I knew that adage, “Don’t get ahead of the story.” Professor Jordan told us that Peter Jennings had preached it, as had Ted Koppel, and Tom Brokaw, and anyone who’d ever watched one of their colleagues be 100 percent certain of a scoop, only to have it blow up in their face like a GM pickup truck. And hearing Fatima say the lawyers were aware of my documents made me feel better. Maybe I could use them tomorrow.
“Need you to move, Amanda!” Fatima yelled.
“Here,” Larry said, handing me a bag from Macy’s. “One of the interns dropped these off during the last break. You’ve got less than two minutes left in commercial.”
I opened the bag and saw a pair of red satin pajamas, price tag still attached.
“You’ve got ninety seconds,” Larry said, checking his stopwatch again. “Make a decision.”
“I’ll help you,” Rob said.
“How?” I shrieked.
“Not sure yet.”
“Now!” Fatima yelled.
I jumped off the sofa, bag in hand, and raced down the hallway to Angie’s hair room. “Unzip me!”
“One minute back, Amanda!” Larry yelled down the hall.
“What in God’s name ya doing?” Angie asked.
“Putting on pajamas,” I said, hopping around her stall. “Models are wearing them out at night. They’re a fashion trend.”
“Oh, yeah? And that’s more important than Fluke having an affair with an illegal immigrant?” She pointed the hairbrush, bristle side out, at Gabe Wellborn on the TV monitor next to her mirror. The echo of Gabe’s voice sounded down the hallway from all the TVs in the makeup corridor tuned to BNN’s breaking news. “Whatever ya do, don’t mess up the hay-yer,” Angie called without turning around, as I dashed out into the hallway, now clad in red pajamas and high heels.
“Amanda, need you back in the studio! You’ve got thirty seconds!” Larry yelled down the hall to me.
I stopped short. Was I really supposed to go back into the studio and sit there next to Rob, joshing around, pretending not to know the news? I couldn’t do it. I felt the walls of the hallway closing in. I couldn’t breathe. My mind emptied except for one single, powerful instinct: I need air.
“I gotta get out,” I muttered to myself.
“What?” Larry yelled back. “I think I heard her say she’s going out. Amanda? Amanda? Panzullo, Camera Four, follow her!!”
I ran toward the side doors. Stanley the guard grabbed his key.
“You gotta go handheld, Panzullo!” Larry’s voice was loud in my IFB. “Audio! Bruce, give her a stick mic! Her lav won’t work out there.”
Stanley pushed the thick glass door open and the heavy August air enveloped me. I felt the pores on the back of my neck open to the heat under the satin collar. Panzullo came chugging through the door after me, breathing hard, with one hand on the camera, the other holding up his pants.
“I need to go back to the gym,” he said.
“Amanda, where are you?” Fatima yelled into my ear.
“I’m outside,” I said, calm now as I stood still in the heat, watching the chaos of the morning commute buzz around me. All these people going their separate ways, unaffected by any breaking news. Maybe the documents aren’t so life changing.
“Love it!” Fatima yelled in my ear. “Let’s bong in with a FAIR News Break! We’ll have our own breaking news!” I could hear Fatima off mic, issuing orders to the line producer. “Give me a split screen!”
“We’re back in five, four, three, two, one.” Larry was counting down Rob in the studio.
A taxi honked. I looked around and realized, with a jolt of anxiety, I had no plan. I felt the satin sleeves starting to cling to my moist skin. The ominous bong of the breaking news sound effect clanged in my ear, bringing me back to the reality that I was now on live television . . . in pajamas.
Rob’s voice, deep with newsman gravity, said, “Folks, we have some breaking news. Amanda Gallo appears to have left the building. Now what makes this particularly newsworthy is that she’s wearing pajamas. Amanda, can you hear me?”
I turned to look into the lens. “I can, Rob.”
“Amanda, I can’t help but notice, you’re wearing a fetching pair of red pajamas.”
“You’re nothing if not observant, Rob,” I said, walking backward on the sidewalk as Panzullo walked the camera toward me.
“Care to explain yourself?” Rob asked.
“Well, I’m conducting a little experiment here on the streets of New York City,” I said, surprising myself by opening my arm like Vanna White, to reveal a throng of pedestrians on the corner waiting for the light to change. “Apparently, fashion models in New York have begun wearing their pajamas out to nightclubs.”
“Interesting,” Rob said. “Now what does that have to do with you being in the middle of Midtown Manhattan in broad daylight?”
“Again, insightful of you, Rob, to point out that minor discrepancy. See . . .” I stopped. I had no idea what to say or do next. I could hear the sound of dead air as I waited for something to come to me. “So . . .”
“I know your plan,” Rob said, jumping in, “was to see how this fashion trend would go over with regular New Yorkers.”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s right.” Of course. Turn this into a man-on-the-street segment. That’s the answer. Thank you, Rob. Thank you.
“And I see a group of businessmen right over your left shoulder,” Rob said, steering me to the next beat. “Why don’t you ask them what they think of your outfit?”
I turned to find the targets Rob had identified, right where he’d promised. Thank you, Rob. I darted up to the group of standard-issue young businessmen. Panzullo jogged behind me. “Hello, gentlemen.”
“Hi,” they said, eyeing me up and down.
“I’m just wondering if you notice anything unusual about my outfit?”
“It looks like you’re wearing pajamas,” one offered.
“That’s right. This is a new trend,” I said, staring at their matching navy blue Brooks Brothers suits. “You guys look like slaves to fashion. What do you think of this?”
“It’s a little weird,” the tallest one said. “But it could work. I guess.”
“How about you?” I asked the next guy.
“It’s good,” he said.
I bit my lip. These guys were not exactly lighting the screen on fire.
“Hey, Amanda,” Rob chimed in.
“Yes?”
“I see some taxis stopped at the light behind you. Why don’t you ask them?”
Yes, of course! Keep the action moving. The secret to live TV. I vowed to buy Rob a case of Red Bull to show my gratitude, but first I jogged to the taxi line.
Using the stick mic, I rapped on a driver’s window. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, as Panzullo pushed in for a close-up. The driver looked up at me with an expression of sheer panic, shook his head vigorously, then stepped on the gas and zoomed away. Through my earpiece, I could hear Rocco and Larry inside laughing.
“I’m gonna guess he’s not crazy about the pajamas,” Rob concluded.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess not.”
“Either that, or he’s wanted by the authorities. But listen, Amanda, we all give you a big round of applause here in the studio. We think you look terrific.”
“Thanks for that, Rob,” I said, grateful for his instinct to wrap the segment on that note. I’d never been part of any team before—sports, anchor, or otherwise—but suddenly I knew what it felt like to have a teammate carry me.
“All right, you trendsetter,” Rob said. “Come back in and cool off. We’ll have some lemonade waiting for you.”
“Thanks, Rob,” I said.
“And coming up tomorrow,” Rob went on, “horror and bloodshed in Syria as government goons mow down their own people. And Victor Fluke will be here to talk
about why he thinks refugees are so dangerous. Tune in then.”
I handed the stick mic back to Panzullo, then put my hands to my flushed face. I was light-headed.
“That was brilliant, Amanda!” Fatima said in my ear.
“Rob saved it,” I told her.
I made my way back to the side door, dizzy and disoriented. Stanley held the door open and a wall of air-conditioning slapped my hot skin. God, I hope Virginia Wynn wasn’t watching that. I had a sneaking suspicion the pajama bit might submarine the pitch I’d been making to her press office, trying to convince them that I was a real journalist and Wake Up, USA! was a real news program. The good news was that Margot hadn’t secured a sit-down with Wynn yet either, though she was probably pulling a clip of me in my pajamas right now and sending it to the Wynn people.
I stood temporarily blinded in the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the fluorescent lighting. As the pixels came into focus, there was Arthur Dove, standing in the corridor staring at me, smirking.
“I gotta hand it to ya, Amanda,” he said. “Not everyone could pull off pajamas on national TV in front of a million people.” He held up his hand for a high five. I instinctively raised my hand, and as our palms touched, it dawned on me I was high-fiving Arthur Dove . . . in my pajamas. What’s happening to my life? I wondered.
“Mr. Fluke did not enjoy the segment today as much as usual. He felt some of it was unnecessary, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down. I’d hate for Mr. Fluke to start declining your invitations to be on Wake Up. That wouldn’t be in any of our interests.”
“So what about BNN’s story about Mr. Fluke employing an undocumented housekeeper?” I asked him.
“God, Amanda, you can’t fall for phony stories. It’s nothing.”
His response was so definitive that for a second I was relieved I hadn’t run with the documents. Then I remembered that some people don’t look uncomfortable when lying.
“Anyway, Mr. Fluke wanted me to give you this,” Dove said, handing me an envelope, sealed.
I wanted to ask Dove more questions, but the envelope caught me off guard. Plus I was in still in my pajamas.
“We’ll see you soon, Amanda,” Dove said, moving past me toward the door. “Don’t forget, we’ve got a lot of followers and we all want the same thing: success.”
When he was gone, I opened the envelope.
Amanda,
If you want to keep winning, don’t be susceptible to rumor and insinuation.
—Victor Fluke
• • •
“No, I don’t understand,” I said to Fatima across the table at the pitch meeting. “Why didn’t the lawyers let us show the documents?”
“They want to make sure they’re not fake,” she said. “And that they weren’t planted by the Wynn people, you know, to smear Fluke.”
“They weren’t,” I told her, though I didn’t really know Emilia or her motivation for sending the letter to Laurie months ago and didn’t want to admit that.
“I believe you, Amanda,” she said. “But on a story this big, we have to be one hundred percent buttoned-up. The lawyers said we don’t have to be first, we have to be right.”
“What if the housekeeper comes forward and confirms the story at the presser at noon?”
“Then we run with it,” Fatima said. “Then we’re golden. That’s what we need—her story. That’s what we stand for at FAIR. Both sides. We don’t just give one side. We have to make sure we’re totally T and E. In the meantime, Topher, see if Fluke can do tomorrow or Monday. And see what other days he’s available next week. That way, if she comes forward today or tomorrow or over the weekend, we have him and we’re covered.”
“Hey, are you seeing this?” Tiffany asked. “Arthur Dove just tweeted something about Amanda.” She stopped. “Uh-oh.”
“What is it?” I asked, looking around the room.
“It says ‘@AmandaGallo tries gotcha journalism. Epic fail!! @WakeUpUSA falls for fake news.’”
“Shit,” Fatima said, and everyone stared at me with a mix of pity and terror.
“It’s not playing gotcha to ask Fluke legitimate questions!” I told the table. “That’s our job! It’s malpractice for us to ignore it.”
“You better send him an apology,” Topher said. “We need him to come back tomorrow—and every day through the election.”
“Are you kidding!” I said. “Victor Fluke does not dictate our editorial decisions!”
“I get that,” Topher said. “But we need him. We’re winning. And we don’t win without him.”
Chapter 21
Ratings Gold
I knocked on Rob’s office door, not knowing if he’d still be at work.
“Come in,” he said.
I turned the knob and got my first glimpse inside Rob’s world—his uncluttered desk, his bookshelves filled with hardcovers, his walls covered with framed 8 x 10 glossies of him with an array of celebrities and politicians, arm in arm, grinning ear to ear, including one of Rob and Fluke, both wearing visors and carrying golf clubs.
Rob was bent over, putting some gym clothes into a bag, and I considered backing out of the room before he stood up.
“Oh, hey,” he said, looking up.
“You have a second?”
“Sure, have a seat.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. It was funny to see Rob in casual mode. His suit and tie were gone; his white dress shirt hung untucked over old jeans. His brown hair was looser than on set, like he’d just run his hand through it.
“So I wanted to thank you for your help with that pajama segment today. I couldn’t have gotten through it without you.”
“Sure you could have. I just goosed it a little. But you were great out there. It was pretty hilarious. You should go back and watch it. BuzzFeed picked it up.”
That was the moment I would have said thank you again, then politely left, if that’s really what I’d come for. But instead I sat there biting my lip.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
“Well,” I started, then realized I should have practiced this part—or at least given more thought to what I wanted out of Rob. “I’ve been thinking about the show . . . and what our mission is.” I screwed up my mouth, trying to find the words. “Because I don’t think we’re getting it right.”
Rob leaned back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head. “What’s the problem?”
“Well, for starters, we’re letting Fluke come on all the time and say whatever the fuck he wants and we’re treating him with kid gloves and we’re not even using the evidence we have of his huge fucking hypocrisy.” I hadn’t meant to get worked up, but there it was.
“But it’s working,” Rob said. “No one thought we’d be killing it so soon after launch. What Benji’s done is nothing short of a miracle. And let’s face it, most of it is the Fluke factor.”
“It’s working for ratings, but it’s not working for the viewers.”
“If we’re getting good ratings, it’s working for the viewers. By definition. Good ratings mean we’re giving viewers what they’re interested in.”
“Virginia Wynn would get good ratings, too, but the bookers never book her.”
“They try, but she won’t come on. And don’t kid yourself. She’s no ratings machine. MSNBC just did an hour on her gun-control measures and it tanked.”
I felt strangely relieved to hear that Wynn hadn’t generated big ratings, in case I lost out to Margot for a Wynn sit-down. “Still, I don’t think we should be giving Fluke such a regular platform to spout his nonsense.”
“You think it’s nonsense. But that’s your opinion.”
“No, it’s not. Half of the things he says are wrong. He says the people can overturn the Supreme Court. He makes up abortion statistics. And now this housekeeper story proves he’s a huge hypocrite on marri
age and immigration and taxes and everything!”
“None of that’s proven yet,” Rob said.
“Look, I get it. You’re a Fluke fan,” I said.
“I think he’s a complete tool,” Rob said.
I cocked my head at him. “Really?” I said, jutting my head in the direction of the photo. “You play golf with him.”
“That picture was from years ago. Back when he was the World’s Most Successful Man . . . before he became the World’s Most Unlikely Nominee. Besides, I play golf with a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I like them.”
“But you like his ideas,” I concluded. “You’re conservative, right?”
“Wrong again,” Rob said. “You’re battin’ a thousand, huh?”
“Come on, Rob, you never challenge our conservative guests.”
“That’s because you always do. You always take the liberal side. So you force me to take the other side.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
“Yeah. You do.”
Shit. Was that right? “So you’re not a conservative?”
“My family were all firefighters, my dad, his brothers, all my cousins. I guess you’d call them Reagan Democrats. I don’t know. I don’t love labels.”
“So why aren’t you a fireman?” I asked, trying to get Rob to admit that he liked all the trappings of being a newsman more than doing something altruistic.
“Uh, well, I wanted to be one. But after my dad died in a fire, my mom refused to let me go to the academy.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Thank you,” Rob nodded, like he’d had to say that a thousand times.
“But, um, why news?” I said, trying to change the subject.
“Well, I know it sounds funny, but I’ve always thought of this job as being kind of like a fireman. You know, an alarm goes off, or in our case, news breaks, and it doesn’t matter if you’re at home with your family or asleep or whatever, you spring into action. It’s the same adrenaline rush. I like being where the action is. You know, in the heat of it all.”
“Hmm,” I said. “That makes sense. But, you know, beyond the rush, we’re supposed to shed light, not misinformation. Don’t you think we’re doing way too much Fluke?”
Amanda Wakes Up Page 19
