Wanda said, chuckling, “I don’t know anyone who plans when and where to fall in love. I know that I met my husband while making a movie on which he was a consultant. Falling in love was about the last thing I thought would happen on that set.”
There was a momentary pause, then Wanda said. “When we come back, a look back at the stories that made headlines this week.”
The disembodied voice called out, “And we’re clear.”
Wanda rose from her chair, reaching out her hand to Jay. “Wow, that went by too quickly.” She motioned Kate over. “I’m really sorry I didn’t get to talk to you both together, but we just ran out of time.”
Kate wasn’t sure if Wanda was being sincere or if it had been her intention all along to interview Jay alone. “That’s quite all right.”
“I want you both to know that I have tremendous respect for what you did by coming out—that took a lot of courage. I understand better than most what it’s like to have the paparazzi hounding you day and night. I wish you all the best and hope you find some peace.”
“Thank you, Wanda. We appreciate that.” Kate waited patiently as a technician stripped Jay of her microphone. Then she placed her hand gently on her partner’s back and guided her off the set.
When they were well clear, Kate gave Jay a one-armed hug. “You were fantastic, sweetheart. I am so very, very proud of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You handled that with grace and style. And you got the interviewer to add to your credibility. That doesn’t happen every day, trust me.”
“The audience that matters awaits us.” She gestured to the waiting limousine that would take them back to Standislau’s office, suddenly looking tired. “I wish we could just go home and curl up together instead.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Soon, I promise.”
By the time they’d made it through the midtown Manhattan congestion, it was after 10:30 p.m. Standislau and Trish were waiting for them in the managing editor’s office.
“Come in, come in you two. Have a seat, you must be exhausted.”
“Thanks,” Jay said, as she plopped down in the nearest chair. In truth, she was dead tired, but she was also nervous. She was grateful when Kate selected the seat directly next to her, needing that proximity and her lover’s quiet strength.
“I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that I took the liberty of gauging public opinion about your interview.”
Lynn Ames
Jay stiffened imperceptibly, and Kate squeezed her hand surreptitiously before letting go. If Standislau saw the gesture, he gave no indication.
“We asked several questions in the poll: Did you find Ms. Parker credible? Does her explanation of events make you more, or less sympathetic? Would you rate her ethics excellent, good, fair, poor, or unacceptable? Would you trust a story written by Ms. Parker in the future? How much do you trust the stories you read in
Time
magazine: completely, mostly, partially, or not at all? Seeing this interview, are you more, or less likely to trust the information you get in
Time
?”
The managing editor paused for a moment, looking up at Jay. “I have to say, even I was surprised at the numbers.”
Jay thought the man would have made a great poker player. It was impossible to tell whether he meant that he’d been pleasantly surprised or horrified by the results.
“I am happy to say that you scored off the charts in almost every instance. Eighty-two percent of respondents said you were credible.
Seventy-one percent said your explanation made them more sympathetic.
Forty-three percent said your ethics were excellent, and another thirty-one percent said they were good. An overwhelming eighty-seven percent said they would trust a story from you in the future.”
Jay relaxed minutely and chanced a glance at Kate, whose eyes twinkled back at her with pride.
“As for the magazine,” Standislau continued, “the news was also excellent.” He put the poll results down and looked at Jay. “Thank you, by the way, for making a point of letting your editors off the hook. I know we didn’t talk about the specifics of what you were going to say ahead of time. That was very classy.”
“It was the least I could do, sir.”
“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat and picked up his sheaf of papers once again, “a combined seventy-four percent of respondents said they would trust the stories in
Time
completely or partially, and an astounding ninety-one percent said they were more likely to trust the information in
Time
as a result of the interview.
“I can’t imagine anything I could say tomorrow could acquit us any better than you have tonight. Congratulations, Jamison. I suggest you get some sleep. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
The reactions to Vander Standislau’s appearances the next morning were equally positive, his explanation of
Time’s
stringent policies and code of ethics more than satisfying the viewers. Asked about Jay’s revelation regarding her personal life, he answered unequivocally that his employees’ personal lives were their own business and that he was only
The Cost of Commitment
interested in the job they did. Jamison Parker, he said, was an outstanding reporter.
Lynn Ames
The Cost of Commitment
reathwaite was beside himself. How in the world had those bitches gotten so damn lucky? What should have been a s B
urefire
career ender for Parker had turned out to be a reaffirmation of her worth to the magazine.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He threw the editorials down on his desk. The ringing of the phone forestalled the string of expletives he was about to unleash.
“Breathwaite,” he barked into the receiver.
“It’s time for the next target. It’s clear we’re not going to get her this way.”
“No kidding. I’ve already begun laying the groundwork. He’ll be gone within the week.”
“For your sake, you’d better hope so. Sampson’s been talking to the big guy about his theories, and that’s not good. Patience down South is running in short supply these days.”
“I said it would be done, and so it will,” Breathwaite snapped at Vendetti.
Hawthorne can kiss my ass,
he added mentally as he slammed down the phone.
Reaching into his briefcase, he extracted a key. He fitted it into the lock for the file cabinet to his left, sliding the drawer back and locating the bright yellow folder labeled “BS.” Breathwaite had been pleased with himself when he came up with that little name.
He spread the contents of the folder out on his desk, shuffling through photos until he came to the one he wanted. Staring back at him was a younger Brian Sampson, looking dashing in his military uniform, a Vietnamese woman sitting on his lap. Breathwaite combed through more pictures until he came across an image of a beautiful twelve-year-old Amerasian girl, her eyes the same shape and shade of gray as her
Lynn Ames
father’s. He smiled coldly. This time there would be no advance warning.
Just a well-executed strike that would create a media maelstrom and knock the DOCS commissioner out on his ass. Breathwaite gleefully rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
When the first story hit the
New York Post
as an exclusive, Commissioner Sampson and Kate were in the middle of a swing through the prisons in the westernmost part of the state. As part of the tour, they had invited a select group of reporters to accompany them to Lakeview, one of the state’s newest “shock incarceration” camps. The prison, designed mostly for low-level drug offenders, was modeled on military boot camps. For six months, inmates learned discipline, pride, and structure.
At the tail end of the press tour at Lakeview, Gregory Naisbitt, a reporter with the western New York bureau of the Associated Press, raised his hand to ask a question. “Is the
Post
story true, Commissioner Sampson? Did you father a child out of wedlock with a Vietnamese woman twelve years ago while serving a tour of duty over there? And is it a fact that you’ve been paying her and her mother hush money ever since?”
A tremendous buzz rippled through the throng of reporters. Then a voice shouted, “Does your wife know?”
The commissioner, who had been expecting questions about the shock program, visibly blanched. “W-what?”
Kate, seeing her boss’s distress, stepped in and held up her hands for quiet. “Any questions on this tour were to be limited to the exciting, successful, cutting-edge shock program. The fact that recidivism rates have been greatly reduced since the introduction of shock camps is major news. If any of you have any relevant questions about that, we’ll entertain them.” She paused for a fraction of a second. “No? Have a nice day, folks. The officer,” she nodded to a uniformed guard standing rigidly at attention to her right, “will see you out now.”
Without further delay, Kate steered her boss into a nearby office and closed the door behind them. When she turned to face Sampson, he was ghostly pale and swaying. She guided him into a nearby chair and poured him a glass of water. The gesture was as much to allow her time to absorb what had happened as it was to help the commissioner.
Moving to a phone on the wall, she dialed her office. When her assistant answered, Kate spoke in low tones.
“Why wasn’t I made aware that there was a major breaking story in print this morning about the commissioner?”
“I’m sorry, Kate, I was going to tell you when you called.”
The Cost of Commitment
“Marisa,” she ground out with barely controlled fury, “I wear a beeper for a reason. There were reporters accompanying us today, as you well knew. Didn’t you think it was important to let me know the commissioner might be blindsided?”
“I guess I didn’t think reporters in that part of the state would’ve heard about it.”
“Didn’t think would be the operative part of that sentence,” Kate hissed. “Send me the story right now. Have there been any calls about it?”
“Three dozen or so.”
Kate closed her eyes, willing her tension headache to ease. “Fax me the list of callers with phone numbers and details about what questions they asked. And if there are any more calls, I want to know right away.
Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kate slammed down the phone, wondering what could possibly happen next.
“What am I going to tell my wife?”
The words were spoken in something akin to a whisper, as if Sampson didn’t realize he’d spoken them aloud.
Kate swallowed the response that sprang to mind, which was that he should have thought of that twelve years earlier when he took that woman to bed. Instead, she turned to face her boss.
“Sir, I’m sorry. I should have known about that story and protected you. I—”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her, “I suppose it had to come out sooner or later. I just never thought—Well,” he looked up, seeming to notice Kate’s presence for the first time, “I guess it’s pretty obvious I didn’t think, now, isn’t it?” He shook his head with bitter regret.
“Commissioner, we need to decide on a strategy. Please don’t say anything more out loud until we determine what our response will be.”
He looked at her, uncomprehending.
“I can’t answer questions to which I don’t know the response,” she said. “I can’t lie to the media, and if you tell me more, I won’t be able to feign ignorance.”
“Oh,” he said weakly. “Yes, I see.”
“Sir? Any idea why this story is coming out now?”
Sampson shrugged and ran his fingers through his thick cap of hair. “I have no idea.”
“Where might the
Post
have gotten such a story?”
“The only person who would have had any knowledge of...” he paused, cognizant of Kate’s warning about what she knew, “that time in my life would be an old friend of mine who served in my platoon. But I
Lynn Ames
haven’t heard from Jack in a long time. We had a bit of a falling out the last time we got together. I was trying to convince him to get some help.
It was clear to me that he had a drinking problem.”
“How long ago was that, sir?”
“I don’t know. A year ago, maybe.”
Kate nodded, thinking that alcoholics in the middle of a bender had a penchant for saying things they would normally keep to themselves. Out loud she said, “Where were you when you had the argument?”
“Hmm? Oh, we were in the Bleeker. He was in Albany on business so we decided to get together for a drink or two. That was before I realized he had a problem. He was already half in the bag by the time I got there, and it was only four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Did he stay in the bar after the argument?”
“Yeah. When I left he was hurling epithets at me and still sitting at the bar. I remember it like it was yesterday.”
“Did you talk about your...situation...during that meeting?”
“Yeah,” Sampson said heavily. “He threw in my face that I wasn’t exactly perfect either, that I wasn’t in a position to be holier-than-thou. I was no better than him, and probably worse, was the gist of his argument.
At least he hadn’t left a—well, you get the idea.”
“Do you remember if there was any one else at the bar at the time?
Did anybody overhear you talking?”
“I don’t know,” Sampson said miserably. “Could have been. God knows we were loud enough.”
Kate’s mind was working overtime. She was beginning to smell a rat.
The Bleeker was Breathwaite’s favorite hangout.
“Okay, let’s forget about that piece for now. Is there anything more that can come out? Anything else that could hurt you?” Before he could answer, she held up a hand. “Just a yes, or no, please.”
Sampson hung his head, tears spilling onto his business suit. “Yes.”
He looked up at her, his eyes red and pleading. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I was young and far from home. I didn’t think I’d ever get back alive.”
“Sir,” Kate said gently, putting a hand on his arm, “it’s not mine to judge you. My only concern is to limit the damage now and help you weather the media storm.”
“I can’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
He looked at her. “I can’t, Kate. I won’t put my wife through this.”