by Nic Tatano
The screen cut to video of the Monopoly Guy at the anchor desk. The tape was a bit grainy and obviously old, since he was much thinner.
"Yeah, we would've hired him," said Jillian.
"Maybe after a gallon of vodka," said Rica.
Big Red was still on her soapbox. "All the male anchors on CGR are under thirty and look like models, and some don't even have any television experience at all. The women who run CGR hired them for two reasons. They look good, and they were willing to have sex to get the job. My client wasn't even considered for a job, despite the fact that he has extensive television news experience."
The shot went back to a full screen of the host, who was trying to suppress a grin.
"Gallo wouldn't have hired him either," I said.
"Ms. Heller," said Gallo, "these are pretty strong charges. How do you respond?"
Stacy filled the screen. "Well, Vince, first of all Ms. O'Hara is wrong about one thing. CGR is not a news network, so any news experience had no bearing on the people who were hired. Some did have news experience, but many did not. Some had television experience that had nothing to do with news. CGR was looking for attractive people who communicate well, much the way your network does, Vince. I don't see any ugly people running around your network, and I dare say, if blonde hair dye were taken off the market you guys would be out of business."
"Okay," said the host, "I understand that point, but let's get to the stuff that is making headlines here and makes this lawsuit so unusual. That little thing about the female managers having sex on job interviews. That kind of jumps out—"
Big Red interrupted. "If the women doing the hiring didn't want to sleep with the job applicants, they weren't considered. I don't know how to say it any plainer than that. CGR has a casting couch mentality and my client didn't warrant a space on the couch."
"If that is true," said Stacy, "how is that any different than the way men have been running television stations for years? Or any other business for that matter? You've been around a while, Vince. I'm sure in your younger days, back before political correctness and sexual harassment, that you might have come on to a female co-worker, or you might have known of a woman who was interviewed in a hotel room." A sheepish grin grew across the host's face. "And I can tell from that look on your face that you know what I'm talking about. Are you not married to a woman who works for you in the news department? I'm sure you might have stolen a kiss or two in the station hallway when you first met. And did she get promoted because of her relationship with you? Talk about sleeping with the boss."
"Damn, she's good," said Jillian.
"Girl does her homework," I said.
Vince Gallo's eyebrows went up, and I knew Stacy had him. "Well," he said, "we've been married a long time and how we met is ancient history—"
"No, it really isn't," said Stacy. "You know damn well this stuff still goes on in America, but because CGR is run by women this is somehow different. I'm sure plenty of female anchors have earned their broadcasting kneepads in the boardroom or the hotel room."
"Whoa," we all said in unison.
"And she wants me to draw the curtain on anger," said Rica.
"It's still sexual harassment," said Big Red. "As well as discrimination."
Stacy ignored the comment. "And as for people being hired because of their appearance, Vince, I don't suspect you'd have this show if you looked like Frankenstein. I did a little checking on your network's website… turns out four of your anchors have actually won beauty pageants and one has gotten married to a corporate executive who works for this network. She wasn't anchoring when she was hired, but since she got married she's one of the faces of this network. I'm sure if your conference room could talk it could fill a romance novel. So let's not pretend this doesn't go on in news organizations… and once again, let me remind you that CGR is not a news organization."
"Then, Ms. Heller, how would you define CGR's product?" asked the host. "I checked it out for a few hours, and I'll admit the network does have a lot of lifestyle pieces and features, but it does broadcast stories of current events."
Stacy shook her head. "CGR doesn't run death and destruction stories, stories about war or politics. CGR is a theater of information—"
"Oh, please," said Big Red. "Here we go with the semantics again. If there's news in it, then it's a newscast."
"Ladies, we're coming up on a break," said Gallo. "So we need—"
"One more thing," said Stacy. "I'd like to point out that some of the female anchors on CGR are over forty, so you can't say we discriminate based on age. Are there any women over forty on your network, Vince?"
"Couldn't tell you, Ms. Heller," said the host, suddenly growing a sly grin. "You should know a gentleman never discusses a woman's age."
"Then we shouldn't be discussing a man's age in this lawsuit," said Stacy. "It's all about talent and ratings, giving the viewers what they want. If your ratings went down to zero, Vince, what would happen?"
"I'd be out of a job, but luckily that isn't the case," he said. The music that led to a commercial faded up as Gallo shared the screen with the two lawyers. "The trial begins with jury selection on November first in New Jersey, and will be covered in its entirety by our sister network, The Justice Channel," he said. "Ms. O'Hara, Ms. Keller, thank you for being with us, and I'm sure we'll be hearing more from you both in the future."
Jillian muted the sound. "Jeez, if she can stand up to Vince Gallo, imagine how she'll do in court. She really controlled the interview."
"She left the other attorney in the dust," said Rica. "I don't think the woman really made her case at all."
"I originally thought this was a bad idea," I said. "But now I'm seeing the method to her madness. Stacy actually made what we're doing in the bedroom seem like it makes sense."
"Yep, we can hire whoever we want and screw their brains out," said Neely. "Isn't America great?"
* * *
"Good morning," said Catwoman, "and thank you for joining us."
"It's Wednesday, October thirty-first," said Superman. "Happy Halloween."
And that's how we began our October 31st morning show on CGR. In costume.
It was Amanda's idea, and I think it's absolutely brilliant. She called Stacy on Monday with the concept, Stacy loved it and sent us all running down to a costume shop. (Some people didn't need to rent costumes, having a, ahem, decent supply of their own, but that's beside the point.)
Here's the theory with the trial starting tomorrow: we're going to have all our people anchor in costume all friggin' day. Then, when we hit the courtroom and Big Red tries to paint us as a legitimate news organization, we can simply point to our Halloween airchecks and contend that no newscast in America would let its anchors do entire shows dressed as superheroes or varying degrees of trollops for the whole day. I should point out that we had to buy the costumes instead of renting them, because we then took them to a tailor for, shall we say, alterations. While some outfits, like Catwoman, are naturally seductive, other classics were rated G and needed to be hemmed up to an R. I'm sure when American men saw one female anchor dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz in a low-cut minidress and ruby platforms many considered moving to Kansas, tornadoes be damned.
So all that Big Red will be left with is Monopoly Guy, who doesn't need a costume to go trick or treating.
I can see it now. One of our anchors on the stand, dressed to the nines in a revealing outfit, being hammered by opposing counsel.
Big Red: "Is this the type of attire you usually wear around the office? A short skirt and four inch stacked heels?"
Anchor: "No, sometimes I dress up in leather like Xena, Warrior Princess."
Of course, this means we're having a big Halloween party tonight. Amanda rented our favorite hotel ballroom (while booking several rooms, natch) and dropped a dime on the local tabloid photographers, so we're hoping our news reputation will be torpedoed and sink like a stone in the morning papers. We've finally figured out how
to use the tabloids to our advantage. They want sexy gossip, we're gonna give it to them. Let Big Red wake up to something lousy for a change.
I know, I know, you want to know what the girls and I will be wearing tonight.
We had a ball at the costume shop. Rica got a wild idea when she found an antebellum dress in the back and came out of the dressing room wearing it while twirling a matching pink parasol, looked Neely in the eye, and before she could say anything Neely put up her hand and said, "Don't even think about it, or I'm getting that Rizzo costume from Grease." Rica, of course, probably intrigued at the prospect of Neely smacking gum in a pink satin jacket, remained in character and attempted to do the famous line from Gone With the Wind. Though it came out, "As Gawd is my witness, I'll nevuh go hungry again. Eh, fuhgeddaboudit." Rica decided against the costume, realizing that a hoop skirt required a good deal of clearance just to get around (and a great deal of trouble to remove in a hurry), and instead settled on a gypsy fortune teller costume, which, she said, would enable her to "predict" any man's immediate future in her bedroom. I got your crystal ball right here.
Neely, seeing that Rica had ditched the My-Cousin-Vinny-meets-Scarlett-O'Hara idea, did the same with the Grease costume and chose a nun's outfit. But she altered tradition a bit, and didn't remotely resemble Sister Mary Hatchetface. While keeping the habit, she added a miniskirt, thigh-high boots, and a whip, saying she was going as "Mother Superior" and that she would be doling out "penance" during the evening. That girl is gonna be in confession forever, and if her picture makes the paper, the Cardinal himself will ban her from Saint Pat's. She's just begging the man upstairs to hit her with a lightning bolt. Rica, who also grew up Catholic (though Neely obviously missed the classes on guilt) took one look and said, "I'd better go light a candle for her."
Jillian probably has The Snack on her radar for the evening, as she went right for the cave girl costume, complete with club. No one will ever be able to look at Wilma Flintstone the same again after seeing Jillian in that short bearskin outfit.
I was originally drawn to the genie costume, but since I'm not taking orders from men it didn't make much sense to walk around granting wishes like Barbara Eden. I decided to forego anything revealing for once and go for something classy, and will be dressed as Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. I just thought it was appropriate given the circumstances.
* * *
The tabloids took the bait.
The prospect of seeing the defendants in the hottest trial since O.J. partying the night away in costumes, the day before the opening day of jury selection, was too much to resist.
Vegas had nothing on the fantasies that must have been flying around the room. Men dressed as superheroes, sultans and exotic dancers (The Snack came as a Chippendale. Wonder who gave him that idea?) and women flitting about as everything from a slutty hospital candystriper (injection, anyone?) to Disney characters who had gone off the wholesome reservation. The sight of Cinderella asking men to help her try on heels with straps that snaked all the way up around her calf is not something you're ever gonna see in Orlando.
I was snacking on the wonderful hors d'oeuvres when Amanda (dressed as a pirate wench) escorted a woman toward me who was wearing digital cameras like bandoleros and had a giant duffle bag slung over her shoulder. This is why photographers are sometimes known as lens mules. Though they are artists, they still have to haul a ton of gear.
"Syd, I'd like you to meet Dina Herschel," she said. "She's with the Daily Tattler."
I swallowed my spinach quiche, wiped my hand with a napkin and extended it. "Thank you so much for coming on short notice," I said. "Make yourself at home."
"This is incredible," she said, as she gazed around the room with large emerald eyes like a starving woman. She dropped her voice. "I've never seen so many gorgeous men in one place." She was my age, medium height and slender, and despite the frazzled shoulder-length brown hair you could tell there was a swan underneath all the weight of the gear and deadlines. Her eyes locked on Denton, who was wearing a genie's costume. She grabbed her camera and quickly snapped a few pictures. She then took out a small pad and pen. "That large man over there who came out of a bottle? His name would be?"
"Denton Hale," I said. "One of our anchors."
"Man, if only I had three wishes…" She wrote down his name as she continued to stare. It was obvious that she was intoxicated by him.
"Why don't I introduce you?" I asked.
"Well, sure." Big smile. "I mean, if you insist."
I waved Denton over and the photographer stood up straight and hurriedly smoothed her hair. He arrived in puffy harem pants, a turban and a vest that didn't cover much of his chiseled torso. "Denton, this is Dina, she's a newspaper photographer. Would you please do me a favor, escort her around and take care of introductions? She needs help putting names to faces."
He bowed to her, staying in character. "Your wish is my command, Miss. May I carry that bag for you?"
"Thank you," she said, gazing up at the man who towered over her as he took the heavy bag from her shoulder and put it over his own as if it was weightless.
"Have you had dinner yet, Dina?" I asked.
"No, I was going to grab something on the way back to the paper."
"Make sure she gets something to eat," I said to Denton. "And take care of any… other needs… she might have."
Denton nodded as he got the message and escorted the beaming photographer through the crowd.
Thirty minutes later I saw her sitting at a table, eating dinner with Denton.
Ten minutes after that they were headed for the elevator.
An hour later the photography Sherpa was back, beaming, with Denton on her arm. He looked happier than I'd ever seen him.
"I have to get back to the paper now," she said. "Just wanted to thank you for the, uh… hospitality. I must say this beats covering perp walks and stalking Hollywood drunks."
"Thanks for coming by," I said. "Oh, if you could do me a favor and not publish a picture of the woman dressed as the nun, I'd appreciate it. We don't need to lose the Catholic vote."
"Not a problem," said Dina, who took one last look around the room. "Looks like this is a great place to work."
"It's also a fun place to work," I said.
"I don't suppose you'd have much use for a still photographer at a television network?"
"Not really," I said. "But we're always looking for good video people, and you've already got a photographer's eye. If you'd like to learn the business I guess you could be sort of an intern. Maybe come by after work or on your day off?"
"I'd like that," she said. Denton's smile grew. "I work weekends, so Monday and Tuesday are my days off."
Oh, this is too easy.
It's a hanging curveball over the middle of the plate, Syd. Swing, batter!
"Tell you what," I said. "Why don't you come by Mondays and you can work with Denton."
She looked up at him. "That okay with you?"
"If that is your third wish, Miss," he said, bowing again as the genie.
"So, you already blew two wishes, huh?" I asked.
Dina leaned toward me and whispered. “Among other things.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Yabba dabba do me?" said Jillian, incredulous that her picture in the tabloid had such a suggestive headline.
"You're the one who picked the cave girl costume," said Rica. "Wilma Flintstone wasn't drawn with legs up to her neck, you know." Neely and I laughed as the driver headed toward the courthouse. I could hear him chuckling as well.
"I didn't deserve that," said Jillian, snapping the newspaper closed and slapping it on the seat.
"Hey, we made all the gossip pages, that's what counts," I said. "You just took one for the team. And may I remind you that it was your dress that got me the va-va-voom caption."
"You betcha," said Neely, getting into her own character as she checked her pinned-up hair in a compact mirror.
"You look good, gover
nor," said Rica. "Going hunting?"
"Just for some male jurors," said Neely. "They're in season." She put on the glasses she didn't need and began to touch up her lipstick.
Our driver turned a corner and the courthouse came into view. And just like that, my edge was back in a flash.
I now knew what it felt like to be the lead story.
A half dozen satellite trucks were lined up outside the building, their white dishes pointing toward the sky like giant electronic petunias. Long, thick black camera cables snaked their way through various doors and windows. Some reporters were doing live shots, while other crews circled like sharks waiting for our arrival.
They smelled the blood in the water and moved toward the car as it rolled up to the curb.
"Here we go," I said, my heart suddenly jumping into overdrive. "Remember, say nothing and stay close together." They nodded as the car came to a halt.
The crisp November air and low angle of the morning sunshine hit me in the face as I exited the car with the girls. The familiar smell of the north Jersey swamps filled my lungs and instantly left a stale taste in my mouth. Amanda, Madison, Stacy and her legal team emerged from the car directly in front and moved toward us.
And then the media horde descended on us like children at an Easter egg hunt.
The shoe was on the other foot.
Bodies began to press closer, while camera lights added to the glare from the sun. We got bumped and shoved like we were being packed into a subway car at rush hour; manners went out the window when it came to big stories. Reporters jockeyed for position, while questions and microphones jabbed us like daggers.
"Is it true a man has to sleep with you to get a job?"
"How many members of your staff have you slept with?"
"Are all the female anchors having sex with their co-anchors?"
And one that actually caused me to smile.
"Hey Sydney, am I good looking enough for your bedroom?"
(The answer, by the way, would have been no, as the man asking the question made the Monopoly Guy seem like George Clooney in comparison.)