Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

Jane looked up and saw me. “Hi!” she mouthed. She waved me over.

When I got there, she stood and introduced me to another woman who’d walked up at the same time. “Izzy, this is Faith Lowe, litigator turned producer.”

“Hi.” Faith had black shiny hair in an asymmetrical cut. She looked more avant-garde than most of the litigators I knew.

Jane stepped down from the raised anchor desk then and gave me a quick hug. “How are you?”

“Great,” I said. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks. My clothes are sponsored on this gig, so I’m all designer now.” She made a show of holding up her hands and showing off her suit, which fit her impeccably. Neither of us said anything about the scarf. “How are you feeling about your first day in the news?”

“Good. A little nervous.”

“Don’t be.” She spun me around and pointed to a man at the back of the room. He wore slacks, a gray dress shirt that looked as if it could use some laundering and a yellow tie that was already loosened despite the early hour. He was probably in his late fifties with a ruddy face. His thinning hair, which seemed to be a mix of blond and gray, was messed and stood up in places. He was talking fast and gesturing wildly in front of two guys, who wore chagrined expressions.

“That’s Tommy Daley,” Jane said. “And no, he’s not related to Mayor Daley, so don’t ask. He hates that. Tommy is going to be the master of your universe around here. He’s the deputy news director. Although he also seems to think he’s the managing editor. And the assignment editor. And the executive producer. Anyway, he basically runs this show, so when he gets done chewing out those interns, get over there and introduce yourself.”

Tommy’s face had gotten very red, nearly purple, and he was leaning in toward one intern, shaking his finger in his face and spewing some kind of speech.

I turned around to Jane. “I’m not sure I want Tommy to be the master of my universe.”

She laughed. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

“One minute!” someone yelled. “This is it, folks! One minute to airtime.”

Jane’s smile got larger, her eyes excited.

“Good luck!” I said, squeezing her hand.

“Thanks. Good luck to you, too. Have fun.”

She stepped back up on the anchor desk and sat down. She threaded a tiny microphone under her suit jacket and attached it to the collar, right below her red scarf.

“Ten seconds!” the voice called.

Jane took a big breath and blew it out, glancing around the set with a look that seemed filled with pride. But then her head froze and the expression on her face changed to one of surprise, and then, if I was reading her right, to one of fear.

I followed her sight line to Tommy, who stood toward the back of the room now, speaking to another man. The man had a notepad and seemed to be interviewing Tommy, jotting things on the pad as they spoke. I peered closer and realized the guy making notes was the writer from Friday night. The writer who wrote books. The one Jane had gone home with.

“Five!” the voice called, counting down. Tommy held up a finger to the writer, as if to signal, Just a minute. He looked toward the anchor desk and Jane.

I did the same. Jane seemed frozen, staring at the writer. The room went quiet.

“Four!”

“Augustine, you ready?” called the floor director who stood to the right of Jane’s anchor desk.

“Three!”

Jane wasn’t moving, her eyes unblinking. I glanced back at the writer. He was still jotting notes. But just then, he looked up, right at Jane, and he smiled.

“Two!”

The look from the writer seemed to break Jane’s shock. She peered down at the monitor in front of her.

No one yelled “one” but the red lights showed the cameras were rolling.

And then Jane’s face rose again, a face that was calm, satisfied, authoritative. “Good morning, I’m Jane Augustine.” She gave a smile of pleasure. “Welcome to Trial TV.”

Jane turned and faced a different camera. “At Trial TV, we bring you gavel-to-gavel coverage of the courtrooms that are topping the news. We’re revolutionizing the coverage of litigation. Not only will we provide up-to-the-minute reporting, but we’ll also give you the real stories of what’s happening behind the courtroom doors. We’ve assembled the best news team in the business along with seasoned lawyers who know what’s really going on, and we’ve got our ears to the ground. If there’s breaking legal news, you’ll hear it first on Trial TV.”

TV monitors flanked both sides of the anchor desk, Jane’s beautiful face on each of them.

She turned back to the first camera. She smiled a grin that had a hint of playfulness to it. “So let’s get started. Joe Kelley is in Boston, Massachusetts, where the governor has been in hot water and appears in court today.”

The monitors changed, now showing a guy in a trench coat in front of a capitol building.

“Joe,” Jane said, “what’s the story there this morning?”

Joe Kelley began talking. The room started buzzing with activity and conversation. Trial TV was up and running.

Jane’s face relaxed for a moment, but I saw her glance toward the back of the room.

I followed her gaze.

The writer was gone.

Because I lost my father when I was eight, you might think I have a daddy-complex, some need to find a father figure in men of his age. Well, Tommy Daley was about the age my dad would have been-fifty-eight-but I wasn’t experiencing any kind of daughterlike devotion toward him.

“Why are you here?” he demanded after I’d introduced myself, his voice a series of sharp snaps.

“Jane sent me over.” I waved behind me at the anchor desk. “She said you were the master of my universe.”

That gave him a pause. He smirked in Jane’s direction. “I friggin’ love that girl,” he said. “She’s the only reason I’m here.” He turned his steely gaze back to me. “C’mere.”

I followed him through a different door from the one I came in. It led to a large room filled with cubicle desks, each with two computer screens and small TVs. Along the wall was a grid of nine televisions. Two showed Joe Kelley, the current on-air shot, and another showed Jane sitting at the anchor desk, waiting to go back on. The other TVs were tuned to CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and other such stations. Above the TVs hung three clocks. Signs underneath them read Chicago, New York, Los Angeles. On another wall was a huge monthly calendar on a dry erase board.

Tommy crossed his arms. “I meant what are you doing here on a national television network? Huh? I know we lost what’s-her-name last week.” He shook his head, muttered something that sounded like Ivy League, my eye. “Anyway, I gave the green light to hire you because Jane vouched for you, said you could handle it, but now I want to know, what are you really bringing to the table?”

I flushed a little. On one hand, I’d been asking myself the same question over the weekend. On the other hand, I knew enough guys from the law like Tommy-guys who needed to haze you, to put you through your paces until you could earn their respect. And I understood that. You just couldn’t show ’em you were scared.

“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “I’ve got jury trial experience as well as contract negotiations. I worked at Baltimore & Brown-”

Tommy growled and tugged at his yellow tie. “How long did you practice?”

“About five years.”

His brown, red-rimmed eyes peered at me, then he actually rolled them toward the ceiling. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re a baby.”

I wanted to say, No, “the baby” was the guy I shoved out of my apartment at five this morning. Instead, I quickly continued, “For most of the time I practiced, I was head legal counsel for Pickett Enterprises.”