Common Nonsense
Natalie pushed open the door of the security guard shack at the White House Northwest gate, stepped onto the asphalt driveway ringing the North Lawn, looked up at the White House North Portico with the expanse of grass and trees stretching out around it, and smiled.
She remembered the way her dad used to go silent whenever this image came on the screen. The way he’d nod at the reporters doing their live shots. How his voice filled with admiration when he’d rhapsodize, “Holding our elected leaders to account is a public service. It’s a big part of what makes our country exceptional.”
She wondered if her dad would forgive her for what she was about to do. She shook the thought away. This was news. And it was her job to report it.
Sorry, Dad, she thought as she started down the driveway.
She made a right turn onto a stone pathway that ran along Pebble Beach, the area reserved for White House live shots for each national network. (So named, she knew, because the area used to be a patch of mud covered with pebbles. The Bushes had the pebbles covered with more forgiving pavement, but like so much at the White House, it was known for The Way It Used to Be).
Hurrying past the positions for all the major networks—NBC, CBS, ABC—she noted that none of the other networks were lit up and ready for live shots. A few reporters were milling around the pavement talking on their cell phones, but all seemed quiet. She smiled, warmed by the knowledge that the others didn’t have a jump on her story.
She arrived at the ATN position to find Dasha behind a camera setting the shot and Matt pacing in front of it on the phone.
“I’m on with the desk,” Matt said, covering the mouthpiece. “They have a Phoenix reporter headed to Huntington, but it’s going to take another forty-five minutes to get a truck up and live from there. They don’t want to wait. Control room wants you now.”
Ignoring Matt, Natalie smiled at Dasha and gestured to the White House. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yah.” Dasha nodded briskly. “Watch out, Greasy.”
Smiling, Natalie shooed Matt out of the way and took a seat on a black metal utility box, then grabbed her makeup bag to give herself a touch-up.
“Hello, did you not hear me?” Matt was looking down at her. “They want us ASAP.”
While applying translucent powder to her T-zone, Natalie shook her head at Matt. “Don’t be crazy. We can’t go live until the Phoenix reporter confirms this on site.”
“Wrong. They expect us up after the next break.”
“We can’t go live yet. All I have is a guy not denying she’s there.” She shook her head. “That’s not confirmation. We need a second source.”
“We do have a second source,” Matt said in a controlled tone. “Photos of Anthony going into the center. What else do we need, God spelling it out in skywriting?”
She made her eyes big, “That would help.”
Matt pushed her mirror out of her face. “Do you think Ryan waits for a second source? Do you think he stops the breaking news train to cross every T and dot every I?”
“No, but I also wouldn’t swallow horse semen for a sweeps stunt,” she said, wrenching the mirror back into her control.
Matt narrowed his eyes. “Is that really what this is about, journalistic integrity? Or are you maybe letting your feelings about your dad’s alcoholism cloud your judgment? Maybe you’re hesitant to out FLOTUS as an alky because it hits close to home?”
How did he always read her like that? Natalie shot him angry eyes. “That’s nasty.”
“But true?” he asked. “Someone is going to report this. If it’s not you, I guarantee you it’ll be Ryan. Do you think he’ll even hesitate? And once he’s on the story, do you think he’ll be at all kind about the First Lady being a drunk?”
Natalie looked over at the monitor playing ATN. There was Ryan, still at the anchor desk, beaming Hearty American Manhood across the airwaves. No, he wouldn’t hesitate, and, no, he would not be kind.
Ignoring Matt, she looked up at Dasha. “What do you think?”
Dasha nodded like a loyal comrade. “If you do not want to make the report, I make excuse,” Dasha said, shrugging. “Camera trouble. We do this often in Kandahar.”
“Stop it, both of you,” Matt snapped, then turned to Natalie. “Do you want the White House job or not?”
“Of course I want the job.”
“Then stop acting like a baby and do it.”
Dasha’s phone rang and, after answering it, she covered the mouthpiece.
“They call for us now,” she directed this to Natalie. “Want I should say connection is bad?”
Natalie looked from Matt to Dasha and turned to take in the sight behind her. The majesty of the White House, the wide expanse of the North Lawn.
This is your shot.
“Yes or no?” Dasha asked from behind the camera.
Why are you looking for problems? she asked herself. You’ve earned this.
She looked from the lights to the camera and made a decision. She’d do it. She had the bureau chief and the network behind her. What were the chances this would go wrong?
* * *
Natalie stepped up onto a tiny platform under the ATN tent and faced Dasha’s camera, three HMI lights on her face, a large diva light casting a warm glow across her features.
Combined with the sun, the lights made it hard to see, and she could feel her eyes start to water, on the verge of tears. She held a hand in front of her face.
“Is bright?” Dasha said. “I adjust. But is very good shot. Very pretty. Very young.”
“Does your mom the bride know you’re about to break this story wide open?” Matt asked from the sidelines.
Natalie shook her head no. Mom and Sarah would find out afterward. And then they’d understand.
“Savage, we got you live from the White House. Coming to you in thirty. Ryan McGreavy is your anchor,” a voice said in her ear. “We have some photos and video of the FLOTUS. We’ll follow your lead.”
“Is my hair okay?” she whispered to Dasha. Both Matt and Dasha nodded yes, emphatically. God bless Magda.
She took a deep breath and looked into the camera, switching to reporter mode. She put on her formal smile. The Breaking News music filled her ear and she could hear Ryan in studio promising viewers a “major breaking development you’ll only see here on ATN.” Then he tossed to Natalie, “Live from the White House.”
She felt a flutter of anticipation.
She was going to nail this.
“Thank you, Ryan. I have just gotten off the phone with sources who shared with me some very personal, very private information about the First Lady that’s never before been public.” In her ears, her voice sounded strong, authoritative. “According to these sources, First Lady Anita Crusoe is recovering from addiction. She’s currently at a rehab facility in Phoenix, Arizona.” She paused to let that sink in. “We have photographs of the First Lady’s friend Anthony Cantrell entering that facility on more than one occasion.”
“Rolling photos,” a voice said in her ear.
“The place is called Huntington Recovery Center. It caters to wealthy and VIP clients who require extreme privacy. Earlier today I spoke with the manager who declined to comment, citing patient confidentiality. It is not clear how long the First Lady has been in residence there, nor do we know the nature of her addiction—alcoholism or something else. But we know from history that the stress of the White House has taken a toll on more than one First Lady. We should applaud Mrs. Crusoe for seeking the help that she needs, and hopefully she will be given time and space to recover privately. Ryan?”
Ryan thanked her in his best Enthusiastic tone. Did she note a touch of respect in his voice? The lights went off and Matt and Dasha exploded in applause.
“That was AMAZING!” Matt hollered.
“Good
bye, McBalls,” Dasha agreed.
Grinning, Natalie looked over to see the TV lights up and down Pebble Beach switch on as camera people from rival networks raced out of the briefing room to power up their positions.
“They’re all going to report our story.” Matt grinned. “And they’re going to attribute it to ATN. It’s fucking awesome.”
Soon reporters followed, racing out of the briefing room and toward their live locations. As they rushed by, one reporter after another waved at Natalie, yelling “great story” or giving her a big thumbs-up. Matt was right. This was awesome.
* * *
The ATN booth in the basement of the White House press briefing room was so cramped it could barely fit Natalie and her oversized makeup bag. But miraculously she, Dasha, and Matt had all jammed inside and were now staring at seven plasma TV screens that ran up the tiny wall of the closet-sized space. Every network was live with banners that read, “ATN reports: FLOTUS in Rehab” or “FLOTUS Fights Addiction, Says ATN.”
Natalie couldn’t hold back a smile. This must be what it feels like to land a triple axel. She’d done the stunt and stuck the landing, finally.
She looked at her phone, which was blowing up with messages from friends and Washington types she’d never met, congratulating her on a huge scoop, inviting her to drinks, and—shamelessly—asking if she’d share the name and contact info for her sources. There was an email from Karima Sahadi that read Please call me as soon as you can, dear.
She probably wants to be seen having lunch with me again, Natalie thought with a smile and flagged the email to ensure she’d remember to call her later.
“How high do you think the VOP will be?” Matt asked Dasha.
“Seventy. Maybe eighty?” Dasha said with confidence.
“Interesting, I’d say a hundred at least,” Matt said. “We never found out how high it can go. It’s a number with no meaning.” He shrugged. “Anyway, Ryan’s anchoring, so his VOP can’t be that good. God, we might actually beat him.”
The phone in the booth rang and Matt answered it, a little too enthusiastically, with “ATN, White House!”
He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Natalie. “They need us back on air.”
Natalie frowned at him but he only shrugged in reply and said, “I don’t know. They said ASAP.”
* * *
Back on Pebble Beach, Natalie was squinting under the lights at ATN’s camera. Why wasn’t anyone talking in her ear?
The show came back from commercial, the Breaking News open rolled and it cut directly to Ryan, who was wearing a Concerned Look.
“This is Ryan McGreavy at ATN. I’m here with continuing coverage on the First Lady. I’m joined now by phone with Dr. Eric Anderson, the executive director of the Huntington Recovery Center in Phoenix.”
Natalie felt a pressure a building in her chest. They’d reached the executive director, the one who wouldn’t take her call.
“Mr. Anderson, moments ago our own Natalie Savage broke the news that the First Lady is in residence at your center. What more can you tell us?” Ryan asked, looking Serious and Engaged.
“Thank you, Mr. McGreavy, I’m calling to set the record straight,” the voice said. “Sometimes our commitment to discretion leads to misunderstandings, and I’m afraid that’s what we have here.”
Natalie felt the world go into slow motion.
“Sir, please tell us, what is the misunderstanding?” Ryan wore a look of Grave Concern.
“First Lady Anita Crusoe is not a patient here, and I’m sorry for the confusion.”
Natalie held in a gasp as alarms started going off in her head.
“Has she ever been a patient there?” Ryan asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. She is not in residence. Not an outpatient. Never treated here.”
Natalie felt a wave of nausea rise up inside her. Keep calm, she told herself, the voice in her head sounding like a nervous flight attendant in a smoke-filled cabin begging passengers to proceed calmly but quickly to the exit slides. But her mind was screaming, Not a patient? Not ever? What about the photos of Anthony?
“Sir, we have photographs of the First Lady’s friend Anthony Cantrell visiting the center. How do you explain those?” Ryan asked.
“As I said previously, we pride ourselves on our discretion. We never reveal the identity of our patients or their visitors, so I’m afraid I can’t comment on that. But in this case I can definitively confirm that we have no relationship with First Lady Anita Crusoe, nor have we ever.”
I was wrong. I got it wrong. On the North Lawn of the White House, I got it wrong, Natalie’s mind was screaming. She could feel her legs start shaking as she stared into the North Lawn camera, her face burning with shame, her lungs filled with ice.
Ryan thanked Dr. Anderson and turned to another camera.
“I’d like to bring in our Natalie Savage at the White House, who originally broke this story.” She could hear Ryan saying the words but it felt like it was happening a lifetime ago, or to someone else, or in a movie. “Natalie, can you tell us, do you have any reason to doubt the word of Mr. Anderson? And if not, how did we get this so wrong?”
She felt like she was choking, like her throat was filled with sand and if she tried to speak, nothing would come out. Opening her mouth, Natalie was surprised to hear her own voice.
“I got this wrong because I didn’t wait for a second source,” she said quietly. “In the rush to be first, I made a bad call.” She felt numb. “The truth is, sometimes we get some things wrong. When we’re reporting about people who aren’t powerful enough to get a correction, our viewers never find out.”
“Wrap! Wrap!” someone was shouting in her ear.
“But in this case, I rushed to air, and we’re talking about the First Lady. I take responsibility and I’m very sorry.”
“Wrap! Wrap!” The shouting was louder.
“We’re going to move on now,” Ryan said in a hurry. The camera cut away from Natalie, and Ryan turned to another camera in studio. “This is a reminder that all of us are only as good as our sources. What matters is that we set the record straight.” Ryan smiled and added, “As my meemaw used to say—measure twice, cut once.”
Ryan went to break and the lights went off. Natalie watched other reporters rush back out to their live-shot positions, no doubt racing to retract her reporting and obliterate her reputation.
Mechanically she unplugged her microphone, pulled the earpiece out of her ear.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck Bibb!” Matt started shouting as soon as the camera was off. “You know this was Bibb! Bibb set us up. Bibb rigged it so Ryan would win. It’s all Bibb!”
“No,” said Natalie, remembering again the night the intercom buzzed in her corporate apartment. How she’d said no. She shuddered. “I bet it was Hal. And anyway, it’s my fault.
“Does it fucking matter? It’s all of them. They all fucked us!” Matt was yelling.
Stone faced, Natalie looked from him to Dasha and then over to the line of reporters correcting her live on air.
Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Bibb that read, Meet me in my office. Now.
Natalie was too numb to react. Like a woman in a trance, she unhooked her earpiece, dropped it on the ground, and walked out the White House gates.
27
None Dare Call it Reason
Natalie was waiting in a chair outside Bibb’s locked office when she was startled by the sound of angry footsteps in the hallway followed by a swish of clothing. She saw Bibb march by without saying hello and unlock her office door.
“In!” she barked.
Feeling like she was having a flashback from fourth grade, Natalie walked into Bibb’s office dazed and ready to get expelled.
“I want to know just what you think that was,” Bibb barked before Natalie’s bottom had touched the chair. She
was pacing the floor in long, abrupt strides, so angry she didn’t make eye contact. “I have given you every opportunity. This company has given you the kind of airtime anyone would kill for. And this is how you repay us? By telling the world we don’t correct our mistakes? We only come clean when we screw up a story about the First Lady?”
Natalie blinked at her.
At another moment, with another boss, she would have mounted a strong defense, but she knew there was no point with Bibb. Bibb was like all predators, she could scent blood in the water, and it excited her.
“So you’re not angry that I got the story wrong?” Natalie asked, piecing things together. “You’re just angry that I was honest on air about how I got it wrong? You were the one that insisted I go on air without Phoenix,” Natalie said, gaining courage. “Did you have Andrea feed me the bad info?”
“What?” Bibb had stopped stalking the office and glared down at Natalie. “You’re accusing me of feeding you bad information? Are you out of your mind?” She was nearly shaking with rage.
“How did you get those photos of Anthony walking into the clinic?” Natalie pressed. “Were they doctored? You let us air doctored photos just to ensure Ryan wins?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bibb spat.
Looking up at the boss, with her big diamond earrings and empty sanctimony, Natalie thought Bibb seemed not so much dangerous as ridiculous. It was suddenly clear that Matt was right: Bibb’s power came from intimidating her underlings. Having spoken the truth and survived, Natalie felt invigorated, emboldened. “Why wasn’t Jazzmyn in this morning?” she asked, sitting forward. “You know where she was last night, right?”
“You better watch yourself, young lady,” Bibb hissed.
“With the Chief,” Natalie continued, ignoring Bibb’s warning. “He offered her an anchor job, then took her back to his hotel. And now she’s gone. What do you think happened at that hotel?”
“You mind your own business,” Bibb was pointing a finger and glaring.
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