Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(73)
But now she felt vulnerable. Working alone was hard; even harder when the fruits of one’s labor were scoffed at by a presumed ally. She considered whitewashing or eliminating entirely Wes Rigler’s contention that another detective could look at the evidence around Paula’s death and confidently conclude it was a suicide. But facts are stubborn things. When you start discarding them because they don’t neatly fit your narrative, progress is always faster, but toward the wrong conclusion.
Gina concluded her summary of the meeting at the funeral home by repeating verbatim Rigler’s belief that Paula’s death could have been a suicide. The editor was sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Gina got the impression he was patiently allowing her to finish, his mind long since made up. His opening words confirmed her suspicion.
“Gina, I know how hard you’ve worked on this REL News piece. But as journalists, sometimes we have to face the fact that we’re seeing things that simply are not there. You put together an interesting case that the girl in Aruba was murdered. But it’s equally plausible that she drank too much, panicked, and the crash that killed her was an accident. Same with the Paula Stephenson case. Possibly a murder, but just as likely a suicide. If you were writing the story as a novel, it would make a good read. I’m sure a lot of publishers would be interested. But we’re not in the fiction business.”
“What about Meg Williamson?” Gina protested. “We know she got a settlement.”
“Probably true, but isn’t that the same Meg Williamson who is refusing to talk to you anymore?”
“I’ve reached out to the source who told me to look into Paula Stephenson. If she provides additional leads, what then?”
“I’ll tell you what then. As editor, I have to allocate our precious resources to stories that I believe will one day appear in the pages of our magazine. I still have confidence in you, but we’re not going to waste any more time or effort on REL News.”
Gina wondered if she looked as stunned as she felt. How could events have turned so quickly? A story she felt so strongly about was being cut loose because some big advertiser folded? I never even liked their clothes, she thought to herself.
“What am I supposed to say,” Gina sighed, “but okay?”
Geoff’s climbing to his feet announced the meeting was over. “I’m sorry it ended this way, Gina. I don’t have time to go into it now, but there’s another project that I want to assign to you. I’ll be in touch.”
Gina nodded. Without saying anything, she got up and headed for the door. For the second time in the last few weeks she was leaving this office feeling shell-shocked. The first time was in the early stages of an investigation so electrifying that she was willing to risk losing the love of her life to pursue it. Now Ted was gone, and along with him, the REL News story.
80
Dick Sherman felt his stomach in a knot. One of the expressions he had often used to instruct underlings was: Some people when they’re in a hole climb out of it; others ask for a bigger shovel. It was becoming clear that he had failed to follow his own advice. Given the chance, he would turn the clock back to the Saturday morning Carter had called him at home. Who knows? Maybe he could have survived with an apology for dropping the ball and failing to take action after the email about what Matthews did to that woman Pomerantz. But he’d chosen to go along with Carter’s plan and now, two years later, there was no turning back.
The previous evening he had stayed late, until after Matthews completed his evening newscast. The anchor was a creature of habit. When his program was over, Matthews would go back to his office, pour himself a Scotch, and watch the half-hour broadcast from start to finish. On-air reporters and their producers who did an exceptionally good job received emails lavishing praise. Similarly, he felt no qualms about providing quick feedback to those correspondents whose work disappointed him. He also paid scrupulous attention to the work of the two cameramen who were responsible for the close-up shots of him. He believed it was his duty to the millions of Americans who watched him every weeknight to look his very best.
Sherman had waited until Matthews’s longtime secretary had left. He knocked on the anchorman’s closed door, pushing it open as he did so. A bizarre thought had leaped into Sherman’s mind at that moment. What would he do if Matthews were in his office molesting another young woman? Fortunately, that was not the case. He was seated behind his desk, tie loosened, Scotch in hand, watching himself on a flat-screen TV affixed to a wall. On the wall behind his desk were portraits of Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite. The two appeared to be smiling down on their worthy successor.
Matthews looked surprised and more than a little uncomfortable. Using a remote, he turned off the TV. He broke the silence by saying, “Would you care to join me in a Scotch?”
Having a drink with Matthews was the last thing Sherman wanted to do. But a little preamble before a difficult discussion might not be a bad idea.
“Why not?” he said as he slid into a chair opposite the anchor. He reached forward to accept the glass.
Sherman had repeatedly rehearsed in his mind the conversation he wanted to have. But he was mindful of the quote from the military, The best laid plans go out the window when the first bullet is fired.
“Brad,” he began, “we both deserve an awful lot of credit for bringing REL News to where it is today. Twenty years ago this place was a backwater, a junkyard of marginally profitable cable TV stations. Now it’s a juggernaut, the envy of the industry.”