The Means

by Douglas Brunt

  “Wrong. Please. I can tune my Sirius Satellite Radio to a Pearl Jam channel,” he says. “Can I do that with the Who? I don’t think so. Case closed, Your Honor.”

  Samantha’s enjoying this. “You can’t go by that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the passage of time and taste matters. To Sirius, that matters.”

  “So what?”

  “There’s no Beethoven channel either. Anyone bigger than Beethoven? In his day. The Who was doing comeback tours in the eighties. Pearl Jam is still out touring with a following that tunes in to Sirius. You can’t compare.”

  “Elvis has a channel. He’s dead.”

  “I will stipulate that Elvis is bigger than the Who.”

  “There’s no arguing with lawyers.”

  The van pulls up to a six-story white brick apartment building just as a GBS News van is pulling up across the street. It will be a race to get to the story first.

  “How fast can you parallel park this thing, Ron?” the writer calls up to the driver.

  “Screw that,” says Samantha and she opens the sliding side door while the van is still rolling. Ron hits the brakes and they come to a full stop. Samantha steps out onto the pavement and turns back and points in the van at the person she thinks is the cameraman. “Come with me. What’s the apartment number?”

  “Four G,” someone yells from inside the van.

  “The rest of you meet us there.” Samantha looks at the GBS van and sees faces pressed to the side windows like kids at an aquarium. She and Alex, who is in fact the cameraman, jog into the lobby of the apartment building. “Stairs!” she yells.

  Alex takes this like a jolt of adrenaline. He’s no longer taping a package for a morning show, he’s deployed to a forward position. He moves ahead taking stairs three at a time with only one thing in mind. Get to 4G first.

  The elevation of the heels on Samantha’s shoes won’t allow her to take more than two steps at a time. As she rounds the third-floor landing she hears a knock on a door above her. As she makes the fourth-floor landing she hears the clamor of dropped equipment and shouting from the lobby below. Her team and GBS arrived to the lobby at the same time. She imagines a dozen people bouncing off each other and pulling each other back as they go up the stairs like football players after a fumble.

  She looks down the hall in time to see the door of 4G swing open, and her colleague bends an arm to her like a waiter presenting wine. “This is Samantha Davis with UBS.”

  A little, round, gray-haired man in a cardigan sweater and slacks is at the door with an arm around his wife’s waist, who is of matching shortness. They both look to be early seventies. Her hair is nicely combed in a short perm and she’s wearing a pink blouse. It’s clearly her best and has been for twenty years. “A pleasure to meet you,” Samantha says during an exhale that she can’t yet control.

  “Come in, come in!” says the man. He’s beaming. He’s in the middle of a life-changing moment and a steady state of elation.

  “I’m Alex Pierce,” says Samantha’s colleague, and they walk in and the man closes the door.

  “I’m Ned Prince. My wife, Frankie.”

  Ned shuffles them into the living room where there’s an emerald-­green felt sofa with three seat cushions and a matching one with two. “You two take the big one,” he says.

  It’s an old person’s home. There could be more natural light than there is but for the blinds and the heavy green curtains that match the sofa and are far older than Frankie’s pink blouse. There’s no art on the walls but some old photographs and a few patterned plates with wire mounts. There are some table lamps that are too large for the tables they’re on and a few limp potted houseplants that sell for $2.99 at Walmart. The whole thing is cute, thinks Samantha, though nobody under seventy would live this way.

  As they sit, there is a knock at the door that is more urgent than it needs to be.

  “Excuse me,” says Ned, and he walks back to the door.

  He opens the door and about a dozen people push through, knocking Ned on his heels and to the side while they stream past him.

  Samantha stands. “We’re in the middle of an interview.”

  Samantha’s producer Ron turns to one of the GBSers. “You guys need to get in the hall until we’re through.”

  “We’re on a timeline. You guys go ahead. I’ll stay and the rest of my team will go to the hall while I set up for our shot for when you’re done.”

  This seems to be a producer-to-producer discussion. Ron doesn’t like the idea of this guy sticking around but says, “Fine. Get the rest of your team out.”

  All of GBS but one leave while Ron and his team set up. Samantha takes the interview on a journey from the Prince family’s humble roots to the plans they have to stay in the community and put the money to good use. She learns that not only was Ned a mailman, but their son is a mailman and their grandson was a mailman for Halloween last year.

  “Do you have a picture?” asks Samantha. This will go over great in the package, she thinks.

  “I’m sure we do,” says Frankie, and she disappears to the next room. The UBS team working on the shoot doesn’t notice the GBS producer follow Frankie out.

  Ten minutes later Samantha starts to wrap up the interview. They have plenty of good material for a ninety-second package. Frankie has been back on the two-seater for several minutes and Samantha asks her, “Were you able to find a Halloween photo?”

  “Oh, yes. I gave it to that gentleman there.” She points to the GBS producer who looks nailed to the floor.

  Samantha stands and walks to him with her hand out.

  He takes it from his shirt breast pocket and gives it to her though his expression is defiant rather than embarrassed, as though she should know he had to try it and it was a good effort and she should respect that.

  “Asshole,” she says loud enough only for him.

  Back at the van, Ron helps Samantha step up through the sliding door. She appreciates the gesture and notes that he hadn’t done it on the way over. “You did a great job in there,” he says, and he holds eye contact and nods, trying to make sure she knows he’s not just saying this but really thinks it.

  “Thank you. That GBS crew is such a bunch of assholes.”

  “It’s not just that crew. That’s GBS. That’s how they are. You know how some basketball coaches will teach their players to step on a guy’s shoe when they’re on the free-throw line going for a rebound? It’s dirty. That’s how they coach them at GBS from the top down. That’s why they’re a culture of assholes. I know people who weren’t assholes when they started working there but they’re assholes now.”

  “What do people say about UBS?”

  Ron laughs. “Not as bad as GBS but none of the networks has a reputation for kindness and goodwill. It’s a tough industry all the way around.” She’s seated now and he’s about to slide the door closed. “Try to find somebody who’s honest and not in the industry and make a deal with them to let you know if you’re ever becoming an asshole. So far, I can tell you you’re not.” He smiles and closes the door.

  The next morning Samantha is back outside the apartment building and ready for her live shot. She’s with a smaller team this time. A producer, one cameraman instead of two. She’s already been to the studio for the full hair and makeup treatment.

  The line producer from back in the studio says through her earpiece, “Thirty seconds!”

  Live TV is different from her childhood work. She’s about to go live on the biggest show in the country and she doesn’t know the names of the people around her. She misses her mother. An impossible feeling but she’s having it. Her mother always made sure her makeup was good and they did her hair in the right way, that the lighting and camera angle were how they should be, that she had rehearsed her lines. Her mother was her team, doing all the blocking and tac
kling. Whatever the dysfunction, Samantha used to have someone protecting her, telling her she had talent and just had to let it shine.

  Most child actors can’t transition to real actors because at some point they become conscious of what they’re doing. At seven years old an actor isn’t trying to make it work. He just goes out on the set and it either works or it doesn’t. It’s unconscious. Soon an actor needs to treat acting like a craft and hone his talent. Many discover they never had any talent, they were just great at being unconscious.

  She hears Mike Lord laugh at one of his own jokes then introduce the segment about the massive lottery winners in the Bronx. “Samantha Davis is in the Bronx this morning to tell us about it. Samantha?”

  She sees the red light on the camera. She’s live. On Sunrise America. Holy shit, don’t freak out. “Good morning, Mike. I’m outside the Bronx apartment of Ned and Frankie Prince. Ned, a retired Bronx mailman, and Frankie, his wife of forty-seven years, have big plans for this local community and their new fortune.”

  The program cuts to the pretape package. The cameraman signals they’re off. “You’re back in sixty seconds.”

  Samantha waits for red. It pops on and she hears Mike Lord, “Wow, one point two billion. My lord. Samantha, what would you do if one point two billion dollars landed in your lap today?”

  Without thinking she says, “Obviously, I would start with world peace, then I’d cure the common cold. If there’s anything left over, I’d buy a private island and a case of rum and you’d never see me again.”

  Mike laughs. It sounds like a real laugh that he’s trying to stop so he can say something else. They’re having a TV moment. It’s a mini one, but this is the kind of thing that makes highlight reels and careers. “Well, that sounds great. You better save a little for a bathing suit. I’m sure you’ll want that on your island.”

  “I said it’s a private island!”

  “Well, this is a family show, but even so, I’m going to say that sounds like my kind of place. Thank you, Samantha. Reporting from the Bronx.”

  The red light goes out. Wrap.

  Back in the studio, they cut to commercial and the executive producer explodes down the open mic, “That woman is dynamite!”

  This goes into Mike’s ear but he doesn’t respond other than to nod and say, “Book her on something tomorrow.”

  The female coanchor and female newsreader are both watching Mike. Neither thinks this is good news.

  * * *

  Samantha can feel that she is being developed and knows that it is Ken Harper who believes in her. Harper runs all political coverage for UBS and has been putting Samantha on more political stories. Now he’s introduced her to the network morning viewers. He’s letting the UBS audience get to know her.

  Ken Harper reports directly to David Mueller. He’s more slick in appearance than Mueller. His hair is gelled and combed, his suit is pressed, and he makes an effort through the day to keep it all looking that way. He looks more like a PR guy. He has a constant busy energy that seems manic to people that don’t know him well, and a high voice that sounds strained even when he isn’t straining it.

  Harper had called a meeting with Samantha three months earlier, where he had said, “Samantha, I’m going to give you two pieces of advice.” He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side to make sure she understood he was about to deliver a gift. “Number one, it really is about hustling when you’re not on the air. Develop relationships. Politics gets a lot of coverage, so pick politics. Meet with senators, governors, political advisors, lobbyists, pollsters. You name it, take them out to coffee. Get to know them, and eventually you might get access to something worth putting on the air. Over time, those relationships will be important. You’re an attractive reporter at UBS. Most of those people I just mentioned are men. They’ll meet with you. They may not say much at first, but they’ll meet with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Number two, find a big story and stay on it. Dig in, be relentless, be the network’s expert on it and we’ll use you across the network.”

  This made sense but Samantha wasn’t sure how to put it into practice. “Do you have an example?”

  “Yes. O. J. Simpson. Several anchors made their bones on that story. They were small fries, but all they did was eat, sleep, and breathe O. J. When a network covered O. J., they went to their expert reporter. And every network covered O. J. wall to wall. By the time that case was over, stars were born.”

  Samantha nodded. Again, it made sense, but not something she could get started on right off.

  “Look, O. J. was a once-in-a-generation sensation, but there are smaller events that resonate with mass viewership, and you need to be able to see which ones will do it. Look for the key elements. Celebrity, death, class warfare, social or racial injustice. When you see it, get on it. I’ll support you.”

  The last sentence was the one Samantha wanted to hear. The advice was terrific and she took it. Just as important was getting to the front of Ken’s mind and letting him know she was ready for more, but without pestering him and getting labeled a pain in the ass. Time to get out of bounds, she thought. He had a lot of people asking him for air time. “Ken, thank you. I appreciate the advice, and believe me, nobody in this building is going to outwork me.”

  “I believe you.”

  Samantha stood to go.

  Ken liked her more than he’d expected to. He also liked to have the last word in meetings and he had another observation to share anyway. “Samantha. One more, and this really is the last thing, then you can go.”

  “Sure.”

  “I see a lot of lawyers make the jump to TV and most of them suck.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, how you carry yourself on TV is more Mueller’s area. I’m editorial, but I’ll tell you why I think it is that most of these lawyers tend to suck.”

  She nodded.

  “Lawyers are trained not to make mistakes. Especially a fancy lawyer like you from Davis Polk. You have to be perfect. You can’t embrace your mistakes and you certainly can’t laugh them off.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But here, that’s exactly what you need to do. Nobody’s perfect. A fact of life. Be human on the air and cop to your mistakes. That’s relatable. If you go on air trying to act like little Miss Perfect, viewers will smell a phony and they won’t like you. Viewers like authentic and they know it when they see it. And when they don’t.”

  Samantha nodded again.

  “That’s the trouble with most of these lawyers. They’re not authentic. Too worried about mistakes.”

  Samantha was concerned this was meant entirely for her and Ken saw that in her face.

  “You’re better than most in this area. You seem naturally fun, so run with that.” He paused. “Okay, that’s it from me.”

  Samantha walked to the elevator digesting all the information from Ken. She thought how much easier it is to get advice when you’re on your way up.

  * * *

  The week following the Sunrise America piece Samantha is at the Delta Shuttle terminal at LaGuardia on her way to DC to meet with Republican congressman Tom Cone from Florida. She’s trying to build her contacts and finding that people are increasingly willing to take a meeting. By lunchtime after her first Sunrise America hit she had voicemails from four agents asking to represent her, including one from CAA.

  With Cone, she’s planning to talk about president-elect Mitchell Mason and how the Republicans view the upcoming four years of a Democratic White House.

  She clears security and walks toward the gate. “Samantha!” She turns to see a man in a suit waiting at a gate for a flight to Boston. He’s about her age and okay-looking. “Samantha!” He yells and waves.

  She changes her direction to head toward him and tries to place him, hoping she can do it before they’re face-to-face
. “Hi!” she calls ahead.

  He looks confused and stops waving. She thinks, He has my name right. It would be too much of a coincidence if I’m not the person he thinks I am. Who the hell is he?

  “Hi,” she says again. “How are you?” They’re close enough to shake hands now but he doesn’t move. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Mark,” he says, but all his enthusiasm is gone. He’s flat and nervous.

  Mark, she thinks, but comes up empty. “Mark,” she says out loud. “I’m sorry,” and she smiles with her eyes squinted in frustrated apology.

  “I’m a big fan,” he says. He clearly didn’t expect her to come this close and now seems regretful.

  “Thank you,” she says, now more embarrassed than Mark. Jesus, she thinks. Things are changing.

  TOM PAULEY

  3

  Tom Pauley walks down the steps of the Durham County Courthouse. There are only eight steps. It’s nothing like the scenes from Law & Order where the ADA walks past marble columns down dozens of gorgeous marble steps into a swarm of media, police, and other lawyers.

  But for the first time ever for Tom Pauley, there is a media scrum waiting for him at the bottom of the eight steps. National media, and there’s a smile on his face that is beyond his ability to influence. It is happiness and pride beaming through an otherwise modest and subdued countenance.

  People draw conclusions from faces whether they know it or not—even if they try to avoid doing so, it happens. Pauley is aware of physiognomy but has never been concerned with trying to manipulate it to his advantage. People happy in their own skin never do. They just go about their lives and trust that people will see them for who they are because they’ve never tried to be anything else.

  Tom Pauley has a handsome and boyish face for forty-three years. People who smile a lot seem to age better. He’s six two, which makes him more universally likable at first meeting. Many have an impression that a short person will have an edge and that a very large one will be stupid.

  People have always been drawn to Tom Pauley. Kids and animals love him. Juries love him. And he takes it all in stride, which makes them love him more.