Prime Time (23 page)
The phone jangles, clamoring through our silence. Botox leaps up and bolts down the hall, but she’s the only one who moves. I look at Josh. Josh looks at Franklin. Franklin looks at me.
“It’s
your
phone,” Franklin says dryly. “Probably the newspaper, ha-ha.”
We look at each other, realizing it’s potentially not so funny. It probably
is
the newspaper.
The phone rings again.
“Can you imagine? Scooped on our own story? Again?” I say. I can’t bear it. “Franklin.” I point to him. “You answer. Tell them I’m—”
At that moment, we hear the answering machine pick up. It’s not the newspaper. It’s Channel 3.
“Charlie, hey, yo. It’s Ron at the assignment desk. What the hell is up? Someone got arrested in your building? You know about this? Is there a fire there, or what? Call me. ASAP. I hope to hell you’re out of town or something. Kevin won’t be happy if you’ve screwed us.”
Ron may have said more, but the sound of our laughter obliterates the rest of the message.
“Yeah, we know about it,” Franklin calls out to the machine. “We got this one covered, News Boy.”
I reluctantly disengage from Josh’s arm and point to Franklin. “You—call our pal Ron and tell him we’re on the way in. Make them give us a photographer. I don’t care if they have to pay OT. Me—I’ll get dressed fast as I can. Then, you and I are headed to the station.”
“I can drive you,” Josh offers eagerly. “I can help.”
I give him a kiss on the cheek; brief, but full of promise. “Thanks, Prince Charming,” I say. “And you know I’ll miss you. But you’d better stay here and wait for the door.”
Seven months later
F
“Give us a twirl, Miss Charlotte,” Franklin commands. “Let’s see a 360.”
I pretend to be reluctant, though I know my new black sheath is simple and perfect. I also know the star of pavé diamonds twinkling around my neck is even more perfect. Earlier this evening, Josh explained it was our private reminder of that first time together, the night we watched the shooting star. I give the necklace a secret touch for luck as I return to my seat.
“Very nice,” Franklin confirms. “I just hope you get to show that off up onstage.”
“Don’t even talk about it,” I say, cutting off any jinxing discussion of winning. “We’ll wait and see.”
I scan the Copley Plaza Hotel ballroom as it fills with every TV reporter, producer, director, writer, photographer and editor in New England. Glittering gold helium-filled balloons float from silver ribbons; crystal bowls overflow
with white roses; tiny white candles twinkle in sterling silver votives. Newbies strut in recycled prom dresses and overlacquered updos, veteran anchors cruise for attention in couture and borrowed jewelry. It’s a crowd so full of ego and ambition, it’s amazing they could even find room for the tables.
But tonight, I’m feeling satisfied with what I already have.
“You know, I’ve decided I really don’t care if we win,” I say to Josh. “At least four people are already in jail because of our story, and more on the way. We cleaned up in the November ratings, won big. So who needs a statue, right?”
Josh, looking more Gregory Peck than ever in black tie, puts down his scotch on the rocks, lifts my chin with a finger. “Bull,” he says.
A peal of familiar laughter cuts through the babble of the crowd.
“Whoo hoo, the winner’s circle,” Maysie calls out. She’s just off the team plane after a Red Sox road trip, and I haven’t seen her in weeks. “We are here to kick some big-time TV butt.” She’s thrown a tangerine pashmina over a black silk camisole, and tonight, her black jeans are satin. She waves at the table as she and her husband take their seats. “Everyone knows Matthew, right? He refused to wear a bow tie with his tux, you’ll notice.”
“Made me look like Mr. Peanut,” Matthew says, indicating his round glasses. “The cummerbund was bad enough.”
“Okay, kiddo, give me the scoop,” Maysie demands. She takes her seat, flapping open her napkin and turning toward me. “So Melanie’s brothers have ratted her out?”
I take a sip of wine, nodding. “Yup. And since the boys gave prosecutors the whole story,” I say, “Melanie and her mother are sunk.”
“I’ve seen a lot of slimes come through my own law office, but those two take the prize,” Matthew adds.
“It was probably the only way they could avoid the death penalty,” Franklin says.
“So now, Melanie and her mother will have to plead guilty,” Matthew predicts. “Like Charlie says, they’re sunk.”
“That Melanie, though, she’s tough,” I reply. “Maybe she and Mommie Dearest have some genius lawyer who says he—or she—can get them acquitted. And it could happen.”
Maysie dismisses me with a wave of her fork. “I don’t think so.” She grins. “Greetings, Brown family,” she intones, in a dead-on imitation of her AOL system. “You’ve got jail.”
The ceremony is ten minutes away. Maysie’s table-hopping, Josh and Matthew have gone to get drinks, but there are still two unoccupied seats at our table. I know they’re reserved for Kevin O’Bannon and Angela Nevins. I touch my star necklace. Maybe she won’t come.
Stephen interrupts my reverie.
“One more thing?” he says. “What was the deal about the Bibles? I missed that part.”
I slip off one satin slingback and tuck my leg under me, leaning forward toward Stephen. “Well, that’s pretty interesting,” I begin. “We thought they were some sort of decoder book, you know? And that’s why all the people in the spam scheme had to have one.”
“And they did,” Franklin adds. “All of the CEOs the feds arrested had an identical Bible. Melanie had even circled the Book of Numbers in each one’s table of contents. Get it? ‘Numbers.’”
Stephen nods. “And were they code books like you thought?”
“Well, no,” I continue. “Turns out you didn’t really need a Bible to figure out the spam, you just needed the ‘re-figh deal 4-U’mnemonic device. The Bibles were more like…” I pause, searching for the perfect description.
“A membership card,” Franklin offers.
Exactly. “Melanie gave them to all the players,” I explain. “But here’s the heavy irony. Once the Brown brothers told the cops about the special Bibles, how Melanie had handed them out, they became key evidence to the conspiracy. The police got search warrants to look for ’em, and once they found ’em, case closed.”
“Twelve more major-player CEOs,” Franklin says quietly. “Soon to be in the license plate–making biz.”
“We did good, Franko,” I finish, pantomiming applause. “And I don’t care if we win tonight or not. I really don’t.”
I feel a whisper in my ear. “Bull,” Josh murmurs again. He’s holding a glass of champagne and lifts it for a toast. “Before they announce the awards, let me just say how happy I am to have met you all, and how…” he pauses, and then gives me a look I hope I never forget “…how my life has changed so wonderfully since Miss McNally walked through my door.”
My eyes well with happy tears as my tablemates and I clink glasses. I’ve lived for so long on emotional speed-dial, on professional fast-forward. Rushing to find answers, pushing, hurrying, always looking for what’s coming next—the next problem, the next story, the next award. Now, for a moment, the universe hits the slo-mo button, and with astonishing clarity I see what I almost allowed myself to miss. To embrace what I already have—not focus on what I need to get. Loyal and honest Franklin, who revealed he just turned down a job in New York. Said no to the big time—to stay with me.
And there’s Josh. How does it happen that you open a random door and a whole new world is behind it? I’m comfortable with temporary, sure. But permanent has its pluses. And I’m ready to take a chance.
Besides, I allow myself a moment to smile, we’ve changed some lives. Stopped some bad guys. Did what we’re supposed to do. Not by luck, not by chance, but by using our heads, taking risks and working hard. We’re good at this. I’m good at this.
Married to my job? Maybe it doesn’t have to be like that. Maybe television and I can just be—good friends. No vows, no promises. We’ll stay together—as long as we’re both happy.
That said, I mention quietly to the journalism gods, don’t get me wrong. I’m not ready to go totally Hallmark. Winning would still be just fine.
“Hey, Charlie, good luck,” someone behind me says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I turn to see Kevin O’Bannon, suavely tuxed and carrying a glass of champagne. He raises it briefly. “You deserve to win,” he says, smiling. “And whatever happens, let’s chat about your contract Monday. And let’s make it long-term—I don’t want to lose you.”
I open my mouth to say something, something witty and confident and gracious. But nothing comes out.
“I’d better go get to my seat,” he continues softly. He starts to turn away, then turns back. “Angela,” he says. “Just so you know. She’s not coming tonight. She’s no longer with the station.”
I try again to talk, but my brain has flipped into overload. “She’s—?”
“Pursuing other opportunities,” Kevin says dryly. “We
wish her the best.” He gives an inscrutable smile and heads to his chair.
I turn to Franklin. “Did you hear that?” I gasp. I flutter my fingers and make a snarky face. “Ciao, newsie.”
“The devil you know,” Franklin replies. “Let’s see who’s in her office on Monday.”
I don’t have time to worry about this as the lights dim, the rumble of conversation quiets and a spotlight hits center stage. All eyes turn to the front of the room as the awards begin.
In what seems like hours, but also seems like seconds, we hear our category.
“For Investigative Reporting, the nominees are…” a blonde in a last year’s Versace begins reading a list of names.
I feel Josh’s arm go across the back of my chair, and I see Stephen’s go around Franklin’s. I hold on to the edge of the table with both hands.
Blondie opens the envelope. “And for Investigative Reporting, the Emmy goes to…”
There’s a roomful of applause, a whoop from Maysie, a thumbs-up from Kevin and a hug from Josh. I feel all the energy instantly drain from my body and then rush back in again. The giant onstage video screen blares the Channel 3 theme music and animated logo, and Franklin and I wind our way through the maze of tables and toward the stage.
The journey is brief—but my brain takes a short trip of its own. Smiling my way past tables of well-wishers, I remember that first spam I read, how Franklin and I thought Melanie was a poor, silly widow, how we were baffled by the boxes of files. I remember how Angela tried to kill the story—I also remember how Franklin could have been killed getting it. And me, too.
Our video clip rolls on the big screen, as vivid as Technicolor in the darkened ballroom. It’s my closing stand-up, taped on a chilly November afternoon in front of the gold-domed Massachusetts State House. My black cashmere coat pops in front of the redbrick building, and, thanks to a sapphire sky and some elaborate off-camera lighting, I look pretty great for fortysomething. Okay, fine. Forty-six. My voice booms through the loudspeaker.
“As for ringleader Melanie Brown Foreman, the U.S. Attorney’s office says her criminal enterprise included murders, attempted murders, burglary, assault and car theft. With Wall Streeters in shock, Securities and Exchange Commission officials also say they are now targeting more than a dozen CEOs in what one investigator called the most insidious and widespread case of insider trading they have ever seen.”
My taped voice fades away, and Franklin and I are center stage, side by side at the podium, each of us holding a glistening statue.
The rules say only one of us can make a victory speech. I step back and wave Franklin to the podium. Producers are usually behind the scenes, but tonight it’s his turn to be in the spotlight.
“This is a team effort,” he says, holding his Emmy aloft, “and I’m proud to be on Charlie McNally’s team.” He turns and toasts me, then finishes. “And just wait till you see our next story! Thank you so much.”
The audience cheers as we carry our statues off the stage and into the logo-draped room designated for winners’ photographs.
I lean toward Franklin so he can hear me over the applause. “What story?”
“Ah, who knows.” Franklin laughs. “We always think of something.”
“But what if we don’t?” I wail. I don’t think Franklin’s that funny. And next year, I’ll be forty-seven.
“Charlie, Franklin, look this way,” I hear. Flashbulbs pop and sizzle as photographers clamor for the best angle. “Smile and hold up your Emmy!”
We face the bank of cameras, arms across each other’s shoulders. My vision swims with blue dots as the flashes pop. Then, just as quickly as they arrived, the paparazzi swarm to the next target, and I can see again.
I see Stephen, eyes shining with pride, heading for Franklin. And behind him, I see Josh, holding two crystal flutes of champagne. You know, I tell myself, we always do come up with a story. No reason to think next time will be any different. And if we don’t win next year, well…
I touch the little diamond star around my neck. And I make a wish.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3530-8
PRIME TIME
Copyright © 2009 by Hank Phillippi Ryan.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.