By My Hands (3 page)

The accident was still fresh in her mind. It was all
so unfair, so patently unfair. She had been returning home from a
study session with a friend. Lisa was enjoying her senior year at
Madison High School. A grade point average of 3.8 had allowed her
the luxury of choices in colleges and universities. There was
little that could make her life better, but many things that could
make it worse.

One such thing was a drunk driver on Interstate 15.
The MG Midget Lisa’s father had bought for her eighteenth birthday
offered little protection against the three-quarter-ton pickup
truck as it crossed over the center divider and crashed headlong
into her. Her last second maneuvering had kept her from being
killed instantly, but it could not keep the gas tank from
rupturing. The ensuing fire engulfed her. The image of uncontrolled
flames rising around her was etched deeply into her memory. The
fire had not only scarred her body, but scarred her mind, searing
an image of hell into her brain.

She relived that night every time she fell asleep.
The ending was always the same—she lived. Why had she not died and
saved herself and her family this ordeal? If she had died, she
would be buried and her family would be going on with their lives.
But now, every day they came, dressed in the green sterile clothing
that all visitors wore, to see her grotesquely charred body.

The accident had burned all of Lisa’s hair from her
head, as well as her eyebrows and lashes. Both legs were deeply
burned and, if she continued to live, they would be amputated. The
swollen and charred skin had made her unrecognizable to family and
friends. Bill Payne, the high school’s first-string quarterback and
Lisa’s steady boyfriend, had come by to visit the day after the
accident; he had not been back since. They had secretly planned to
be married after their first year of college, but that dream was
over.

John Hailey, Lisa’s father, had said good-bye to his
red-haired daughter at 6 o’clock that tragic evening. When he
arrived at the hospital four hours later, he found the strange
figure the doctors told him was Lisa. They had also told him it was
a miracle she had lived. John wasn’t so sure.

Morphine quieted the noisier patients that evening.
For a few hours they were oblivious to their environment and their
pain. The hall lights had been dimmed and the nurses of station
B-West had settled into their heroic yet dismal watch.

No one noticed the nondescript man in a white smock
emerge from behind the stairwell door. He moved down the dim hall
and into room 015 only to exit a few moments later. The unknown
visitor made his way up the stairs and withdrew into the cool
moonlit night. His task for the evening was finished.

Monday, March 2, 1992; 6:30
A.M.

WORD CIRCULATED QUICKLY THROUGH the hospital. With
each telling of the story, the details were slightly altered, but
the truth of the tale remained the same. Somehow, the horribly
burned and disfigured body of Lisa Hailey had been changed. Skin,
soft and pink, had replaced the scorched black flesh. The morning
duty nurse, accustomed to seeing the worst that fate could deliver,
lost her composure as she stepped into Lisa’s room. Her scream
echoed through the burn ward. The nurses and doctors rushing to her
aid were greeted by a perfectly healthy Lisa, who met each outburst
of disbelief with an immense smile.

After gathering his composure, one doctor suggested
that a camera be brought to the room to record the event. A nurse,
sensitive to feelings that many miss, returned to her station and
pulled a mirror from her purse and, making her way through the
crowded doorway, slowly raised it so that Lisa could see what she
had not been allowed to see for the last two weeks—her face.

Monday, March 2; 11:00
A.M.

“BECAUSE I NEED THE CHALLENGE.” Priscilla Simms
spoke the words slowly, enunciating each syllable. Irwin Baker, the
station’s news director, leaned back in his leather chair and
stared at the woman across the desk. She was the epitome of the
television anchor woman— strong, distinctive features, and a full
head of red hair. Even without the special makeup and television
lights, she was stunning. During the two years she had anchored the
evening news on KGOT-TV, the ratings had steadily climbed until
they were the number one station in San Diego.

“Priscilla, you knew that anchoring the evening news
had both pluses and minuses,” Baker said firmly. “Investigative
reporting has more challenges; anchoring has more money and
prestige; you chose the latter.”

“I’m not asking to be an investigative reporter
again. All I want is an occasional assignment that has some meat to
it.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything would be more challenging
than reading a teleprompter every night like some mechanical
mannequin.”

“You provide a valuable service. Hundreds of
women—”

“—would love to have my job. The sad thing is that
any one of them could do it. Irwin, I have a master’s degree in
journalism.

I need a greater challenge. Give me something I can
chew on, something that lets me use my talents.”

Irwin turned his chair slightly, just enough to gaze
out the window, and ran a hand over his balding head. “Who will do
your job while you’re out poking in the bushes and looking under
rocks for your Pulitzer Prize?”

“I will.” Priscilla stood and leaned over Baker’s
desk. “I’m not asking for every story, just one challenging enough
to keep my skills sharp. I’m just as subject to the laws of physics
as you. I’m getting older, and the time will come when our
employers will decide, in their infinite wisdom, that I’m not
appealing enough to the viewers. Then I’ll be out looking for
work.”

Baker said nothing. What she was saying was true. It
was not unusual for news stations to reassign or outright fire news
anchors because age had taken away some of their sex appeal.
Several stations had been sued for age and sex discrimination with
only limited success for the plaintiffs.

“I’ve spent years honing my skills as a journalist,”
Priscilla said pointedly, “and I don’t want to lose them.”

Baker had difficulty believing that Priscilla could
be anything less than beautiful. She was a prize catch for any man,
and many men had tried to claim her; but her indomitable spirit had
left their egos bruised and battered. Even he had thought of asking
her out, but had trouble mustering the courage. She was
strong-willed and opinionated and had left several men
shell-shocked.

“I don’t own the station, you know.” Irwin swiveled
his chair back to face Priscilla.

“No, but you’ve worked here for a long time and
you’re the only person who can get away with murder. No one will
second-guess your decision.”

That was true enough. Irwin had come to KGOT-TV as a
journalistic intern while still taking classes at San Diego State
University. After graduation he was hired as an assistant news
writer. His way with words and his ability to uncover facts from
overlooked sources led to speedy advancement including several
award-winning years at a large San Francisco station. Over the
years he had developed a reputation as a solid newsman and a more
than competent executive. The parent organization, Prime Television
Group out of Phoenix, kept Irwin on staff with praise, frequent
raises, and substantial bonuses. Other companies, including large
market stations in Los Angeles, Chicago, and Houston, had tried to
woo him away, but he stayed where he was. Irwin was nothing now if
not loyal.

Irwin looked at her and smiled. “I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Priscilla asked suspiciously. A
moment later she tightened her jaw and said, “If you think I’m
going to break down and cry, or beg, or offer some sexual bribe
then.

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Irwin said, holding up
his hands. “I know you’re too professional for that. I’m waiting
for the part where you say, ‘If I don’t get this assignment, then
I’ll just have to take the job offer from XYZ-TV.’ ”

“Well, it’s not like I don’t get offers, you know.
And the money in L.A. is a lot better than what I get here.”

“And?”

“Oh, come on, Irwin.” Priscilla was exasperated.
“You know I don’t want to go anywhere, and you also know that I can
do this.”

“Yeah,” Irwin said with a sigh. “I know that you
can. The question is,
should
you be doing it?”

“Dan Rather does it. Tom Brokaw does it. Why can’t
I?”

“Because Rather and Brokaw have a bigger staff than
I do, not to mention much bigger budgets. Besides, Rather and
Brokaw don’t do investigative reporting.”

“Maybe not technically, but they’ve been known to
travel all over the world to report on special events. Besides,
this won’t cost the company more money. I’m not asking for a raise.
I’m asking to do some investigative work like I used to do. What
could that hurt?” The conversation lapsed into silence with
Priscilla standing in front of Irwin’s desk and Irwin seated in his
chair rubbing his forehead. “Well?” Priscilla asked a moment
later.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Baker felt defeated.

“Great!”

“I didn’t say I’d do it, just that I would see what
I could do.”

“I understand fully,” Priscilla said, grinning for
the first time since she entered the office. “I’m not trying to
pressure you.”

“Oh, right. Then why do I feel beat up?” Irwin
asked.

“You just work too hard, that’s all.”

“Well, speaking of work, we better get to it. After
all, we still have a news program to put together.”

Priscilla took her cue and walked to the door. As
she was leaving, she turned to Irwin and offered a genuine smile.
“Irwin, you’re the best.”

“That’s what I keep telling you.”

Irwin looked at the news schedule on his desk, but
his mind was far away. Priscilla had left his office forty-five
minutes ago, but he was still thinking about her. He considered her
brash, arrogant, and the loveliest woman he had ever known. She
could simultaneously enrage him with a self-centered comment and
dissolve him into a stammering suitor with a smile.

He couldn’t blame her for wanting to get out of the
studio and on the streets. In fact, he felt the same way. A day
didn’t pass that Irwin didn’t wish he could leave his office and
pursue just one more story. Just one story of substance. Those
days, however, were past. It wasn’t his age or his appearance that
prevented his journalistic enterprises. At forty-six, Irwin still
looked professional enough to be on camera. Granted, he didn’t
match the image of the handsome news anchor, but he was pleasant
enough not to frighten children or alarm little old ladies. No, it
wasn’t his appearance that kept him off the streets and off the
screen—it was his past.

Irwin gazed around his office: it was Spartan in
size and content. He sat in a cheap swivel chair behind a cheap
metal desk. The walls were adorned with inexpensive art purchased
at an office furniture outlet. The wall behind him was dressed in
the only thing that revealed Irwin’s past and character: awards,
certificates, and letters of appreciation hung in silent testimony
of a previous life when he was San Francisco’s star journalist,
admired by viewers and peers alike. But that was more than a decade
ago.

Irwin did his best to never look at the plaques and
certificates. Their presence pierced him, but he could not take
them down. Those papers in frames and those brass plaques on wood
were him, Irwin Baker: notable journalist, investigative reporter,
and prominent social figure. Now he was Irwin Baker: the
middle-management-paper-shuffling baby-sitter of egomaniacal
personalities.

He sighed. He was being unfair. The people he worked
with were highly experienced professionals who were every bit as
good as he. Bitterness brewed a vile and vindictive attitude that
threatened to poison his personality just as alcohol had poisoned
his judgment. Envy was the real problem. He wanted to be out there
like they were out there. He wanted to be before the camera like
they were before the camera. He wanted that more than anything else
in the world; that and to have his daughter close by and to have
Priscilla as his wife—none of which would come true. He had made
his purgatory; now he had to live in it.

Irwin wanted one other thing, a drink, but that’s
how it all began: A drink here, a drink there, a string of drinks
together; each day a new string of drinks. His wife complained; he
ignored her. She complained again, and then again, and he ignored
her again and again. One day she stopped complaining; she simply
left, and took the only thing he loved more than his work—their
twelve-year-old daughter.

Loneliness is a compelling emotion, and it compelled
Irwin to drink even more. Three months after his wife left, his
news director asked—actually demanded—that Irwin seek help or get
another job. At the time Irwin thought it was nothing more than
professional jealousy that had prompted the reprimand. All he
needed was an exciting news story, something with which he could
scoop the competition, something to put him back in the good graces
of his employers and his public. Unfortunately for Irwin, important
news stories came and went at their own whim. So, in a Chivas Regal
haze he decided to cheat fate and create his own story.

The story brought him notoriety and fame, but not
the kind he wanted. The plan seemed so simple to Irwin. How could
he get caught? After all, he was an experienced journalist with a
history of groundbreaking stories.

All he needed was a reliable source who insisted on
remaining anonymous; he could create that person. He also needed a
public official to serve as the accused. Since the informant could
not be questioned by others (and Irwin would appear the pillar of
journalistic ethics for refusing to reveal his source), any charges
brought against the politician would soon pass and everything would
be back to normal, except that Irwin would have made national news.
Sure, the politician would suffer some inconvenience, but that’s
why politicians existed. If you couldn’t attack your local
representative, then who could you attack?