Gloss

I was lucky. I sometimes considered listing it on my résumé, under relevant skills: “digital editing, digital photography, French proficiency and luck.” I had somehow convinced the powers that be that I was a horrible booker, and so happily avoided the so-called booking wars that were the backbone of morning television. Well, I shouldn’t say somehow. The truth was that I was a terrible booker. On the one occasion that I was asked to do what we called a “door knock,” I basically fled the crime scene faster than the criminals. It was a few years back, up near Niagara Falls, in the dead of winter. But it wasn’t dead at all. The world seemed very alive that day, with forty-mile-an-hour gusts of piercing wind and the kind of temperatures that cause your nose hairs to freeze.

It was around this point in my career that the romance of all the travel had started to wear thin. In the earlier days, I was so thrilled to be hopping on planes and in and out of cars that it didn’t matter if I was going to stay at the Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas, or at some no-name motel in a polygamous hill town in Montana (though, that’s actually one story I never did that I always wanted to do—an exploration into polygamy in the Mountain West. Unfortunately, unless one of the polygamous patriarchs had murdered three of his eight wives, we weren’t interested).

Anyway, up in Niagara Falls, the story was that three young children, all from the same family, had jumped into the rapids together, in the dead of winter, involving what was either a suicide pact or an insidious push by a psychotic mother, who had witnessed the whole thing. The mother hadn’t been charged yet, but was currently at the hospital under a suicide watch herself. My job? Knock on the door and ask the poor father how he felt—and if he would like to share his story with millions of viewers, because it would be cathartic and possibly help another family from suffering the same loss. And I had to do so before the other two network fists beat me to the door.

I had been up in that neck of the woods anyway, working on a story about family-friendly casinos, when my pager went off. My pager almost never went off, so if it did, I knew I was in for something unpleasant. For a self-proclaimed newsperson, I was rather skittish of breaking stories. I didn’t look at my pager. Then my cameraman’s cell phone started to vibrate, and he was a much better newsman than I was. So we left the overlit casino where we had been shooting some footage, piled into the crew car (a fortified SUV with a gated rear door, darkened one-way windows, and more locks and bolts than a drug trafficker’s Humvee), crossed back over the bridge to the American side of the falls, and drove up to a bland one-story redbrick house, with children’s toys and bikes scattered about the yard, covered with a few inches of snow, clearly untouched for some time.

My cameraman practically had to push me out of the passenger seat, I was so reluctant to do what I had to do. But I did it. I zipped up my puffy black parka, pulled my thick wool ZBC News ski hat down over my ears (briefly catching one of my chandelier earrings in the knitting), took a deep breath and cut a path to the front door.

I could tell we were there first. No other press in sight. No trodden down, muddied up snow on the walkway. Just a few footprints of varying sizes going to and fro. The freshest ones looked like they were going fro, and I took that to be a good sign. Such a good sign, in fact, that I knocked just once on the door, and when no one answered, I slipped my crisp white business card under the door (with a short note scribbled on the back telling the sad dad to call if he wanted to share his story), turned around, announced to the crew that no one was home, and we returned to the casino to continue the other shoot.

That didn’t go over so well when, the next morning, the father of the dead kids, husband to the suicidal suspect, appeared as an exclusive on Sunrise America in tears and sobs and oh, so compelling. He was even holding his one remaining child, an infant son (postpartum psychosis was the lay diagnosis of the mother’s state), in his arms. Sunrise beat us in the ratings that morning and I almost lost my job, which was saved only because the date coincided with the announcements for the Emmy nominations, and a piece I had produced a year prior was listed as a candidate (it didn’t win, but still).

My luck got even better when, a few days later, it was revealed that the Sunrise booker had basically bought the father off by giving him the use of a new car for a two-year period in exchange for appearing on their air, which he had been understandably reluctant to do. That producer did get fired (though the father kept the car), and suddenly my work was being held up in press releases as the ethical standard to match (though my name was never mentioned—it just said something along the lines of “a producer from New Day USA was first on the scene, but understanding the sensitivity of the story and the pain of the family, she made the journalistically appropriate call to give the father some space and time.”).

Since then, I avoided guest booking at all costs and was very happy that Tom liked the American Ideals series, because they were my favorite pieces to produce. The stories were heartwarming, caught your attention, and we didn’t have to worry about competing for guests. These weren’t front page tabloid sensation stories, they were just good stories, pure and simple. And they rated well.

“Nice piece, Annabelle,” he said, when we had moved on to the housekeeping portion of the meeting. This was a bit odd because he rarely singled out praise.

I was a little taken aback. “Oh! The snakes? Thanks.”

“No, the Fardish thing. Last week’s Ideal. Nice job. We’ve been getting a good response on it.”

“Oh. OK. Thanks.” I uselessly tried to will my cheeks not to flush.

“We want to do a follow-up. Come talk to me about it after the meeting.”

“Oh, that’s great,” said Carl, who was sitting, as always, to Tom’s right. “We really worked hard on that piece.” Like he had anything to do with it.

Tom’s office was not a subtle place. The shelves on the sidewall overflowed with Emmy statues, and the wall behind his desk was covered with pictures of him in just about every place on earth, shaking hands with every luminary imaginable. A number of awards and honor plaques and paperweights lined the windowsill. A whole slew of things still needing to be hung were stacked in a corner.

Tom was fairly young (pushing forty) to have achieved so much, but clearly he had impressed the right people—impressed them so much that less than six months earlier they had poached him from a different network’s evening news program and named him head of our breakfast fare. As Tom liked to say, morning television was a whole new universe, Edward R. Murrow be damned.

“Hi.” I meekly knocked on the door, which was already open. Tom was on the phone, so he motioned me to take a seat in front of the bloated mahogany desk. The chairs were large and leather and I felt very small. I counted three pictures of him shaking hands with the president. Two with the vice president. Tom towered over both of them. He was ridiculously tall, a fact that I am sure did not hurt his career.

After a few minutes, he hung up and we awkwardly exchanged a few niceties.

“So,” he said, “I hear you are dating Mark Thurber.” Even in this gossipy business, this was weird. I mean, it hadn’t been three hours since the date ended. I immediately turned red and was, needless to say, a bit upset.

“Um,” I said. Brilliant response.

“Carl told me.” Of course. “And it was on Page Six.”

He opened up Page Six, the gossip page of the New York Post. There was a small paragraph at the bottom right:

Which Hollywood starlet was seen at Rocco’s last night, sitting this close with her latest—married—director? And which action star is reported to have cried when turned away from Mecca? And speaking of Mecca, which hot young D.C. insider was seen canoodling with an unidentified petite brunette at that hot spot late into the evening?

My cheeks felt swollen, they were so hot. “Uh, well, we just went out for a drink. Is that a problem?” I wanted to protest the canoodling bit, but decided it best not to go there. Anyway, there was hope for canoodling in the future.

Tom said that if people figured out who I was and where I worked, it could be a perceived conflict of interest, and that if things progressed, it was important to disclose these matters and so forth.

“It was just one date,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t cover politics.” And, wait a minute, wasn’t it a conflict of interest that our network (with its stock-holding news division employees) was owned by Corpcom, a corporation whose interests included just about everything we covered: movies, books, oil companies, chemical companies, fast-food chains, amusement parks, an airline…the list of conflicts went on and on. I didn’t say that, of course.

“Right, right,” he said, shaking his head a bit as if, oops, he had forgotten what it was that I reported on—which was mostly innocuous and soft. And then he apologized for meddling in my personal life, but he just wanted to protect me, and…whatever.

“Didn’t you want to discuss the Ideals piece?” I was anxious to change the subject.

“Of course.”

His barely postcollegiate assistant stuck her blond head in the door. “Max is on line one,” she said.

“Hold on,” Tom said to me. He picked up the phone. “Yup, uh-huh, yup, yup. Okay, I’ll let you know.” He hung up.

“A really strong piece,” he said, as if it were a continuation of a sentence. “Rated well. Max wants a follow-up.”

“Max?” The rumor was he hardly ever watched the show. Too early.

“Yes. Max Meyer. He liked your work. You should feel proud.”

I did. But I was confused.

“There’s not much else to say, though,” I said.

“Figure something out.” Tom turned to his computer and started answering e-mails, which I took as my cue to leave.

When I was little, I loved watching the monkeys at the zoo, the way they climbed all over the place and each other, periodically stopping to pick at each other’s scalp. That’s what our newsroom was like. Everybody was into everybody else’s business. But the funny thing was, so many publicists sent us so many flowers so often, that when an enormous bouquet of lilacs and peonies landed on my desk, no one took any notice.

I felt faint again, but in a very good way, and sat down in my ergonomically correct chair to open the little note that was attached to the basket.

There’s some good coffee in D.C. Perhaps you could come do a story about it.

Mark.

And so, after thorough consideration (and a fair amount of squealing to Natasha), I decided it was only logical to start the Ideals follow-up with Doug Purnell’s Washington office.

Dear New Day USA,

I am writing to register a complaint. Last week, we came all the way from Florida to stand outside your studio window with Weather Mike. Mike was very kind to us during the commercial breaks, but our friends and family said that the only glimpse they caught of us was a quick shot of my husband’s arm. If people are going to travel this far to stand outside your window, you should make the effort to show all of them.

Sincerely,

Donna Clemente

Tempe, AZ

P.S. Could you please send us some New Day USA coffee mugs to the address below. It is the least you can do.

CHAPTER SIX

PERHAPS I SHOULD STEP BACK A BIT, EXPLAIN how the whole refugee cosmetics story fell in my lap in the first place. It was a little different from our typical fare, because, typically, unless a piece had already been covered by, say, the New York Herald, we would not consider doing it. Seriously. A huge number of the stories we produced were stolen from a newspaper story, wire copy or magazine article. Or, sometimes, from a noncompetitive television program, like something that aired on CNN or MSNBC, or, on rare occasions, from public radio. Our senior staff, especially Carl, were very reluctant to approve an unproved entity. But the best way to have an idea okayed? Tell the seniors that the other morning shows were hot on it already. Which is why, when Carl handed me a press release from Cosmetic Relief, I was fairly surprised that there were no supporting articles or transcripts to go with it, much less outside interest.

“We want you to produce this,” he said, coming up from behind me, putting a single sheet of paper on top of my keyboard. “It will be a Faith piece. Don’t fuck it up. It came from Max’s office.” Max Meyer. He was above Tom. He was above us all. He was the CEO of Corpcom.

“Max’s office?” This was a first. This would be like Bill Gates telling a junior software programmer that he had a suggestion for some code.

“Yes. Max’s office.”

I took a quick glance at the pitch. “Why was this sent to him?”

“Annabelle, I have no idea, but it’s here now, on your desk. I e-mailed it to you as well.” He was clearly exasperated by me (this was already more work than he usually did) and started to walk away.

“So, can I go over there, to this refugee camp?” This was a very exciting prospect; I had never been sent abroad for work.

“What do you think?” he said, turning back toward me, glaring as if that was the stupidest question in the world. “Of course not. Just coordinate with the foreign desk for the pickups. And apparently Cosmetic Relief has some footage we can use.”

Years ago, almost a decade, when I was in journalism school, all green and idealistic and out to save the world, we had a class on ethics. The class was supposed to be pragmatic, sort of a guide for us innocents for when we went out into the big scary world of modern media. But what the aging, Ivy-shielded professor failed to mention—and what we would all find out way too soon—was that there were two sides to the ethics camp, especially for those of us who wound up working in television. On one side, you could make a living, perhaps a decent one, so what if you had to compromise a little? And on the other? Well, most of us had student loans to pay. So, if my boss told me to put together a story using footage provided by the very people I was doing a story about, who was I to argue? And of course we would credit it on the screen so the cereal-eating, coffee-sipping, lunch-box-packing viewer would have full disclosure.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll get right on it.” And I did. And, apparently, I did a good job.

But now, to follow it up, I really wasn’t sure what, beyond perhaps another interview with Purnell, I could throw together. So I called him in the hope that there were some new developments—particularly some that would bring me to Washington.

“Annabelle!” he said, once I got him on the phone, “I’ve been meaning to call. We absolutely loved the story!” Purnell had a very feminine voice for a man, and it took a minute to register that it was him speaking and not, say, his secretary.

I thanked him for the compliment and told him about my plight, and he said he was of course thrilled to get more publicity for his cause and was happy to help. In fact, he told me, it just so happened that a rather big story was about to break. Vanity, the cosmetics company that was funding his venture, had decided to start using some of the Fards as models for their new line of lipsticks and lip gloss. A delegation of select refugees was coming to Washington to kick off the campaign.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I said, because Lord knows that would have been a great way for Faith to wrap up the story the first time around.

“The deal just got finalized last week, after the piece aired.”

To me, that new information really only meant one thing: it was a good excuse to travel to D.C. sooner rather than later. It meant I might find time for that cup of coffee right away.

“Why don’t I come down,” I said. “We could discuss this more in person.”

“On camera?”

“Well, yes, but not immediately. I mean, we will need to do another interview on camera, but first maybe I should just come down to talk.”

Purnell hesitated. Then he cleared his throat, sounding like a jungle bird doing a mating call. I moved my phone’s headset off my ear for a moment.

“Are you there?” he said.

“I’m here. So, how about it? I could come down one day later this week.”

He exhaled loudly. “Well, at this point, Annie, I would love to see you, but I wouldn’t want you to make a wasted trip. There’s not much more I can say in person that I couldn’t tell you over the phone.”

“Well, is there anyone else I can meet? What about those refugee models? Are any in D.C. yet? Maybe it would be good for me to meet them once before we put them on camera?”

“I would need to check on it.”

“I won’t take a lot of your time,” I said, meaning it. He wasn’t the person I really wanted to see, anyway. “And it would be easier to discuss how to proceed with the follow-up segment if I could meet some of the other people involved. It’s really important that I do the best job possible on this story. Even our CEO, Max Meyer, is interested in this, so you should feel pretty good about it, Mr. Purnell.”

“Call me Doug.”

“Doug.”

Usually, people responded to a request from a network news producer as if it were a request from the president—rolling out the red carpets, bending over left, front and backward to accommodate. I’ve had people cancel school, surgical appointments, work, you name it, just for the chance to be on TV. Apparently, Douglas Purnell just wasn’t that impressionable.

“Well,” he continued, “I am not sure they are available yet. Hold on, though. Let me look at my schedule. For my old pal Max Meyer, maybe I can squeeze you in.”

“You know Max?”

“Figure of speech. Just met him at a conference once. A long time ago. Anyway, I’m leaving town later in the week.” I could hear him tapping at his keyboard. “Schedule’s pretty packed,” he said. “How about lunch today?”

“Today?”

“Sure, why not?”

Because I’d only had about three hours of sleep, that’s why. “How about tomorrow?”

“I have meetings all day tomorrow. I’m free this evening, though. How about dinner?”

Well, I figured, that would mean I would have to overnight in D.C., which would mean more time for coffee. I could always nap on the plane. If I left the office now, I’d have time to go home to grab some clothing, some perfume, and drop off a key for my doorman so he could stop in to feed Margarita, my cat.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll meet you at your office around five.”

I called travel to book the ticket and hotel, confident that Carl would approve the expense.

From: [e-mail]

To: [e-mail]

Re: Coffee

Not sure about you, but I didn’t sleep much last night. I could really use a cup of joe. And, guess what? They want a follow-up on that Ideals story. I am going to be in D.C. in a few hours.—Annabelle

P.S. The flowers are stunning.

Dear New Day USA,

I am not the sort of person who writes letters to television programs, but I just wanted to write and say that I love your American Ideals series. In times like these, it is so important for us to highlight what is good about America. Bless you all.

Jim Merit

Sterling, VA

CHAPTER SEVEN

I ALWAYS FELT THERE WAS SOMETHING MOMENTOUS about flying into Washington, D.C. Partly because they made you stay in your seat for the full half hour prior to landing, which was often the point when you needed to use the facilities. But mostly it seemed momentous because from high above, the nation’s capital looked like a very promising place. With its elegant memorials lining the banks of the Potomac and the Washington Monument proudly reaching to the sky, from just below cloud level Washington was one of the prettiest cities on earth. It was a pity that the drive downtown quickly shattered that illusion.

Purnell’s office was in Logan Circle. It was an area that just a few years prior had practically been a no-man’s land. Now it held some of the most prestigious and coveted properties in town. Like Tribeca in the nineties. Except, of course, this was not New York, so pretty much the only people wearing black were the ones heading to funerals. Anyway, while prestigious, the neighborhood was still transitional, and not three blocks from Purnell’s office it was fairly easy to find a crack house, should you want to. But that is neither here nor there. Crack has no part in this story. Like a lot of stories that take place in Washington, we will simply avoid discussing or acknowledging the fact that the capital of the richest country on earth is practically third world, what with the intense division between rich and poor, the horrendous state of local corruption, the pathetic public works and insanely high crime rate. Violent crime, I mean. Other types of crime, white-collar crimes, the sinister sort of crimes where you never see your victims so you don’t have to feel guilty, well, they do play a part in this story.

The Cosmetic Relief office was very much in the style of a New York City loft, all airy pretense and boasting with space, making it the envy of nonprofits and NGOs everywhere. I couldn’t help but think that the money spent on rent might have put a number of inner city kids through college, or, more to the point, feed a few hundred Fardish families for a year. But then there were the mural-size photos that lined the entrance walls, pictures of refugees happily putting on lip gloss, of little Fardish girls learning to apply eyeliner. If these were the models, they were worth a lot. Their lacquered smiles said it all.

“Annabelle!”

Purnell met me up at reception, open-armed, squeaking. He startled me.

“Oh! Hi.” I had been sitting on a tightly stuffed orange armchair, and when I started to stand I knocked a few magazines off the circular glass table in front of me. “Sorry,” I said, leaning forward to pick them up, belatedly aware that at that angle he might be able to see down my wrap dress. I quickly stood.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me,” I said.

“No worries, Annabelle. No worries,” he replied. He was a bit creepy. His body did not fit his voice. While he spoke like an adolescent girl, or, to be fair, a young boy whose voice still hadn’t exited the developmental stage, his body was a bit more well formed—like a big, goofy uncle figure, a Santa Claus or a Buddha. A mass of white-gray hair connected to a well-trimmed but full beard, completing a circle around his head, causing his face to look like the pit in the middle of a halved fleshy fruit. He had a lot of extra insulation; when we had done the first round of interviews it took my crew a full hour to light him because sweat kept breaking through, creating too much shine on his forehead and nose no matter how much powder we applied.

“So…” I so eloquently murmured, trying to move our conversation forward.

“So,” he said, “are you hungry? Ready to eat? We have a reservation at Casablanca.”

This surprised me, as well. Casablanca was a new restaurant, so busy it was almost impossible to get a reservation there. And it was cavernous and loud, not the typical place for an intimate business meal. I would have much preferred the Oval Room or the Palm.

How did I know so much about D.C.? Full disclosure: Karen, my best friend from college, was a scientist at the National Institutes of Health and I spent a lot of time visiting her. Soon, I was going to want her to be spending a lot of time visiting me.

Anyway, I liked D.C. Many people don’t, but for me, a native New Yorker, I found it calming and almost provincial. And actually quite interesting. Karen once told me that she thought D.C. was a bit like L.A.; if you picked up the industry types and held them in the air, underneath you would find some fascinating signs of life.

“Sounds good,” I said to Purnell. “I’ve heard they have great calamari.”