Time's Up (22 page)

“Many of our audience might not know why you're here today. Would you like to tell them, or should I?”

“Be my guest.”

Juliana swiveled her seat to face Camera Two. “Maisie McGrane is at the center of Chicago's roiling controversy with the honorable mayor of Chicago, Talbott Cottles Coles. Roll tape.”

The video was chopped to a merciful thirty seconds, vicious in its representation of the situation. I actually looked even worse, if that was possible.

“Goodness, Maisie,” Juliana said, hand at her breast. “That was quite a show.”

“I have to ask”—Juliana leaned forward—“were you—had you been drinking? Perhaps feeling ill?”

“He barely touched you—brushed up against you, really, and you vomited on yourself? Honestly?”

One . . . two . . . three.
“It didn't feel like nothing,” I said calmly.

“It looked more like you spit up a mouthful of soda.”

I blinked and said nothing.

Juliana crossed her legs. “How long have you had a vendetta against Mayor Talbott Cottles Coles?”

I paused, tilted my head, and looked quizzically at my attacker. “I beg your pardon?”

“It's not my pardon you need to be begging,” Juliana replied smartly. “It's his.”

“You didn't vote for Coles, did you?” Juliana pressed. “You're a registered Republican.”

“Yes, I am,” I said. “I didn't think journalists released details like that about the general public.”

She scoffed. “You lost that right when you set up Coles with your own personal camera crew.”

“I didn't,” I said mildly. “I've never met nor spoken to any of the people associated with the making of that video.”

“You knew Coles had an appointment with the vice president.”

“It's illegal and unlawful to park across two handicapped spaces,” I said.

Juliana swiveled in her chair for a Camera Two soliloquy, tucked the errant strand of bob behind her ear, and leaned in to the camera. “This was an obvious and heavy-handed hit job—a journalistic setup. And frankly, I find it disgusting.” She shook her head in wounded contempt and swiveled back to face me. “It's people like you, Miss McGrane, who tarnish the integrity of journalism. An insidious, pernicious thing to do to our profession for your own personal gain.”

“I don't see how,” I said pleasantly. “I'm not a journalist.”

“And for all your scheming, you'll never become one.” Juliana smirked. “You really think you can fool us? That we'll stand idly by as you try to discredit an honorable man?”

“I don't know where you got your information.”

“Really? You have a bachelor of science in criminal justice from the University of Illinois. A second major in journalism.”

“Actually, I only minored in journalism.” My mouth disconnected from my brain. “I chose it because it had the easiest credit load.”

“Me-ow-ch!” Alec chuckled from the other set. Camera Four zoomed in on his vanilla, semi-attractive face. “Watch out, Juliana. That kitten has claws.”

“Three months ago you were the top cadet at the Illinois Police Academy and you withdraw, in an election year? To become a meter maid?” She smiled, closing the trap. “How stupid do you think we are?”

Juliana took a paper from the folder and waved it in front of me. “I have here a release from the Police Academy, signed by your own father. Dated two weeks prior to you leaving the academy.”

“Wha . . . What?”

The bottom fell out of my world, and they cut to commercial.

Having successfully eviscerated me in front of a million viewers, queen bee Juliana spun in her chair for the hair and makeup minions. The evidence of my father's betrayal lay abandoned on the coffee table, no longer useful.

An announcement sounded overhead. “Extended commercial break. Three hundred thirty seconds. Start on Set One.”

I didn't pick up the papers. I didn't need to. My father's signature was on it, as horrifyingly visible as a black beetle in a bag of white rice. So was Commandant Reskor's. Each dated in their respective handwriting a week
prior
to the psych evaluation. Two weeks prior to the day Reskor called me into his office and expelled me.

I felt floaty and drifty, my blood somehow sublimated to helium.

Bliss Adair crossed the floor toward Set Three. “Good morning, Juliana.”

“Hello, er . . . a . . . Belinda?” Juliana guessed unconvincingly.

“Bliss. Ooooh.” She snapped her fingers. “Almost got it right this time, Ju-ju Bee.” Her smile turned sunnier as Juliana's lips crimped at the nickname. “Wow. What a show.”

“You know me,” Juliana said. “I can be a bit of a terrier when I uncover a good story.”

Bliss nodded. “A regular bitch with a bone.”

Juliana tossed her chic bob. Chat over.

Bliss bent, collected the papers off of the coffee table, and looked at me. “Maisie?”

“Hmmm?”

She leaned close to me and put her mouth by my ear, “Get up.” Bliss grasped my arm right above the elbow and propelled me behind the fake windows on NY. She let go to reach around behind me and unplug the microphone cord from my transmitting pack. “Move.”

We crossed behind Set Two. Bliss muttered to herself in a hot little whisper, “Who the hell does she think she is, playing gotcha with me?”

Instead of stopping at Set One, we kept going, disappearing into one of the Habitrail hallways, Bliss hissing and spitting like an old humidifier. “Christ, her ass is flattening faster than her ratings. If she thinks she's gonna screw up everything I've built, not to mention mess with your agent-—the first great guy I've met in like forever—she's got another think coming.”

It felt good to walk.

“The Honorable Talbott Cottle Coles.” She stamped her heel. “Oooh!”

She stopped short, and I bumped into her. “Maisie! Are you listening to me?”

Am I?
Her words hadn't penetrated the Tempur-Pedic cocoon of my brain, which was busy swaddling my father's betrayal like some deranged butterfly.

Bliss slapped me smartly across the face and put her perfect nose inches from mine. “You're going to get back on that set and put a smile on your face and give it right back to that slandering cow, you hear me?”

I nodded.

“Good.” Bliss reached out and touched my cheek. “Sorry about that.”

“Sure,” I said thickly.

“Forty seconds!” the director's assistant shouted. “Places.”

Victor Cruz had left the set. I took his place on the couch next to Leticia. A grip reached over the couch behind me and reattached my microphone.

“Shit, McGrane. Why you let her go barkin' up in your personal business?” Leticia rolled a walleye over Juliana and Alec, knee to knee in their chairs across from us, conversing in urgent murmurs. “What happened? You get all stage-frighty an' shit?”

I shrugged.

“Be cool.” She popped me in the ribs with her elbow. “I got you.”

No, really
—
please don't.

The set director shouted, “Twenty seconds! Ten . . . five . . .”

“Welcome back, America, to
Good Day USA
,” Alec Anders said. “If you've just joined us, we're talking parking tickets, fines, and a conspiracy to try to destroy an honorable man.”

Juliana Tate smiled, turning up the radiance factor an extra hundred watts. “We've been talking to Chicago's own ticket terrorist, Maisie McGrane.”

“Do you really think it's appropriate to refer to me as a terrorist?” I said and gripped the polyester hem of my skirt to keep from clapping a hand over my mouth.

Juliana's lip lifted in disgust. “We've already heard your side, Miss McGrane. Now we're going to speak with your supervisor, Ms. Leticia Jackson.”

Leticia sat up and smiled at the camera. “Good day, USA!”

Juliana bit her lip à la “aw, you're so cute.” “Welcome, Ms. Jackson,” she oozed.

“Call me Leticia.”

“Leticia,” Juliana said, “after all that's happened, how are you holding up?”

“Huh?”

Juliana pressed her palms on her knees and leaned forward. “How do you
feel?
”

“I feel like we be doing you a favor coming on your show to 'splain about how poorly we be treated as public servants. That even our own damn mayor don't give a crap about obeyin' the law and you try to”—she snapped her fingers—“what's that cowboy word, McGrane?”

“Bushwhack?”

“Yeah,
bushwhack
us like some sneaky-deke.” She thrust a palm at Juliana. “Puh-lease!”

Two red circles bloomed on Juliana's cheeks. But this wasn't her first squirrel hunt. “Ms. Jackson, I think there's been a big misunderstanding here. We at
Good Day USA
hold you in no way responsible for Miss McGrane's duplicitous actions or her vendetta against Mayor Coles, do we, Alec?”

“No,” Anders toadied right up. “We surely don't, Juliana.”

“Maisie McGrane used you and your profession to discredit Talbott Cottle Coles.” Juliana frowned at me.

Alec Anders shook his head to Camera Two in patronizing agreement.

“Obviously,” Juliana said, “there is no
possible
way you could have known what she was up to.”

Leticia's head began to shift from side to side, grooving into a well-oiled cobra sway. “You gonna say it, McGrane, or am I?”

What?
I stared at her blankly.

A wicked light shone in her brown eyes and up came the overly stiffened index finger aimed directly at Juliana. “Oh no, you di-n't.”

“Oh no, you di-n't just say I'm too ignorant to know what kind o' people I got workin' for me.”

“Not at all!” Juliana inhaled deeply through her nostrils, hand at her throat. “Merely that you couldn't possibly have known Miss McGrane's intentions when you hired her.”

“So . . .” Leticia cocked her head. “You sayin' I too stupid to read a résumé 'cuz I'm black?”

Juliana Tate's eyes went so wide the whites showed all the way around her irises. “That's not at all what I meant”—her voice stretching thin and pitchy—“and I resent that . . . that meanings . . . er, you're implying.”

“Coles broke the law. He got the boot.” Leticia leaned forward. “And let me tell you somethin'. McGrane is one o' the best parking enforcement agents I ever trained.”

Juliana crossed her legs. “I'm sure she has done a passable job—”

“You sayin' that like you think anybody can do this.” Leticia gave a bark of laughter. “That it be
easy
luggin' 'round a thirty-five-pound boot, attachin' it to a vehicle, while the whole time angry people be screamin' and hollerin' all up in your face?”

“No, no. Not at all—”

“You wouldn't last five minutes on Patrol.”

Juliana tucked her loose strand of hair curtly behind her ear and said smoothly, “I'm sure you're right.”

“I am. So let's us talk 'bout what's really goin' down here.” Leticia's mouth split into the hardened smile of a professional killer. “You ain't no journalistic top-shelf reporter. You just tryin' to earn your stripes off our backs and that ain't right.”

Juliana gaped, unable to speak.

A tiny snorting giggle escaped Anders.

Leticia whirled on him, brow cocked in scorn. “What you laughin' at, Alec? You think you better than me 'cuz you on TV? Well, let me tell
you
somethin'.” She stood up and planted a hand on her hip. “This”—she passed her blinged-out nail over him—“ain't working. Shaving your head like you embracin' the going bald. Nuh-uh.”

Alec Anders jerked upright in his chair as though he'd been given a caffeine colonic.

“You ain't no Jason Statham, you hear what I'm sayin'?” Leticia fingered a string of beaded braid. “And cheatin' on your supermodel wife like a damn fool.” She half-closed her eyes and shook her head. “Lord, what be
wrong
with you?”

The tips of Alec's ears turned bright red.

“Go home to your woman, buy yo'self a fast car, and get a damn weave.” Leticia looked over her shoulder and grinned into Camera Two. “Leticia Jackson, O.V. and out, people.”