Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  But maybe not. I see a familiar figure power through the revolving door of the A.G.’s office building. He runs across the parking lot toward me, skids to a halt and bends over to catch his breath, hands on his knees. Then Franklin Parrish saves my life.

  “It’s underway now,” my producer says. “Oz announcing for governor.” He looks up at me, one hand still on a knee, confirming. “The anchor’s gonna toss to Oz’s statement live, then come to you for the wrap-up.”

  “Three minutes,” Walt intones.

  In my earpiece, now thankfully static-free, I hear the audio of our newscast. I hear Amanda Lomax, her trademark throaty anchor-voice telling viewers of the surprise candidacy of Oscar Ortega, instant front-runner for governor. And then I hear Oz himself, basso profundo, begin to intone his platform. I imagine he’s turned his crowd-pleasing charisma up to full blast. He’s clearly not much for exercise, but with his dark wavy hair and killer smile, it’s also clear he thinks he’s irresistibly charming, and he may be right. Most women seem to vote yes, no matter what he asks for.

  Walt holds up two fingers. “Two minutes.”

  Franklin blots his face with a pristinely ironed handkerchief, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses onto the top of his head, then pulls a piece of paper from his jeans pocket. “Okay, Charlotte. Here’s the news release for y’all,” he says, smoothing out the wrinkles.

  This signals Franklin’s just as tense as I am. He always calls me Charlotte, which, instead of carrying Mother’s undercurrent of criticism, comes out sounding adorably like “Shaw-lit.” But “y’all”? His otherwise usually subdued Southern accent only reappears when he’s under pressure. Still, I’ve worked with him long enough to know he thrives on pressure.

  “Just read it,” Franklin instructs. “It’s got the whole drill, law and order, convictions out the wazoo, death to infidels, all that. Y’all—you know the lowdown on this guy, right?”

  I do, in fact. Oscar Ortega: recruitment poster for the prosecution—cool, hot, and politically connected. Known for his outrageous neckties and outrageous legal talent. Scholarship to Boston College. Scholarship to Yale Law. Could cross-examine blood out of a turnip. And some predict he’ll step out of the attorney general’s office, percolate for a term or two on Beacon Hill, then head for the Oval Office at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “Thanks, Franko,” I say, taking the release. Less than a minute to go. I’ll read it through quickly, then use it to sum up when Oz is finished. Done it a million times. Like riding a bike. “No problem.”

  Wrong.

  I can’t see the words. I mean, I can see that there are words, but they’re a complete blur. I glance over at Franklin, ready to ask if there’s a problem with the copy he’s offered. I can easily see the crease in his predictably impeccable jeans, the tiny polo pony on his pink knit shirt, even how the ten-o’clock stubble on his face darkens his coffee skin to espresso.

  Clearly, what’s wrong is me. Without my reading glasses, this is going to be impossible. And even if I could get to my glasses, tucked in my red leather tote bag and back in the van, I couldn’t go on the air wearing them.

  “Thirty seconds,” I hear in my ear.

  I can’t read this news release, but I have to. Tucking the paper under one arm, I use a finger to pull back my left eyelid and pop out my contact lens. With a brief wince of regret and one flip of a finger, I discard the contact onto the parking lot pavement, and try again to read Oz’s formal announcement.

  “Four. Three.” I hear the countdown in my ear. “Two. Go.”

  “And that was now gubernatorial hopeful Oscar Ortega,” I say into the camera. “As you’ve just heard, the self-described ‘law and order’ candidate is promising voters he’ll continue his, quote, ‘career of crime stopping.’ And, as he says in the statement just this minute issued to reporters—” I glance down at the now perfectly visible news release “—I promise to make Massachusetts stronger, safer, and a place where law-abiding families can feel confident their governor is protecting them. A place with a balanced budget. A place with no new taxes. A place where parents can feel safe in their homes, where children can feel safe on the streets and in their schools—and where criminals will never feel safe again.”

  “Wrap,” the control room instructs in my ear. “Toss to Amanda back in the newsroom.”

  “The primary election is just two months from today,” I continue. “And as of now, it’s open season in Massachusetts politics. Live at Ortega headquarters, I’m Charlie McNally, News 3 at eleven. Back to you, Amanda.”

  I stand still, smiling confidently into the camera, waiting for my cue. “And you’re clear,” the control room declares.

  I’m grinning as I yank out my earpiece. I hope Mom and Nurse Justin were watching. “I’ve still got it,” I tell Franklin, patting myself on the back. “And I’ll buy the beer.”

  As I retrieve my tote bag from the van, I can hear my cell phone ringing inside its zippered pouch. I flip the phone open, ready for my “Atta-girl!” from the newsroom. “This is McNally,” I say, preparing to be modest. I wave thank-you to the crew as Franklin and I leave the parking lot, and then turn all my attention back to the phone.

  It’s not Roger.

  “Well, Mother, I’m sure Mr. Ortega would be very unhappy to hear that.” I sigh, then shoot myself in the head with one finger as she continues. “No, I just had my bangs cut. I can see perfectly. Could we—talk about all this tomorrow?”

  * * *

  Charles Street looks like a little slice of London, a brick-and-cobblestone street transplanted across the Atlantic and tucked onto Beacon Hill. Densely packed with elaborate brownstones, it’s crammed with tiny storefronts offering antiques and shoes, and peppered with preppy-chic boutiques. Franklin suggested we hit The Sevens, a Beacon Hill institution and our sometime hangout. But now this night seems to be taking another unexpected twist. Franklin has a secret.

  “What ‘big news’?” I demand. “Tell me now.” I see Franklin’s face, off-again, on-again, as we walk through the patches of narrow sidewalk illuminated by the wrought iron streetlights. He’s got a smile I don’t like.

  “Not until we get a glass of wine, Charlotte.” He points toward The Sevens, smiling that smile again. “Trust me on this.”

  I hate surprises. Franklin better not be quitting. He and I are a made-for-television team, a well-oiled duo with nicely meshing journalism, curiosity, respect and ambition. I clamp my mouth closed and feel my eyes narrow. I could try to find a new producer, of course. But I most certainly do not want to.

  The TV at The Sevens is tuned to Channel 3, as always. Jerry gives Franklin and me a welcoming wave as we pull our stools up to his comfortably pockmarked metal-topped bar. There’s never a place to park around here, so the other weeknight drinkers sharing a final beer or brandy are probably all locals, too.

  “Saw you on the tube,” the bartender says, gesturing with a dish towel toward the oversize flat-screen monitor attached to the wall. “Oz, huh? Wicked tough guy. He’s a cinch in November, you think?”

  “Who knows,” Franklin replies. “Boston politics. Like New England weather, right? Anything could happen.”

  “Gotcha,” Jerry says. “Charlie?”

  I’ve already shredded a cocktail napkin into confetti and made a triangle out of one of those little red stirrer things I found on the counter. Franklin says he has big news and now he’s making small talk with the bartender. I have to kill him.

  “A glass of cabernet,” I decide. “And a Diet Coke. And a water.” Franklin is going to quit. My own mother thinks I’m over-the-hill. How did this day go so bad so quickly?

  I hook my heels over the rungs of my bar stool, and turn to face Franklin. He’s got a new job. At the network, probably. He and his adorable partner Stephen are leaving town to join the other up-and-coming thirty-somethings in the Big Apple. I know it. Now I’ll have to talk him out of it.

  “Listen, Franko,” I begin. “Is it about money? What did New Y
ork offer you? What if we can—”

  “Charlotte,” he says, holding up a hand. “Stop. I can tell you’re involved in one of those conversations you have with yourself. I have no idea what you and you are talking about. Whatever it is, I promise we can all discuss it later.” He looks at Jerry. “Glass of champagne, please. And one for my pessimistic pal here.”

  I knew it.

  “Don’t call me Charlotte if you’ve got bad news,” I instruct. “And I’m not celebrating anything until I decide there’s something to celebrate. If you and Stephen are moving out of town,” I say though a sip of my red wine, “that ain’t something I’m celebrating.”

  Franklin pushes a flute of champagne toward me and holds his up to make a toast.

  I sigh, already defeated. If he and Stephen are happy, I guess I should be happy, too. I put down my wineglass and lift the slender one Franklin’s forcing on me. “What?” I ask, expecting the worst.

  “Story of a lifetime,” Franklin says, looking pleased with himself. “You know how you’ve been bugging the Constitutional Justice Project to let us in on one of their wrongful conviction cases? Do it up big, inside info, evidence, interviews?”

  “Of course,” I reply. A tentative smidge of hope emerges. Maybe this will be a good surprise after all. “And so…”

  “Well, Brenda Starr, apparently your phone calls convinced ’em. Remember Deadly Dorie? Notorious husband-murdering Swampscott mom? Up the river for life?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I nod. “Three, four years ago? Bashed her husband with an iron or something, then pushed him down the stairs. But she confessed, right?”

  “Wrong,” Franklin says. “Well, she did confess, but tonight we got a call from the CJP. We’re getting the inside dope. She’s innocent. They’ve got new evidence proving she didn’t do it. And it’s all ours. Exclusive. They want you, my Emmy-winning friend, to do the story that gets her out of prison.”

  * * *

  Two glasses of champagne later, I high-five the air as I trudge up the last flight of stairs to my apartment, the third floor of a restored old Mount Vernon Square brownstone on the flat of Beacon Hill. My live shot was a success, we have our ratings story, and we’re going to get an innocent person out of prison. Not bad for one day.

  I can hear Botox meowing as I unlock the door. She curls her tail through my legs as I enter, purring for attention. I reach down to pet her sleek calico fur and see, as I predicted, she’s made a little shredded paper nest out of the mail again. That’s to punish me for coming home so late.

  “We’ve got a hot one, Toxie,” I tell her. I dump my purse and tote bag onto the dining room table, pushing aside a pile of unread copies of Vogue and The New Yorker, and hang my black suit jacket on the back of a chair. I wonder, for the millionth time, why I spent so much money on antique dining room furniture I only employ as a magazine depository and an extra closet. I glance around my place, just reassuring myself everything’s where it should be. Which of course it is. The navy leather couch, plump taupe-and-white upholstered chairs, elegant Oriental rugs. Splurgy curtains hang over a curving bay window that, if you look in just the right direction, reveals a snippet of the Charles River. I do love it, but I’m hardly ever in it.

  “We’ve got a hot one, Dad.” I salute the framed photos on my wall-covering family gallery as I head down the hall. Dad always loved a good story and I wish he were here to hash this one over.

  The message light on my bedroom phone is blinking red. I push the playback button, then flip my black leather sling-backs into the closet, and twist my arms around to unzip my slim black silk skirt. I stop mid-zip as I hear the message. I’ve known Josh for, what, eight months? But still, just hearing the warmth in his voice feels like an embrace. “Hi sweets,” I say to the phone. My skirt drops, forgotten, to the floor.

  “Caught you on the news,” the message continues. “How’d that happen? I thought you were with your mother. Anyway, you looked great. But then…” His voice gets softer. “You know I always think you look great.” I can picture his hazel eyes giving that full-of-meaning twinkle, his unruly pepper-and-salt hair falling out of place. The moment I first saw him I thought “Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch,” and I still think so. A sexy Atticus. Atticus with abs. Atticus with …

  “Shall I make this an obscene call?” he continues. Now he’s using what I secretly call his “Charlie voice,” making me deeply wish we were together tonight. “Ask if you’re wearing that little black lace number? Okay, no. But listen, it would be nice if we could talk about it in person, wouldn’t it? So, sweets, dinner Thursday, right? We’ll hit Legal Seafoods or something, since Penny’s now informed me she’s a ‘fishatarian.’”

  There’s a pause, and I hear him sigh. “She’s off in her room now, still wide-awake, says she has to ‘talk’ with Dickens. Her stuffed dog, not the author.” Another sigh. “Anyway, I, uh, miss you. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  The message clicks off, but his voice still hangs in the air. My darling Josh. Though I’ve never called him that out loud. I sigh, consider clicking my wilted skirt onto a hanger, then toss it into the dry-clean pile.

  Be careful what you wish for, my mother used to warn. As a little girl I’d always wondered why wishing was so dangerous. Now, I admit, I’m wishing for a future with Josh. Which means a future with his little girl. Which means I’d suddenly be an English professor’s wife and somebody’s mom. Be careful what you wish for. Maybe Mother was right again.

  I throw on my favorite old Rolling Stones T-shirt, and pad off to brush my teeth, Botox trailing behind me. Well, one thing for sure. If I’m ever somebody’s mom, I’m sure as hell not going to tell my daughter she needs a face-lift.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I have no idea what you’re worried about,” I say, giving the elevator button another jab for punctuation. The lobby of the office building is chilly and marbleized, and people with briefcases and scowls bustle past us, intent on their own destinations. Our destination is thirty-one floors up. “Of course she’ll do the interview, Franko. If Dorinda Keeler Sweeney wants to be a free woman again, why wouldn’t she?” I give the button another poke. “Come on,” I implore it.

  There’s a lot to learn in the next few hours. And tonight there’s dinner with my darling Josh. And Penny, the newly minted fishatarian.

  “The elevator is not going to arrive more quickly no matter how many times you push that button, Charlotte,” Franklin instructs, setting his cordovan leather briefcase on the floor. “And as for Dorie, I hope you’re right. If we get her to talk on camera, the story is blockbuster. Without her interview … well, let’s just say our brand-new consultant from the Coast is not going to be too happy.”

  I pause, mid-push. “You told her? You already told Susannah we’re researching this story?” We still have a lot of digging to do, and I never like to promise anything until I’m sure it’s a cinch. That way you don’t disappoint people with bad news, you only make them happy with good news.

  Franklin gives his briefcase a little kick, looking crestfallen. He runs a finger around the neck of his starched oxford shirt.

  “Well, she cornered me in the control room last night. Asked me if we had a July sweeps story yet. It was fun to be able to say yes.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” I reassure him. Probably fine. Maybe fine. I just don’t want to be the one to inform Susannah Smith-Bagley—hired-gun ratings guru and so-called news doctor just assigned to “jazz up” Channel 3’s image and snag more viewers—that our big story fell through.

  “Well, sorry, Charlie.” Franklin sounds uncharacteristically nervous. He never calls me Charlie. “Oh, sorry, I know y’all hate the tuna ad line. But…”

  The elevator doors swish open, and gentleman Franklin gestures me to go first. I lean against the brass railing inside, calculating the potential damage. It’s not the best outcome that he revealed our possible scoop too early. Still, what’s done is done.

  I shift my bulky tote bag from one shoulder
to the other in a doomed-to-failure attempt to prevent my charcoal-gray linen suit from wrinkling. Nobody’s perfect, I decide, and Franklin’s about as close as it comes. “No biggie,” I tell him again. I hope I’m right.

  Franklin pushes 31 and we ride up a floor or two in silence.

  “It’s kind of daunting, isn’t it?” I ask, changing the subject. “That we could have the power to help an innocent person get out of prison? But what if she trusts us to get her exonerated and then we can’t? Which would be worse? To fail? Or not even try?”

  The lights on the elevator numbers slowly count upward, making a soft ping every time we pass the next floor.

  Franklin nods, considering, then he makes quote marks in the air. “‘Effecting positive change’ to ‘keep the system honest.’ That’s what they tell you in J-school. It’s a lot different when you’re actually doing it. When a real person’s future is at stake.”

  The pings stop and the elevator door slides open. This time, I gesture Franklin to get out first.

  “We’ve handled tough stories before. We can handle this one,” I say. “If it’s bigger, that just means it’s better. We’ll get the interview and then knock Susannah’s socks off.”

  The elevator door closes, leaving us in a conservatively carpeted entry hall. I know this space is donated, a gift from a celebrated law firm hoping to reap do-gooder points by putting a pro bono face on its pro-business practice. The words “Constitutional Justice Project” are spelled out in bold brass letters affixed to the dark-paneled wall over the reception desk. Matching mahogany side tables, flanked by tweedy upholstered wing chairs, are carefully stacked with The New Republic and Harper’s. Each has a No Smoking sign in a silver picture frame.

  The room’s focus is unmistakable. On one high-ceilinged wall, illuminated like gospel under a row of pin spots, there’s an oversize framed copy of the Bill of Rights.