@AmandaGallo. Your coverage of the rally was excellent. I believe you.
God, I must be desperate to seek solace from a foot fetishist. I dialed Charlie.
“What happened?” he said, in the same tone he would have used had I been in a terrible car accident.
“Well, there was this fight that broke out,” I started.
“No, I know,” he interrupted. “I mean, how did you get the story wrong?”
“I didn’t get it wrong!” I said. “I saw what happened.”
“Then why didn’t any of the other stations see that?”
“I don’t know, but my crew saw it. Right, guys?” I yelled to the front seat. “Didn’t you see the protestors punch Tom?”
“I saw the fight,” Gary said into the rearview mirror. “But I didn’t see who started it.”
“Same,” my sound guy said.
“But you saw Joyce get knocked down, right?”
“Yeah, I saw that part,” Gary said.
“My crew saw most of it,” I told Charlie, wishing I could rewind real life and show it to everyone. “The protestors started it.”
“I can’t really talk now,” Charlie said. “I just stepped out of class to take your call. But I’ll see you tonight, ’kay?”
“Yeah,” I said. I hung up and for a minute considered sending Charlie the message from Frank in Fresno to show him that somebody believed me.
• • •
At home I took a long nap, and when I woke up in the late afternoon, the light looked softer and things seemed calmer. I was alone; my apartment was quiet. It almost seemed like I’d dreamt the fight and the angry aftermath. And I was pretty sure I could keep that sanguine feeling, so long as I never logged back onto Twitter. I walked around my apartment in a pleasant, slow-moving fog, enjoying the Friday night freedom from deadlines and second-by-second countdowns, and by the time I got out of the shower, got dressed, and got in a taxi, I was surprised to see it was already close to 8:00 P.M.
Charlie and I had decided, via text, to order dinner in and watch a movie, which seemed like the perfect mindless antidote to my overthinking workweek. Laurie said she might swing by for a beer.
“Hi,” Charlie said. “What took you so long? I’m starving.”
“Sorry, I guess I was wiped out by the past twenty-four hours. It was all pretty intense. Want to do Curry in a Hurry?” I asked, walking to the kitchen drawer where he kept the takeout menus.
“Sure,” Charlie said, “I know what I want.” Then, “Amanda?” His voice sounded strange. “Amanda?”
“Yes?” I walked back into the living room and looked at him, but he didn’t look back. His eyes were trained on the TV, and I heard my own voice coming from the screen. I turned to see a clip of me from this morning playing in an over-the-shoulder graphic, while the MSNBC anchor shook his head and looked like he might start laughing.
“You heard that right, folks. Over at FAIR News, aka the Fluke Always Is Right network, their morning anchor Amanda Gallo had an entirely different take on the violence at the Fluke rally. She blamed ‘left-wing agitators.’”
The show froze my face midthought, then did a slow-motion push in with my eyes at half-mast, my mouth gaping wide, giving me the look of an imbecile.
“Oh, no,” I whispered, my hand flying up to my mouth.
“Gallo even went so far as to say that one protestor was ‘lucky’ to be pistol-whipped and that something much worse should have happened to him. Honestly, folks, the so-called journalists at FAIR News will stop at nothing to protect Fluke and his followers.”
I peeled my hand from my mouth. “That’s not what I said.”
“Wait, I want to hear the rest,” Charlie said, shushing me.
“Whatever Benji Diggs is doing at FAIR News, it seems pretty clear it has nothing to do with news and everything to do with positioning the impresario for his next big gig. Maybe it’s chairman of the FCC or television czar or ambassador to Cannes, who knows what he’s angling for if Fluke wins? But Amanda Gallo and her Ken Doll of a cohost seem to be in on the scheme.”
I grabbed the remote from Charlie’s hand and pressed the channel down button fast, finding Anderson Cooper staring back at us.
“And now for the RidicuList,” he said. “Amanda Gallo at FAIR News is right at the top. She claims to have seen something at last night’s Fluke rally that somehow escaped the rest of the press corps.”
“Oh, my God!” I screamed.
“Now, just for a little background, let me remind everyone that Gallo is the same ‘news anchor,’” he used his fingers for air quotes, “who recently spent the first two minutes of her morning show making lewd jokes with her floor crew about erections as though they were at a frat party.”
“You were joking about erections?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, God, no. I messed up a prompter read,” I said, bringing my fingers to my head to massage my temples, and taking fast breaths, trying to remember exactly what I’d said about Principal Hardon—but it was all a muddled mess.
My phone rang and my eyes darted to the caller ID. Oh, thank God. “Mom, I’m so glad it’s you.”
“Honey, I’m not sure if you’re watching the news,” she said.
“I am.”
“So what do you think happened there?” she asked.
“Mom, I know what happened. The protestors started it.”
“But did you get a second source?” Mom asked absurdly. I could tell she was quoting some journalism rule I must have mentioned to her years ago.
“You don’t need a second source when you witness something with your own eyes, Mom!”
“Was Laurie there, too?” she asked, and I heard the subtext. If Laurie saw it, then it was legit. She worked at BNN.
“Mom, I saw it. I don’t need Laurie to see it.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “But BNN had video showing that the Fluke supporters were the violent ones. Either way, why are you focusing on Fluke? Why aren’t you covering Virginia Wynn’s gun control plan?”
“I had a different angle, okay, Mom? Look, I’m at Charlie’s. I gotta go. Let’s talk later this weekend.” I put the phone down and reached for the remote to turn off the TV. Then we sat in silence.
“Amanda,” Charlie said softly, like one might when doing an intervention on an alcoholic. “I think you’ve given this enough of a shot. It’s pretty clear that the morning show experiment isn’t working and it’s actually hurting your career.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look, I heard what your mom just said and she has a point. FAIR News is different than BNN. And you are getting a reputation for being in the tank for Fluke. And that’s not a good thing for your future, regardless of who wins this election.”
“I’m not in the tank for Fluke,” I said. “But I do think his supporters deserve a chance to be heard.”
“But they’re idiots,” Charlie told me.
“They’re not idiots,” I said. “They actually make some good points. And they’re half of this country.”
“Yeah, the uneducated racist half.”
“That’s not true, Charlie. You can’t generalize like that. I’ve talked to them. They’re not racists.”
“Oh, right. They’re Ameri-cans, i.e., peasants with pitchforks.”
“So what are you saying?” I asked, crossing my arms across my chest.
“I think you’ve got to get out of there.”
I stared at him, trying to absorb it. “Quit my job? I’m a national morning anchor. Do you have any idea how many people would pay to be in my shoes?”
“Sure, but as Harry Truman said, it’s never good to be the piano player in a whorehouse.” Charlie attempted a half smile, but I stayed frowning, then he said more gently, “Amanda, I know this is your dream, but there’s got to be a different way to fulf
ill it.”
My head was starting to feel light and woozy. “Charlie, I can’t quit even if I wanted to,” I told him. “I’m under contract. That means I can’t get another TV job for two more years.”
“Maybe you don’t have to work in TV. Maybe you could, I don’t know, do something in print journalism or teach or something. Do something that gives back to society.”
“You don’t think broadcast journalism is important to society? Are you kidding? This is my life. This is what I do! I’ve worked for this since I was fifteen. I’m not going to throw it away because Anderson Cooper thinks I’m ridiculous.”
Charlie shook his head. “It’s more than just this rally. It’s all the crazy segments you’re doing. This militant balance that Diggs demands. It’s a fraudulent idea of fairness. Ban abortion, no don’t. Ban gay marriage—or maybe not. Maybe food stamps are bad, maybe they’re good. Cut taxes for the rich, no don’t! You really feel comfortable peddling this kind of misinformation?”
“No, I don’t feel comfortable!” I said. “And maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s a useful exercise for a journalist to be uncomfortable with her subject matter sometimes. Yes, we put on opposing opinions, and I’m forced to really listen to all of them and think about them. Television news is not a university lecture hall with a professor pontificating while everyone has to dutifully take notes!” I had a feeling that one might hit a little close to home, but Charlie was pissing me off with his holier-than-thou crap.
“Amanda, be honest, your show is a bullhorn for Victor Fluke because that’s what gets ratings. That’s not journalism. It’s television. If Victor Fluke wins, you and your show will in large part be responsible. You gave him a platform and access to millions of people that he wouldn’t have had. Can you live with that?”
“I don’t see it that way, Charlie. We didn’t create him, we covered him. And if we hadn’t, somebody else would have. You assume putting him on TV has a positive effect on his campaign. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it exposes how little he knows. Maybe seeing Fluke on our show galvanizes Wynn supporters and motivates people to vote against him. You don’t know what people do with the information. Besides, don’t you want to hear from his supporters? Find out what they want? Why they’re angry? I’ve met them. They think the media treats him like a joke. And to them, he’s not a joke. He gives them hope. You know, I learned something at that rally. Fluke’s supporters are not as extreme as we think. There’s room for compromise. But we’ve got to get together to find it. That’s what I’m trying to show.”
I was drained and done with my soapbox. “Listen, Charlie, is there any way you could just be supportive? So much of my life is intense, I don’t want to have to fight you, too.”
Charlie sighed. “Do you realize this is all we talk about, your job? Beyond that, I’m not sure how to get your attention.”
I was tempted to dispute that, but he was right. I couldn’t remember the last dinner conversation we’d had that wasn’t FAIR News focused. And it had been a long time since I’d had the energy to join him and his friends for their Freestyle Frisbee in Central Park.
I heard a quick knock on the door. The knob turned, and Laurie waltzed in. “Hey, hey,” she said. “What’s wrong?” she said, seeing me.
“Did you see the protestors start the fight at the rally?” I asked her without saying hello.
“No,” she said. “I was outside with that National Guard guy. But I saw all the Twitter insanity about what you reported.”
“And?” I asked.
“I’m sure the protestors started it in one part of the stadium and the Fluke supporters started it in another part.” She shrugged at me. “This too shall pass.”
I looked at the TV screen, which was now off, and tried to imagine my discomfort passing. That didn’t seem likely as long as Fluke was around. God, what happens if Fluke wins? What happens if he loses? Either scenario was starting to seem inconceivable.
“Any progress getting the housekeeper to talk?” I asked.
“Still working on it,” she said.
Chapter 23
Pot Luck
I reached up to ring the buzzer at Karen Burke’s apartment. Karen was one of the liberal pundits we used on the show. She was always reasonable and somehow maintained her sense of humor through all the debates with Fluke surrogates. I enjoyed her appearances, particularly because she tended to make eye contact only with me, even when Rob asked a question. “If you keep looking at Amanda, I’m gonna have to cockblock you, Burke,” Rob told her the last time she was on, which cracked Karen up. During a commercial break, she invited me to swing by her potluck party on Saturday. So here we were in Brooklyn, on her brownstone steps, holding the foil-covered cornbread Charlie had baked and cradling a bottle of red.
“Well, hello there!” Karen said, pulling open the door and revealing a couple dozen guests clad in varying shades of boho neutral. I sensed hemp. Karen was wearing what looked like men’s pleated pants and a plain white T-shirt covered by a baggy suit jacket, like an overgrown four-year-old playing dress up in her dad’s clothes.
“I was hoping you’d show!” she said.
“This is my boyfriend, Charlie,” I said, motioning with my shoulder toward Charlie, who was sizing up the surroundings.
“Lucky guy,” Karen said, shaking his hand. “Hey, everyone,” Karen said, turning to the gaggle of hipsters standing in small circles. “Say hi to Amanda and Charlie.” The low din died down, and for a second I could swear I detected snickering.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said. “Let me get you some wine.” Karen took the bottle from the crook of my arm, walked us over to the makeshift bar on a table in her living room, grabbed a corkscrew, and opened it. “Help yourself to grub. I wouldn’t call it haute cuisine but if you like vegan chili, you’ve come to the right place.” She elbowed Charlie in jest.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. “So,” the guy said. “Did I hear you work at FAIR News?”
“That’s right,” I nodded, though I didn’t recall Karen announcing that.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or drunk or neither.
“Don’t worry,” Karen said to him in a stage whisper. “She’s one of us.”
“I’ll take that wine now,” I said.
Karen splashed a hefty pour into a water glass and leaned in closer to me. “Listen, there are a couple of people here who would be very interested in talking to you.”
“Oh?” I said. “Who?”
“There’s a woman from the Daily Beast and a guy from TVNewser and I thought—”
“Oh, no,” I said, feeling the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Hey, no worries,” she said throwing her hands up and taking three steps back. “You don’t have to talk to them. I’m just sayin’ if you were game, they’d love to have a conversation about FAIR.”
“I don’t want to,” I said. “I’m not here to talk about work.” I looked over at Charlie for backup but his eyes were open to the possibility.
“I get it,” Karen said. “But just so you know, they’re cool. They’d keep everything totally confidential. They’re very interested in hearing how decisions are made over there, ya know? Why the network’s decided to be all-in on Fluke. There’s word that Benji Diggs and Fluke go way back. Maybe Fluke is financing FAIR—or the other way around . . .” She raised her eyebrows at me expectantly, like maybe I’d answer that question. When I didn’t, she turned to Charlie and kicked her tone to upbeat. “So, Charlie, what do you do?”
“I teach at NYU, in the history department.”
“Really? I went there. Political science. We must know lots of people in common.”
“Let’s see,” Charlie said, thinking. “Professor Halloran?”
“Of course! He’s a riot. Th
ere was one day when I was late to class . . .”
Charlie and Karen began trading school stories and I turned to look around the room. My eyes fell on a small cluster of guys in their twenties, clad in jeans and T-shirts. The short one seemed to be pointing in my direction, but retracted his hand when he saw me staring. I cocked my head and walked toward them.
“Can I help you guys with something?”
“You’re Amanda, right?” one asked.
“Yes.”
“Right, we recognize you.”
“Oh, yeah? You guys watch FAIR News?” I asked.
“Oh, fuck, no,” one said. The others cracked up.
“We saw you last night on Rachel Maddow’s show,” another explained.
“Oh.” My stomach twisted.
“She did an entire segment on you,” the first one added.
“What did she say?” I asked slowly.
“She said that you were a Fluke apologist and you’re, like, very sympathetic to his followers. And I guess, you don’t, like, do much fact-checking.”
A bubble of bile burst in my gut. “Funny, she never called me to check her facts or get my side. I guess other news networks don’t need both sides.”
“I saw a clip of you on the Daily Show,” the shorter one said. “Do you like being on there?”
“What do you think?” I snapped. “Would you like being mocked on national television?”
“Any publicity is good, right? Isn’t that what you say in your biz?” the second one asked, shrugging. “Hey, did you really say that the protestors are more violent than the Fluke freaks?” At that, I noticed one of the silent guys reach into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t pull anything out but I thought I saw the outline of his knuckle press something. He looked up quickly and our eyes locked.
“Where do you guys work?” I asked him.
He glanced at the others.
“A think tank,” one said.
“Really? Does it have a name?”
“You wouldn’t know it. It’s a nonprofit.”
Amanda Wakes Up Page 22