The Newsmakers

by Lis Wiehl

  She screws her courage to the sticking place and strokes Jenny’s head. “Can we talk about something serious, honey?”

  Jenny nods.

  “I know I hurt you when I was drinking. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Why did you drink so much, Mom?”

  “Well, I was probably working too hard. Putting a lot of pressure on myself. Your father and I weren’t getting along. And I’m one of those people who can’t stop drinking when they start.”

  “An alcoholic?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did hurt me. I hated you.”

  The words sting—but their honesty soothes. “I don’t blame you. I hope you can try to forgive me.”

  “You hurt Daddy too.”

  “I’m sure I did. When two people are married and it doesn’t work out, there’s a lot of pain. It takes time to get some perspective. I think your dad and I are on a more even keel these days. One thing that will always bond us is our love for you.”

  “I’m glad I’m not a grown-up.”

  Erica laughs. “You know, you will be one of these days.”

  “Not too soon, I hope.”

  “What do you think of New York City?”

  “It’s big and there are a lot of people.”

  “I find it exciting.”

  “People look at you. You’re famous.”

  “Do you like that?”

  Jenny nods. “Do you like it?”

  Erica looks around. People do recognize her—but she’s not a movie star like Reese Witherspoon or Anne Hathaway; she’s a newscaster associated with a national tragedy, so the response she gets is more muted and respectful. But it brings a sense of power nonetheless. “Yes, I do, honey. It’s a strange feeling, but I hope I’ve earned it. I work hard. Look, there’s the carousel.”

  Jenny’s face lights up at the sight of the venerable old amusement ride with its brightly painted horses and calliope music. They sit on a bench and watch it go round and round, filled with excited children laughing and shrieking with joy. Erica feels a moment of envy. But it gives way to solace—with all the chaos and evil in the world, children still know how to laugh and play.

  “How are things at school, honey?”

  “I got an A in science.”

  “Did you? I’m so proud of you. I don’t think I ever got above a C in science.”

  “Why don’t you want me to live with you, Mom?”

  This is the question Erica dreads most. “Oh, but I do, baby girl, I do more than anything. It’s just that, well . . .” She takes a deep breath and dives in, dives into the lies. No, they’re not lies, they’re fibs, temporary fibs, just until . . . until . . .? “I didn’t want you to have to switch schools in the middle of the year. And I sometimes have to fly out of town on a moment’s notice, so you’d be left alone—we’d have to find you a nanny. And my hours are so unpredictable, you’d be eating way too much cold pizza and microwave dinners.”

  “My friend Bridget’s mother does it all alone. She’s busy too.”

  Erica is at a loss as to how to answer. “Do you want to live with me?”

  Jenny folds her arms and looks down. “I don’t know. I don’t trust you.”

  Erica takes Jenny’s chin in her hand and gently raises her head. “Will you give me a chance to earn your trust?”

  Jenny considers this. Then she nods. Erica wants to wrap her arms around her but resists. “I promise you that as soon as I can make it happen, we’ll be living together.” She runs her fingers through Jenny’s hair. “May I see what’s in your backpack?”

  “It’s private.”

  “Okay.”

  “But you can look.”

  Jenny hands her mom the backpack. Erica takes out the new iPod, crazy bands, a dog-eared Judy Blume book that she recognizes as her own old copy, a brush, and then . . . Mikey, the small stuffed monkey that Erica gave Jenny on her second birthday. The little fella looks threadbare but well loved.

  “Mikey,” Erica says simply. Jenny reaches over and strokes his head. They sit quietly for a little bit as the excited city swirls around them. Then Erica puts everything back in the pack, hands it to Jenny, stands up, takes her hand, and gestures toward the carousel. She’d ask Jenny if she wants to take a ride, but the lump in her throat would make it difficult to speak.

  They ride around, Jenny happily bouncing on her horse. Just as they get off the carousel, Erica’s phone rings—it’s Detective Takahashi from LA.

  “I have some news on the Barrish murder. We’ve found the probable car that picked up Yanez at the bus stop. It’s a Lexus rental stolen from a beach parking lot in Santa Monica. It was abandoned on the street in Covina. It’s being taken to the lab for analysis. There’s copious blood in the trunk, including splatters consistent with a single gunshot wound. A jacket matching the one Yanez was wearing was also found in the trunk.”

  Erica puts her phone back in her purse.

  “Who was that, Mommy?”

  “A detective in Los Angeles. There’s a new development in the Barrish murder.”

  “Breaking news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, come on then, we have to get you to the studio!” Jenny grabs Erica’s hand and starts to run.

  CHAPTER 44

  ERICA IS IN HER OFFICE the next morning. After getting back from Central Park yesterday, she put Jenny in the car that took her home and then spent six straight hours on the air, trying to squeeze maximum news value out of the discovery of the car in which Arturo Yanez was probably killed. The network ran footage of the car itself being loaded onto a flatbed truck in Covina for transport to the forensics lab, of the Santa Monica parking lot where it was stolen, of the bus stop in West Hollywood where Yanez was last seen alive. The big question, of course: Who stole the car? Finding that out would be a big break.

  Erica feels it was a good day for her and Jenny, an important day between them. Yes, she choked on that crucial question of why they aren’t living together, but she’ll deal with that when . . . when she can.

  Almost time for her meeting with Nylan. She’s never been to his office. Which everyone tells her is a blessing—if you’re called in, it’s probably not to receive good news. She’s hoping this visit is an exception. She drops in on Rosario and Andi before heading up there. She worked hard last night, there’s an awful lot on her plate, and she’s feeling a little ragged around the edges.

  As she heads down the hall toward the elevators, her prepaid phone rings.

  “It’s Chuck Benton.”

  “Hi, Chuck, how’s Mark doing?”

  “He’s doing pretty well. His skull was put back together.”

  “That’s great news.”

  “And he spoke. One word. Barely audible. But I leaned down and he repeated it right into my ear.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “Erica.”

  Erica stops in her tracks, scans the hallway, lowers her voice. “I’ve got a meeting I can’t skip, but I’ll be down ASAP.”

  In the elevator heading up to Nylan’s office, Erica marshals herself. There is no one more important to her career, to her future, than Nylan Hastings. No matter how creepy he may be, he’s responsible for all the good things that are happening in her life. A million possible scenarios are careening around in her. Then she shuts down her internal guessing game. Just be yourself. It’s working so far.

  She gets off the elevator and comes face-to-face with a middle-aged woman sitting behind a vast, intimidating counter. A man in a dark suit with
an earpiece in his right ear stands nearby and scrutinizes Erica. Everything feels hushed and tightly controlled up here; there’s a crackle in the air, like static electricity. One spark and it could all blow up.

  Erica smiles at the gatekeeper. “I’m here for my appointment with Nylan.”

  The woman finally smiles, although it’s just with her mouth. She picks up her phone. “Erica Sparks is here.”

  Nylan appears almost instantly and leads her down a wide hallway hung with posters of the network’s anchors and their shows. The Erica Sparks Effect will fit right in.

  Nylan’s office is bigger than most New York one-bedroom apartments, but furnished minimally, with a couple of elegant sofas and chairs and a large glass desk with nothing on it but a softball-sized plastic globe of the world. This man is organized to the point of obsession. There’s a Rothko on one wall, a Pollock on another, and a Calder mobile hanging in a corner. The views up to Central Park are staggering. Fred Wilmot, GNN’s chief visionary officer, is standing in one corner, impeccable in a dark suit and silk tie. His face is a mask, implacable. Nylan is in sneakers, a loose black T-shirt, and jeans—even dressed like an overage skateboarder, there’s no mistaking that this is his office.

  “Erica, you remember Fred Wilmot.”

  “Of course. How nice to see you.”

  “And you,” Wilmot says with a tight smile.

  Nylan gestures for Erica to sit. She chooses one of the couches.

  “Do you know what geolocated news is, Erica?” Nylan asks. There’s no innuendo, no loaded looks. He’s being completely professional and it’s a relief. Hopefully he got the message.

  “Basically customized news?”

  “Yes, delivered wherever you are on the planet. You live in Seattle, you’re hiking on Mount Kilimanjaro and there’s a gas explosion a block from your house? You’re instantly informed in a targeted news blast sent to your smartphone.” He strolls around the room, lithe and coiled. “That’s the kind of scope this network is going to have. We are in the process of redefining what news is. We are going to reach into every corner of this planet to connect and unite humanity—and write a bold, new history for mankind.”

  He spins around and looks at Erica. She hopes she looks appropriately enthralled.

  “Cybertargeting will allow us to respond to crises within minutes. We used it in partnership with Doctors Without Borders to track and contain a recent outbreak of Ebola in Senegal. We partnered with the World Wildlife Fund to crack a poaching ring that was killing elephants in Thailand. This network is going to transcend news as we know it—we are going to be nothing less than the planet’s central nervous system.”

  Wilmot picks up the globe on Nylan’s desk and hands it to him. Nylan tosses it in the air a few times—he’s got the whole world in his hands. From where she’s sitting, Erica can make out the continents. Nylan faces a blank wall, taps South America, and a projection pops up on the wall:

  Brazil

  Connected: 140 million, 70 percent of population

  Currently online: 82 million

  He taps Asia and the projection changes to:

  Pakistan

  Connected: 108 million, 62 percent of population

  Currently online: 53 million

  He taps Greece, Chile, and South Africa in rapid succession, and the same set of statistics comes up.

  It’s a dazzling display and Erica is awed. “Nylan, that’s amazing.”

  “This is just the big picture. We can instantly mine this data and know exactly where these people are, what site they’re on, and who they’re communicating with. We can reach all of them simultaneously. Or we can reach one specific person out of billions.” Nylan’s voice rises, and for a moment his casual aspect falls away. “We are building one world, one future, one universe!”

  Erica half expects laser beams to shoot out of his eyes. The man is possessed. Brilliant? Yes. A visionary? Obviously. But also messianic. Which is disquieting. But Erica knows that there’s a fine line between genius and madness. And parts of Nylan’s vision are thrilling—look at the work he described with Doctors Without Borders and the World Wildlife Fund. The potential for good is enormous. So is the potential for not-good—for control, for invasion of privacy, for manipulation, monopoly, forced conformity, autocracy.

  Wilmot presses on a blank wall, and it springs open to reveal a refrigerator. He reaches in, grabs a bottle of green juice, and hands it to Nylan, who sits at his desk and gazes out toward Central Park with a faraway look in his eyes.

  Fred Wilmot takes over, all business. “Our cyber division built all this. They are the best in the world, bar none. Our capabilities even surpass those of the Pentagon. Of course, that’s only part of the picture. We’re in the process of monetizing our abilities. Right now the network is running at a loss, but we’re exceeding projections. Thanks in large part to you, Erica. Your ratings speak for themselves, but we’ve also convened a series of focus groups to gauge opinions and feelings toward you. The public loves you, but more importantly they trust you. Every great enterprise needs a public face. We want you to be that face. Your own show is in development. We want to move it to prime time and make it two hours long. We are prepared to offer you a three-year contract at three million dollars a year. We will also pay you a two-million-dollar housing allowance. And provide you with a car and driver. We’ll send the contract to your lawyer.”

  Erica tries to take it all in. Part of her finds it disturbing that they ran focus groups on her without her knowledge. Another part of her wants to leap up and scream, “I’m rich!” But she contains herself and says calmly, “I look forward to getting the contract.”

  Nylan turns toward her and smiles, the proud smile of a small boy who has just won a prize at the county fair. The man is an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in seven billion dollars.

  “George Wilkins, our CFO, will negotiate any fine points,” Wilmot says, signaling the meeting is over.

  Erica stands. “I better get to work.”

  “There is one thing, Erica,” Nylan says. “I appreciate your journalistic instincts, and the investigative reporting you’ve done on the Barrish case. But you’re more valuable to us on-air, behind a desk, than you are down in the weeds of Juarez or anyplace else. We need you pulling stories together, making sense of disparate information, putting field reports in context. In a word: anchoring.”

  “Nylan, I’m more than a news reader. I’m a journalist.”

  “I realize and respect that.” He looks at her, his eyelids lowered to half-mast in an almost seductive gesture. Uh-oh. “But your value is dependent on your stature. Having you report from the slums of Juarez is not consistent with being the global face of GNN. We have field reporters to do that.” He smiles, and this smile feels like ice. “Are we on the same page?”

  Erica hesitates. The last thing she wants is to be stuck behind a desk for the next three years. She needs to be out there, covering stories on the ground, searching for the truth. But there’s no way she’s going to walk away from the financial independence and the level of power she’s being offered. She’ll be able to get custody of Jenny, buy them a beautiful apartment, put Jenny in private school, give her every advantage of a privileged Manhattan childhood. Erica has to pick her battles carefully. She’s willing to acquiesce on this one. For now. “Yes, we’re on the same page.”

  As she rides down in the elevator, Erica tries to digest what just happened. She feels like she both got the biggest break of her career and was cut off at the knees. Nylan basically told her to stop her investigation—and there was an implied or else. What would that or else be? Erica feels her throat tighten. Billionaires really do make their own rules. Erica pul
ls out her phone to call Moira. Then she remembers she’s being watched.

  CHAPTER 45

  AS ERICA CABS DOWN TO Beth Israel, she takes out her prepaid and makes the call to Moira.

  “Hey, Moira, I was just offered a prime-time show and a three-year contract at three million per.”

  Moira hollers so loud that Erica moves the phone away from her ear. “Baby, I am so proud of you.”

  “Hey, thanks, and I mean it when I say it wouldn’t have happened without you. You reached down and picked me up when I needed it most. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Can you lend me a hundred K?”

  “At 15 percent.”

  “This calls for a celebration.”

  “Let’s hold off until the ink is dry. Listen, can you do me a big favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Can you see what you can find out about Fred Wilmot? He’s our chief visionary officer.”

  “Sure. Why the interest?”

  “There’s something cold and . . . scary about him. What do you make of Yanez’s death?”

  “It feels like gang work to me. The stolen rental car MO is popular with Hispanic gangs out here, and they’ve used the desert as a dumping ground before.”

  “Why would a gang want to kill him?”

  “Follow the money.”

  “So you think they were paid?”

  “Absolutely. Whoever engineered Barrish’s murder is smart. Very smart. I’m sure they put at least four or five layers between themselves and the crime. Yanez was the first layer, whoever killed him is the second layer. This is going to be a tough onion to peel.”

  “There’s no way I’m letting go.”

  “Erica, you don’t sound like a woman who has just scored a life-changing triumph.”