The Newsmakers Read online

  He takes her hand to lead her inside and she whispers, “Greg, I’m . . . I’m not ready . . . not yet.”

  And he looks at her and smiles away his disappointment. He tenderly brushes her hair off her forehead, then leans down and kisses her one more time. “Speaking of ready, it’s time to eat.”

  “I’m so hungry,” Erica says, although food is the furthest thing from her mind.

  CHAPTER 49

  ERICA IS SOMEWHERE IN DEEPEST Queens, sweating and straining, huffing and puffing—and it feels so good.

  “Run the pattern one more time,” Grandmaster Nam Soo Kyong tells the class, which obediently runs through the Tae Kwon Do series of stretches, kicks, and lunges yet again.

  The dojang is crowded; about half the practitioners are Asian, the rest are the usual New York mosaic of colors, shapes, and ages. Erica found the place online, where it earned rave reviews. Then she dressed down, stuck a cap on her head, and took the subway out to Flushing. She walked down from the elevated station to find a thriving neighborhood of fruit-and-vegetable stands selling exotic produce she’d never seen before, restaurants, clothing stores, fish markets spilling onto the sidewalks thick with shoppers. Every sign is in Korean, incomprehensible chatter fills Erica’s ears, the air is aromatic with exotic spices, car exhaust, and fresh fish—immigrants bring such entrepreneurial energy to this city, to this country, she thinks. These are people hungry for the American dream, and she hates the way they’ve been demonized by xenophobic ideologues.

  Nobody in the dojang seems to recognize Erica, which is both disappointing and liberating. After the warm-up, the class breaks into partners and the sparring starts. Erica finds herself facing off against a teenage Korean girl—who is fierce. She and the girl exchange head-height kicks and blocks, jumping and spinning—the whole body focused on the foot, concentration fierce. And then, between kicks, total relaxation, which conserves and marshals the energy. All of it performed with breath control—exhale on the kick.

  Tae Kwon Do was developed in Korea in the 1940s, a hybrid of Japanese karate, Chinese martial arts, and ancient Korean self-defense and combat exercises. It goes beyond the actions and moves—stressing courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-discipline, and invincibility.

  Erica took her first class when she was a freshman at Yale. She had two motives. One was to make sure that her father was the last man who ever hit her. The other was that Yale’s urban campus was foreign territory to a girl who’d grown up in all-white rural Maine. The uncomfortable truth was that it took her some months to get comfortable with all the diversity. Once she did, she fell in love with the melting pot. And with Tae Kwon Do.

  Erica came to think of her classes in New Haven as lessons in adulthood. Early on, she was tempted to go home and test what she’d learned on her father. But that rage for revenge faded as her practice strengthened. Why sink to her parents’ level?

  The fact is Erica has never been back home since that late-August day when she left for Yale. Her mother drove her to the bus station. When they arrived, there was a moment of silence. They sat there, the engine running, daughter off to forge a life out of the trauma and chaos of her childhood, mother back to the leaky prefab, her pot pipe, and her black-market painkillers. Sitting in the rickety Chevy, there was so much to say. And nothing to say. Her mother lit a Kool. Erica got out of the car, got her one suitcase out of the backseat, and turned toward the tiny bus depot.

  “Erica,” her mother called.

  Erica turned back. Her mother was leaning across the front seat toward the open passenger window.

  “Listen, you’re off to that fancy school now. No one in this family has ever had that kind of chance. Then again, no one’s ever had your brains.”

  Erica was buoyed—her mother was going to send her off with words of encouragement.

  “But just remember, you can change a lot of things in your life, but you can’t ever, ever change where you come from. And deep down, you’ll never be better than any of us.” She snickered, took a drag of her cigarette, and drove off.

  With each Tae Kwon Do move, Erica feels herself growing more centered and engaged in the moment. She tries to stare down the fear that has been festering inside her since she found those glasses in front of her computer, that ratcheted up after the elevator jerked to a sudden, terrifying stop, that was further fueled by the water bugs crawling out of the red roses. But no matter how deeply she breathes or how graceful her moves, she can’t shake the sense that she’s in danger.

  The class ends. Erica thanks her sparring partner and the grandmaster. She is so glad she came. Not only because her practice feels tuned up and sharpened, but because she renewed her connection to a discipline that has been important to her, that helped her survive at Yale. And that may help her survive in the days ahead.

  As she walks out into the New York evening, she turns on her cell phone and sees there’s been a call from Moira. She calls her back on her prepaid.

  “Hey, Erica, we just heard from a source in the LAPD that there’s been a break in the Barrish case. No word on what it is.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll call Detective Takahashi.”

  “And, Erica, I did some serious digging on Fred Wilmot.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “I’d call it disturbing. Wilmot and Nylan Hastings have been best friends since grade school. They grew up together in Winnetka, a rich suburb of Chicago. Hastings went off to Stanford, Wilmot to Brown. He was the first person Hastings brought on board when he founded Universe. When he was at Brown, Wilmot was accused of selling cocaine to his classmates. It was never proved and the school handled it internally.”

  “Not exactly the best character reference, but we all make mistakes at that age.”

  “It’s the mistake he made when he was ten that disturbs me. With his best friend Nylan watching, he doused a neighbor’s golden retriever with lighter fluid and set it on fire.”

  Erica stops dead on the sidewalk. “Oh no.”

  “Then they stood there and watched it burn.”

  “I feel sick, Moy.”

  “Erica, you’re working for men who have ambitions beyond our imagining. Cold, ruthless, predatory men, men who light dogs on fire. Be careful.”

  Should she tell Moira about the glasses, the elevator, the water bugs? She doesn’t want to alarm her friend even more. And she doesn’t want to jeopardize her career by leaping to any unproven conclusions. Those glasses were probably a cheap stunt by Claire Wilcox. She has no proof the elevator incident was intentional. The water bugs were pretty juvenile in the end. Erica has an awful lot at stake—her future with Jenny, her show, her power, her salary. She can’t let overblown fears derail her. She’s got an investigation to pursue.

  “Thanks, Moy, I will be careful. Now let me look into this development in the Barrish case. You may see me soon.”

  “Every cloud.”

  Erica hangs up and calls Takahashi.

  “Erica, you must have some good sources.”

  “Starting with you.”

  “The DNA results are back on the blood that was found in the trunk of the stolen Lexus. Arturo Yanez is a match. No big surprise there. But we also found some prints and got a match. They belong to one Miguel Fuentes. Six priors including attempted murder. Member of the Nortenos, one of the most notorious gangs in East LA.”

  “So Yanez’s murder was a paid gang hit.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a location on Fuentes?”

  “We have a last known, but we’ve already been there and he’s long gone. He’s probably trying to get out of the country. The airlines, bus companies,
and border crossings have his name, picture, and description.”

  “I’ll be in the studio in about forty-five minutes. Can I get you on for an interview?”

  “Call me ten minutes before you’re ready to go live.”

  “Are you at LAPD headquarters?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get a crew down there ASAP. And listen, would I be in your way if I came out there?” This question is strictly a courtesy—the press can go where it wants—but Erica is developing a relationship with Takahashi and wants to be deferential. It could pay off later.

  “A good reporter is always welcome.”

  Erica hangs up and calls Greg. He’ll deal with getting an LA crew to police headquarters. “I may want to fly out there to cover this.”

  There’s a pause. “I understand why you want to, Erica, but it has to be cleared with Nylan. And as you know, he wants you elevated, not out in the field where you’re just one of many reporters.”

  “Kay Barrish died in my arms. This is my story.”

  “Agreed. But we have to be very strategic. Figure out the best way to present it to Nylan. Let’s talk when you get here. Now let me get that LA crew in place for your Takahashi interview.”

  Erica hangs up. Even Greg seems to be backing up Nylan. Even Greg. And that elevator, shuddering and then stopping . . . she was all alone in the dark. Trapped. Is it a trap? Erica steps into a nearby doorway and hugs herself. The fear that she’s been fighting—that she’s not safe at GNN, that she’s being watched and controlled and manipulated by Nylan and his money and power and sickness, that she’s in danger, not safe, not safe—springs to full leering life.

  Several passersby look at her, curious. Do they recognize her, the blonde woman huddled in a doorway? An elderly Korean man approaches her. He smiles, a kind smile. “Do you need directions?”

  “No, no . . . I’m fine. I was just, um, talking on the phone. I’m going to the subway now, that’s all, thank you.”

  As Erica crosses the street, she tries to rid her mind of the image of that poor golden retriever burning to death on a suburban street.

  CHAPTER 50

  ERICA SPENDS THE REST OF the afternoon and evening reporting on the break in the Yanez murder. She interviews Takahashi and broadcasts Fuentes’s mug shot. During a break she confers with Greg about the best way to approach Nylan about her heading back to LA, and they hatch a plan. On her next break she calls him.

  “Nylan, I want to do an hour-long piece on the Barrish murder, frame it as a commentary on American culture and our national loss, with a focus on California. I’ve got a request in with the governor for an interview—his press aide was very receptive. I’ve lined up the state’s most respected historian and a UCLA expert on collective trauma. I’ve got interview requests out with Streisand, Schwarzenegger, and Spielberg. Their people all responded positively to the idea. I think this could be a fascinating and important piece.” She recalls the words of Archie Hallowell: Sometimes you have to lie your way to the truth.

  There’s a pause. “I like it. But keep the focus on the sociology and the collective trauma, not on the investigation. High-minded. Milk the celebrities for all they’re worth. Soft focus. See if you can wring a few tears out of Streisand. How soon can you get started?”

  “I thought I’d fly out to LA tomorrow.”

  “Can you pull the piece together by the end of the week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t forget we have a date in DC on Sunday night. The Correspondents’ Dinner.”

  “I can’t wait,” Erica says, a shiver of revulsion racing up her spine.

  CHAPTER 51

  ON THE FLIGHT TO LA, Erica sits in her first-class seat, laptop open, perusing the websites of New York’s best girls’ schools: Chapin, Spence, Brearley. She thinks Jenny would do better without boys around, one less distraction. She also feels strongly that Jenny needs continuity and stability in her life; she’d like to find a school that’s a good match for the long term, a place Jenny can put down some roots and flourish all the way until college.

  There’s something intimidating about the schools, with their history and traditions, their impressive alumnae, their websites bursting with positivity, good works, and academic promise. Many of her snootier Yale classmates went to these schools or others just like them. And now—she thinks with no small satisfaction—she’ll be sending her daughter to one. If, of course, she’s able to gain custody. Big if. Big and potentially ugly if. But Erica has been in touch with Morris Ernst, one of the country’s best child-custody lawyers. He told her that with her profile, he believes she can gain custody—that they can reason with Dirk, make it clear to him that with her resources, Erica can provide Jenny with so many advantages that Dirk, with his teacher’s salary, simply can’t.

  Erica clicks off the Spence site and onto Stribling real estate. It’s time for a little guilty pleasure—she looks at several apartments on the Upper West Side, which is close to work and schools and bracketed by two beautiful parks. The prices are staggering—a million dollars buys you a nice one-bedroom. She’d love to be in a prewar co-op and lingers over the photos of a two-bedroom on West Eighty-First facing the Museum of Natural History—it has a large living room, lovely views of the museum and the small park that surrounds it, a fireplace, wide hallways, a sense of solidity and space.

  She imagines Jenny coming home from school, rushing down the hallway to fill Mom in on her day. The two of them in front of the fireplace on winter Sundays, Jenny doing homework and Erica working her way through the Sunday Times. Tucking Jenny in at night, the twinkling park lights out the window. Both of them in a safe place. A safe place. The apartment is 1.75 million. She can hardly believe she can afford it. But she can.

  She’s on an early flight—it lands in LA at nine thirty a.m.—and as the flight attendant brings her a small tray of exquisite breakfast pastries, Erica feels ready for what lies ahead. There’s a lot on her shoulders, but maybe that’s a good thing—there’s no room left for that fiery demon that likes to perch there and hiss in her ear . . . “You can’t ever, ever change where you come from. And deep down, you’ll never be better than any of us.”

  Erica picks up her rental car and drives to Moira’s house in Los Feliz. She finds the fake rock tucked under the cactus in the side yard, slides it open and takes out the key, and lets herself into the house. There’s a note on the dining room table that reads Mi casa es su casa and a bouquet of fresh flowers in her bedroom.

  Erica unpacks, washes off all traces of makeup, changes into sweat pants, running shoes, and a shapeless top. She tucks all her hair up under an unflattering canvas hat and puts on a pair of clunky sunglasses.

  Driving southeast from Los Feliz through Silverlake and Echo Park and into downtown LA is like moving through the layered strata of ancient rock. The large houses and perfect landscaping give way first to modest bungalows, and then to neglected apartment houses and rundown commercial buildings, and finally to teeming Skid Row—down-and-out in LA—thousands of people who are some combination of poor, addicted, struggling, defeated, crazy, or lost. It’s a great sea of humanity and they’re all drowning—in the shadows of the gleaming towers of the city’s revitalized downtown business district.

  This is the neighborhood of Miguel Fuentes’s last known address. Erica drives slowly, searching the faces. She’s looking for Fuentes, of course, but she’s also fascinated by this raw underbelly of Los Angeles, in part because she sees her own parents, her own childhood reflected here in an urban mirror. The sidewalks are lined with tents, mattresses, shopping carts, cardboard boxes, clothing, sleeping dogs, and nodding people. She sees a little girl, no more than five, sitting on a garbage bag full of clothing. She’s eating cook
ies out of a huge package; she and her clothes are filthy, but the little girl looks happy, savoring each bite of her lucky find. Then a man walks by and snatches the package out of her hands, and the girl starts to wail and wail. Nobody comes to comfort her.

  Erica finds the address where Fuentes lived. It’s on the far edge of Skid Row; the streets are marginally less chaotic and filthy here. The building itself is a two-story 1950s motel-style apartment house with outdoor walkways, way past whatever prime it may have had. There are lowlifes loitering around, and a sense of malevolence pervades the air. Erica parks in front and heads toward the stairs. Fuentes was in apartment twenty-one.

  “Save your time, the cops have been crawling all over the place.” Erica turns to see a skinny old woman sitting in a lawn chair, greedily sucking down an unfiltered cigarette, swimming in a muumuu, her lips painted a florid red. “That kid took a powder weeks ago.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “I’d say ‘to hell’—but he was already there.” She laughs at her witticism, showing perfect movie-star dentures.

  “Did he live here alone?”

  “That place was a revolving door. I’d say never less than five or six of them were living there at any time.”

  “Do you think they were fellow gang members?”

  “No, they were the string section of the LA Philharmonic.” She laughs again. “I was assistant prop master on Father Knows Best. I’m Old Hollywood. What do you think of them apples?”

  “Are they all out of the apartment?”

  “Yeah. The landlord is renovating the unit. Granite, stainless steel, spa tub.” She laughs again. “I am having it fumigated.”