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  Ethan looked at the story and then at his watch. Nine thirty. “It’s long, but I have plenty of time,” he said, placing the article on top of the pile. “Now I need you to go. I wanna show Paul I’m still one of his best producers and know more about Pavel Feodor than anybody else in that damn meeting.”

  “There’s just one more thing, Ethan,” she said, heading to the door. “I don’t have much on my plate. Just two projects, both in editing, and my producers are almost finished. See if you can get me assigned as your associate producer.”

  “I’ll talk to the management and bring you on board,” he said, already beginning to read.

  “Great. Let me know how it goes,” she said, waving good-bye.

  Ethan watched her hurry down the hall, then gazed out his picture window at the sun peeking over the top of a luxury apartment building on Fifth Avenue. Now he understood why Paul was so eager to assign him the story—guns, gangs, drugs, and politics—not his cup of tea, but perfect for the new reality of the show.

  He turned around and buried himself in the Times article.

  CHAPTER 3

  A HALF HOUR LATER, ETHAN climbed off the elevator and walked into a small waiting room on the eleventh floor. A receptionist named Jennifer was talking to a friend on the telephone and texting on her iPhone. She looked up at Ethan, said she had to go, and hung up. “Good morning, Ethan. Who are you here to see?”

  “Paul. I have a ten o’clock meeting. Is he in his office?”

  Jennifer pulled up Lang’s schedule on her computer. “He knows you’re coming. Says so right here. But he’s running late. I think he’s still in a production meeting with his senior staff. I’ll buzz you through and you can check with Monica. She’ll let you know how he’s doing and when he’ll be ready to see you.” She hit a button under her desk and unlocked the door.

  Ethan said thanks and walked onto the floor.

  The first thing he noticed was the silence—no televisions blaring, no telephones ringing, no small groups of people huddled together and talking. All the doors along the long, carpeted hallway leading to Paul’s suite of offices were closed. Most of the staff—the bookkeepers, budget officers, personnel managers, and tech support—worked banker’s hours, routinely coming in late and going home early.

  But on Paul’s end of the floor, it was a different story.

  Secretaries shuttled trays of coffee and bagels in and out of his meeting, production associates sorted through scripts, and desk assistants logged camera dailies on screening machines. Huddled in a conference room facing the Empire State Building, Paul and his inner circle were working on the broadcast schedule. Ethan could hear them arguing through a partially opened door as they debated the mix of stories and what order to stack the segments. It was business as usual—the senior management making their pitch, sucking up to the boss, trying to score points.

  It was a game Ethan hated.

  A game he refused to play.

  He continued walking and heard his name shouted from down the hall. It was Monica, and she was so flustered she could hardly get the words out. “Ethan, you’re late. I’ve been looking all over for you. Paul’s having a coronary.”

  Ethan checked the time. It was just after ten o’clock. “Take a deep breath, Monica. Jennifer told me Paul’s running behind schedule. So I’m not really late, am I?”

  “No, not really,” Monica said, beginning to relax. “But you know how he gets. He’s just being Paul the control freak. He’s giving everybody a hard time, including me.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Ethan said softly. “Let’s go and let him know I’m here. Then maybe he’ll stop raising hell and yelling at everybody.” He smiled and fell in behind her as she scurried down a shiny red hallway covered with pictures of Paul posing proudly with Presidents Clinton, Bush, and Obama; with George Clooney, Nicole Kidman, and Jack Nicholson; and with dozens of other masters of the universe. “Goddamn,” Ethan muttered under his breath as he stared at the wall of fame, “there really is no limit to the man’s ego.”

  Lang was still screaming when they reached the conference room. “Wish me luck, Monica,” Ethan whispered, straightening his tie and pushing his way in, the room suddenly growing quiet as he sat down in an empty chair at the end of a long mahogany table. Paul was standing, arms crossed, like a commander flanked by his most trusted advisers—Joyce Cox and Lenny Franklin, his senior producers, and Dirk Fulton, his senior story editor. A short man with long silver-gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, Paul was dressed in an expensive Ralph Lauren suit, a custom-made blue oxford shirt, a silk Hermes tie, gold wire-rim glasses, and his trademark diamond stud earring. He wasn’t particularly good looking, but wasn’t bad looking either—except when he got angry. Then he became downright ugly. “Where the fuck have you been?” he said, contempt in his voice. “We called all over the building and couldn’t find you.”

  “I was just down the hall,” Ethan said a little too casually. “I didn’t think I was late.”

  “You’re always late and shirking your responsibilities.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” Ethan said, trying but failing to diffuse the tension in the room. “So let’s not waste any more of your precious time. Tell me about Pavel Feodor.”

  Paul pounded the table, his face reddening. “Watch your mouth. The only reason you’re sitting here is because you’re not working on anything and I need somebody with your production skills to produce this story. A lot of people around the company are watching, and I’m hoping you’re up to the task.”

  Ethan sat quietly, wondering if Paul was under some kind of pressure from somebody higher up in the corporation. That would explain the terse email, the early morning telephone call, and all the histrionics he was now experiencing. “Look, Paul, don’t dress me down in front of everybody,” Ethan said calmly. “We can talk about my work habits later if you’d like. Let’s talk about the murder. That’s why we’re here, right?”

  There was an awkward pause, everybody waiting for Paul to react as he slowly sat down and began tapping his fingers on the table. “Fair enough, Ethan. You and I will meet about your work habits—or your lack thereof—in private as soon as we’re finished in here. Now tell me what you know about Pavel Feodor.”

  “I know more about this story than you think,” Ethan said, opening his briefcase and pulling out his newspaper and magazine clippings. “I know who he is. Who the victim is. And what happened the night of the murder. I also know he confessed to the cops but never told anybody, not even his attorney, how or why he killed Cynthia Jameson. Now, I find that pretty interesting, don’t you?” He waited, and when he didn’t get a response, plowed on. “And according to the research I’ve read, the jury convicted Feodor entirely on circumstantial evidence and his videotaped confession. So are we all 100 percent sure the police and the prosecutor got it right?”

  Paul started doodling on a yellow pad as he always did when he was thinking, then turned to Dirk Fulton. “He’s got a point there. Fill him in on what you’ve got going, Dirk.”

  Fulton cleared his throat. “I’ve been working on this story about a month, Ethan, with one of my best researchers, David Livingston.” Fulton nodded at David, who was sitting just behind him. “He’s got good sources in law enforcement—both here and in Washington—and has already met with the NYPD and the district attorney’s office. One of the prosecutors shipped him the court docket, so we have a full record of the police investigation and the trial.”

  “When can I get a copy?” Ethan said, turning to David.

  “Later today, but I gotta warn you, it’s huge. Tens of thousands of pages.”

  “Ship it to my apartment. It’s quiet there, and I’ll get through it much faster if I organize it at home.”

  “David’s also trying to schedule an interview with Nancy McGregor, the ADA in charge of the case,” Fulton said without missing a beat.

  “She’s critical to our story,” Paul said, interrupting. “You need to follow up. She’s
a priority booking.”

  “I won’t let the ball drop,” Ethan said, a little too sharply.

  “Don’t. Make sure you land her,” Paul said, pushing back even harder.

  “Okay, the two of you, enough. You’re making me feel like a ping-pong ball,” Dirk said, glancing back at his researcher. “David’s also been networking with the deputy mayor’s office and his wife. What’s her name?”

  “Sandy,” David said.

  “Has she been helpful?” Ethan said, pulling out his iPad and beginning a new page of notes. “Has she told you anything about Cynthia beyond what’s been printed in the newspapers?”

  “Not really,” David said reluctantly. “She and the deputy mayor have been waiting for us to assign a producer before opening up about their daughter.”

  “Well, now I’m on board,” Ethan said sincerely. “Can you set up a meeting?”

  “As soon as I get back to my office.”

  “Good. And how about family photos and home videos?”

  “Working on it,” David said. “The deputy mayor’s press secretary, Sylvia Rosenberg, has promised me copies. Hopefully we’ll get them soon.”

  “And the Jamesons will sit down for an on-camera interview?” Ethan said, wondering if David had already broached the subject and booked a shooting date with the press secretary.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “We need to pick a day.”

  “Where?”

  “We can do the interview at their apartment,” David said confidently. “They live on Fifth Avenue, somewhere in the eighties.”

  “And what about visuals? Can we shoot B-roll at their apartment?” Ethan said, knitting his brow as he typed away on his iPad.

  “It all depends on the kids,” David said, flipping through his notes in a spiral notebook. “Oh, here it is. Sandy told me her two younger kids are still pretty freaked out by the murder, and she’s not sure she wants to expose them to our cameras. So we’re gonna have to play it by ear and see how they’re doing. We can definitely shoot the interview in their apartment, but maybe no pictures.”

  “Okay. We’ll work that out when I meet them,” Ethan said, pausing to finish a list of the story elements they’d been discussing. “And what about her friends? Cynthia was a student at Columbia University, right? Will they talk to us?”

  “Can’t this wait until later?” Paul said, interrupting again. “Let’s move this along. I’m running late for another meeting.”

  Ethan turned off his iPad and put his research back into his briefcase, then turned to the executive producer. “I just have a couple more questions, Paul. Then we’ll be done. I’m assuming Pavel Feodor is the centerpiece of the story. Has he agreed to an on-camera interview?”

  Paul removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief. “What do you take me for, Ethan, a fool? Of course Feodor’s agreed to an interview. I would never program a story like this without the main character. Wouldn’t get much of a rating doing a write-around. Everybody and his brother has done that. We’re the only news organization with an interview. Feodor is our exclusive.”

  “And is Feodor ready to talk about what happened that night? Or is he just playing games with us?” Ethan said, hoping to find out if there were any guidelines for the interview.

  “His attorney has assured me over and over again that his client wants to come clean and tell us his side of the story. The guy’s name is Frankie O’Malley. He’s a public defender. Talk to him. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “That’s the first call I’ll make,” Ethan said as he began thinking about the difficulties of shooting a prison interview. “And where do we stand with Rikers Island? That’s where they’re holding him, right? Do we have permission to bring in our cameras?”

  “I’ve been working on that for weeks,” Paul said quietly.

  “And when will you know?” Ethan said, seeing the worry on Paul’s face.

  “When the powers that be are ready to make the decision,” Paul shot back. “Hopefully soon.”

  “Maybe I should pick up the negotiations from here,” Ethan said. “Might be more productive if I coordinate the logistics with Rikers Island.”

  “No,” Paul said sharply. “The negotiations are delicate. And I’m too far into it to remove myself from the mix. You might screw things up.”

  “Come on, Paul, you know me better than that,” Ethan said levelly. “I’ve booked dozens of sensitive interviews for you, and there’s never been a problem.”

  “I don’t care how good you are, Ethan. I said I’d handle the negotiations. That’s my decision, and it’s final.”

  Ethan stared around the room looking for support, but when nobody came forward, decided not to press the point any further—at least for the moment. “Okay, we’ll do it your way, Paul,” he said, pushing his chair away from the table. “Who’s the point person on my story, Lenny or Joyce?”

  “Lenny,” Paul said. “I’ve asked Joyce to help him with his other projects. He’s got plenty of time to work with you. Check in with him every day and let him know what you’re doing. He’ll keep me posted.”

  “No problem,” Ethan said, nodding to Lenny. “And while we’re talking about staffing, I’d like Mindy Herman as my number two.”

  Paul turned to his senior producers. “What’s Herman doing? Does she have time to work with Ethan?”

  Joyce Cox scanned through a computer printout listing all the current assignments. “She’s got a couple of stories on her plate, but they’re winding down. She can handle a new project.”

  “Done. She’s yours,” Paul said, “and so is David. Any other questions?”

  “Just one,” Ethan said. “Who’s the correspondent?”

  An uneasy silence filled the room.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to ask that question,” Paul said, starting to doodle again on his yellow pad. Then he looked up at Ethan. “This is the biggest story we’ll program all year. ABC, NBC, and CBS have been circling for weeks, trying to steal the Feodor interview out from under us. So far I’ve managed to fend them off. My bosses at the network have also promised a ton of on-air promotion. That should help us get a huge rating, and you know how important that is to the show.”

  “Okay, Paul, I get it. This story’s important. Who are you assigning?”

  “I want to give it to an anchor. I’ve talked to Peter Sampson. He’s agreed to clear his schedule and take on the story.”

  Ethan didn’t know how to react. He’d worked with Sampson in the past, and it was common knowledge on the show that they didn’t see eye to eye. “With all due respect, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Peter never does this kind of story. He usually sticks to big entertainment interviews and celebrity profiles where there’s little prep work, a day or two of shooting, and maybe a week or two of writing and editing. This story is much more complicated and is going to take up way too much of his time. What about Julie Piedmont? She’s our coanchor and has an excellent Q rating. She’s a much better choice than Peter, don’t you think?”

  “Be careful, Ethan. You’re out of line here,” Paul said glaringly. “I know you guys have a history, but Peter Sampson has been anchoring this show since the day we went on the air. He’s the face of The Weekly Reporter. I want him to do this story. Not Julie Piedmont. She won’t get us as big a rating.”

  “Well, I disagree,” Ethan said.

  “I don’t care what you think,” Paul said, banging on the table. “I’ve made my decision and have already briefed him. Peter’s the talent. Make the best of it.” He picked up his yellow pad. “We’re done here,” he said, pointing at Ethan. “I want to talk to you now—in my office.”

  Ethan took a deep, calming breath, then followed Paul out of the conference room and past Monica who looked up from her computer. “Is there anything I can get you guys? Coffee, tea, maybe water?”

  “Nothing,” Paul said, waving her off. “And close the door. We need privacy.” He wheeled
around and faced Ethan. “Take a seat.”

  Ethan dropped into a chair across from Paul’s desk as the executive producer paced over to a picture window and peered out at Rockefeller Center in the distance. “Ethan, Ethan, Ethan,” he said. “What am I gonna do with you? You’ve been working on my show for a long time, and for the most part, you’ve done an excellent job. But the past few months, well, I don’t know what to make of you. You’re not the same person I once knew and respected. You’ve become lazy and unreliable and pigheaded. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I don’t think I’ve changed,” Ethan said defensively. “I still deliver more hard-hitting and high-rated stories than anyone else on your staff. You shouldn’t be angry with my work habits. You should embrace them as a model for all your producers.”

  Paul cut him off. “Don’t be smug with me, Ethan. I don’t tolerate this kind of behavior from any of my other producers. How dare you talk to me like this. How dare you ignore my emails. How dare you come to my meetings late. Don’t you want to work for me anymore?” He let the last question hang in the air as he walked over to his desk and sat down, never taking his eyes off Ethan.

  “Of course I want to work for you, Paul. I’ll do a good job on this story, and you know it.”

  “But I’m not sure I trust you anymore. Your behavior is inexcusable.”

  “Are you threatening me, Paul?” Ethan said, the hair on the back of his neck bristling.

  “Yes. I’m putting you on notice. I don’t like the way you’re doing your job, and I’m not sure I want you on my show anymore.” He leaned across his desk and peered into Ethan’s eyes, pausing a moment before continuing. “And if you step out of line one more time, I’ll pull you off the Feodor story and send you off packing. This is your last chance, Ethan.”