Love at 11

Chapter Seventeen



I held my breath as Terrance scanned the script. Waited for him to whip out his red pen. To mutilate the words that I’d spent so long crafting. To tell me that I sucked as a writer and his pet Chihuahua could have written better.

So I waited. And waited.

He flipped to the last page without making a single mark, then replaced the other pages on top. He looked up, wearing a strange expression I couldn’t read.

“You can tweak it,” I said, lamely, when he didn’t speak.

“Are you kidding? This doesn’t need tweaking.”

Oh, great. He hated it that much? “Or rewrite it from scratch,” I amended. “If you want.”

Please don’t want to, I begged silently. Please let me have this one story the way I want it.

“Rewrite?” Terrance looked down at the paper and then up at me. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t change a word.”

I almost fell over backward. “You ... you wouldn’t?” Was this some kind of sick joke? I figured he’d at least ask if we could shoot him doing a ride-along with border patrol or something equally lame.

“No. This is the best piece of journalism I’ve seen in the last ten years. You’ve covered all the angles. It’s fair. It gives all the facts. You’re uncovering a major scandal that has been going on for years and no one—not even the DEA—has any clue about it.”

“Well, um, thanks,” I said modestly. Inside, my reaction was a bit livelier.

Oh, yeah! Maddy Madison, getting a compliment from Mr. Toller .Who rules the universe, bay-bee?

It took every bit of willpower not to start doing the Snoopy dance right then and there.

“You know, Madeline,” Terrance said, after not so surreptitiously checking his reflection in the mirror, “I was wrong about you. I assumed you were one of those cookie-cutter News Nine producers who had no brains and simply went along with whatever plastic surgery story of the week was assigned to her. But this …” He looked down at the script and back up at me. “This takes guts. It takes brains. It takes courage. I’ll be proud to put my name on this story.”

“Um, thank you,” I repeated, still at a loss for words. I knew I was blushing. Probably deep purple at this point. But at the same time I was pleased as punch. He liked my story! The fussy old anchorman liked my story!

“So, what’s your next move, Madeline?” Terrance asked. “After News Nine, I mean. If you’re writing stuff like this, you’re not going to be stuck in this hell-hole much longer.”

Wow. The compliments kept coming. I wondered if he was serious. Or if I told him about my Newsline dream he’d start making fun of me? Oh, what the heck. Let him. Having goals and dreams was nothing to be ashamed of.

“My ultimate dream goal is to become a Newsline producer,” I said, squaring my shoulders and daring him to put me down.

But he didn’t. He simply nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “That would be a good move for you, I think.”

“Really?” I asked before I could censor my enthusiasm.

“Produce a few more stories like this and you’re a shoo-in,” Terrance said. “And I’d be happy to give you my recommendation.”

I stared at him, still unable to get over his enthusiastic reaction to the script. I thought for sure, no matter how good it was, he’d tear it apart simply because it hadn’t been written by him. I would have never guessed in a million years that he would be offering me a reference to my dream job.

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that,” I said, finding my tongue.

“Now, about this story. Anything else you need me to do? A stand-up? Maybe some teases?” He paged through his Daytimer. “I’m available tomorrow afternoon after my Botox appointment.”

Here it was. He wanted to be in the story. He wanted thirty-seven of the fifty shots to be pictures of him.

“Terrance, can I ask you something?” I queried. I might as well lay all my cards on the table, even if that meant the compliments would cease.

He looked up. “Sure. What is it?”

“Why do you think it’s so important for you to be physically present in the story? I mean, what’s wrong with it just being your voice? Do you really think it adds to the piece to see you in it?”

He stared at me for a moment, as if in disbelief that I had asked him such a question. I bit my lower lip, waiting for the yell-fest to begin. Why couldn’t I have kept silent? Terrance opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He was beginning to resemble a goldfish.

“Have you looked around News Nine, Maddy?” he asked. “Counted how many people work here over the age of thirty-five?”

“Um, there’s.. .” I tried to think. My mind went blank. Surely there were one or two middle-aged people. “Well, there’s Don,” I said, referencing the old engineer that’d been working at News Nine since the days of black-and-white film.

“I mean on air. Reporters. Anchors,” Terrance clarified. “Don’t think too hard. There’s no one. I’m sixty-five years old and the next oldest reporter is thirty-three.” He cleared his throat. “Every time contract time comes around the station bosses ask themselves, why do we want to keep an aging, overpaid anchor around, when we could buy a hip, leather jacket–wearing, twenty-something replacement who will work for a quarter of his salary?”

I nodded slowly. I’d never thought about that. But it made perfect sense. There were hundreds of reporters banging down the door to work in “America’s Finest City.”

“The only thing I have going for me is name recognition. The viewers know who I am. They watch News Nine to see me and management knows it. If I ever lost that, I’d be kicked out the door with not so much as a ‘thanks for the memories.’”

“Right,” I mused. I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but what he was saying made perfect sense. In this business, approval ratings were everything. The viewers knew and trusted Terrance Toller to bring them the day’s news. And he’d built up that trust over years of hard work. Who could blame him for wanting to hang on to what he’d earned for as long as possible and not give it up to some random twenty-something who looked good in Jimmy Choos?

Terrance paused, fiddling with his pen. “So, yes, it may seem silly for me to put so much effort into getting my mug on TV, but the bottom line is, the viewers like it. And they’re what’s kept me on the air all these years.” He looked up at me, his eyes fierce and proud. “So I think I’ll carry on, if it’s all the same to you.”

I nodded at him with a newfound respect, and then, on impulse, stuck out my hand. “Sounds good to me,” I said as we shook. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Toller.” And strangely enough, I meant it.

“Likewise, Ms. Madison,” he replied. “Now let’s go bust some drug dealers!”



*



Mike popped the tape out of his edit deck and handed it to me with a smile on his face. “Your story, madam,” he quipped.

I grinned, taking the tape and bringing it to my lips to kiss it. “It came out great, didn’t it?” I said.

The editor nodded. “It’s way too good to be a News

Nine piece.”

I laughed. “Well, your editing helped a lot.” Mike had done an amazing job merging the undercover video with the interviews we’d done. It wasn’t overly edited, or too flashy like many News 9 pieces. It looked more like … well, to be completely honest, it looked like a Newsline piece. And I couldn’t be happier with it. “I aim to please,” Mike said, blushing a bit. “When does it air?”

“Well, I’ve got to go show it to Richard first,” I explained. “I’ve sort of been saving it as a surprise.”

Mike nodded. “He’s going to be thrilled.”

“I hope so.”

I exited the editing booth and walked through the newsroom to Richard’s office, still clutching my precious tape. I couldn’t wait another second to show him. To hear his praise. His admiration for a job well done.

If only all my producers were as talented as you, he’d say. “Hi, Richard,” I greeted, entering his office.

He looked up from his computer with a smile. “How are you, Maddy? Enjoying your new position?”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded, holding up the tape. “I thought you might like to see my latest story.”

“Sure.” Richard gestured to the tape deck. “Pop it in. Let’s see.”

I inserted the tape, pressed “play,” and sat down in a chair, holding my breath. The piece played out and I couldn’t help being impressed all over again by how it looked. Each frame was perfect; I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Finally, Terrance tagged out and the video faded to black.

I hopped up to push the “stop” button. Then I sat back down in my chair and waited breathlessly for the accolades. The applause. The pat on the back. The good job, Maddy, you’re the most brilliant young producer to come through the ranks of News 9 in years.

You’ve probably figured out by now that I got none of the above.

“What the hell was that?” Richard asked instead, twirling back in his chair to face me, his expression stony. “Huh?” It was the only reply I could come up with on short notice, since all my planned comments had been of the “Awh shucks, thanks boss, all in a day’s work” variety.

“I thought you were working on ‘Murderous Mail.’”

“I am. For, um, next week.” Why did he look so pissed?

“I don’t remember assigning you this story.”

“Well, that’s because, you, um, didn’t. I got a hot tip and took the initiative to run with it.”

“I see.” Richard motioned for me to sit. “Maddy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Though I knew for a fact I wouldn’t like the question.

“Who signs your checks?”

Oh. That was easy. “Brenda in accounting,” I said promptly. Why the heck was he asking me that?

“I mean,” Richard clarified in a tight voice. “Who makes sure that when you cash your check, there’s money in the account to cover it?”

“Oh! You mean Mr. Bur—err, Mr. Michaelson, that is.” Oops, I’d almost slipped and called News 9’s owner by his behind the scenes nickname: Mr. Burns. Dubbed after the old miser in The Simpsons. Trust me, he looked and acted the part. And our salaries were as pitiful at Homer’s.

“And where do you think Mr. Michaelson gets the money to pay you?”

“Could you stop the twenty questions routine and let me know what’s wrong?” What did any of this have to do with my story?

“Advertisers!” Richard proclaimed, as if he’d stumped me.

I stared at him, realizing where this was heading. “Rocky Rodriguez,” I mumbled. Damn it all to hell. I couldn’t believe he was going there. Not with such an important, big story.

“What was that?” Richard asked.

“Rocky Rodriguez,” I said louder, staring him in the eye with my most defiant expression. “You don’t want to run the story because one of the bad guys selling drugs is Rocky Rodriguez. Owner of Pacific Coast Cars. A News Nine advertiser.”

“Bingo! Give the girl a gold star.”

“Yeah, but …” I didn’t know how to argue this. I understood his point: News 9, as a rule, did not make negative statements about its advertisers on the evening news. But this was different, wasn’t it? This wasn’t saying a bakery lied about the fat content in their blueberry muffins. Or that a popular chain restaurant’s pint glass only poured out to fourteen ounces of brew. This was a San Diego business leader smuggling drugs and human cargo into the United States of America. Certainly that called for a different set of standards.

“No buts. Pacific Coast Cars is our number one advertiser. We would have no newscast without them. And if we have no newscast, you and I have no jobs. Got it?” Richard pounded on the desk for emphasis. “Not to mention the absurd amount of cash Senator Gorman has spent on commercials for his reelection campaign. Not only would we lose those, but we’d likely be sued by his office for slander.”

I stared at him in disbelief, my heart sinking to my knees. He wouldn’t run the story. My potential Emmy-winning, Newsline demo tape story. The story I’d risked my life to get. The best story I’d ever produced. And because of corporate f*cking greed it would never see the light of day.

“Look, Maddy.” Richard’s tone softened. “You’re a great producer. The piece is excellent, I’m not denying that. But we don’t live in an idealistic world, here. That ivory tower of journalism? You should know that’s just a myth.”

I did know that. But it still hurt to hear him admit it out loud. I thought back to the day I graduated from college, journalism degree in hand. I had such high expectations. I was going to right society’s wrongs.

Expose the bad guys. Make the world safe for democracy. But it would never happen, I now realized.

“This is such an important topic,” I argued without much life left. “It’d save millions of lives.” Like he really cared. He only cared about his own life. His own job. “Maybe I’ll turn it over to the Feds if you won’t run it.” Though deep inside, I knew that wasn’t enough. After all, without widespread exposure to bring on public outcry, Gorman’s golf buddies could just bury it all under years of bureaucracy.

“Did you know Laura was leaving?” Richard asked suddenly.

I squinted at him, trying to follow the subject change. Our executive producer was quitting? “No! I had no idea. Why?”

“She’s off to join some PR firm. Decided to go for the big bucks instead of slaving away in a newsroom her whole life. Can’t say I blame her, really.”

Wow. I always knew Laura didn’t really have her heart in the whole TV-news thing, but I never thought she’d actually quit. Evidently she’d found a new career that would still get her invited to all the industry parties and at the same time pay the bills.

“Did you find her replacement yet?” Maybe it’d be someone cool. Someone with good taste in story ideas. Someone who would once in a great while allow something remotely journalistic to slip through.

“Actually, we did.” Richard looked pointedly at me. “Who—?” I caught the look. “Not … You don’t mean … Me?”

“Why be so surprised? You’re a talented producer with a great sense of story. I think you’d be great for the job.”

I stared at him, confused as all hell. First, he rebukes me for producing a story that implicates News 9’s biggest advertiser as a drug-dealing criminal. Then he wants to promote me? It didn’t make sense.

Unless … Unless he was trying to buy me of. Was he that scared I’d go run the story somehow? Or go around telling all my coworkers that he’d axed it because he was afraid of losing a sponsor? I felt a little sick to my stomach.

“I’m honored that you thought of me, sir. But—”

“Great. Then it’s settled. You start tomorrow. Laura will show you the ropes before she leaves.”

This was happening too fast. I couldn’t process it all. Was it a genuine opportunity or a bribe to keep my mouth shut?

“Oh, and here’s what we’ll be raising your salary to.” Richard scribbled a number down on a sticky note and slid it across his desk.

I stared down at it, thinking at first my dyslexia must be playing up and I was seeing the numbers in the wrong order. But no, after a few blinks to focus, they remained, clear as day. They wanted to pay me that? I mean it wasn’t a PR salary by any means, but it was nearly double what I’d been making as a regular producer. I’d never have to worry about making the rent. And I could buy good bottles of wine instead of that dreadful blush in a box I’d been stocking in my fridge.

Not to mention it was a huge career move. I’d get a lot of added responsibility and I’d have a staff. And even better, I’d get to assign stories to the producers that had journalistic integrity. I could even do away with the Household Products That Kill series. Sure, I’d lose this investigation, but I could assign ten others, equally as important that didn’t happen to involve advertisers. For the first time, I, Maddy Madison, could make a difference.

Maybe I should take it.

Of course, that would mean giving up my Newsline dream. Going into management was another career track altogether. But, hey—maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. After all, who wanted to move to NYC or LA to slave away at some entry-level position at the national news magazine show? I had family here. Friends. My wonderful boyfriend Jamie. This was my life.

I’d probably hate it at Newsline anyway, I justified. I’d have to leave everyone behind and rent some stuffy, rodent-infested studio in Queens. Or New Jersey, and everyone would always ask what exit I lived off of.

“I’ll take it,” I declared. “Thanks. It’s really an honor.”

“You deserve it.” Richard held out his hand, a big smile on his face. I shook it, pushing the nagging guilt of selling out deep inside. “Welcome aboard.”

Back in Cubicle Land, I found Jamie sitting at my desk. I leaned down and gave him a warm hug. “You’ll never guess! I’m going to be executive producer.”

“Really? Great,” he replied in an automatic voice. Almost as if he hadn’t heard me.

I narrowed my eyes, studying him closely. He looked bad. Pale-faced, hands trembling bad. Something was definitely up. “You okay, Jamie?”

“We need to talk.”

Oh, God, I hated those words. What now? This was turning into a roller coaster of a day.

“Oh … okay.” I could feel my pulse kick up a few notches as my good mood vanished into the shadows.

“Not here, though. What time are you leaving?”

I glanced at my watch. “Um, in like a half hour.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at your apartment.” He rose and turned to leave.

I grabbed his arm. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

He attempted a smile and failed miserably. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. Really, really bad. “I’ll be by around six thirty.”

“S-sure.” I reluctantly let go of his arm. What was going on? My stomach knotted in apprehension. After he walked away I realized I hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell him they’d axed our drug tunnel piece.

“So, how’d Richard like the story?” Jodi asked, bounding into my cubicle a moment later. “Did he fall over backward at how awesome it was? I bet he did, right?”

“Um, not exactly.” I briefed her on how it went down. “And then he offered me a promotion, if you can believe it. Evidently Laura’s leaving to go sell out as a publicist and they need a new executive producer.”

Jodi shook her head in amazement. “I hope you told him where he could shove that promotion,” she said with an angry voice. “I mean, really. What a slimeball.”

“Well …”

“But … you didn’t.” Jodi stared at me with a horrified expression on her face. “You didn’t actually agree to …?”

I hung my head, unable to look her in the eye.

“Oh, Maddy! How could you? It’s so obviously a bribe.”

“Yeah, but—”

“First he tells you to suppress the truth about News Nine’s biggest advertiser and then offers you a huge promotion completely out of the blue?”

I picked at a hangnail. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Well, it could be,” I said, feeling more than a bit defensive. Mainly because I knew she was completely right.

“So, what, you’re going to just throw away the best story you’ve ever produced and become one of them? Become management? Become the person who axes all the stories with journalistic integrity?” Jodi frowned. “I expected more from you. I thought you were better than that.”

I looked up, furious at her condemnation. “You don’t understand,” I retorted. “It’s a great job. And it’s a ton of money.”

“What about Newsline? You’re not going to be producing stories as an executive producer. How are you going to finish your Newsline résumé videotape?”

“Look, Jodi, let’s be realistic. We both know Newsline was a total pipe dream. It doesn’t matter how much crap I produced for News Nine. I’d never get there. My lot in life is here. In San Diego. I’m a local news kind of girl. And it’s high time I started living in the present and stopped striving for some glamorous dream job I’ll never get.” I held up the slip of paper where Richard had scribbled my new pay. “Look. It’s a good salary. I can start saving for a house. Get married. Become a mom. Live the good life.”

Jodi rose from her seat. “You disappoint me, Maddy. I never thought you’d be the one who settled.”

Anger rocked through me. “I’m not settling.”

“You are and you know it. But whatever. You’ve obviously made up your mind. Congratulations on your new job. I hope it makes you very, very happy.” And without another word, Jodi stormed off.

I glared at her retreating figure. How dare she be so harsh? She should be happy for me. She was probably jealous. Maybe she wished Richard promoted her instead of me. Maybe she didn’t like the idea that I’d be her boss from now on.

Or maybe she’s telling you something you need to hear, a nagging voice at the back of my head pestered.

Was I selling out? Sacrificing my journalistic integrity for a cushy position I didn’t even really want? But at the same time, what choice did I have? Me refusing the new job wasn’t going to suddenly convince Richard to air the drug tunnel story. And I couldn’t exactly sneak it on. Sure, I could mislabel the videotape with another story’s name to trick them into airing it. But it’d probably play for exactly three seconds before Richard realized what it was and called the control room to pull the plug. So, really, taking the executive producer job didn’t make a lick of difference in the short term and in the long term I could possibly make a difference around here. It was win-win.

So, why did I still feel so conflicted?