The Newsmakers Page 3

  When they’re done, Erica looks in the mirror. The transformation is both subtle and striking. Her eyes have never looked bluer, her cheekbones more sculpted, or her hair fuller or glossier.

  “Very pretty,” comes a honeyed voice from over Erica’s shoulder as a tall brunette strides into view. “I’m Claire Wilcox. Welcome to GNN.”

  Erica catches the look that Rosario and Andi exchange. She gets out of the chair and extends her hand. “Erica Sparks. What a pleasure. I’m a fan.”

  It’s true—she is a fan of Wilcox’s prime-time show, a fast-paced mix of hard news and human-interest stories. Claire has been with the network since its launch and is its biggest star, although her ratings are erratic. Tall and thin with a killer body, shrewd brown eyes, hair so thick it must be extension-enhanced, and a face that looks more angular in person than on-screen—she radiates drive, intensity, and a buttery charm. Chilled butter.

  Claire steps past Erica and sits in the makeup chair with a proprietary air. The two women make eye contact in the mirror. “I hear you’ve scored three hundred seconds with Kate Middleton.”

  How did Claire learn that so quickly? What pulse does she have her finger on? Erica takes note: there are no secrets at GNN and word travels like wildfire.

  Just be careful. Please.

  “I have, yes,” Erica answers.

  “Good luck getting five interesting words out of her. She’s the plastic princess, a yawn in a tailored suit. The Royal Family was determined not to have a second Diana. I think they overcorrected.” Claire examines herself in the mirror, turning her head from side to side. “I have Chelsea Clinton on tonight. She has some substance. And Diane Von Furstenberg is giving us a sneak peek at her fall collection.” Claire drops eye contact and turns to Rosario and Andi. “Girls, work your magic.”

  Erica stands there, slightly stunned by Claire’s energy and nerve. The woman is a force of nature. Good. Having a colleague that sharp will only force her to up her own game. Still, there’s something feral and predatory about Claire that unsettles Erica.

  Focus on yourself.

  She heads back down the hall, determined to get more than five interesting words out of the duchess.

  CHAPTER 4

  ERICA IS FASCINATED BY BATTERY Park, that stretch of green that lies at the very southern tip of Manhattan. The view it affords of New York Harbor—deep and protected, the reason the city originally grew and prospered five centuries ago—is breathtaking. The nautical bustle of barges, tugs, yachts, cruise ships, and kayaks reflects the enlivening mix of commerce, pleasure, and grit that defines the city today. The Statue of Liberty stands guard over the scene, and Ellis Island—first stop on the American dream for so many millions—is visible close to the New Jersey waterfront. Turn around and the towers of Wall Street loom, potent symbols of Manhattan’s economic might. Anchoring the east side of the park is the Staten Island Ferry terminal, where the workhouse ferries chug in and out twenty-four hours a day.

  On this early spring day—blue-skied and sparkly—the park is groomed and lovely, filled with daffodils and tulips, a respite for city workers on their lunch hour, tourists, and dreamers. As Erica takes it all in, she can hardly believe this is her city now. But there will be a time for swooning. Right now she’s working. And Battery Park is a prop in her piece on the duchess, setting the scene and providing context.

  She goes over her notes as Manny, her cameraman, and Derek, her soundman, get set up. They and associate producer Lesli Gaston make up her pod, the crew that will travel with her to cover local stories. They all got to know one another a little on the drive downtown. Manny is Puerto Rican, Derek grew up on an Iowa farm, and Lesli is gay. Erica loves that her crew reflects the diversity and unity that make New York great. In this town it’s about the work—not what language you speak, the color of your skin, or who you love.

  Erica stands on the promenade with the harbor behind her, establishing the visual she wants. Behind her, a Staten Island ferry approaches the terminal. A little ways away is Castle Clinton, a circular stone fort that is the remaining vestige of the ramparts that originally lined the battery and protected the city. Beside the castle is an enormous tent, site of the luncheon in honor of the duchess. There’s a lot of buzzing about the tent. Waiters, florists, and chefs finish their prep; Secret Service agents and their British counterparts in dark suits and dark glasses hover and observe; and socialites in spring dresses anxiously triple-check their clipboards and smartphones (nobody worships royalty with the fervor of the American upper class).

  This isn’t a live report—it will be edited and aired later in the day—which takes some of the pressure off. But it’s Erica’s first assignment with GNN, and she’s determined to make it perfect.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Erica,” Lesli says.

  Erica takes a deep breath and puts on her game face. “Let’s roll.” She smiles into the camera and begins, “This is Erica Sparks reporting from Battery Park at the southern tip of Manhattan, where a luncheon is being held in honor of the Duchess of Cambridge, better known to most Americans as Kate Middleton.” Erica walks a few steps down the promenade and gestures to the park. “This piece of land has hosted a great deal of history. Today it welcomes the British, but on November 25, 1783, great crowds gathered here to watch the last British troops leave after their defeat in the Revolutionary War. The patriots jeered King George’s vanquished army as it sailed away, and in response one of the British warships fired a cannonball at the crowd. It was the last shot fired in the war—and it fell far short of land. Later that day George Washington marched triumphantly down the island of Manhattan and claimed the battery as American soil. Today the future Queen of England returns to reclaim the land—over a lunch of poached salmon and baby vegetables—”

  Suddenly screams, screams of terror, fill the soft spring air. Like a great crashing wave, they grow louder, stronger, more panicked. Erica looks around wildly and sees the Staten Island ferryboat heading full speed ahead, not toward its berth in the terminal, but directly toward the seawall that encircles the park. The passengers on deck are screaming, and now the pedestrians in the park are screaming too, running, running away from the hulking tons of steel heading right at them.

  Erica lowers her mic and cries, “Get the shot, Manny! Go live, Lesli!” Then she raises the mic. “We’re witnessing a tragedy unfolding as a Staten Island ferryboat seems to be off course, out of control, and unable to stop.”

  The boat makes a desperate last-second attempt to veer back toward open water, but it’s too late. It slams into the seawall, tossing scores of passengers like rag dolls into the choppy harbor waters. Erica watches as a man is crushed between the boat’s steel and the seawall’s stone. The boat grinds along the seawall for what seems like an eternity before finally slowing and stopping with a fierce rumbling shudder. Inside the upper-deck cabin Erica can see crumpled and flailing bodies. Other passengers were thrown onto land by the impact. Screams of agony fill the air.

  Erica continues to broadcast. “A Staten Island ferry has just crashed into the Battery Park seawall, killing and injuring many of the passengers.”

  As she speaks, scores of New Yorkers and tourists rush toward the carnage. They staunch wounds with anything available, often articles of their own clothing, offering comfort and calling for help on their cell phones. Erica sees several people jump into the water to rescue the drowning.

  A young Asian girl—she’s Jenny’s age—is lying on the ground, blood pouring from a head wound, her right leg twisted backward at an ominous angle. Erica shouts to Manny, “Don’t follow me—stay on the boat,” drops her mic, and runs to the child. She kneels beside her. “You’re going to be okay, sweet baby. You’re going to be okay.” Erica’s dress is useless as a tourniquet, so she tears o
ff the girl’s blouse, rolls it up, and wraps it around the child’s head, pressing on the wound. She cradles the girl to her chest. “You’re going to be okay, sweet thing, you’re going to be okay.”

  Now the girl starts to cry, to wail, “Mommy? Daddy!”

  “We’re going to find them, sweet girl, don’t you worry. We’re going to find your mommy and daddy. You’re going to be okay, baby girl. I promise, you’re going to be okay.”

  Now the air is pierced with a hundred sirens as ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars pour onto the scene. Two EMTs run to Erica and the girl; they load the child onto a stretcher with something close to tenderness. As they carry her away, the girl reaches out to Erica, who grabs her hand and kisses it again and again. “You’re going to be okay, I promise, sweet baby, I promise.”

  Similar rescues are happening all around Erica. Now she’s just in the way. Derek and Lesli have also been offering help to the injured. Manny stays true to his training, filming the scene. “Let’s get back to work,” Erica says.

  She picks up the mic. Her dress is crumpled and bloodstained, her hair flattened, her makeup smeared. “This is Erica Sparks reporting live from Battery Park in New York City, where a Staten Island ferry slammed into the seawall just minutes ago. You can see from the terrible scene around me that there have been numerous injuries and fatalities. We have no idea why the pilot of the boat lost control. The New York City Police Department has arrived in force. I see several Coast Guard boats speeding toward the scene, where passengers who were thrown into the water are being assisted by brave civilians who leapt in to save them. Other passengers have managed to swim to shore on their own. Medical crews have arrived and are transporting the injured to hospitals.”

  Erica looks over at the party tent—all concerned are standing in shock watching the scene. Clearly, there will be no luncheon for the Duchess of Cambridge. News trucks from the other networks are arriving and reporters begin to broadcast.

  Erica spots a dazed but uninjured man, a ferry passenger, sitting on a bench in shock. She knows a good interview subject when she sees one.

  “Come on, crew, follow me,” she says.

  CHAPTER 5

  SIX HOURS LATER ERICA ARRIVES back at her office. She’s in some realm beyond exhaustion, running on fumes. She’s covered fires, car crashes, and propane explosions, but never a disaster on this scale. By some miracle only five people died, but over eighty are hospitalized, two dozen of them in critical condition. As for the cause of the crash, the ferry’s pilot says the controls “just froze, like someone flicked a switch.” The National Transportation Safety Board arrived on the scene and has started its investigation. A computer malfunction is the suspected culprit.

  Erica sits down behind her desk, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. Suddenly a terrible loneliness descends on her. How do you come down from a day like today?

  By making dinner for your daughter and then helping her with her homework.

  Of course that’s out of the question. Still, the yearning feels like an open wound. She picks up her phone and dials.

  “Hello.”

  “Dirk, it’s Erica. May I speak to Jenny?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I didn’t let her watch you today. It would have been traumatic for her.”

  Erica takes a deep breath and struggles to control the anger rising inside her. “I won’t mention it. Can I please just say a quick hello?”

  Dirk sighs in that disapproving way of his. “All right. A quick hello.”

  She hears him calling Jenny to the phone.

  “Mommy?”

  “Hi, baby. How was school today?”

  “Good. We drew a huge map of America. Where are you?”

  “I’m in New York City.”

  “Can I come see you?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, of course you can. We’ll go see The Lion King.”

  “I’d rather see Aladdin.”

  “How about both?”

  There’s a pause, and then Jenny asks, “Are you okay, Mom?” There’s such concern in her voice, and a peculiar maturity. A maturity that comes from having seen her mother descending to the depths—something no child should have to witness. Something that forced Jenny to become the parent, at least for those last terrible months.

  Erica feels her throat tighten. “Yes, I’m fine. I had a hard workday, but that’s a good thing.”

  “I’m happy about your new job.”

  “I miss you, Jenny, I miss you so much. Be good. I love you.”

  Erica hangs up and feels nurtured by her daughter—she only hopes that Jenny feels nurtured by her. Sometimes amends take a long time.

  “How are you holding up?”

  Erica looks up. Greg is standing in the doorway, looking concerned.

  “I’m good.”

  “You are good. You’re very good.” He steps into the office. Evening stubble makes his jawline look even stronger. “Have you eaten?”

  “Actually, I don’t think I have.”

  “How about I take you out?”

  “What a nice offer. But I just want to decompress a little and head home. I’ve got some leftovers in the fridge. Early call tomorrow.”

  “You’re a pro, Erica,” Greg says.

  “Listen, Greg, I’d like to do an in-depth follow-up on today’s crash. Find out what happened, why, and what can be done to prevent it happening again.”

  “Great idea.”

  “I’ll get my first report in this week, while the story is still fresh.”

  “There she is,” Nylan Hastings says as he appears in the doorway.

  Erica has never met Hastings before and—remembering Rosario’s words—she feels a little wary. This emotion is followed by a sudden surge of insecurity and inadequacy. She’s the kid with the dirty cheeks and the dirty clothes, the kid who never invited other kids over to her house, ashamed of what they would find. She’s the student at Yale on a scholarship, all the privileged kids with their prep school pedigrees and condescension masked as curiosity. She suddenly remembers Suki Waterson, who carried a Hermès purse and wore Chanel flats to class, saying, “Oh, you grew up in rural Maine? What was that like?”

  Using all her psychic might, Erica pushes the dreaded feelings aside. She’s proud of what she’s accomplished. She’s earned that pride. And her experiences at Yale made her determined to treat everyone she meets with respect and dignity—it’s one of her core credos.

  Hastings steps into the room and extends his hand. “Nylan Hastings.”

  “I think I figured that out.” Erica stands, shakes his hand, and smiles. “After all, I am an investigative reporter.”

  “What a charmer.” Hastings laughs, but it’s a hollow laugh, almost like a learned behavior.

  Hastings, who is in his midthirties, is lanky. He’s wearing jeans, some very hip Nikes, and a T-shirt that reads ROCK THE COSMOS. The cool-kid effect is undercut by an emergent potbelly and dark circles under his eyes—they hint at something unsavory going on behind the façade. A shock of sandy hair hangs over his forehead, and his skin is unnaturally smooth—has he started Botox already? He radiates casual confidence, even entitlement.

  And no wonder. Hastings invented Universe, a video game in which users explore the galaxy and interact with intelligent life on other planets. It quickly became a global phenomenon, with over two hundred million monthly users. He sold Universe—which he solely owned—to Facebook for $5.7 billion. And then he founded Global News Network.

  “We made history today,” Hastings says. “Our ratings spiked, and for three hours
we beat every other cable network. That’s never happened before.”

  “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.