Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

Sydney took the assignment. Once she started researching it and realized erectile dysfunction was a serious health issue, she saw its potential.

On camera, she said, “Between fifteen and thirty million men suffer from erectile dysfunction. That’s nearly 10 percent of the American male population. Yet, tragically, only one man in twenty will seek treatment.”

Her report explored the causes of the problem: fatigue, high blood pressure, diabetes, prostate cancer surgery, and wounds that were often the result of combat. She described how the problem affected both men and their wives. She interviewed couples, keeping their identity hidden with backlighting. She encouraged viewers suffering from erectile dysfunction to seek treatment, giving them contact information for local hospitals and counselors.

Her report didn’t come off as hot as Sol Rosenthal envisioned it, but the station switchboard received a surge of phone calls from community leaders, health organizations, and others who said they appreciated the professional and tactful way the station handled the sensitive topic.

Sydney’s report was a sweeps success.

Rosenthal took credit for his idea paying off. The next time sweeps week rolled around, he had another idea.

“How hot would it be for Sydney to do a story on Hollywood hookers? A hot blonde interviewing hookers. It’ll make a splash!”

This time Sydney didn’t complain, though she did grit her teeth when Helen readily agreed Sydney was the best reporter for the job.

Sydney turned the assignment into a family issue. As the story aired, Sydney reunited a sixteen-year-old Colorado runaway, now living on the streets, with her parents.

The switchboard flooded with calls.

While Sydney was pleased with the response, she feared her success would be her undoing. Rosenthal would never see her as anything other than a feature-story reporter.

Her hope lay with Helen Gordon. Helen knew her heart and yesterday had stopped shy of promising her an assignment to interview the governor of California, who was coming to LA to announce a get-tough-on-gangs bill. The assignment would be handed out at this morning’s meeting.

All Sydney had to do was get there.

From the middle of clogged Sunset Boulevard, she shouted at the sky, “Why is this happening to me?”

An instant later, Sydney’s darkening morning turned black.

Strolling up behind Helen Gordon was Cori Zinn, the station’s evening coanchor and Sydney’s self-appointed nemesis. Like Helen, somehow Cori Zinn had managed to escape the traffic.

“How? How? How?” Sydney groaned. “Is there a secret underground boulevard I don’t know about?”

A brunette, Cori was a competent newscaster, attractive but not beautiful. And in an industry that worships physical appearance even above talent, she would always be threatened by beautiful young talent. That made Sydney the enemy.

Standing beside her beige Volvo in the middle of Sunset Boulevard, Sydney watched helplessly as Helen Gordon reached the front door of KSMJ with Cori Zinn right behind her.

Cori caught up. The women exchanged pleasantries. Apparently Cori said something about the accident, because both women turned toward the intersection.

Sydney saw her chance. Raising both hands over her head, she waved and shouted, hoping to catch Helen’s attention. Instead, she caught Cori’s.

The two rivals exchanged glances. Just as Helen turned to see what Cori was looking at, Cori distracted her and held open the station door.

Helen entered the building. Cori followed, but not without first turning to Sydney and grinning.

With a frustrated yelp, Sydney fell back into the Volvo. She grabbed her purse and plunged her hand into it, searching for her cell phone. A moment later, she was connected to the station. Helen didn’t always go to her office before the morning meeting, so Sydney left a message with the receptionist, leaving explicit instructions for the girl to see that Helen Gordon received it.

That done, Sydney slumped behind the wheel. She’d done all she could do, hadn’t she?

There are no excuses. Get there if you have to grow wings.

Sydney jumped out of the car. She looked around for a pair of wings. Something. Anything that would get her into that meeting.

She spotted a couple standing on the sidewalk, gawking at the tall buildings. Pointing.

Sydney grabbed her keys from the ignition switch. This wasn’t New York, but it was time to get out and run.

Helen Gordon sat at the head of a table that seated twelve. It was situated in a central open area flanked by a row of office doors on one side, and on the other, a wall lined with wire service printers and computer terminals. Telephones and monitors were poised to order up anything from unedited video clips to fully prepared segments to competitor’s newscasts. Dubbed Command Central, it was here KSMJ’s news broadcasts were planned and choreographed.

Helen looked up as Sydney hurried into the room. “Sydney! We were just getting started.”

Out of breath, Sydney approached the table. There were several empty chairs, including the one next to Helen where the producer sat. It was unusual for him not to be in attendance. Maybe he was stuck in traffic.

She remained standing.

“I see you escaped the mess outside,” Helen said.

Her comment surprised Sydney. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“No message.”

“I called the receptionist and specifically told her to make sure you got it.”

Cori Zinn sat up in her chair as though she just remembered something. “Oh! I must have it here.” She fumbled through her papers. “With all that was going on this morning, I picked up your messages for you, Helen.” She slid a pink telephone slip across the desk to Helen.

Sydney fumed. Intercepting Helen’s messages was low, even for Cori.

Helen read the note. “Says here you’re stuck in traffic. Has it cleared already?”

“No. I… um, made arrangements.”

Helen looked intrigued. “Arrangements?” She waved the note. “You say you’re stuck in traffic, yet minutes later here you stand. Could it be that Sydney St. James has solved the problem that has plagued Southern Californian commuters for decades?”

Sydney felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Everyone was staring at her—coanchor Grant Forsythe, who always sat next to the producer; Cori Zinn; Josh Leven, sports; Phil Sanders, weather; as well as a sampling of the station’s other reporters, studio personnel, and interns. They all wanted to hear Sydney’s secret.

“Um… I sportted a Midwestern couple on the sidewalk,” she said. “And I paid them to park my car for me.”

“Ho! You can kiss that baby good-bye.” Grant Forsythe laughed. “What kind of car was it?”

“Sydney drives a beige Volvo station wagon,” Cori said, as if it was something to be ashamed of. Her comment got some laughs.

“Ah! No great loss then,” Grant said. “Not like it was a Jaguar.” Everybody at the station knew Grant Forsythe drove a Jaguar.

“Sydney, you handed your car keys to total strangers?” Helen asked. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“They can be trusted.” It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the reaction in the room made Sydney doubt her decision.

“You’ve never met these people before in your life?” Helen arched her eyebrows.

“No.”

“Yet you trust them with your car.”

Sydney nodded. “They looked like an honest couple.”

“You said they were Midwesterners.”

“Well, I didn’t know that for sure until I talked to them. I mean, they dressed like Midwesterners, and they were looking up at all the tall buildings, pointing in awe.” She shrugged. “They looked like tourists.”