“I don’t think there’s any such thing. The fact that so many people are watching our show tells you that there’s a big appetite out there for what Fluke has to say. There’s nothing more democratic than TV. It gives viewers the ultimate power. They vote every morning with their remotes. They vote every minute, actually. And our viewers are voting to see Fluke. He’s ratings gold.”
“But journalism shouldn’t be about ratings.”
Rob snorted. “I don’t know where you’ve worked, but everywhere I have, that’s all it’s about. And by the way, that’s not a bad thing. If you don’t have ratings, that means you don’t have viewers. And if you don’t have viewers, you don’t have advertisers. And if you don’t have revenue, you don’t have a channel for very long. And then it doesn’t matter how great your journalism is, no one will ever see it. Look at Al Jazeera. They had a good idea: covering the Middle East better than anyone else. No ratings. Shut down after two years. Look at Piers Morgan—passionate about gun control. That’s important journalism, right? His ratings tanked. Show canceled.”
“Don’t you think we look stupid doing a pajama segment while everyone else is doing the housekeeper story?”
“I think it’s smart to counterprogram. Let’s wait till we see the numbers. I bet the pajamas rate.”
“I think we have to cover the housekeeper. It’s our duty.”
“Listen, maybe this will help,” he said. “Think about your audience. Think about what they want, not what you think they should want. And they’ve been pretty clear. They want more Fluke. Every time he’s on, the ratings spike. That tells you something about what’s going on in this country—and we’re smart to pay attention.”
I stared past Rob, taking it in and trying not to get confused by all the competing agendas: Mom wanted more Wynn, Charlie wanted no Fluke, Rob wanted good ratings, and what did I want, besides those black suede boots in the store window? I wanted a successful career and to make a difference in people’s lives and to follow in Suzy Berenson’s footsteps. And I could argue that I was achieving all those things, so really, what more did I want?
“Listen, I’d love to hang out and bat this around more, but I gotta go,” Rob said, standing up. “I have a date.”
“At ten thirty A.M.?”
“This one won’t leave me alone,” he grinned and shook his head. “She needs more of the Lahr love.”
“How can you function at this hour? I can barely talk.”
“Who said there’d be any talking?” He grabbed his keys off the desk. “Listen, you’ll figure this all out. If it’s any consolation, the viewers seem to really like you, particularly Frank in Fresno. He’s says he’s hoping for a double dangle tomorrow.” Rob patted me on the back and walked out.
• • •
11:58 A.M. I stared at the giant TV monitor on my office wall. BNN had broken into regular programming, and now Gabe and two pundits were stretching to kill time, waiting for the presser to start.
“Folks, we’re awaiting a press conference in this developing story on Victor Fluke’s former housekeeper.” Gabe was using his America’s Premier Newsman cadence, which made it sound like he might announce that bin Laden had just been killed all over again. “We’ve been given a two-minute warning that the press conference is about to start, regarding allegations of wrongdoing by Victor Fluke in what’s come to be called Maidgate. Will this derail his presidential campaign?”
BNN cut from the anchor desk to a reporter scrum around an empty podium, and I leaned forward in my chair, wishing I were home on the couch with Charlie and some popcorn.
Look! There’s Laurie! It was funny. Even though I was on TV, somehow seeing Laurie on TV was very exciting. Like a celebrity sighting. I watched her milling around next to the pack of cameramen adjusting microphones on the rim of the podium. Laurie looked impatient, like the lawyers were keeping her personally waiting.
Gabe reappeared, now in a split screen. “As you know, this story has developed quickly since our investigative report revealed that presidential candidate Victor Fluke may have employed an undocumented immigrant from Haiti sixteen years ago and then bought her a house in the U.S. using a shell company. So lots of questions that, thus far, Mr. Fluke has not answered. We’re not sure what to expect from the attorneys for the housekeeper at this press conference, but here they are now.”
A small group of serious-faced lawyers in business suits stepped to the podium. The tallest one, a middle-aged, sandy-haired man, leaned down toward the microphones.
“Good afternoon, everyone. We can make this quick. Ever since the media decided to dredge up a decades-old rumor, my client has lived in fear of being hounded and harassed. Let me make my client’s position very clear: she does not want to speak about the circumstances of her employment sixteen years ago or about Victor Fluke. She does not want her identity revealed. She respectfully requests you all stop attempting to contact her and leave her alone. She will not have any further comments. Thank you very much. Good day.”
“Did she have a relationship with Victor Fluke?” one reporter yelled.
“Was she in the country illegally?” another shouted.
My eyes searched for Laurie. I knew she’d yell a follow-up question. But she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed her bag and walked out of the frame.
• • •
Charlie was reading at the desk when I walked into his apartment.
“Hi. What are you up to? How was class?” I asked in an effort to deflect attention from my day.
“Just looking over these essays,” Charlie said, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “It’s going to be a challenging semester. I told the students to write reports over the summer using source attribution, and this one kid is starting every paragraph with the phrase ‘According to me.’”
I laughed. “That’s funny. Sounds like some of my guests.”
“How’d it go today?” he asked, putting down his pen. “Did you bust the Fluke case wide open?”
“I couldn’t,” I sighed. “They wouldn’t let me use the documents.”
“What? Why not?”
“They said they didn’t know where I got them and I didn’t want to reveal they were from Laurie.”
“Isn’t it more likely your producers are trying to protect Fluke?”
“They say we need the other side. You know, the woman’s side. We can’t just repeat some rumor.”
“That’s bullshit,” Charlie said, his ire rising.
“I thought so, too, at first, but I think they’re trying to be careful, particularly now that the housekeeper won’t talk. And when I think about it, Laurie is operating off a letter from a possibly disgruntled nanny. And maybe Virginia Wynn’s people did plant the story to bring down Fluke.”
“Interesting conspiracy theory,” Charlie said. “If only there was someone connected to the story you could ask about her sources.”
“Very funny,” I said. “I texted her.”
My cell phone rang on the coffee table.
“Hey, got your text,” Laurie whispered into the phone. “I can’t talk. I’m on a stakeout. I’m trying to ambush the attorney. I gotta be ready to spring if he comes out. Did you use the documents today?”
“They wouldn’t let me.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they had questions about where I got them, which, of course, I didn’t reveal. Plus they say we need the housekeeper to talk.”
“Get in line,” Laurie said.
“I know. From that press conference, it sounds impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” Laurie said. “Hold on, is that him?” I could hear Laurie conferring with her cameraman. “No, wait, that’s a woman. Shit, we need to get closer.”
“So what’s your plan since the housekeeper doesn’t want to be identified?” I asked.
“I have h
er name. I have her number. I’m trying to convince her attorney to let her talk to Gabe, but I gotta ambush him cause he’s not returning my calls.”
I heard a clicking on her end, and Laurie said, “That’s Gabe calling.”
“He probably wants some tomato juice.”
“Stand by,” Laurie said, clicking over, then back a second later. “I gotta go. I’m working on it. Somebody at FAIR News should be working on this, too. I’m sure Benji has pull with the attorneys on this case. Get him to set something up for you to meet with them.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said, wishing I’d thought of that.
“Jesus, why do you even pay that asshole agent of yours? Just send me ten percent of your paycheck. Wait, that’s the attorney!” Laurie yelled. “There he goes! Follow him!” I heard a scramble of movement and equipment. “Shit! I shouldn’t have been on the phone. I gotta go trail him.” The sound went dead on the other end.
“What’d she say?” Charlie asked.
“Not much,” I said, bringing the phone to rest on the coffee table again. “She’s chasing the lawyer down the street.”
Chapter 22
Man on the Street
Laurie didn’t get the housekeeper, but by late September she had started fooling around with the attorney. She seemed to like the guy, though I was pretty sure that if she ever did get the housekeeper to talk, the affair might come to a hasty halt. Laurie and I had a name for relationships that sprang up in TV news when reporters, producers, and their sources were on assignment, on location, away from home, bonding with each other during long days of live shots and late drunken dinners. We called them “locationships.” In Laurie and the attorney’s case, this was more like a scoopship, or a sourceship, or a tipship, or something. I couldn’t quite tell.
While Laurie worked over her source, I stewed about Margot having finally secured the first FAIR News sit-down with Virginia Wynn. I was so bummed about her campaign people picking Margot over me that I’d almost convinced myself we were justified in having Fluke on Wake Up, USA! all the time to teach Wynn’s people a lesson. Hey, if she won’t come on, then she can’t blame us for booking the other biggest newsmaker, I thought indignantly, even though our Fluke fixation pre-dated Wynn’s denial of my request.
“I can’t wait to watch the Virginia Wynn gun-control special on Thursday,” Mom said. “Now is that something that in the future you might be able to be involved in?”
“I tried, Mom. I tried.”
“But why does Margot get to interview her? You should be doing that.”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “Wynn’s people decided to go with Margot, not me.”
“Maybe it’s because your show has Fluke on all the time. It’s no wonder Wynn wouldn’t want to come on.”
“Well, my show is the highest-rated cable morning show. So if she wants to reach a lot of voters, she should do our show,” I said, leaving out the part that we only got sky-high ratings the mornings Fluke came on.
When I hung up, I sat stewing again, torn about whether to even watch Margot’s special, then an email popped up from Fatima that gave me new purpose.
TO: Amanda
FROM: Fatima
RE: This week
Hey, want to send you to a Fluke rally in New Hampshire on Thursday night. Thousands of people are expected to turn out. Want you to do a piece on these Fluke followers, who they are and what they want. Some people got hurt at last week’s rally, so you’ll be in perfect position to get all the color if there’s more violence.
Perfect. With any luck something dramatic will happen and my live reporting will preempt Margot’s taped Wynn special. Being an anchor in the studio was fantastic; but the field was where the action was, where you got the real juice of the story. I’d show Margot.
So off we drove to Manchester, New Hampshire. Fluke had rented the civic center, predicting an overflow crowd and, sure enough, as the crew and I rolled up in the SUV, we saw a huge line of people stretching three city blocks.
“Shit,” I said, stepping out of the crew car into a surprisingly chilly night. “It wasn’t cold in New York.”
I exhaled a stream of air out my nose, which I could tell was about to start running. Now I remember: working in the field, out in the elements, is much harder than the studio. At that moment, starting to shiver and fishing around for a tissue in my purse, I decided I would slap the next anchor I heard complaining about anything. The worst was an anchor like Margot who had never been a field reporter and felt free to complain about her shift, or the dress Meg had picked out, or her bad hair day—all while sitting in the warm comfort of the makeup chair. I’d been out of the crew car approximately sixty seconds and my hands were already freezing.
“Did you bring a hat?” my fotog, Gary, asked, pulling on his own unsightly orange striped one.
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting it to be this cold in September.”
“Major tactical error,” the sound guy said. “This is New Hampshire. It snows year-round. Anyway, grab the stick mic. Let’s go get some MOS.”
“I thought we were going to shoot inside the civic center,” I mumbled, pausing to scan the street for BNN’s live truck, where I knew I could find Laurie. While waiting for the housekeeper to come around, Laurie was busy going from Fluke rally to Fluke rally, doing investigative pieces on what the Fluke followers were planning to do if he lost. Spotting BNN’s truck halfway down the block, I was relieved. If I got too cold outside, I could retreat in there to warm up.
I reached back into the crew car for my pen and notepad, then stuffed my left hand deep into my coat pocket for warmth and felt something woolly. Oh, thank God, my gloves were still in my coat from March. See? I am actually prepared. I sighed out steam, then reached into the right-hand pocket for the other one and felt only emptiness. Shit!
“Um, can you guys wait one second? I have to give my friend at BNN something,” I lied. “It’ll only take a minute.” I darted off to Laurie’s truck, running up the stairs and yanking open the heavy door.
“Oh, hey,” she said, looking up from her laptop. “When did you get here?”
“Like a second ago,” I told her. “I didn’t know it would be so cold. Do you have some gloves I could borrow?”
“You didn’t bring gloves?” she said, like I was a hopeless case.
“Well, I did. But only one. And I have to go do MOS.”
“I can’t give up my gloves,” she said. “I found a National Guard guy who’s planning to take over some recruiting station if Fluke doesn’t win. It’s crazy. So I gotta get him on camera before he comes to his senses. Besides,” she said, looking at me like she knew me better than I knew myself, “isn’t forgetting a vital piece of clothing kinda what you’re known for? Isn’t that sort of your thing?”
“Oh, that’s funny,” I told her. “But no, that’s my old thing. Haven’t you heard? My new thing is the dangle.”
“I don’t like how that sounds,” she said.
“I’ll explain later,” I told her, opening the door and feeling the sting of cold on my way out.
“Ready, Amanda?” my fotog asked when I ran up. The sound guy reached into the equipment cage in the back of the car and handed me the stick mic, which felt as cold as a monkey bar on a playground in December. “Ready,” I said.
We marched up to the line of supporters, some with signs, some just shifting back and forth on their feet, trying to stay warm. I began the familiar process of trying to suss out who would give me a good man-on-the-street sound bite based on body language. Someone who saw the camera and turned his back = bad. Someone who made eye contact = good. One sixtyish guy with a SUCCESSFUL MAN baseball cap watched me without looking away. He, I decided, would be the lucky winner of my MOS sweepstakes.
“Hi, sir, we’re from FAIR News,” I started. “Can I ask you a couple of questions about what you�
��re doing out here?”
“Did you say FAIR News?” He looked around at the others in the line like he was gearing up for something. “Well, then step right up! How can we help you?” Everyone around him laughed and nodded, then spread out into a semicircle to let me in.
“That was easy,” I said. “Sometimes getting people to go on camera can be like pulling teeth.”
“Oh, we won’t talk to the lamestream media,” one smiling woman told me. “But we love FAIR News. And we sure love watching you every morning.”
“My husband has a little crush on you,” another woman gushed. “Isn’t that right, Bill?” she asked, turning to a tall gray-haired man next to her who shrugged with schoolboy embarrassment, then nodded and said, “Yup, she’s right.” The others cracked up.
“I’m Susan, by the way,” the wife said.
“Hi Susan, I’m Amanda,” I said.
“Oh, we know who you are. You’re the only morning show we watch,” Susan said, “because we love you and we love seeing Mr. Fluke on your show. You’re the only ones who take Mr. Fluke seriously. The other networks act like he’s a joke. But he’s not a joke.”
Hearing that, a weird sensation came over me, pride mixed with disgust, attraction, and revulsion. These people loved me—and they loved Victor Fluke. And they thought I took him seriously. And maybe that was a good thing.
“Can we get a picture with you?” one of the guys asked.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “But let me ask you some questions first.” I looked over my shoulder at Gary, who already had his camera hoisted on his shoulder in the ready position. He gave me the go nod.
“Tell me your name,” I said to the first guy, in the SUCCESSFUL MAN cap.
“I’m Tom Keller. K-E-L-L-E-R.”
“Okay, Tom, why are you standing out here in the cold?”
“Well, because we want to protect our Second Amendment rights. And we need Mr. Fluke’s help.”
Amanda Wakes Up Page 20