by Nic Tatano
"Do your daughter a favor and take the whole friggin' bottle," said Rica.
"Jillian, will y'all tell us about what it was like growin' up in a real home," said Neely, laying on the accent. "The rest of us were raised by wolves out in a turnip patch."
With Mother banished thanks to technology (God bless whoever came up with the concept of personalized ringtones), we returned to the DVR.
Other highlights from the coverage on various networks:
—The anchor bimbette (we later discovered she was a twenty-four-year-old pageant queen) who commented that, "A verdict for the defendant would be seen by many as something which could seriously damage the credibility of journalists everywhere." She followed this up with a tease that said, "Coming up, we'll show you how a plane covered with icing crashed in the Rockies." It was probably chocolate frosting, but pilots have told me that buttercream is a real bitch to deal with when it gets in the engines.
—The man anchoring solo who didn't know his mike was on when a commercial dumped out early and said, "Did you check out the rack on—and we're back." The girls argued as to whose boobs he was referring to, but since the anchor would not have even fallen into the "doable" pile the point was moot. (It was probably Rica, in case you're wondering. She gets less eye contact from men than any of us, and she's the shortest one of the bunch, so guys really have to look down and it becomes blatantly obvious.)
—The legal analyst who stated that if all defendants looked like us, death row would be empty and the prison overcrowding problem would be solved.
—A talk show host who said, with a twinkle in his eye, "It's a good thing the judge was wearing a robe when that brunette let her hair down." His female co-host replied, while looking at his lap, "And a good thing that you're behind a desk."
Tomorrow though, it might not be all laughs, as some of us will be taking the stand.
And just for you, Mother, I'm going to wear something scandalous.
As Rica would say, I got your living in sin right here.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The horde was waiting for us again the next morning.
Yesterday we were just anonymous faces getting out of a car. Now, thanks to the wall-to-wall coverage, we are all household names.
While reporters peppered us with questions as we emerged from the car, the voice of a telephone worker in a bucket truck cut through the chatter.
"Hey, how 'bout a little whipped cream with that shortcake?"
Jillian snapped her head in the direction of the voice and saw a rugged middle-aged man in a hard hat twenty feet off the ground smiling at her. He blew her a kiss. "Ah, what the hell," she said. She waved at him and he pretended like he was hit with Cupid's arrow, as he put both hands over his heart. Of course, all of this was captured for the cameras.
"You've got a fan club there, Shortcake," said Neely.
"Like you don't," said Jillian. "You just don't have your own nickname yet."
* * *
"Call your first witness, Ms. O'Hara," said the judge.
I would have guessed that Big Red would start with Amanda or Madison, and then work her way down the corporate ladder.
But it turns out she was going the other way.
"We call Frederica Carbone to the stand," said Big Red.
Rica's eyes narrowed and shot laser darts at the attorney. I could see it in her eyes. This is war.
My face tightened in puzzlement. "What's the deal?" I whispered to Stacy. "Why are they calling Rica first?"
"They're going for a big hit on day one," she said. "She'll try to take advantage of Rica's temper and get her to say something stupid. She wants to set the tone."
Rica stood up, still seething after hearing her proper name for the second time in a month, straightened her outfit and power-walked to the jury box, head held high. She raised her hand and took the oath. When asked if she swore to tell the truth, instead of saying yes, she said, "Absolutely." (I'm sure she wanted to say fuhgeddaboudit, but it might have played havoc with the court stenographer.)
Sure, she's got a temper and won't mince words, but she's really street-smart. That usually trumps book-smart around this part of the country.
I'm just hoping she's smarter than the Monopoly Guy's attorney, who has already pushed one big button.
"Ms. Carbone," said Big Red, clicking her heels on the marble floor as she slowly walked toward Rica. "What is your current position at CGR?"
"I'm one of the Executive Producers."
"And in that position, you have direct input into the people who are hired?"
"That's correct."
"What else does an Executive Producer do?"
"We have a hand in everything you see on the network, from the color of the set to the stories we produce to the interviews we book."
"Can you give us a brief recap of your career and tell us how you rose to that position?"
"Sure. I started as a newspaper reporter right out of college, and after two years I got hired by a television station as a writer. I worked my way up to field producer—"
The attorney put up her hand and stopped Rica. "For the benefit of the jury, what exactly is a field producer?"
"Well, you go out on the shoots, sometimes with a reporter, but a lot of times it's just you and the photographer. You gather all the information and even do the interviews. Then you might bring everything back to the reporter and help them put the piece together."
"So you basically did everything but appear on the air?"
"Yeah. All the work, none of the glory. Still, a great job if you don't have an ego problem."
"Well, I guess the obvious question for you is, why didn't you work on-camera? I mean, if this is a medium that values attractive people, you're certainly pretty enough."
It was at this point that Rica's accent came in real handy, and she laid it on thick.
"Well, thank you for the compliment, but this voice ain't exactly smooth like Sinatra. In fact, I can hear the mute buttons bein' pressed by people watchin' the channels coverin' this trial." Then she turned and faced the jury. "Any viewer outside of the New York area just switched ovuh to closed-captionin'."
Scattered laughs floated across the room. The jury, all residents of New Jersey, many of whom probably didn't think she had an accent, smiled and nodded.
She was one of them.
"Okay," said Big Red. "Let's get back to your career. After field producer…"
"Various management positions until I became News Director in Los Angeles for our affiliate there. A News Director oversees the news department of any station."
"And that was at the time when your network adopted what we shall call its … philosophy."
Here we go.
"Call it whatever you want, but if you're referring to pairing a younger man with an older woman, yeah."
"What was the reason for that change?"
"The ratings weren't moving with the traditional distinguished older man and a young twinkie as anchor teams."
"Twinkie?"
"Bimbo, airhead, pretty face with nuthin' upstairs. A woman with the IQ of a Hostess Twinkie. Though some of 'em act more like Ho-Hos if you know what I mean."
"Okay," said Big Red. "So why did you reverse the roles?"
"Sydney Hack had success with it at the New York affiliate. The theory being that women over thirty still like to look at younger men. And that women over thirty are still attractive. We're just older, we're not dead."
Big Red walked back to her desk and picked up some papers. "And while running the news department in Los Angeles you hired a man in his mid-twenties named Dirk Anderson to be one of your main anchors, correct?"
"Yes."
"And would you tell the court what Mr. Anderson was doing for a living at the time you hired him?"
Rica looked at the attorney and answered very casually. "He was an underwear model."
More snickers from the crowd.
"Well, I'm curious as to how someone who poses in boxers is
qualified to deliver the news?"
"Actually they were bikini briefs," said Rica, with a raised eyebrow. More laughs from the room. A gavel from the judge.
"So why did you hire him, Ms. Carbone? Nobody else out there in the entire country who fit the qualifications and actually had news experience?"
"I was looking for an attractive young man who communicated well and had some name recognition in the market. Dirk is well known in Los Angeles, as he'd been on just about every billboard in town, and I'd seen him on a few talk shows. He had a great personality and a quick wit, so I invited him in for an interview. I found out during the interview that he's very smart, has two college degrees, and he's a nice guy who was looking for a career change."
"But there's more to the interview than just talk, isn't there, Ms. Carbone? You women at CGR have a code … " Big Red walked back to her table, picked up a legal pad and looked at it. "Something called checking references? What exactly does that mean?"
(Now Stacy had coached us on this and told us to answer very matter-of-factly, without using any of the following terms: jump their bones, injections of Y-chromosomes, or screw their brains out.)
Rica crossed her legs and leaned on one arm of her chair. "Checking references means having sex with the job applicant."
"So you had sex with Mr. Anderson."
"Yes," said Rica, smiling. Then she turned to the jury. "And his references checked out very well." Enough laughter this time for Judge Courtney to swing his gavel several times and call for order, though he was suppressing a grin when he did it. Big Red and the Monopoly Guy were the only people in the room not laughing.
"Suppose his… references… hadn't checked out?"
"Well, I wouldn't have hired him."
"That sounds a little harsh. So if a man doesn't meet your personal preferences—"
Rica waved her hands and interrupted. "You're not getting it. It's not about my preferences, but what our viewers want. It's more than just great sex. I needed a guy who understands what women want, as much as a guy can. As a gender we are pretty hard to figure out. I needed a guy who knew how to talk to a woman, how to make her feel special, how to ask what she wants and not just take. How to give when she asks. How to look at her as an equal in the bedroom and out of it. How to be comfortable when a woman wants to be the aggressor in bed and not be threatened by a woman supervisor at work. It's that total package that has to come across on television, and all those qualities translate to communicating in the way we wanted. Dirk may be a pretty face, but he had all the qualities I needed in an anchor. And considering the ratings have tripled since he came on board… at the station I mean… (more laughs) I'd say he's been a very successful hire."
"I assume the hiring process is the same at CGR as it relates to the male employees?"
"Yes."
"And what do you say to people like my client who didn't get hired at CGR under the same parameters?"
Rica looked at Monopoly Guy, put her palms up and shook her head. "I don't know. Hit the gym and join the Hair Club for Men?"
That brought the house down. By this point Big Red knew enough to put the shovel away, as our girl had put her in a trench. Rica owned the room and there was no point in trying to paint her into a corner.
* * *
"You really kicked her ass," said Stacy, shoving a forkful of salad into her mouth. We had a corner table in a dimly lit part of the restaurant, but we were still getting lots of looks from the men. The flat-screen above the bar was tuned to The Justice Channel, which didn't help.
"Fish in a barrel," said Rica, after swallowing a bloody bite of her rare hamburger. "You know, I was really hoping she would ask me to get into specifics about things in the bedroom."
"Yeah, that trapeze would have made a good headline in The Post," said Jillian.
A harried waitress came by and topped off our water glasses. I waited for her to leave before I turned to Stacy. "So if you were representing Monopoly Guy, what would your strategy be now? I mean, if you'd gotten off to such a bad start."
"Well," said Stacy, "if I totally bombed out on my first witness as badly as she did, I'd move directly to my next best bet and try to turn things around quickly."
Jillian sipped a glass of mineral water. "And that would be?"
"Scott Harry," said Stacy. "He's the only possible victim out of anyone who works for you guys. His story has been in the paper and at the time he did ask to be released from his contract. You guys still convinced he's not the leak?"
"No way," I said. "I've got him by the short hairs, among other things."
"How did he do in rehearsal?" asked Neely.
Stacy bit her lower lip and exhaled. "Well, as you guys told me, he's not exactly the poster child for Mensa."
"But he's definitely a team player, thanks to you, Syd," said Rica.
"Don't remind me," I said.
Stacy put down her fork and looked directly at me. "By the way, if he should… profess his love for you in open court—"
"Dear God," said Rica. "You can't be serious."
"It wouldn't surprise me, considering what I heard in the rehearsal," said Stacy. "In any event, it is important that you not, well, laugh. Try to look serious about the relationship, that you actually might be interested in him long term."
"I'll imagine Harrell is on the stand without a shirt," I said.
"Speaking of the men who work for you," said Stacy, "I've decided I want to put one of them up as a witness at the end of the trial. Of all the guys who work at CGR, who would you say is the smartest? I'm talking street-smart."
"Shawn," I said, without hesitating.
"Absolutely," said Rica. Neely nodded and Jillian smiled proudly.
"And who would be the most cool under pressure?" asked Stacy.
"That would be Shawn again," I said. "The guy was a commodities trader on Wall Street. Nothing flusters that guy and he's extremely mature for his age. Court would be a walk in the park for him." The girls nodded in agreement.
"Okay," said Stacy. "I'll set up a session with him tonight or tomorrow night and I'll let you know how it goes. Meanwhile, if she doesn't call Scott after lunch, she'll probably try her luck with one of you."
"I can't wait to see what you're gonna do to Monopoly Guy on the stand," said Rica.
Stacy washed down a bite and grinned. “He’ll never pass Go again.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"All rise!" said the bailiff.
The photographer behind the jury box swung his camera toward Neely. "Here it comes," he said, whispering into his headset.
"Be seated," said the judge, as he headed for the bench, staring at Neely the whole way.
Same as yesterday, everyone sat down except her.
I saw the camera locked in on her, the zoom lens tightening up.
Same as yesterday, she whipped off the glasses and dropped the hair in one motion.
And the judge tripped over the step on the way to the bench and went sprawling, disappearing behind the furniture and apparently hitting the flag stand that held Old Glory. The bailiff quickly ran behind the bench and we heard the judge say, "I'm okay" as the flag wobbled to a halt, making a noise like a spinning hubcap.
Neely sat down, trying to stifle a laugh. The judge popped up like a jack-in-the box, smoothed his robe, and took his seat. "Gotta get that loose step fixed, bailiff," he muttered, as he looked down at the papers in front of him. The crowd laughed, he jerked his head up and the room went silent.
Rica returned to the stand for Stacy's questioning, which took about forty-five minutes. I assumed Big Red would call Scott next, but Judge Courtney put the gavel to that idea.
"This looks like a good place to stop for the weekend," he said. "We'll resume at ten on Monday morning."
It was just a little after two o'clock. As a newsperson I knew it was often impossible to find a public official on Friday afternoon, but seeing it first-hand made it even more ridiculous.
"This normal?" I asked Stac
y.
She nodded. "The clerk told me he has a standing tee time at two-thirty. Any later and he'll be playing the eighteenth hole in the dark."
"Nice that he has his priorities."
"Well, you guys have sex in the loft in the middle of the day. What's the difference?"
I guess when you put it that way, it makes sense. Having fun on company time is an American tradition.
And our new tradition is a hell of a lot more fun than anything you can do on a golf course.
* * *
Rica's testimony, was, of course, lead story for just about every channel in America Friday night and the topic was already being promoted for some of the Sunday morning talk shows that were usually reserved for politics.
The Sunday papers, the most read issue of any day of the week, were chock-full of stories about older women, sexual harassment, age discrimination, sex in the workplace, and just about every other sidebar you could think of. But in this case they weren't beating a dead horse, because this story was out of the gate at full gallop and hadn't even hit the first turn. Even Anna Nicole disappeared from the tube. (Don't worry, the poor thing will be back, still dead as ever.)
While the headlines ran the usual gamut from "CGR: Up Close and Really Personal" to "Evening Nudes" to "Undercover Journalism", the stories and columns had an undercurrent of fun running through them.
Undressing for Success
By Jenna Cantrell
I've decided to apply at the new CGR network for a job. I don't want to be an anchor, a producer, or a photographer. Or even a writer.
I want the position in which the only duty is "reference checking."
We've known for years that television can be a superficial business, but I had no idea the casting couch folded out so often into a sleeper sofa.
So let me get this straight; a television News Director needs a male anchor, decides to interview an underwear model for the job, then "checks his references" by discovering first-hand how quickly he can remove his briefs.
We've sure come a long way from the typing test.
I know my mother told me to change my underwear every day, that I might be in an accident and end up in a hospital and then what would the doctor think?