Leann Sweeney - Shoot from the Lip

I turned to the woman Kravitz had failed to introduce.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Abby.”

“Sandy Sechrest.” She smiled warmly. Judging by the age lines on her square face, I’d say she was in her late fifties, early sixties. She carried a black suitcase-briefcase size, only thicker-that bore her gold initials.

Emma led the way into the living area.

Kravitz said, “Stu, where should we set up?”

Emma, who seemed bewildered by this invasion, said, “I don’t understand. You said you wouldn’t be taping today. You said-”

Stu cut her off. “The armchair will work. We can close the drapes, turn on the lamp. Create a nice soft look for Emma.”

“Sandy, will that work?” Kravitz asked.

The woman nodded.

“Sandy is our makeup artist,” Kravitz said. “We want to see how you’ll appear on tape, but I have a feeling you won’t need much help. Your skin is perfect and you won’t wash out.”

“You promised we’d talk first and tape later.” Emma’s jaw was tight, her words clipped.

“We won’t use anything we tape today on the air,” Kravitz said. “I have another story in Ohio to wrap up. I need an initial interview, will take the tape with me and go over your story. I’ll only be gone a few days.”

Emma lowered herself onto the sofa-not the chair Stu had chosen. “Why can’t anyone be straight with me? You hide information from the beginning, say one thing and do another; then you come here after promising-”

“I wasn’t the one who hid information from you.” Kravitz took one of the leather chairs across from the sofa. Stu, meanwhile, was opening and closing the drapes, checking out the dining area, no doubt deciding if there was a better option than his first choice for the taping.

Sandy Sechrest took the other armchair next to Kravitz while I sat next to Emma, a glass coffee table between us. A white china coffeepot, three mugs and various pastries rested on a silver tray. The sweet cinnamon smell hit me in an unexpected way, reminding me how much I missed Jeff and his ever-present Big Red gum. How would Jeff handle Paul Kravitz?

“Listen, Paul-I can call you Paul, right?” I said, taking in Kravitz more fully. If I’d met this guy on the street, I might have thought he’d recently had chemotherapy. On the tube he looked distinguished and sharp. In person, without makeup and lights, he had charcoal shadows beneath his eyes and his posture spoke of fatigue. I guessed his ash brown hair had been dyed, because the stubble on his clefted chin was steel gray.

“I think first names are a good start toward building a relationship.” Kravitz looked at Emma. “Is that okay with you?”

She nodded.

I said, “Emma’s interactions with Venture haven’t gone well since she learned that her missing baby sister was mentioned in the anonymous letter Reality Check received.”

“I heard about that from Erwin,” Kravitz said. “I would have handled things differently, but from what he told me, not telling her the full contents of the letter was an oversight. He had no reason to withhold information.”

Emma said, “I don’t believe you. The man’s a controlling, egotistical-”

I rested a hand on her arm. “An apology from Mr. Mayo would go a long way.”

Kravitz laughed. “Erwin believes apologies might possibly be redeemable for cash in the future; thus he holds on to them. Never heard him apologize for one damn thing. But if it helps, I’m sorry you weren’t fully informed.”

Ah, the charming Paul Kravitz, the one I knew from TV, had appeared.

Emma repositioned her arm with a grimace and leaned back against the sofa. “I should have been told what was in the letter before I signed the contract.”

Kravitz nodded. “You’re absolutely right-but legally, Reality Check was under no obligation.” He reached inside his sports jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Would it help if you saw a copy?”

I sat up straighter and held out my hand. “You’re damn right it would.”

He passed the letter to me and I unfolded it so Emma and I could read it together. Meanwhile, Kravitz motioned to Stu to come closer.

The letter had been written on lined notebook paper in a lefty back-slanting style. It read:

Someone good for your show is Emma Lopez in Houston. She’s a good girl and works so hard. Her mother used to leave her to take care of everything lots of times. Then CPS took Emma and the other kids. When she was sixteen Emma was raising her brothers and sister herself. Still is. I been watching her and she doesn’t know about me. They have a little house in Crystal Grove, this falling down place. Your show helps strong, good people like Emma. She’s so beautiful and puts everyone ahead of her. Her mother had another baby that disappeared right after it was born in 1992. Maybe you could find this other kid for Emma, ’cause she’d want to know where the baby went. You don’t need my name. Please just help Emma.

I looked at Kravitz. “This is all they had to go on when they decided to sign Emma for Reality Check?” I noticed that Sandy had put her case on her lap and opened it to reveal dozens of pots of makeup as well as brushes, foam wedges, and Q-tips.

He said, “The research team does extensive work before they decide on a deserving family. We’ve learned pretty much everything about Emma.” His gray eyes stared straight into mine. “Everything. We didn’t anticipate the discovery of the bones, however. How could we?”

“Do you think I did?” Emma said almost to herself. She was staring at the letter I’d put down.

I poured myself a mug of coffee, thinking I understood Kravitz’s unspoken message. He knew about Gloria Wilks and her sons.

Kravitz said, “This begins our preinterview, Emma. First Sandy will dust you up with some makeup, enough to take away any shine. Then Stu will roll-but again, I promise you, none of this tape will be used by anyone except me. I will study the preinterview and decide if I’m going in the right direction. The actual interview will be far more thorough. Our investigators are still working in case the Reality Check researchers missed anything.”

“Forgive my paranoia, but I want your promise in writing not to use any of this preinterview,” Emma said.

I swallowed my second sip of the truly disgusting coffee and set down my mug. “Good idea. I’ll get some paper.”

While Sandy went to work on Emma, and Stu moved the chair she’d vacated to a different position with the lamp table beside it, I made up a minicontract on hotel stationery.

Kravitz, looking amused, signed it willingly. I served as a witness. Emma then moved over to the chair, looking more relaxed than I’d seen her all morning. Having a morsel of control seemed to have helped.

Kravitz told Stu to roll and said, “Emma, do you recognize the handwriting in the letter I just showed you?”

“No.”

“We have a handwriting expert examining the original. The person who wrote this is either left-handed and uneducated or they were faking one or both of those traits,” Kravitz said. “Does that information help you in any way identify the person who wrote it?”

“No,” Emma said.

I probably wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I did anyway. “Shouldn’t the police be given the original? Maybe the letter writer knows more about the baby’s disappearance. There could be DNA or fingerprints and-”

“Close to twenty people have handled that letter since we received it. I doubt there’s any usable evidence.” Kravitz didn’t seem bothered by my interruption; in fact, he seemed to welcome it. “Besides, the police haven’t asked for anything from us yet.”

“Right,” I said with more than a tinge of sarcasm. “And why give up anything without a request?”