Breaking the Story

by Ashley Farley

  He listened intently for several long minutes to the person on the other end. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said and hung up. He signaled the waitress for the bill. “I gotta go.”

  “What happened?” Scottie asked, searching in her bag for her wallet.

  “A member of the audience, some drunken Texan, got out of control during the keynote and started yelling derogatory insults at Byron Caine about his wife.”

  “What? That’s crazy.” Scottie’s mind raced with thoughts of missed opportunities. “I didn’t see anything happen, or even hear them say anything about it on TV.”

  “That’s because they were able to keep the cameras off the man while they hauled him off.”

  Scottie placed her credit card along with his on top of the check. “Are you going back out to the Liberty Center tonight?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have much choice. Duty calls.”

  He tried to give her back her credit card but she insisted they split the bill.

  “There’s probably nothing left for me to report on, but will you text me if anything comes up?” she asked.

  “Sure. Tell me your number and I’ll send you a text so you’ll have mine.”

  She called out the number, and he thumbed it into his phone. She received a funny face emoji from him seconds later.

  “I’m sorry, Scottie. This is all on me. If only I hadn’t made you leave the Liberty Center.”

  “I’m a big girl, Guy. I made that decision on my own.”

  They said goodnight on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Despite Guy’s preoccupation with the drunken man from Texas, Scottie had hoped for a kiss, even a quick brush on the lips. Instead, she received a peck on the forehead and a farewell that sounded like goodbye forever.

  “Don’t give up, Scottie. You’ll get your big break. Remember, everybody has a story and everyone is keeping a secret. Some are just better at hiding them than others.”

  His Uber arrived and he left her standing on the sidewalk wondering what secret he was hiding.

  10

  Scottie slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning and wondering where she’d gone wrong with Guy, if she’d misread the lust in his smoldering gray eyes. The Drunken Texan episode didn’t seem like that big of a deal. Was he really needed at the Liberty Center or was he just using the situation as an excuse to get away from her?

  What did she really know about Guy Jordan, aside from what little he’d told her about his family?

  She fixed herself a cup of coffee and crawled back in Amy’s bed with her laptop. She googled Guy Jordan and a long list of bios and faces appeared, none of them belonging to the Guy she knew. Her search on Facebook rendered results, if you call an outdated profile picture and neglected page a success. According to his bio, he still attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and was in a relationship with a girl named Sarah Shaw, who Scottie assumed was the raven-haired beauty in most of his pictures.

  Perplexed about Guy’s past and realizing she needed to get moving, she decided to take a power run through downtown Philly and then get a shower. Ninety minutes later, dressed and ready for the day, Scottie made an out-of-the-way trip to Knead Bagels on her way to the Liberty Center. As soon as she entered the lobby, she scanned the sea of dark suits milling about, looking for Guy. Many of the men wore crew cuts, but few of them had his muscular build.

  Guy’s words played over in her mind—I never said I worked for the Secret Service. That is something you conjured up in your own mind. If you want to know the truth—”

  The couple arguing over politics had interrupted Guy as he was about to leak vital information about himself. If not Secret Service, then what? Homeland Security? Perhaps he worked for the Democratic Party. Although that didn’t explain why he’d attended the Republican convention. Surely he would have fessed up to being a politician during one of their many political discussions.

  Scottie tried to shake off her concerns. No point in worrying about it when she was never going to see him again.

  She forced herself to focus on her work. With mostly humorous commentary, photographs of the Drunken Texan had been popping up on all the social media sites throughout the morning. And to think she could’ve been in on the action if she hadn’t been preoccupied with trying to woo a certain sexy cowboy into her bed.

  She moved from one location to the next in the convention center, parking herself in whatever empty seat she could find that would offer her the best vantage points for watching the attendees. She studied the party leaders in their sleek attire with their fake smiles, wondering what skeletons resided in their closets—who was sleeping with whom and which ones engaged in unethical politics.

  Everybody has a story, and everyone is keeping a secret, Guy had said.

  She found the random attendees intriguing, those who didn’t hold political office—the delegates elected to nominate the candidate on behalf of the constituents in their state and the special interest groups invited to the convention to garner support for the Democratic Party. She pondered the crippling disease that had left the twelve-year-old girl from Kentucky in a wheelchair, and imagined the land mind that had torn off both of the young Marine’s legs.

  As she whiled away the long afternoon, Scottie thought a lot about life and how the choices we make determine the people we become. Not everyone is born with the same moral compass. She contemplated her own story and the decisions she’d made that had not served her well, namely her marriage to Brad. And she thought about the secrets she’d kept. She thought about Mary. Experience had taught her that honest people did bad things for good reasons.

  Covering politics was not the best choice for her if exposing scandals paved the path to success. And she could no longer stomach the mass shootings—Americans killing Americans on American soil. She longed to report on honest, hard-working people, struggling to cope in their everyday lives. She wanted a job with a boss who offered her assignments in remote parts of the world, but she feared she would never be anything more than a wedding photographer. In which case she’d be the best damn wedding photographer in Richmond. She’d rent a studio on Grove Avenue and take head shots of professionals for their websites and group photographs of families for their annual Christmas card.

  Scottie stayed until the bitter end of the convention, terrified she might miss an opportunity to report on another Drunken Texan. Catherine Caine’s acceptance speech had a profound impact on her. Scottie was impressed by Caine’s record in the Senate, moved by her concern for the American people, and inspired by her enthusiasm. By the time Caine had finished her speech, Scottie was considering casting her own vote for the Democratic Party nominee. This unique woman struck Scottie as having the qualities to bring about necessary changes for the country. If anyone could restore her faith in politics, Catherine Caine might just be the one.

  If only Scottie could find a way to get up close and personal to the senator. And they’ve photographed them every which way but naked. Sneaking into Caine’s hotel room was out of the question, not that Scottie would ever consider taking images of her in the nude, but there was nothing wrong with sticking close to her in the hopes of capturing a candid moment.

  While Caine gathered with her family on stage to greet the nation, Scottie fought her way through the crowd to the front of the auditorium, and then headed for the exit doors that presumably led to the back of the convention center. Two female Secret Service agents stood with their backs to Scottie. They appeared to be caught up in the moment, their post forgotten as they watched the candidate celebrate with her family. Scottie slipped undetected through the double doors, jogged down a short hallway, and exited the building through the rear entrance.

  She was surprised to find the back alleyway deserted, although she could see Secret Servicemen stationed on the streets that ran perpendicular at both ends. The building on the other side of the alley was a theater of some sort—closed for business during the convention, its double doors chai
ned and padlock against intruders. Two spotlights above the doors on both buildings provided dim illumination for the alley.

  Hugging the wall, Scottie inched to the right ten feet to where a small green dumpster overflowed with trash. She stuffed her blonde hair under a navy UVA cap, adjusted the settings on her camera, and squatted down behind the dumpster. Her dark jeans and black tunic gave her a head start on blending in to the surroundings. But additional protection couldn’t hurt. She covered herself as best she could with loose bags of trash, leaving enough room to see and breathing through her mouth in an effort to minimize the stench of rotting garbage.

  While her behavior bordered on stalking, she saw no harm in snapping a quick photograph of the candidate with her family from afar. Considering her press credentials, worst case scenario, all the Secret Servicemen would do is ask her to leave.

  The lack of security puzzled her. Surely the Secret Service planned to sweep the alley ahead of the senator’s departure from the Liberty Center. Unless Caine planned to exit the building through the front entrance. But that seemed unlikely considering the mobs of people swarming the lobby on their way out.

  Fifteen minutes passed. And then another ten. She was ready to abandon her plan and go home when two Secret Servicemen appeared from inside. Both men, their heads shaved, wore dark suits. The bald look worked well for the taller agent. Not so much for the shorter, less attractive man.

  Shorty passed within five feet of Scottie on his first walk-through of the alley, but stopped to take a closer look on his way back. The beam from his flashlight passed within inches of her head.

  “What’s up with all this trash?” Shorty called out to his partner.

  “Some mix-up with the city. They were supposed to empty the dumpster twice during the convention instead of their usual once-a-week routine. No need to worry. We had a crew check it out earlier.”

  “If you say so.” Shorty gave the bags of trash a quick kick, somewhere close to Scottie’s ribs, before continuing on with his search.

  When the agents finally gave the all clear, the candidate’s family streamed out of the building in single file. Four generations of the Caine family crowded the alley, laughing and cheering, celebrating the senator’s nomination for president of the United States.

  Two stretch limos arrived on the scene, parking one in front of the other. Chauffeurs wearing black suits and white gloves stepped from the driver’s side and opened the rear doors for their passengers.

  When no one made a move to get in, the candidate’s son, John Jacob Caine IV, known to the country as Jake, asked the group, “Where’s Mom? Isn’t she coming with us?”

  Scottie heard a female voice say, “She’s wrapping up some loose ends. She’ll meet us at the reception later.”

  “Okay, then. What are we waiting for?” Jake clapped his hands to get his family’s attention. “Everybody pile in. Old people in the first car and the youngsters in the second.”

  The Caine family climbed into the limos amid a flurry of activity—feet kicking, purses flying, doors slamming. The chauffeurs returned to their respective limos and sped off, exiting at the other end of the alley.

  When the Secret Service agents made no move to reenter the building, Scottie assumed they were waiting for Senator Caine to appear. One of them lit a cigarette, and she knew she was in for a long wait. She tried to ignore the cramp in her left calf muscle, the smell of stale coffee and sour milk at her nose. She managed to bring the camera close enough to her face to double-check the screen, making certain the shutter speed and aperture would accommodate the dark setting. She waited for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only fifteen minutes, before another black limo whipped around the corner from Broad Street and screeched to a halt twenty feet from her hiding place. The taller of the Secret Servicemen tapped on the driver’s window. The window rolled down and the driver exchanged words with the agent out of Scottie’s earshot. The agent nodded his head and stepped back into place beside his partner.

  Ten more minutes passed. Then everything happened at once. The chauffeur, a giant of a man, got out of the car and opened the rear door for his passenger. A gentleman in his late fifties, dressed in light-colored slacks and a slate-blue linen sport coat, emerged from the backseat. Scottie, observing his deep tan and head full of salt-and-pepper hair, thought he might be the most elegant man she’d ever seen. The back door of the convention center then flew open and the senator walked out, followed by an attractive woman in her late twenties. The Secret Servicemen stepped aside, watching as Caine walked straight into the gentleman’s outstretched arms.

  Without taking time to consider the ramifications of her actions, Scottie rose from her hiding place, focused her zoom lens, and held the shutter button down while her camera captured the embrace, the kiss, and the subjects’ shocked expressions in one continuous stream of photographs.

  When he finally noticed Scottie, Shorty yelled, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Scottie took off running toward the street.

  “Get that girl! Don’t let her out of your sight!”

  With their backs facing the alley, the agents positioned on the street didn’t hear Shorty’s cry for help in time to respond. Barreling past them, Scottie rounded the corner of the convention center and sprinted down the sidewalk. The agents were fast on her trail, their feet pounding the pavement behind her, but they were no match for her pace. She was in top shape—still held her high school’s record for the 55m dash and went on power runs as often as she could.

  Scottie, snatching the baseball cap off her head and tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder, soon lost herself in the mob of people gathered on the sidewalk at the front of the building. She crossed the street on the north side of the convention center, weaving in and out of the waiting taxis, and then ducked inside a crowded bar. After fighting her way through to the kitchen and out the back door, she saw a few pedestrians, stragglers from the convention she assumed, idling about on the street. But no men in dark suits raced toward her. Casting frequent glances over her shoulder, she jogged west one block to the nearest subway station.

  *

  When she reached the safety of the condo, Scottie double-bolted the door. She went straight to the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of Pinot Grigio that she’d purchased for Amy as a thank you gift for letting her stay there. She poured herself a glass of wine and then collapsed onto the sofa, sinking into the down cushions.

  Holy shit! What just happened?

  For the next few minutes, Scottie replayed the scene over and over in her mind—the greeting, the surprise, the chase. Her nerves on end, she jumped to her feet again and went to the window, staring down at the empty street below. No one appeared to have followed her. She yanked the blinds closed.

  Think, Scottie, think. She slumped back against the wall.

  Aside from being an obnoxious photographer in hot pursuit of her prey, she hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not as far as she knew. She’d gotten her shot all right, her big break, the one photograph that would make her career. But at what cost to her integrity? She’d been chased out of a dark alley like a common criminal. She failed herself. She’d vowed a long time ago never to resort to the reprehensible tactics of the paparazzi.

  And what about the senator? How dare Catherine Caine sneak off with another man while her family, her husband and children and grandchildren, were celebrating her most crowning achievement at some hospitality room in a nearby hotel. How could Caine cheat on her husband? This woman who represented the people of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. This woman who held her audiences spellbound with her ideas of how to make our country better for the next generation. This woman who was running for president of the United States—whom, only moments earlier, Scottie had considered voting for. This woman was no better than Brad. When would the lying, cheating, and backstabbing ever end?

  Scottie imagined Caine’s team gathered around a conference table, drinking coffee and
scrutinizing surveillance video from the alley. The photographs she took tonight could damage the candidate’s reputation and ruin the election for the Democrats. With one email, she could entice a dozen buyers willing to pay big bucks for the images. With one phone call, she could destroy the careers of many. How much time did she have before Caine’s people came looking for her? Was it even safe for her to go home? They would have to identify her first. She’d been wearing dark clothing and a ball cap pulled down over her face. Whether they got a clear shot of her depended on the angle of the surveillance camera.

  She removed the memory card from her camera and inserted it into her laptop. The images loaded on the screen. Twelve of the fifteen shots were blurry, but three captured the exchange in sharp detail. She pored over the images, trying to make sense of it all. The embrace. The kiss. The shocked expressions, wide eyes and o-shaped mouths, when her subjects realized someone had encroached upon their private moment. Who was the man anyway, this elegant stranger in the photograph with the candidate? The images screamed romance, but Scottie’s gut warned her to tread carefully, that appearances might be deceiving in this case.

  She spent the next several hours scouring the Internet for photographs of the senator’s family and friends and business associates she’d been involved with throughout the years. She studied photographs taken during Caine’s time at Exeter and Harvard, and hundreds of images of members of Congress, both in the Senate and the House of Representatives. When she failed to find the mystery man in any of the photographs, she used every image search tool she could find, hoping to match the dazzling smile and piercing blue eyes of the handsome stranger.