The Woman in the News

by K. N. Casper

  Faye worried her lips and examined her long, sculptured fingernails but said nothing.

  Renn continued, “Even if we’re able to hold Taggart to Clark’s compensation package, he’ll end up costing us more in operating expenses.”

  “How?” Sal asked, genuinely confused. “I don’t get it.”

  A glance at Faye told Renn she understood perfectly where he was going, and she wasn’t pleased.

  “Taggart’s a reasonably good analyst, but—”

  She stiffened. “He’s taken awards for his sports analysis.”

  “Most of them are ten years old. The only recent one was locally generated against competition that is virtually nonexistent.”

  The vice president turned her face away.

  “The problem,” Renn went on, “is that Taggart has never written or edited a news story. He has absolutely no experience as a producer or reporter, or—”

  “The anchor doesn’t have to,” Faye interjected. “That’s Marlee’s job.”

  “Clark had decades of experience in all aspects of media coverage,” Renn persisted, “and could handle any task that needed doing. That’s why he went to Del Rio in the first place, to report—”

  “If Marlee had done her job and gone there like she was supposed to, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  Renn went stock-still, stunned by the heartlessness of the comment. He remembered the abject horror on Marlee’s face when she had found out Clark was among the dead. After the broadcast that night, which she’d handled remarkably well, she’d turned into a virtual zombie. Renn had driven her home. On the way she’d said nothing, but at her door she’d finally cracked. He’d guided her inside, then held her while she cried, feeling totally helpless the entire time because he had no words to console her.

  He’d butted heads with her often enough over the past several months to know she was quite capable of taking care of herself, but seeing her vulnerable side, hearing her berate herself for the very thing Faye was now insinuating, had shifted something inside him. He couldn’t stop Marlee from having those thoughts, but he could keep this coldhearted woman from voicing them.

  After a brittle six seconds, he asked, “Are you blaming her for Clark’s death?”

  Her eyes met his. She flinched. “Of course not. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Good. I recommend you never, ever make a statement like that again.”

  Her mouth fell open; she was shocked by the coiled threat in his tone even more than his words. The sudden tension between the two of them prompted Bufano to step in.

  “Why do you think Taggart would be better?” he asked Faye.

  She paused for a moment to compose her thoughts. “He’s a recognized expert in his field. No one knows more about sports in the TV market than he does, and no one has more contacts, which are vital to the sports coverage.”

  Renn wondered if he should point out that like Taggart’s awards, his contacts were ten years out-of-date, mostly retired coaches and graduated college players.

  “The job demands more than a command of statistics,” he said. “Yeah, Taggart’s well-connected, and his predictions are correct more often than not. I’m not suggesting we let him go. He can still be part of a winning team, just as he has been for the past three years. But he isn’t anchor material.”

  “Why not?” Sal laced his fingers across his trim waist.

  Renn wasn’t sure whether the manager was asking these questions out of ignorance or merely giving Renn an opportunity to voice his opinion for the record.

  “Taggart has none of the technical skills required for the job,” he said. “Clark edited raw tapes, did voice-overs and created feature stories. All Taggart does is sit at the anchor desk and Monday-morning-quarterback why the local team won or lost. He never contributes to the production of a sportscast. He strolls into the station twenty minutes before airtime, reads scripts that someone else—most likely Marlee—wrote.” A king on his throne handing down sports edicts. “If he gets the anchor position he’ll need dedicated technical support. That means additional staff and more money in the budget.”

  Sal pursed his lips and stroked his chin. “What about that?” he asked Faye.

  It was apparent from the set of her mouth and the way she tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair that she was fuming, but she was smart enough not to let her anger turn into temper.

  “Renn’s forgetting that the public doesn’t care who does what behind the scenes. They want a face on the screen they recognize, one they can trust to give them the straight scoop. That’s Taggart with a capital T. As for technical assistance, our existing staff can handle it.”

  “They’re already busy full-time,” Renn countered.

  “We may have to do a little reorganizing,” she admitted reluctantly, then added with conclusive certainty, “I really don’t think it’ll be a problem, Sal.”

  “I do,” Renn shot back with equal fervor. He could feel her gray eyes drilling into him. “We don’t have unlimited resources. If we tie someone up doing Taggart’s work, he or she can’t be doing their own.”

  “Supporting him will be their job.” Faye heaved an impatient breath. “That’s the point.”

  Renn shook his head. “We’re playing a zero-sum game here, Faye. We have just so many people available to get our work done. Reorganizing isn’t going to change that equation. Look, it comes down to this. There’s nobody at this station whose job it is to support Taggart, and there’s no money in the budget to hire someone.”

  She blew out a breath, frustrated by his adamancy. She wasn’t used to being so openly challenged and clearly didn’t like it, but Renn wasn’t about to back down.

  The irony was that he’d always been strenuously opposed to female sports reporters. Women had successfully assumed prominent roles in newsrooms. He had no problem with that, but sports coverage was different. While many female athletes had achieved international fame—and sometimes fortune—the realm of sweat and muscle was still dominated by men. There was a pact, a bond of camaraderie between males in those situations, that communicated itself to audiences and that a woman simply couldn’t penetrate.

  At least, that was what Renn had thought. He’d watched Marlee, intent on finding reasons to justify his prejudice, and found a bunch of little things to criticize. He hadn’t hesitated to bring them up, either—often to Clark’s amusement. At the end of the day, though, he had to admit she was at ease not only in front of the studio camera, but in the field, which was even more nerve-racking because live reports were usually on unfamiliar ground and sometimes in very tense situations.

  “You’re quite correct, Renn,” Faye said now. “We can’t afford to lose anyone. I can tell you this, however. Put Marlee Reid in the anchor seat and Taggart’ll walk.”

  “You’ve already discussed this with him?” Sal asked, with raised brows.

  Faye didn’t miss the implied censure. Her composure stalled for a second. “He asked me the other day about the job and said if he doesn’t get it, he’s out of here.”

  For his part, Renn would have been happy to see the washed-up football player leave. Horace “Tag” Taggart wasn’t greatly liked in the newsroom. His only other claims to fame, aside from his short-lived pro status, were his prodigious memory for sports history and stats and his notorious name-dropping. In spite of all that and his Hollywood-handsome looks, he really didn’t connect with his audience. Renn was convinced the station would get over his absence with hardly a ripple of adverse reaction from viewers.

  “Sounds like a threat,” he commented, eyes narrowed.

  “It’s a candid statement of fact,” she responded. “The question is whether we’ll be better off with Tag or without him.”

  Sal raised his hand, palm out to forestall the remark he must have seen poised on Renn’s lips. “You really think he’ll quit simply because we put Marlee in the anchor chair?”

  “I can’t see him working for a woman nearly fifteen years his junior, can
you?”

  The general manager shook his head. “Clark’s death has been unsettling enough. Taggart’s a big name, a big draw. We don’t dare throw that away.”

  Renn tried to figure out if Sal was on his side or Faye’s. He decided he probably wasn’t on either. He just wanted to make money by keeping ratings up. Stations lived and died on numbers.

  This discussion wasn’t going anywhere, and Renn didn’t want them painting themselves into corners they couldn’t get out of without losing face. What would Clark do under these circumstances? Temporize and compromise.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t put anyone in the anchor seat for now,” he said. “This soon after Clark’s death, people might regard an abrupt change as disrespectful to his memory. I suggest we continue what we’ve been doing this past week—leave his place empty. Marlee can do the evening sportscast from the Live Center.” This was the smaller set away from the anchor desk, normally used by reporters to introduce their stories before running them. “Taggart can give his weekly analysis by himself from the visitor’s chair. That’ll give everyone time to settle down.”

  Not an ideal solution, but it was better than being overruled outright. All Renn had to do now was explain to Marlee why she would be doing all the work of the anchor without getting the credit or the pay.

  MARLEE RESISTED the temptation to pace. For one thing, her ankle hurt too much. She’d shunned the crutches during the funeral that morning and been fine until they’d gotten to the cemetery. The walk back to the car from the grave site had been pure agony. Renn had given her his arm to lean on, and she’d been grateful.

  Actually, a little more than grateful. Disconcerted. She remembered crying on his shoulder the night Clark died, the gentle way he’d held her, soothingly stroking her back. He probably thought the words he’d mumbled had gone unheard or been unappreciated, but it wasn’t the words that she’d valued. Never before had a man held her so innocently, so patiently, not demanding, only wanting to give comfort. At the cemetery, too, he’d been kind and generous. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she’d also glimpsed loneliness.

  As for pacing now, her cubicle was too small, anyway. The closets in her parents’ lake house were bigger than this dinky cubbyhole. She’d just spin around in it and get dizzy.

  She was probably naive to think she even had a chance at the sports-anchor job. In situations like this, stations often brought in new blood. A fresh face. Someone experienced. She’d been at KNCS-TV two years, two mostly wonderful years. Did she want to stay here now that Clark was gone? She’d never planned to remain in Coyote Springs indefinitely. In this business the only place an ambitious person stopped was at the top. But the prospect of job hunting depressed her. Clark had given her good evaluations; what about Renn? If Taggart became her boss and wrote her final performance review… Well, forget that. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  A fresh start was what she needed, but it wouldn’t be easy. Despite all the policies and public statements about equal employment opportunity, women still had to fight an uphill battle in what was considered a man’s domain. Renn Davis had made it perfectly clear from the outset that he didn’t think much of women covering sports. Neither did Faye Warren, and Marlee had no reason to think they were about to change their minds.

  The general manager was the wild card. Sal Bufano’s interest was the bottom line. Profit, pure and simple. He was also a politician, the kind who didn’t take chances. He’d bend whichever way the wind was blowing, and Faye could blow a pretty strong gust. Marlee mentally shook her head. She couldn’t count on him, either.

  She’d just about resigned herself to not getting the anchor job, when Renn strode to the door of her cubicle. “My office. Now, please,” he said, and disappeared.

  His abruptness chilled her. He didn’t look happy, so obviously he didn’t have good news. Surely they weren’t firing her. They had no grounds. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and her contract wasn’t up for almost a year. Was Renn about to inform her they wouldn’t be renewing it?

  Marlee hit Close on the computer file she’d opened but not touched, lowered her foot from the desk drawer she’d pulled out and dragged herself down the thinly carpeted hall to the news director’s office.

  RENN HAD A DILEMMA. His chances of convincing Faye Warren to let him offer the anchor position to Marlee seemed slim to none, yet he didn’t want to give up. For a couple of reasons.

  First, he had scant respect for Taggart as a person, as an analyst or as a commentator. Oh, the guy was intelligent enough, but he was also shifty and devious—particularly unpleasant attributes when combined with vanity and laziness. He hid these true colors behind the good looks he so assiduously cultivated. Pretty boy spent more time working out at his health club and tanning salon than he did at the station.

  Second, while he still wasn’t sold on having a female sports anchor, Renn had to admit Marlee had earned his respect, however grudging, and most recently his unqualified admiration. She was hurting physically and emotionally, but she’d kept herself together, at least in the presence of other people.

  Though Renn still wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of a female sports anchor, he also realized he didn’t want Marlee to bolt, which she undoubtedly would do if the sports analyst got the job. He didn’t want to make too strong a point of it, but he liked having her around, liked the feisty way she responded to jibes and criticism. She was smart, no question about that, smart enough to know she’d never get a break working for Taggart. In fact, if he took over the sports department, Renn would be lucky if most of staff didn’t quit within a few months.

  All this ruminating didn’t contribute one wit to how Renn was going to deal with her, of course. Tell her up-front she wouldn’t be getting the anchor job and she’d be sending out résumé tapes to other stations in a heartbeat.

  Yet he couldn’t honestly assure her she had a decent shot at the job, either. There was only one solution. Tell her she had a chance. It wasn’t a complete lie, and maybe it would buy him time to figure out how to get Taggart out of the picture. Which should be his real goal. Whether Marlee stayed or left, he definitely wanted Taggart gone.

  “What’s up, Renn?”

  He whirled around. She was standing in the doorway, notebook in hand, her oval face framed by wavy honey-blond hair. Her blue eyes harbored sadness and grief. Renn felt suddenly hollow. When his time came, would there be anyone to mourn his passing as Marlee and Van Pelt’s family mourned Clark’s? Worry also darkened her features; he preferred to concentrate on that.

  “Come in and sit down.” His words sounded more harsh than he’d intended. As she limped forward, he circled the desk and closed the door behind her. “How’s the ankle?”

  “Better, thanks.”

  “Try to stay off it as much as possible.”

  “I do.” She looked up at him, waiting for him to get to the reason she’d been summoned.

  “I imagine you’d like to know what’s going to happen around here,” he said as he slid into his seat. He felt her nervousness and wished he could alleviate it, but he’d already expressed his sympathy. Nothing he added would make a difference. It was better to move on.

  “No decision has been made about Clark’s replacement,” he announced. “His death is still so fresh in people’s minds we felt that filling his position too quickly would be inappropriate. We want to give our viewers a chance to recover from the blow of this terrible tragedy before we make any abrupt changes. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  Suspicion lurked in her vague nod. Giving her Clark’s job wouldn’t exactly be an abrupt change. She’d filled in for him many times over the past two years—when he was on vacation, covering hand-picked sporting events or attending media functions.

  “Are you planning to bring in someone from outside?” she asked.

  “As I said, no decision has been made yet.”

  “Does that mean I’m being actively considered for the job?”


  He could hear the hope in her voice. Destroying it would be cruel, especially under these circumstances.

  “Absolutely,” he replied too quickly, too positively. “Personally, I prefer to promote from within. Outsiders are disruptive.” That much was true. “Taggart’s being considered, too, of course.”

  She stared at him. He was the boss, yet he felt suddenly as if he were the one on trial here.

  She compressed her lips and bowed her head. “I know you haven’t been very happy with me, but—”

  “That’s not true,” he countered, again sharply, maybe because he was annoyed by her honesty and sudden humility. The meek got nowhere in this business. Hadn’t she learned that from her mentor? For all his integrity, Clark wasn’t above blowing his own horn when circumstances dictated. If she weren’t in mourning, she’d realize this was one of those times.

  She raised her head and caught his eye, and something passed between them.

  Straightening, she said, “I’ve always received favorable audience responses when I filled in for Clark. The focus group the station formed last fall gave me high marks, too.”

  He agreed, inordinately pleased with the return of that spark of determination, that fighting spirit. “You deserved them.”

  Her brows rose in disbelief.

  “Clark and I discussed your performance,” he said, to justify himself. “He was pleased with your work here, and so am I. I’ve been particularly impressed with your willingness to take criticism.”

  “But—” She looked more confused than ever.

  “Marlee, just because I didn’t compliment you every time you did something right and pointed out a few areas I felt could use improvement doesn’t mean I’ve been unhappy with your overall performance.”

  She furrowed her brow skeptically.

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.” There was even more wariness in her reply.

  “I don’t think I have to tell you why Taggart is a serious contender for the anchor job.”