Nurse Justin is just one of the pill-dispensing glamour boys I’ve seen in the center’s modishly fashionable nursing whites. Some are older and gray-templed, some younger with panache-y little ponytails, but they all look like they’ve just come from shooting the latest Ralph Lauren catalog, and only do this nursing thing in their spare time. I don’t know how the center gets away with this obviously discriminatory hiring practice. Plus, who’d want a hunky guy seeing you as a before? Mother, apparently, is all for it.
I tune back in to her chitchat. It’s about me.
“On Channel 3,” I hear Mother explaining. “Charlotte, dear,” she says. “I hope you’re going to be on the news tonight. We’d love to watch you.”
Not a chance, of course. It’s now almost ten o’clock, and the news goes on the air at eleven. But Mother has never understood how television works.
“Nope,” I say, smiling as if this isn’t a ridiculous question. And, I grudgingly realize, she’s just being a proud mom, which is actually very sweet. “I do long-term investigative stories,” I explain to the nurse, just an amiable daughter joining the conversation. “I’m only on the air when we’ve uncovered something big. So, nothing tonight.” I shrug, smiling. “Sorry.”
Nurse Justin’s face suddenly changes to a scowl, which is baffling until I see he’s pointing at my tote bag. Which is ringing. “No cell phones allowed in guest’s rooms,” he says, still scowling. “Strict rules. We’re all about patient privacy. And quiet. Cell phones are allowed only in the outer lobby.”
I cringe. “Forgot to turn it off when I left the station,” I say, which is true. I whap it to Off without even checking the number, figuring Justin will forgive me my first transgression, and whoever is calling will call back. His face begins to soften-and then my purse starts beeping.
I dive for my beeper, knowing full well I forgot to turn that off, too. I push the kill button, but the illuminated green letters that pop up are inescapable. CALL DESK, it demands. RIGHT NOW. And if that weren’t attention-getting enough, a second screen flashes up at me. NEED U LIVE FOR ELEVEN PM NEWS.
Mom was right again.
CHAPTER 2
“Who? What? When? Why me?” I leap from the cab, phone clamped to my ear. Roger Zelinsky, managing editor of the eleven-o’clock news, is giving me the lowdown in bullet points: attorney general Oscar Ortega. Announcing for governor. Lead story. Every other reporter out on assignment.
“You’re going on the air live,” Roger says. “Soon as Oz makes his move.”
Oscar Ortega is often called “the Great and Powerful Oz,” and word is he likes the nickname. The state’s first Hispanic attorney general, he’s a take-no-prisoners politician with a big-bucks machine behind him. If he’s running for governor, he’ll be tough to beat.
The parking lot outside Ortega’s redbrick Beacon Hill office is full of scurrying TV types, scrambling to cover this breaking news. Technicians from the four network affiliates, the CW, CNN, a couple of local cable stations and the Emerson College journalism class have staked out spots for their imminent live broadcasts. Masts from a lineup of microwave vans poke into the star-scattered sky like huge yellow forks against the late June night. Technicians inside the vans, sliding doors left open to let in the breeze, briskly read out coordinates to colleagues back in their stations’ control rooms, tweaking audio levels and confirming video feeds are clean.
“They’re all set for you,” Roger assures me. “We’ve already got a live signal. Find the truck. Thanks for being a team player, McNally. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
I trot through the maze of vehicles with the phone still tight to my ear. I know I have to hurry, but I can’t be sweaty or out of breath on the air. There it is. With a fist, I bang on the window of Channel 3’s ungainly blue-and-gold mobile studio, then wave at the crew inside the truck to announce my arrival.
“Found the van,” I say to Roger. “Talk to you later.”
It’s got to be less than five minutes until airtime.
Photographers from the other stations are snaking out the extension poles of their powerful spotlights. The parking lot illuminates almost into daylight, as megawattage hits the fidgeting reporters anticipating their face time and their chance to bring home the lead story. Some on-the-air types mutter to themselves, practicing the scripts they’ve scrawled onto their notepads. Others preen in pocket mirrors, adding lip gloss or a final spritz of hairspray.
A row of cameras perch atop metal tripods like electronic flamingos, set up and ready to roll. One tripod is empty. Ours.
Not good. Not good. Not good.
I snap open my cell phone to send a frantic Mayday. Just then, I see my photographer Walt Petrucelli, sweaty and disheveled in a baggy Channel 3 T-shirt and voluminous khaki shorts, muttering to himself as he lugs his camera from the trunk of a news car. Acting as if there’s all the time in the world. The ring of keys yanking down one belt loop jingles as Walt clicks the Sony into ready position and gives one tripod leg an irritated kick into place. “Why me?” He questions the universe as he peers through his viewfinder, adjusting focus. “Buncha bullshit.”
Walt looks up, does a double take as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “Bringin’ out the big shots, huh?” he says. “How’d you get the short straw, McNally?”
Ignoring him, I position myself in front of the camera. Using the lens as a mirror, I take a second to check my reflection. My high-maintenance blond bangs are reasonably straight, my trademark red lipstick reasonably applied, and the black suit I put on for work today-about a million hours ago-reasonably unwrinkled. As good as it’s going to get.
Every mosquito and midge in New England dives and swoops across the klieg lights in front of me, probably deciding which ones will go on the attack during my live shot. Happy-go-lucky motorists out on Cambridge Street, also attracted by the lights, honk their horns as they drive by.
I twist an earpiece into place, clicking its cord into the control room connection box I’ve clipped onto the waistband of my skirt.
“Can they see me back at the station?” I ask Walt, tuning everything else out. I pat my lapel. Nothing. “Where’s my microphone?”
Right now, a camera inside at the news conference had better be feeding video to the station. If this all works the way it should, the producer will put Ortega’s announcement, live, on the news. I’ll know what Oz says because I’ll hear it on air through my earpiece.
Right now I’m hearing only silence.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.” Walt, molasses, finally clips a tiny black microphone to my jacket. “Control room’s got you now.”
A deafening shriek screams into my ear though the audio receiver, followed by a blast of static. Then, finally, a voice. Which I can almost understand. Then total silence. “Lost audio,” I tell Walt, attempting to stay calm. “What’s the control room trying to tell me?”
“Four minutes,” Walt says.
I contemplate ripping out my earpiece, yanking off my microphone, and going home. I have no news release. I have no idea what’s going on in the news conference, and I’m about to appear live in front of a million people. And undoubtedly, Mother is one of them. They’ll all watch this live shot crash and burn.
Suddenly 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.