And my way meant no dream boards, no spending sprees that would land me in a cell.
“Whatever you want.” Emily squeezed me tighter. “I’m just so glad you’re home.”
“We’re going to use a computer program,” I said.
“I love that.”
“I said computer program. We’re going to use a computer program to pay off Ginger’s debt. And I’m in charge of it.”
I would control the money. Me and only me. Because if I couldn’t stop Emily and Ginger from going ahead with this, I could at least keep them on a leash.
Emily released me and went to the fridge to search for, most likely, a fresh bottle of Asti Spumante.
“Did you hear me?” I said. “I’m going to be in charge. And for fuck’s sake, don’t tell anyone else! And make sure Ginger doesn’t either.”
“Okay, okay,” Emily said. “I’m just happy you’re back.”
14
THE NEXT DAY, back at work, it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself down on Robert’s $1,200 wingtips and beg for forgiveness. The brief respite I’d felt, the sense that I’d made it to the other side of this mess, had been given over to acute guilt and shame. To make things worse, it was the day of Robert’s weekly editorial meeting with his managing editors—for which I was called upon to do the most important task I had all week.
This recurring meeting was the fifteen minutes or so Robert spent deciding Titan’s “message of the week,” which would then be pounded away at through his various media outlets, resonating throughout the country. (Remember: Even if you haven’t heard of Robert, he has influenced you. If you exist in the modern world, he owns all or a portion of the media you consume.) This fact—that one man could have so much influence—enraged many people. To me, all it meant was that it was ten a.m. on a Tuesday.
Today, though, my hand shook as I set down a pitcher of ice water and a stack of cups at the center of the conference room table. Physically, I was falling apart. Someone of my already-anxious constitution was just not designed for a life of crime. If I wasn’t careful I thought I might end up giving myself a heart attack, or waking up one day with a head full of gray hair and a face like Keith Richards’.
I stood beside the conference room doorway, waiting, notepad and pen in hand, trying to do yoga breathing, or what I thought yoga breathing was supposed to be.
Dillinger entered the room first, as usual, immediately followed by Cooper, Hayes, and McCready. Then Robert entered, taking his place at the head of the table.
Now I was free to sit, as far away from everyone as possible, which, given the football-field-length nature of the conference table, was actually quite far.
Robert began talking, picking up where he’d left off in some previous statement. “I want our reporters to challenge him,” he said. And I began scribbling notes, fortunately (for me) understanding who he meant by “him.”
To be clear: the “message of the week” was often a directive to frame (or some might say spin) a current piece of news in an unfavorable light for the currently Democratic president. Today, though, Robert changed it up a bit. Today’s directive was instead a character assassination on an antitrust activist who’d recently made some public statement that pissed Robert off.
Dillinger and Co. nodded.
“Embarrass him,” Robert said. “Humiliate him.”
More nodding.
This was how our multiplatform news-media talking points were composed. I wrote down whatever Robert said, while everyone else agreed with him.
“Let’s spend a good deal of time discrediting his basic argument,” Robert continued. “Anything to disrupt him. Find that information and report it. Got that, Tina?”
I looked down at my chicken-scratched paragraph. It was my turn to nod.
“Good.”
Done. Everyone stood up. I returned to my desk, entered the memorandum into an e-mail, and sent it out to the entire staff. God bless freedom of the press.
Character assassination turned out to be the overarching theme of my entire workday, the poignancy of which, in light of my newly renewed role as traitor and embezzler, was not lost on me.