in a war zone,” he said. “Not … not in a prosperous democracy. Not in our city. It defies comprehension.”
There were just so many of those tweets. Death threats. Rape threats. Racist insults. The majority with the #AJLA hashtag. A few with #TrueMen.
Probably because of the segment, Casey thought. It made sense they’d want to hit her with that as well.
They’re a bunch of losers, she told herself. All talk.
She shifted back and forth in place, then leaned on Trusty the cane. The sciatica was really acting up again, shooting down her leg. The bottom of her foot burned. She wished she could try to stretch, but the crowd was tightly packed; she was surrounded by reporters and photographers and a few curious hospital visitors and staffers, pressed up against the yellow belt line separating Cason from the crowd.
Next to her, Diego zoomed in on Cason. They were at the front of the scrum, close enough to the lectern to see him clearly, the dark circles under his eyes they hadn’t tried to cover with makeup. On purpose?
“As for my own behavior, I’m not proud of it,” Cason said. “I was angry and I was scared and he needed to be stopped.”
Something—someone—jostled her from behind, bumping into her shoulder blade, poking against the small of her back. An overeager photographer? Whomever it was kept pressing against her.
She spun around, sending fresh bolts of pain through her back and down her leg again.
A young white man stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, jeans, and a navy hoodie, his hands jammed in the front pockets.
It wasn’t cold.
“I lost control,” she heard Cason say. “I don’t feel good about it.”
She could feel her heart slam in her throat.
“Sorry,” the man whispered. He was smiling.
Oh for fuck’s sake, was that a hard-on? Did that really just happen?
“I don’t really know if there’s anything else I can say.”
Casey stared at the young man a moment longer. Nodded. Then turned her back on him and faced the lectern, the muscles between her shoulder blades twitching.
He’s just an asshole, she told herself.
Or maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe it was his hands she’d felt, the hands stuffed in the hoodie pocket. She couldn’t see if anything else was going on. The hoodie covered his crotch.
Cason was still standing at the lectern, his eyes tired, slowly shaking his head. His wife whispered something in his ear.
There’s nothing wrong, he’s just an asshole, he didn’t mean it, stay alert, if he has a gun, a knife, anything, you can run forward, the barrier won’t stop you, that’s your escape route and the police are there—
“Thank you again,” Cason said, and then he turned away, his wife’s hand on his back, passing Jane Haddad the microphone as three police officers surrounded them, and they retreated into the hospital.
Casey’s hand went up, along with everybody else’s, but her mind was a blank. She didn’t know what to ask Cason if he did call on her.
He’s just a guy, he’s not here to hurt you—
“Congressman! Congressman!”
“Matt will be happy to take your questions a little later,” Haddad said. “Right now he has an appointment with a physician.”
Casey glanced quickly over her shoulder. The man was gone.
“What’s his health status?” someone yelled out. Gabrielle from News 12?
“He’s fine,” Haddad said.
“The head injury?” someone else shouted.
“Minor. Medical observation was just an excess of caution. I’ll have more for you later.” Haddad turned to follow Cason.
“Is he considering withdrawing from the race?” Gabrielle again.
That stopped Haddad in her tracks. She turned back. “No. Absolutely not. There’s no reason for him to.” And with that she strode off.
“Hey, Case, you okay?”
Diego. She could feel his solid presence next to her.
“Oh, sure, I’m fine. Just a little hot. The sun … it’s bright.”
26
Come around to the back, Jane had texted. Someone will let you in. As soon as Sarah pulled up to headquarters she saw why: media vans and cars had gathered there, waiting, it seemed, for something to happen. One of them was from News 9.
Jane herself opened the door. “Thanks for coming.”
They walked down the hall that led to their office suite. “The News 9 people are here.”
“I saw them.”
Jane paused for a moment by the restrooms. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Sarah nodded. “I’m sure.”
She wasn’t, not at all. But she wanted to stay on the campaign. Ben’s job was open right now, and this was a way to prove herself.
I don’t look the way I used to look, she told herself. And she didn’t think anyone would recognize her voice. No one had ever much cared about what she had to say.
Casey Cheng was taller than Sarah had expected—maybe an inch taller than she was. But she was slender, even a little frail—the aftereffects of the shooting, maybe. Her hand trembled slightly as it grasped the head of the cane; the skin around her eyes seemed almost translucent beneath the camera-ready makeup.
I could bench-press her, Sarah thought. Which made her feel better, somehow. Like she wasn’t the weak one in this situation, as weak as she felt.
“Hi, Sarah, thanks so much for agreeing to talk to us.” Cheng smiled in a way that sparkled. You’d forget about any frailty, seeing that smile. She stuck out her hand for Sarah to shake. Her grip was firm, confident. “I know it’s not an easy thing to do.”
It seems easy enough for you, Sarah wanted to say.
“You can set up in my office,” Jane
said. There was no other place in the headquarters that was remotely private. Everyone tried to act like things were normal as the big Latino cameraman from News 9 took shots of the headquarters, of Tomás doing vol-calls, trying to round up a few more volunteers for phone banking and canvassing, of Sylvia working on her laptop.
But nothing was normal. There were the news crews ringing the parking lot, the police car parked at the curb. Inside, a volunteer taped sympathy signs and cards to a blank wall, and someone had sent over several bouquets of flowers, teddy bears, and heart-shaped balloons.
Ben would be here if things were normal.
Ben was doing better, Jane told her. They were still worried about his kidneys, but he was doing better. His parents had flown in from Michigan and they were at the hospital now, so at least he wasn’t alone.
Sarah wished she were doing this someplace else, but where? Not at her apartment. Not at the station—the last thing she wanted to do was walk into a newsroom. Headquarters at least was familiar. Comfortable.
She wished she wasn’t doing this at all.
As they walked into the office, Jane rested her hand on Sarah’s arm for just a moment. “If there’s any point where you’re not comfortable, just stop,” she said in a low voice. “You’re under no obligation to answer everything they might throw at you.”
Sarah nodded, but she could feel the beginning of panic, her heart speeding up in her chest, the cold sweat prickling up on her skin. “I thought they were just going to ask me about what happened in the park.”
“Exactly. So if she goes off on some fishing expedition? Just stop. If you’re not sure what to say, don’t say anything. I’ll be there, and I’ll get them off you.”
Jane stared at her, and Sarah had the oddest feeling that she was trying to communicate something important, but Sarah wasn’t sure what.
27
Sarah Price was so young. That was Casey’s first impression of her. Not that I’m ancient, she reminded herself. But Sarah could still be a student. Her face was so smooth, there was something almost unfinished about it. She was vaguely pretty in a bland way, solidly built, with curves that her boxy navy blazer and white blouse couldn’t hide.
Black Swan Rising Page 18