Love at 11 (28 page)

I raised my eyebrows. “Which was?”

Reardon shook his head for a moment. “Can’t believe I’m telling you this,” he muttered. “But I’ve lived so long with the guilt, it feels kind of good to come clean. Besides, you know most of it anyway or you wouldn’t have come calling in the first place.”

He scratched at his bug-bitten forearm. “Felix had taken control of the cartel now that his dad was behind bars. But he didn’t want to smuggle drugs the old-fashioned way. Too small-potatoes for him, sending one mule over at a time. He told me he wanted to build a gigantic underground tunnel to cross the border—one that could fit truckloads of drugs. Told me we could get rich and there was very little risk. All I had to do was keep Reardon Oil in business—in name only. He’d do the rest.”

“And under the pretense of digging for oil, they could really dig an underground passage,” I mused.

“Exactly. But let me tell you, I wanted no part of that,” Reardon said, his eyes flashing. “I may have been broke and my life savings down the tubes, but I still had ethics. Morals. I wasn’t going to aid and abet a guy who wanted to smuggle in foreign substances that were killing Americans. I’m a church-going guy.”

“So you told Felix no.”

“Right. And I guess after that he went to Rocky.

‘Cause the next week Rocky showed up, just like Felix, dressed to the nines and wanting to take me out to dinner. I knew what he was going to ask me before he even opened his mouth.”

“Which was?”

“He offered to buy off Reardon Oil for twice what it was worth. Told me he wanted to try his hand at digging for oil. Like I was stupid or something.”

“So what did you do?”

“I sold.” He shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? I’d married by then and my baby girl needed diapers. And baby food ain’t cheap. So I pretended to believe Rocky when he said he wanted to dig for oil. And I turned over the property to him.”

“And then they built the tunnel.”

“Guess so. I stayed out of the whole thing so I couldn’t tell you for sure. They got our buddy Gorman to do an EPA sign-off of the property. My oil business hadn’t produced any oil in ten years and some nature lovers were trying to put me out of business. Once I sold, Gorman made sure that all got buried and Reardon Oil continued to exist for ten more years—far as I know they never sold a drop of oil.”

“And now?”

“Now they’re living large. And I’m stuck in a damn trailer. My wife left me. Took the kids.” He sighed. “Sometimes I tell you, Maddy, there are days I wished I hadn’t had any morals and pride. But you know what? I’m honest.” He cleared his throat. “And now that you’re investigating all this, something tells me I’m going to be real happy I’m not involved.”

“Yes, sir, you are.” I motioned for Jamie to turn off the camera. “Listen, Bob,” I said. “Are you sure you want to be telling me this stuff? I mean, not that I don’t appreciate you doing it, but isn’t it dangerous?”

Bob shrugged his thin shoulders. “Don’t matter much if it is,” he replied. “Truth is, I’m dying. Got the cancer. Doctors say I only have about a month to live. And I’m itching to get into Heaven, though I ain’t done much to deserve it. Maybe this will end up helping me out some with Saint Peter at them pearly gates.”

My heart went out to him. What a rough life he’d lived. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s all right, I’ve come to terms with it all. And I’m glad the other two are finally going to get their just desserts. You let the DEA know that I’ll be happy to talk to them once they open the investigation.”

I thought of Mr. Mann and wondered, once again, what side he was on. “I will,” I replied.

We thanked him again and walked back to the SUV in silence. I didn’t know for sure about Jamie, but I for one was blown away by the revelation we’d heard inside. It was like every puzzle piece fit into place. Every “i” was dotted, every “t” crossed.

Now all I had left was to write my story and get it on the air.

SAMPLE EMMY-AWARD WINNING SPEECH

(Just in case!)

Oh, wow. I’m so surprised. I didn’t even prepare a speech because I honestly didn’t think I’d win. After all, there were so many great entries in my category.
(Name competition here––you will seem like a good sport.)

First of all, I’d like to thank the Academy. And God. And Jamie Hayes, amazing photographer and love of my life. Check out the big rock he just put on my finger, ladies and gentlemen. (Hold out big engagement ring (hopefully!) and pause for applause.)

I’d also like to thank our main anchor Terrance Toller, star of “Terrance Tells All,” who actually did absolutely
nothing
but read the piece and make sure his hair looked good for the stand-ups.
(Pause for laughter.)
But Terrance, we love you anyway––even if you are a pompous ass most of the time.

Oh and I would
not
like to thank my family. After all, my dad’s infidelity and my sister Lulu’s drug abuse nearly caused me to lose my sanity before the piece even had a chance to air! And mom––wherever in the world you’re currently shopping––you’d better bring me back something cool. And not one of those T-shirts that says, “My mom went to such-and-such a place and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” either.

And lastly, I’d like to thank you. My adoring fans. Especially Diane in the front. Diane Dickson, that is. Who flew all the way out from New York to offer me a position at
Newsline
. And yes, I’ve accepted the position!

(PAUSE FOR TREMENDOUS STANDING OVATION!)

Chapter Seventeen

I held my breath as Terrance scanned the script. Waited for him to whip out his red pen. To mutilate the words that I’d spent so long crafting. To tell me that I sucked as a writer and his pet Chihuahua could have written better.

So I waited. And waited.

He flipped to the last page without making a single mark, then replaced the other pages on top. He looked up, wearing a strange expression I couldn’t read.

“You can tweak it,” I said, lamely, when he didn’t speak.

“Are you kidding? This doesn’t need tweaking.”

Oh, great. He hated it that much? “Or rewrite it from scratch,” I amended. “If you want.”

Please don’t want to
, I begged silently.
Please let me have this one story the way I want it.

“Rewrite?” Terrance looked down at the paper and then up at me. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t change a word.”

I almost fell over backward. “You ... you wouldn’t?” Was this some kind of sick joke? I figured he’d at least ask if we could shoot him doing a ride-along with border patrol or something equally lame.

“No. This is the best piece of journalism I’ve seen in the last ten years. You’ve covered all the angles. It’s fair. It gives all the facts. You’re uncovering a major scandal that has been going on for years and no one—not even the DEA—has any clue about it.”

“Well, um, thanks,” I said modestly. Inside, my reaction was a bit livelier.

Oh, yeah! Maddy Madison, getting a compliment from Mr. Toller .Who rules the universe, bay-bee?

It took every bit of willpower not to start doing the Snoopy dance right then and there.

“You know, Madeline,” Terrance said, after not so surreptitiously checking his reflection in the mirror, “I was wrong about you. I assumed you were one of those cookie-cutter News Nine producers who had no brains and simply went along with whatever plastic surgery story of the week was assigned to her. But this …” He looked down at the script and back up at me. “This takes guts. It takes brains. It takes courage. I’ll be proud to put my name on this story.”

“Um, thank you,” I repeated, still at a loss for words. I knew I was blushing. Probably deep purple at this point. But at the same time I was pleased as punch. He liked my story! The fussy old anchorman liked my story!

“So, what’s your next move, Madeline?” Terrance asked. “After News Nine, I mean. If you’re writing stuff like this, you’re not going to be stuck in this hell-hole much longer.”

Wow. The compliments kept coming. I wondered if he was serious. Or if I told him about my
Newsline
dream he’d start making fun of me? Oh, what the heck. Let him. Having goals and dreams was nothing to be ashamed of.

“My ultimate dream goal is to become a
Newsline
producer,” I said, squaring my shoulders and daring him to put me down.

But he didn’t. He simply nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “That would be a good move for you, I think.”

“Really?” I asked before I could censor my enthusiasm.

“Produce a few more stories like this and you’re a shoo-in,” Terrance said. “And I’d be happy to give you my recommendation.”

I stared at him, still unable to get over his enthusiastic reaction to the script. I thought for sure, no matter how good it was, he’d tear it apart simply because it hadn’t been written by him. I would have never guessed in a million years that he would be offering me a reference to my dream job.

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that,” I said, finding my tongue.

“Now, about this story. Anything else you need me to do? A stand-up? Maybe some teases?” He paged through his Daytimer. “I’m available tomorrow afternoon after my Botox appointment.”

Here it was. He wanted to be in the story. He wanted thirty-seven of the fifty shots to be pictures of him.

“Terrance, can I ask you something?” I queried. I might as well lay all my cards on the table, even if that meant the compliments would cease.

He looked up. “Sure. What is it?”

“Why do you think it’s so important for you to be physically present in the story? I mean, what’s wrong with it just being your voice? Do you really think it adds to the piece to see you in it?”

He stared at me for a moment, as if in disbelief that I had asked him such a question. I bit my lower lip, waiting for the yell-fest to begin. Why couldn’t I have kept silent? Terrance opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He was beginning to resemble a goldfish.

“Have you looked around News Nine, Maddy?” he asked. “Counted how many people work here over the age of thirty-five?”

“Um, there’s.. .” I tried to think. My mind went blank. Surely there were one or two middle-aged people. “Well, there’s Don,” I said, referencing the old engineer that’d been working at News Nine since the days of black-and-white film.

“I mean on air. Reporters. Anchors,” Terrance clarified. “Don’t think too hard. There’s no one. I’m sixty-five years old and the next oldest reporter is thirty-three.” He cleared his throat. “Every time contract time comes around the station bosses ask themselves, why do we want to keep an aging, overpaid anchor around, when we could buy a hip, leather jacket–wearing, twenty-something replacement who will work for a quarter of his salary?”

I nodded slowly. I’d never thought about that. But it made perfect sense. There were hundreds of reporters banging down the door to work in “America’s Finest City.”

“The only thing I have going for me is name recognition. The viewers know who I am. They watch News Nine to see me and management knows it. If I ever lost that, I’d be kicked out the door with not so much as a ‘thanks for the memories.’”

“Right,” I mused. I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but what he was saying made perfect sense. In this business, approval ratings were everything. The viewers knew and trusted Terrance Toller to bring them the day’s news. And he’d built up that trust over years of hard work. Who could blame him for wanting to hang on to what he’d earned for as long as possible and not give it up to some random twenty-something who looked good in Jimmy Choos?

Terrance paused, fiddling with his pen. “So, yes, it may seem silly for me to put so much effort into getting my mug on TV, but the bottom line is, the viewers like it. And they’re what’s kept me on the air all these years.” He looked up at me, his eyes fierce and proud. “So I think I’ll carry on, if it’s all the same to you.”

I nodded at him with a newfound respect, and then, on impulse, stuck out my hand. “Sounds good to me,” I said as we shook. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Toller.” And strangely enough, I meant it.

“Likewise, Ms. Madison,” he replied. “Now let’s go bust some drug dealers!”

*

Mike popped the tape out of his edit deck and handed it to me with a smile on his face. “Your story, madam,” he quipped.

I grinned, taking the tape and bringing it to my lips to kiss it. “It came out great, didn’t it?” I said.

The editor nodded. “It’s way too good to be a News

Nine piece.”

I laughed. “Well, your editing helped a lot.” Mike had done an amazing job merging the undercover video with the interviews we’d done. It wasn’t overly edited, or too flashy like many News 9 pieces. It looked more like … well, to be completely honest, it looked like a
Newsline
piece. And I couldn’t be happier with it. “I aim to please,” Mike said, blushing a bit. “When does it air?”

“Well, I’ve got to go show it to Richard first,” I explained. “I’ve sort of been saving it as a surprise.”

Mike nodded. “He’s going to be thrilled.”

“I hope so.”

I exited the editing booth and walked through the newsroom to Richard’s office, still clutching my precious tape. I couldn’t wait another second to show him. To hear his praise. His admiration for a job well done.

If only all my producers were as talented as you
, he’d say. “Hi, Richard,” I greeted, entering his office.

He looked up from his computer with a smile. “How are you, Maddy? Enjoying your new position?”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded, holding up the tape. “I thought you might like to see my latest story.”

“Sure.” Richard gestured to the tape deck. “Pop it in. Let’s see.”

I inserted the tape, pressed “play,” and sat down in a chair, holding my breath. The piece played out and I couldn’t help being impressed all over again by how it looked. Each frame was perfect; I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Finally, Terrance tagged out and the video faded to black.