by Nic Tatano
Turns out she was just giving me a hint about a career in broadcasting.
And now I know what "references under separate cover" means.
"Reference checking" by the way, has become a national catchphrase overnight. Last night I took the girls out for a few drinks and I overheard one woman ask another if she'd checked her new boyfriend's references yet.
Meanwhile, Neely's escapades were burning up the Internet water coolers. "Neely Collins" was one of the top searches of the weekend, while one newspaper posted before and after pictures under the heading "Hair Affair" and asked readers to vote online as to which they preferred. Hair up, hair down, or in motion. So far "in motion" has about eighty percent of the vote.
As expected, a montage of Neely's hair drops had been edited to some music (okay, it wasn't just some music, but the instrumental known as "The Stripper") in slow motion and has made its way to YouTube. As of Sunday morning, the video had already garnered more than one hundred thousand hits, and the comments posted below the video told me that about ninety-nine thousand of those were men.
"If Palin had done that, McCain would be President right now."
"She can check my references any day."
"Please let this trial go on as long as possible."
"How can I be her cellmate?"
* * *
On Monday, Stacy assembled us for breakfast at one of our favorite Belgian waffle haunts, wanting to go over things after the weekend just to keep us sharp. She was still pretty convinced that Scott Harry would be the first witness called today. With that in mind I was shoveling in my syrup-soaked confection, trying to get the sugar into my veins as fast as possible. (However, I must say that seeing the whipped cream on the waffle while discussing Scott created a mental image that was extremely distracting.)
Stacy was like a cheerleader, getting us up before the big game, as waiters raced around delivering plates of food. The energy of the place, the pure empty sugar calories of the breakfast, had its desired effect.
We were ready.
Then Amanda took off on a tangent. "Before we head back to the courtroom, I wanted to tell you that a Hollywood movie company contacted me this weekend, wanting to buy the rights to your stories," she said.
Rica nearly choked on her orange juice. "Good God, already?"
Amanda nodded. "Trust me, it won't be the only call I get on the subject. I just wanted to run things by you guys before I cut a deal. I'm probably going to get an agent to put it up for auction."
"This is all too fast," I said. "And I'm not sure I want my story up on a giant screen—"
"Then they'll just make it without you," said Amanda.
"They can do that?" I asked.
Amanda dipped her head and gave me a look that said Are you that naïve? "Syd, haven't you ever heard the term unauthorized biography? Hollywood has absolutely no scruples, so when they offer money you take the check and run like hell to the bank. They have accountants out there that will get up on that witness stand, put their hand on a bible and swear that all the Star Wars movies lost a ton of money. Do you really think anything is going to stop them from doing what they want? Let me cut a deal and I can put some cash in all your pockets."
"I hate to be the mercenary in all this," said Jillian, "but, uh, how much cash are we talking here?"
"Probably, oh, at least fifty grand apiece."
"Sold!" came the answer that sounded like it was in old-fashioned quadraphonic sound.
"Do we get to pick out who is going to play us in the movie?" asked Neely.
"Nope," said Amanda. "But trust me, they'll have to cast some hot actresses for the roles. And, we might be able to get you a job as consultants for the production, which could wring a few more bucks out of them."
I can see it now, sitting on a Hollywood set watching some actress writhe around on the sheets playing me while I tell the director what's wrong with the scene. "The chaps and cowboy hat are fine, but I never would have stood for the spurs." Cut!
If I had to choose, though, I like the tall redhead who does the car commercials.
At least she'd have experience with cruise control.
* * *
Sure enough, all the coverage from the weekend took the trial to another level. The media horde looked like it had doubled when we pulled up, and police had put up barricades to keep the onlookers at bay. Old-fashioned wolf whistles permeated the questions from reporters as we headed up the stairs. Jillian's bucket truck phone guy was gone, but she had a few fans holding signs on her behalf in the crowd, one of which was held by a man with a fake milk moustache. It read, "Got shortcake?" Another man yelled at Neely, "You gonna let the hair down today?" To which she replied, "You betcha!" The guy stood there, biting his knuckles as he stared at her.
Stacy turned out to be right about Big Red, as she called Scott to be her first witness. He made his way to the witness stand, taking a quick look at me as he walked. But his walk wasn't the confident one I'd seen that first night in the bar; his head was down, like he had been called to the principal's office. When he sat down I saw the lovesick wounded doe, not the anchor who seemed so credible delivering the news to the biggest city in the country.
I leaned over toward Stacy. "We're in trouble," I whispered.
"Why?" she asked.
"Just the look on his face," I said. "Get ready to object."
Scott's voice quivered as he took the oath, his shoulders hunched up like he was freezing as he sat down. Big Red must have noticed this, as she moved close to the witness stand so that she towered over him like an authority figure and looked at him over the top of her glasses. She led him through his background in the news business, then moved on to her attack.
"Mister Harry, give me your first impression of Sydney Hack when you came to New York for your interview."
"Well," he said, pausing to look directly at me, "I got a lump in my throat. She's incredibly beautiful with that long red hair and those turquoise eyes—"
Oh, no.
"I meant in the professional sense. What did you think of her as a newsperson?"
"Oh," said Scott. "Well, I thought she was very smart, knew a lot about the broadcasting business. Seemed like a nice person to work for. The people in the newsroom looked like they were having a good time."
"I'm sure they did. So you had a standard interview in her office, and then what happened?"
"She asked me to meet her at a restaurant so we could negotiate a deal on a contract over dinner."
"And when you got to the restaurant, what happened next?"
"We talked for a few minutes at the bar, then she said it would be a while before we could get a table for dinner, and that we could go to a hotel and order room service."
"Room service," said Big Red, as she started to walk toward the jury. "Kind of an unusual thing to hear on a job interview. Mister Harry, what did you think about that suggestion?"
"I didn't understand at first why she would want to do that, but then she told me if I wanted the job I should go to her hotel room so that she could… check my references." (Polite laughter from the crowd.)
"So what did you do?"
"Well, I wanted the job, so I followed her to the room."
"Did you understand that she wanted to have sex with you?"
"I did when we got there."
"What did she do?"
I was about to bury my head in my hands but Stacy caught me. "Head up," she whispered, as she grabbed my arm. "You've done nothing wrong."
"Well," said Scott, "she pretty much ripped my clothes off, shoved me onto the bed, got on top of me and we had sex. Twice."
Big Red looked at the jury to gauge their reaction. They were, not surprisingly, riveted. "Then what did she say, exactly? After she raped you."
Stacy jumped up. "Objection!"
"Sustained," said the judge. "Ms. O'Hara, you know better than that."
"Sorry, your honor," she said. "Mister Harry, what did she say after you consummated the act?"<
br />
"Well, after we were done she said that my references had checked out very well, and that I could have the job under one condition."
"And what was that condition? What did she say, exactly?"
(At this point I actually felt the hot breath of my own words on my skin, poised inches from the back of my chair, fangs apart, ready to bite me in the ass.)
Scott pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "Well, if I remember correctly, she said, 'You can have the job, but I want to ride you like Secretariat.'"
(I just heard a dull thud from the direction of Old Southwich as Mother keeled over.)
The courtroom erupted in a combination of shock and laughter. Judge Courtney hammered his gavel a few times and restored order, though he had to bite his own lip to keep from joining in.
Big Red shot a quick smile in our direction, then turned back to Scott. "And, Mister Harry, after Sydney Hack told you she wanted to ride you like Secretariat, what did you say?"
Scott paused a moment and then delivered a headline writer's dream.
"Giddy-up."
* * *
The judge had ordered a recess for the day after four and a half hours of Scott Harry's testimony, as he had to preside over the sentencing of another case. Of course he brought us back after lunch for thirty minutes, as you know damn well he wanted to see Neely's hair drop. He did, by the way, stop on his way to the bench to watch the show, thus avoiding the "loose step" the bailiff had to fix. It was just as well that we finished early, as I'd taken more torpedo hits than the entire US Navy during World War Two.
All launched by Scott's unwavering honesty and incredible attention to detail. Who knew ol' Secretariat would have such a good memory on the backstretch?
I'd spent the rest of the day holed up in my office, then headed straight home, where I cooked dinner, drank a bottle of wine and went to bed. The girls wanted to take me out but I had no desire to be anywhere in public. Mother sent my cell phone into "Psycho" mode at least six times during the afternoon. But she never called the house phone, so I knew she was out there lurking, waiting to strike.
The next morning, as you can imagine, the Sydney Hack headline festival was in full swing.
All because of one word used to encourage a horse.
The headline writers pulled out every double entendre that could even be related to horse racing and my current situation with Scott Harry.
One newspaper simply printed "Giddy-up!" in two-inch letters across the top of the front page. They had then dug up an actual picture of Secretariat coming down the stretch, put Scott's face over the head of the horse, then pasted my face over that of the jockey's. They were kind enough to give me a little green helmet, but left off the goggles, while my arm was cocked back toward the backside of the horse while holding a whip.
Other publications eschewed the Photoshop tactic, simply going the clever headline route.
Whipped!
Boss to anchor: "I want to ride you like Secretariat."
Another went with this, which, depending on your situation, might be one you'd want to keep away from the children:
Stuffed and Mounted
Another played with the lyrics from "Mustang Sally" and slapped the words "Mustang Harry" over Scott's face while my picture carried the caption "Ride, Sydney, Ride."
The tabloid which had run the picture of me in Jillian's blue dress ran it again, only they changed the caption:
CGR exec Sydney Hack leads her mount back to the stables
At least Scott took one shot on his own, as his picture sat under the headline:
"Not the Dallyin' Stallion"
Despite all this, one column actually made me laugh. It was in the sports section of all places, done by a columnist who covers horse racing.
Anchorman in the Winner's Circle Every Week
By Will Jenkins
I never thought the day would come when I would write the words "Secretariat" and "Zorro costume" in the same sentence.
But after watching coverage of the CGR discrimination trial yesterday, I'll never be able to look at the sport again without thinking of sex.
Who knew that so many horse racing terms were double entendre codes for acts in the bedroom?
Next time I hear a track announcer say a jockey "goes to the whip", the image of the thoroughbreds racing down the stretch will be replaced by that of Sydney Hack and Scott Harry heading for their own photo finish on satin sheets. Next time I see a horse with blinders on, I'll think of an anchorman with a mask, a cape and a sword slashing the letter "Z" wherever he goes.
Hack, in case you've been living under a rock the past few days, is the tall, stunning redhead who runs the CGR channel, and if you can read the Daily Racing Form, you can figure out the meaning of the acronym. Harry is the local anchor who felt his oats (there's another term I can't use anymore) when he was forced to spend the night with Ms. Hack as part of his job interview.
Oh yeah, according to the lawsuit, all the men at CGR have sex with their co-anchors. This may be the first case in history of fillies being put out to stud.
And apparently the term "daily double" doesn't even apply to these two, as Harry admitted to five hook-ups with Ms. Hack in one twenty-four hour period. That kind of stamina you only see on the stretch at Belmont. (Thankfully Hack and Harry didn't stop at three or that would have given new meaning to the term "Triple Crown.") After a night like that, you have to wonder if Harry sends Hack a horseshoe of roses.
Then again, I would assume that in a race like those two are running, the best thing to do is end up in a dead heat.
And finally, when my clock radio went off this morning, the deejay decided to dedicate a song to me.
Gene Autry’s “Back in the Saddle Again.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"She's got momentum," said Stacy, sipping her freshly squeezed orange juice as she turned to me. "I'd bet the mortgage she's going to put you up next."
Aw, crap. "Why wouldn't she call Neely or Jillian fist?" I asked.
"Because those two have already become media favorites and they're basically Teflon. I'll put them up when it's my turn, but she would have nothing to gain. After what she did to Scott yesterday she's gonna go for the kill shot with you."
Just what I needed to hear. "Ah, the kill shot. How nice." I sipped my chocolate hazelnut coffee, letting the rich mocha warm my insides. It also gave me a shot of caffeine I didn't need.
Neely reached across the table and patted my hand. "You'll be fine, Syd."
"Really," said Jillian. "You did great in rehearsal."
"This is the real thing," I said.
"Screw 'em," said Rica.
"Really," said Stacy. "Just take that attitude up to the stand."
I played with the scrambled eggs on my plate. "I was really hoping for a break after all the headlines this morning."
"Well, you had to know that was coming after the giddy-up thing yesterday," said Stacy. "But the articles weren't bad at all. They may have had fun with the headlines, but no one painted you as a criminal."
I know, so why do I feel like one?
* * *
My heart was still trying to escape my chest as I headed down the hall to the courtroom.
Then, before I even stepped on the witness stand, I was hit smack in the face with something more demoralizing than any headline.
Now I know why Mother didn't leave a message on my house phone last night.
Because she came to deliver the message, a big box of maternal kryptonite, in person.
I stopped dead in my tracks as I walked through the door into the courtroom.
"Well," she said, standing there just inside the door with arms folded like a classic disapproving parent. "Before you sink what is left of the good Hartshaw name, I wanted to tell you something face-to-face. Since you obviously aren't taking my calls or returning them."
I put up my hand as I felt my pulse kick into overdrive. "I don't want to hear it, Mother. This is not the tim
e nor the place. I don't need this right now." I glanced around, hoping the media didn't pick up on the fact that ol' Bootsie was the woman who had birthed the redheaded trollop on trial.
"Well, you may want to avoid me on the phone, but you're going to hear what I have to say. This cannot wait."
I lowered my voice and did my best interpretation of the death stare. "Whatever it is you want to get off your chest, and I can pretty much imagine what it is, it will have to wait. In case you haven't noticed, I'm on trial here."
She moved closer, backing me up a step. "Oh, the whole world has noticed, young lady. Especially the town of Old Southwich, from which I will no doubt have to move." My temples began to throb as she tilted her head down and looked up at me like she was possessed by a demon. "You are still my daughter and I'm going to give you a piece of my mind right here whether you like it or not—"
"No, you're not," said a strong, familiar male voice from behind. "Your daughter needs support right now, not a lecture."
I turned just as Shawn stepped between me and Mother and folded his own arms.
"Who is this man?" asked Mother with an indignant tone.
"I'm one of Sydney's attorneys, and she certainly doesn't need any more stress in her life right now. So why don't you get on your broom and fly back to Connecticut?" he said.
Damn.
Mother's jaw dropped and her beady eyes widened as much as possible. "How dare you—"
"Get out right now or I'll have one of these officers remove you."
Mother's eyes narrowed as she locked in on Shawn's. "You wouldn't."
"Unless you'd care to use your wings and fly out through a window. Oh, I forgot. You're not supposed to go out in direct sunlight or you'll burst into flames."
Whoa.
The Snack has a set of brass ones the size of grapefruits.
Mother reached back and sent her right hand flying toward Shawn's face, but he caught her wrist a few inches from his chin and held it there. The police officer at the door noticed.
Then I saw the gunslinger that Shawn had obviously been on Wall Street. He waved at the policeman who was standing just a few feet away while still holding firm to Mother's wrist. "Officer," Shawn said, just as the cop arrived, "this woman is harassing my client and just tried to assault me. She is not a member of the media and is not on the witness list. Would you please escort her out of the courtroom?"