The Newsmakers (5 page)

“I was just doing my job.”

“Greg told me you were a world-class talent”—his eyes roam up and down Erica's body—“and so very attractive.”

It's inappropriate and unnerving. And why doesn't he look her in the eye? She suddenly feels like an object, something to be admired and owned. It's disquieting, but so be it. You don't become a billionaire and then found a network without being a little bit—as Rosario put it—strange.

“Good work, both of you. Keep it up,” Hastings says, suddenly perfunctory, as if he has better things to do. He turns and leaves.

Erica looks at Greg and raises her eyebrows. He closes her office door and lowers his voice. “That's our Nylan. Listen, Erica, you've made a big splash right out of the gate. But take it slow and play things close to the chest. Sometimes caution is the better part of valor.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“Nylan is sole owner of GNN. He doesn't have to answer to a board or to shareholders. That gives him a lot of freedom and a lot of power. As long as we keep our heads down and deliver, he pretty much leaves us alone.” Greg looks over his shoulder, claps his hands together, and raises his voice. “We'll continue this discussion. Meanwhile, congratulations!” He goes to the door, opens it, and then turns back to Erica. “See you tomorrow,” he says. Their eyes meet, and a frisson of attraction crackles between them.

As she walks home, Erica both marvels at and rues her good fortune. It came at the expense of people's lives, and she knows that the horrific scene she witnessed—the screams, the blood, the little girl she held, the man getting crushed—will haunt her for a long time.

But the undeniable fact is that the tragedy benefited her career. Erica has always felt that success is 90 percent work and 10 percent luck. Well, today she got lucky. What were the odds that the boat would careen out of control just as she was standing there? But it
did
. And she seized the moment.

As Erica navigates the midtown crowds, she feels a surge of elation and hardly registers the odd looks she's getting from passersby. She's completely forgotten that her dress is covered in blood.

CHAPTER 6

IT
'
S FIVE A.M. AND ERICA
is running north through Central Park. She loves this time of day, just before sunrise, as the light grows stronger and the powerful beast awakens around her. She also loves the sense of momentum that she feels in the city—of fearlessly racing toward the future. To her, this intangible energy, verve, and promise define the city more than any of its touristy landmarks. Then there's the sheer beauty of the park—rolling lawns, lakes, flower beds filled with bursts of color, swaying grasses, towering trees, promenades, and vistas.

She reaches Seventy-Second Street and Fifth and turns west, running past stately Bethesda Fountain with the lake beyond, crossed by a graceful arched footbridge, the boathouse anchoring its northern shore. Erica can hardly believe this is her home—it's a million miles from bleak St. Albans, Maine, and a prefab house that sat on a concrete slab and welcomed the bitter winter winds with loose windows and hollow doors, and tall plastic glasses filled with generic soda and off-brand booze paid for by selling the family's food stamps for fifty cents on the dollar.

Erica picks up her pace, even though she knows she can't outrun her past. The best she can do is turn it into a source of strength and
drive and compassion. The footage of the Staten Island ferry crash two days ago has been getting a lot of play, and her follow-up investigation into the cause is proceeding. She has interviewed an inspector from the NTSB and the pilot of the boat and is starting to pull the story together. The inspector wasn't willing to go on record with a reason for the crash, but he did hint at a computer malfunction.

The words
computer malfunction
caught her attention. Erica closely followed the Sony hacking case, which the United States pinned on North Korea, and the cybertheft of customer information at Target. There can be no doubt: the world faces a growing threat from cyberterrorism—computer systems from Zappos to the Pentagon are at risk. When Erica asked the NTSB inspector if the crash could possibly have been an act of cyberterrorism, he grew very tight-lipped. Which only stoked her curiosity.

She loves having a story like this, one with real consequences, one that takes some searching, some groundwork, some
reporting
. It's easy to forget, in the glamorous, supercharged world of cable news—where Megyn Kelly and Anderson Cooper and Rachel Maddow have become celebrities in their own right—that in the end journalism is about finding out
the truth.

Erica reaches the west side of the park and runs past Strawberry Fields and its
Imagine
mosaic, donated by Yoko Ono in memory of John Lennon and his fallen idealism. She thinks of another idealist: Archie Hallowell, her professor and mentor at Yale. Rail-thin and patrician, wild-haired and vital, perpetually covered with a thin layer of chalk dust, bits of his breakfast stuck to his Harris tweeds—Hallowell looked like some relic of a long-gone age, as if he should be stuffed and displayed in a glass cabinet at the Smithsonian:
Professorus americanus
—extinct. But oh, what a passion for the truth burned in Archie's heart! And he took Erica—the fish out of water, flopping around in the thin Ivy League air—under his wing. At least once a week he would invite her into his cluttered office where—in a voice urgent and impassioned—he impressed on her that journalism is a
noble profession, an important profession, one that lies at the very beating heart of a functioning democracy. And Erica learned that if she kept her eye on that prize, all the pain in her life fell away. At least while she was working on assignment for the
Yale Daily News
.

In social situations with her prep-schooled peers, her anxiety remained. But then she found a magic elixir that assuaged it, smoothed out the edges, made her eyes sparkle and her wit sharpen: booze. And so began her bifurcated life: kick-ass journalist on the one hand, insecure girl with a secret blighted past and a growing dependence on alcohol on the other.

As Erica runs past the Tavern on the Green—where delivery trucks are unloading meat and produce—her cell phone rings: it's Moira Connelly, a fellow newscaster, her best friend from the early years of her career in Boston. Moira stayed loyal through Erica's troubles and drove her to rehab when the day of reckoning arrived. She lives in LA now, where she anchors the local evening news on NBC affiliate WPIX.

“Hey, Moy. You're up early.”

“Haven't been to bed yet. Your Battery Park report is at a hundred twenty thousand hits on YouTube.”

“And I've got eleven thousand new Twitter followers.”

“It's a wonder you're still talking to me.”

“What was your name again?”

“I'm so proud of you.”

“It's a start.”

Moira's tone grows serious. “Are you feeling solid?”

“Trying my best. And how are you?”

“I'm great. I covered an important story last night: a water main break in Tarzana.”

“How did you handle the pressure?”

“The water pressure? There was none.” The friends laugh.

“Actually, Moy, the vibe at GNN is a little weird. Uptight. Secretive. Two different people have basically warned me that Nylan Hastings is a little . . . weird.”

“Seriously?”

“They told me to be careful.”

“I'd heed those words. You're in the big leagues now—the rules are different. I'm here for you 24/7.”

Erica feels a swell of emotion. “Thanks, Moira. The time may come . . .”

“. . . and when it does.”

Another call comes in. “Gotta go, Moy, this is my producer . . . Good morning, Greg.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“I'm running.”

“I just got a call from a producer at
The View.
They want you on the show tomorrow to talk about the ferry crash.”

“You're kidding me.”

“I'm serious as stone. This is a
big
break.”

Erica's first thought is:
I deserve a glass of champagne to celebrate
. What she says is: “I'll see you in about an hour.”

CHAPTER 7

ERICA ARRIVES AT GNN HOPING
for words of congratulations from her colleagues. The few she receives are cursory, belied by the envy in the speakers' eyes. There's no doubt—an edge of suspicion, even fear, permeates the network. She'll take Rosario and Greg's advice to be cautious, but she's not going to put a wall up around herself. In the kitchen, as she brews a cup of Irish breakfast tea, she allows herself a cheese Danish. It's not Dom Pérignon, but Moira taught her that it was important to celebrate success, even if only with a flaky pastry.

No sooner does Erica sit down in her office than a woman wheeling a rack of dresses appears in her doorway. Black, tall, slender, about forty, she's the picture of workday chic in perfectly tailored black slacks and a bluish-gray three-quarter-sleeve blouse that has a little bit of shimmer. Her hair is a tight Afro, a little thicker on top. She has high cheekbones and full lips, and she's wearing a large geometric silver bracelet and black sandal heels. In spite of her elegance, she radiates a friendly professionalism.

“Hi, Erica, I'm Nancy Huffman, wardrobe supervisor. I've brought some outfits for you to consider for your
View
appearance.”

This is a perk she didn't have yesterday. “Can you make me look like you?”

Nancy glances down at her arms and says with a sly smile, “That might be a stretch.” The two women laugh. “Ready for my unsolicited and probably unwanted advice?”

“I need all the help I can get.”

Nancy gestures for her to stand up, and Erica complies. “First of all, I hate you for all eternity. Please tell me you
live
at the gym.”

“Tae Kwon Do.”

“Tae Kwon
did
—you're stunning.”

“I may be pretty, Nancy, but
you're
stunning.”

“It's an occupational hazard.” Nancy turns to the rack and pulls a simple but beautifully cut sleeveless, above-the-knee blue satin dress.

“Gorgeous, but is it a little bit too cocktail-y for daytime?”

“If it were any shorter or tighter, it would be. Remember, this is
The View
, not a hard news report. The ladies are going to be asking you Oprah-y questions about how witnessing the crash made you
feel
, what it was like seeing injured children, touchy-squishy stuff. I want you to look feminine—and your very best. Try it on.”

Erica slips out of her cream suit (which seems so dull in comparison) and into the dress. She looks in the full-length mirror on the back of her office door. The dress is lovely and flattering.

“Move a little. See how it feels.”

Erica walks around the office, sits, crosses her legs, stands up.

Nancy clocks how the dress moves on her body. “Does it feel comfortable, relaxed?”

“It feels . . .
fabulous
!” Erica says, breaking into a huge grin.

“There's nothing I like better than a happy customer. Hold still.” Nancy takes a piece of tailor's chalk out of a bag hanging on the rack and makes quick marks on the waist and hem of the dress. “A couple of small alterations and you'll be good to go.”

Erica changes back into her suit and hands Nancy the dress.

“I'll get this back to you ASAP,” Nancy says.

“I can't thank you enough.”

“Rosario told me you were one of the nice ones.”

“Hey, we're all in this together.”

Nancy's face darkens, she lowers her chin and raises her eyebrows—the message is unmistakable: not everyone at GNN shares
that
sentiment.

As soon as she's alone, Erica turns back to the ferry story. She wants to understand the mechanics of how the boat's controls could have frozen like they did. She needs to talk to an IT expert. She picks up the phone and calls the Smart Room. “Judith, it's Erica.”

“Congratulations on
The View.
I'm sure Nancy Huffman found you a nice dress.”

Boy, there's no privacy around this place.
Two men Erica has never seen before, wearing sunglasses and dark suits, walk past her office. She gets up and closes the door.

“Listen, I want to find an IT expert who can explain how the Staten Island ferry's computer systems work.”

“We've got one of the best in-house, Mark Benton. He's in charge of keeping our work computers up-to-date and running smoothly. He's on the third floor. Extension 4437.”

Erica decides to go down to the third floor and meet Benton in person. Just as she gets up, there's a rap on her door and—before Erica has a chance to answer—Claire Wilcox's head pops in. “Peek-a-boo!” she chirps in a failed attempt at girlish charm. She strides into the room, slaps on a serious expression, and says, “
Good
work.”

“Thank you.”

“We're a team here at GNN, and when one of us does well, it reflects well on all of us.”

Erica's bullcrap alarm starts to sound.

“You probably know that my show is our highest rated. Which lifts us all up.” She gives Erica a meaningful glance. “I mean without a flagship show, the network would be floundering. Nylan might decide he can't continue to bleed money and shut the whole thing down.”

Erica doesn't remind Claire that her ratings are far from stellar, and that Erica broke the network's viewership records with her ferry coverage. “Your point is taken.”

“Good. Then I'm sure you'll understand why I'm taking over the Staten Island ferry story.”

“You're
what
!”

“I'm just much better equipped to handle it. I've got a staff of five, including a full-time researcher. I'm running a special segment on the tragedy on my show today. I've already got the footage of your interviews with the NTSB and the pilot. We're editing you out. Scott Lansing, the nation's top expert on boat safety, is going to be my live guest.”