The Newsmakers (8 page)

“You strike me as the kind of woman who makes her own luck.” As they near the building's entrance, Nancy lowers her voice. “I'm sorry about that stunt Claire Wilcox pulled, stealing the ferry story. She sees you as a real threat. I think she has her sights set on Nylan.”

“Romantically?”

“Yes. She wants to create the ultimate power couple.” They enter the building, and Nancy nods in the direction of Le Pain Quotidien at the far end of the lobby. “I'm going to grab a cup of coffee. Can I get you something?”

“I could use a cup of tea. I'll come with you.”

Le Pain Quotidien is jammed with workers picking up morning sustenance. As they wait, Erica asks, “So where did you work before GNN?”

“On a couple of soaps. But they kept getting canceled. When this job opened, I pounced. The culture around here is . . . dark, but the pay is good and my mother has Alzheimer's and her nursing home ain't cheap.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thanks. It is what it is. I do love the excitement at GNN—I'm a news junkie. And I just don't think you-know-who is a first-class journalist. She's a thimbleful of talent in an ocean of ambition. Of course, that ocean can trigger some mighty waves.”

“I got swamped by one.”

There's a tall handsome guy a little ways in front of them in the line. Dirty-blond shaggy hair, lean and toned, he has a cobalt stud in one ear, is wearing a linen Cuban shirt and cool sunglasses, and has a long string of beads around his neck. He looks like he should be wasting away in Margaritaville, not waiting in line with a thousand office drones. He orders a triple espresso in a low drawl and then favors the barista with a killer smile. As he walks away with his java, Nancy leans into Erica and says sotto voce, “That's Dave Mullen, the head of the cybersecurity division.”

“You're kidding me. I thought it was Matthew McConaughey's younger brother.”

“Good call. His favorite vacation spot is Colorado. And he's not a skier.”

“You mean . . .?”

Nancy brings her thumb and forefinger up to her mouth and mock inhales. “With some”—she makes a sharp inhalation through her nose—“as a capper.”

“And
he's
protecting us from North Korea.”

“Computer freaks are a breed apart. And apparently he's the best, a white-hot wizard. Plus—and you didn't hear this from me—he's been seen with Nylan after hours. In some pretty unsavory places.”

“Like?”

“Clubs that cater to . . . listen, it's none of my business what two consenting adults do together.”

“Oh come on, Nancy, you can't lead me on like that and not deliver the goods.”

Nancy leans in to Erica. “We're both grown-ups; we know that some people get pleasure inflicting pain.”

“I did read
Fifty Shades of Grey.
Or tried to.”

“No, I mean real pain. I've heard rumors that one of Nylan's . . .
dates
. . . ended up in the emergency room.”

“Oh no.”

“I never bought that laid-back Zuckerberg act of his. That man is wound tight. And I don't want to be around when he snaps.”

They reach the front of the line, and as Erica orders her tea, she thinks,
GNN is
very
tricky terrain
.

CHAPTER 13

ERICA AND HER POD
—
DEREK
,
MANNY
, and Lesli—are driving through the Hudson Valley on the Taconic Parkway. One of the many parkways built in the early twentieth century to showcase the pleasures of “motor touring,” the road is simply gorgeous, winding through bucolic rolling hills and farmland. Erica imagines what it would be like to live in a landscape this soothing and pastoral. And she knows she'd be bored to tears.

It's been two weeks since the ferry crash, and the story has pretty much fallen off the news. Erica thought Claire's appearance on
The View
was embarrassing, borderline unprofessional. All she talked about were the victims, getting all sticky sincere and sentimental in a way that screamed
performance.
Yes, people died and that's a sad and legitimate part of the story, but uncovering the cause and hopefully preventing a recurrence are equally important. It feels to Erica as if Claire willfully ignored serious reporting. Yes, the NTSB released a preliminary finding that the crash was caused by a computer malfunction, but they didn't give a reason for the breakdown. In all of her coverage, Claire has only glancingly mentioned the possibility that it was cyberterrorism. It's almost as if she was given orders to drop that line of inquiry.

Erica's extracurricular dinner with Greg felt like too much too soon, and she has reined in her growing feelings for him. She knows from experience that when she ventures into emotional terrain she has a tendency to lose her footing. She's more confident when she's working. Work is like solitaire—she understands the parameters. They're finite and defined. Emotions are amorphous and unpredictable. And sometimes dangerous.

Not that it's always easy to keep her emotions in check when she's around Greg. Yes, he's attractive and interesting, but it's his steady, unwavering support that affects her most deeply.

Support is something that was in short supply in Erica's childhood. Her mom was a sad, sloppy pot-and-pill-head. She did the laundry and cleaned the house every twelfth of never. At least she kept the refrigerator well stocked—with week-old KFC remnants and blocks of government cheese. Her dad was a mill worker who faked a disability claim and went into early retirement, leaving him all day to indulge his addictions to beer, Keno, and victimhood.

When Erica started bringing home report cards filled with As, they ridiculed her. “Oh, look at Little Miss La-di-da! Thinks she's better than we are.” School was her sanctuary—if it hadn't been for the nurturing teachers and her guidance counselor, who recognized and encouraged her promise, she never would have made it to Yale, where Archie Hallowell took her under his wing.

And now, when she needs it most, when there is so much at stake, Greg has come into her life. As the van turns off the Taconic Parkway and heads down a quiet country road toward the subject of her interview, Erica says a silent prayer of gratitude.

They drive through more glorious landscapes, over rushing streams and past fields dotted with happy cows—Erica didn't realize the Hudson Valley was this beautiful. They turn onto an even quieter road and after a few minutes arrive at a charming house, rambling and old and wooden, with a wide, welcoming front porch. It sits on a small rise surrounded by ancient towering trees and . . . hostas. Literally
thousands of hostas—small, medium, and gigantic, some with delicate little leaves and some with leaves the size of palm fronds, in colors from deep emerald to wispy pastel, or variegated—veined with white and cream and yellow. The hostas sweep across lawns, march alongside pathways, encircle trees, sprout atop stone walls, all of them so healthy they seem to be popping out of the earth to greet the world. It's a green dream, simply spectacular.

The four of them sit silently in the van, mesmerized. Then a small woman in her eighties comes around the side of the house, waving and smiling a radiant smile. She's wearing low rubber shoes and a gardening apron and gloves. Her shoulder-length gray hair is expertly cut and she's got on bright red lipstick.

Erica gets out to greet her. “You must be Anne Sweeney.”

“Ya think?” Anne cracks.

“Thanks so much for having us. As I explained on the phone, I'm initiating a new segment called 80 Is the New 80. I want to counterbalance the denial of aging that's turning us into a culture of desperate youth seekers. I believe aging well isn't about
fighting
age, it's about working
with
it.”

Anne nods. “Terrific idea, I'm happy to be a part of it.”

What Erica doesn't need to mention is that 80 Is the New 80 is aimed at America's fifty-five million baby boomers—who just happen to watch cable news in disproportionate numbers.

The crew shoots some establishing footage and then follows Erica and Anne as they walk the grounds.

“Your garden is dazzling. How did it start?”

“My husband, Fred, was a lawyer, I was a housewife, we had one daughter. We had a very happy marriage. One morning Fred went into the office and sat at his desk. Five minutes later he was dead of a heart attack. He was thirty-four. My daughter was five. When the shock wore off, I felt an urge, a
need
almost, to create beauty—I wanted to remember my husband, to honor him for our daughter. And I also wanted to do something for myself, for my sanity, for my survival. When I was
digging in the earth, my grief felt manageable. Sometimes, in the evenings, when I look around me, we're a young family again.”

The woman is so honest and the story so sad that Erica unconsciously reaches out and touches Anne's arm.

“What did your daughter make of it?”

“At first she liked to help me plant. That wore off pretty quickly. Even as a five-year-old, she was fiercely independent.”

“And why hostas?” Erica asks.

“The property has these old trees, which means lots of shade, which hostas enjoy. One hosta led to another. When I retired from teaching seventeen years ago, I just went with it.” She smiles in a self-deprecating, I-know-this-is-a-little-crazy way that makes Erica fall in love with her.

Erica looks around at the eccentric explosion of beauty and thinks,
There are worse ways to spend your retirement.

Anne puts her hands on her hips and surveys her domain. “It's been great fun. I loan the place out for environmental fund-raisers—we
must
protect this glorious valley. A couple of friends have used it for family weddings. I call it God's Little 4.6 Acres. The deer call it a cafeteria.”

After the tour, Erica continues the interview over iced coffee in Anne's modern kitchen. The table holds
New Yorker
s and a laptop open to Huff Post—clearly this is a woman who has learned how to balance the past and the present. Then the crew goes to pack up and Erica finds herself alone with Anne. Which is what she wants.

“I can't thank you enough for today. I think it will make a wonderful story.”

“It's been my pleasure. If there's one thing I've learned in my eighty-four years, it's how to judge character. When you called to ask if you could come, I googled you. I read about your struggles, your firing in Boston. And now you're back on your feet.” She reaches out and clasps Erica's hands. “
Bon courage
, young lady!”

“You know I have an ulterior motive?”

“Of course I know. Do you think you're the first reporter who's developed a sudden, burning interest in hostas?”

Erica smiles sheepishly.

“However, you
are
the first to pass muster.” Anne picks up her cell and dials, then speaks into the phone. “It's your mother, dear. You haven't called in six days, and please don't give me any of that time-difference nonsense. I'm sitting here with someone I want you to meet.”

Anne hands the phone to Erica—who finds herself talking to Kay Barrish.

CHAPTER 14

ERICA IS IN HER OFFICE
, a half-packed suitcase on her desk, preparing for her flight to LA for her preliminary meeting with Kay Barrish. She's one step away from landing the biggest interview of her career, one that everyone from Claire Wilcox to Katie Couric to Diane Sawyer covets. The Barrish camp has made it clear the assignment is NMNA—No Men Need Apply. A smart move, considering that women are her political base.

As focused as Erica is—she's put together a thirty-page file on Barrish—she can't stop thinking about the ferry crash. Computerized navigational systems don't just freeze up for no reason. She wants to find out the truth, and she frankly doesn't trust the NTSB. An act of cyberterrorism on American soil would be a real embarrassment for the Department of Homeland Security, the whole administration in fact. Could there be a cover-up?

And why has the network let Wilcox gloss over a story that is not only important but could drive viewership? The ratings went through the roof on the day of the crash. It just doesn't make sense—and it feels like a pebble in Erica's shoe. Only this is an irritant that she can't shake out.

She pulls a deck of cards out of her bag and shuffles them. Just that act—and the crisp sound it makes—relaxes her a little. As she deals, she thinks,
Yes, if I land the Kay Barrish interview, it will be the biggest break of my career, but I can't let the ferry story go without doing everything in my power to uncover the truth.
As she plays the hand, she formulates a plan. The cards are dismal and the game is soon over. But it's done the trick.

Erica heads down to Greg's office to say good-bye. “Ready to rumble?” he asks.

“A few butterflies, but maybe that's good.”

“You sure you don't want me to fly out with you? I could clear my schedule for today and tomorrow—and I'll bring my butterfly net.” His voice grows serious. “Nylan
really
wants this one.”

“My instincts tell me Barrish will respond better to a simple one-on-one for our first meeting.”

“Let's trust those instincts.”

“Listen, Greg, very quickly: I think Claire has dropped the ball on the ferry crash.”

Exasperation flashes across Greg's face. He's a tough pro who doesn't always welcome pushback. Which is probably how he got to where he is. Erica reminds herself that in the news business tough is good. Tough. Is. Good.

“I think we have to let this one go,” he says.

“But I'm not convinced the NTSB is doing its job. People died in that crash.”

“The public has lost interest. It was a terrible accident, but it's really a regional story. It's fallen off the radar screen. Let's move on.”