Yield (19 page)

Jean Barlow, an ambitiously attractive executive producer from the news department, strides past. Her calculated body grazes his ever so slightly, almost like the touch of a breeze. Jean
’
s violet eyes sparkle back.

A flicker of remembrance flashes in his own. He unconsciously straightens his crisp, red tie.
“
Oh, hey. Morning, Jean,
”
he stammers, nearly dropping his phone when he changes hands.

A light gray business suit clings to the 32-year-old
’
s fit body. Her graceful strides seem to float across the lobby. The creative director
’
s eyes dart away when he realizes they
’
re staring.

“
You sure about that, Jonathon?
”
a voice presses.

“
Hmm?
”
Jonathon says, forgetting for a second that he has a phone up to his ear.
“
Yes. Just make it go away.
”
He shakes the fluttering feeling in his head, and walks right past the stranger at the receptionist
’
s desk without even a glance of welcome.

“
Alright,
”
the lawyer sighs.
“
Come by the office on your lunch, and we
’
ll finish it.
”

“
See you at noon.
”
Jonathon taps the
“
end
”
button on his touchscreen and stuffs the phone into his right pants pocket. He sighs, finally feeling a shred of peace.

The feeling ends quickly.

He beeps in through the interior security door, stepping past it into a tumultuous world. The bustling activity and ever-present deadlines of major market broadcast news are all around him. Bodies rush down hallways, their quickened pace and panicked looks routine. Stress hangs on their faces. Fear of ratings and fierce competition is etched into dozens of wild eyes. Spotting a familiar shape lodged in the conference room doorway, Jonathon stiffens.

KOMO
’
s news director, Mitch Davis, is just wrapping up an impromptu meeting with his senior leadership team.
“
Hold on,
”
Mitch interrupts, putting a finger of silence up to cut off his assignment editor. He scoots his chair back into the pulsing hallway and glances around. His uncanny radar sense always seems to trigger whenever someone he wants something from walks by.
“
Jonathon!
”
Mitch yells. His brash, high-pitched voice bounces down the corridor.
“
Wait up!
”

Not today.
Jonathon sighs again. His glossy black Kenneth Cole
’
s reluctantly stop. Jon
’
s fraying patience tells him to run, to sprint down the hallway and let the news director
’
s thankless orders try and give chase. The repercussions may even be worth it.

“
Footage is coming down now on Pathfire,
”
Mitch says to his news team. His stubby legs strain to stand. Everyone in the room rises to their feet almost as one, like a military unit heading into battle.
“
And tell Jean to get her producers ready for a cut-in,
”
he barks, pointing into the face of his assignment editor.
“
I wanted to be live five minutes ago!
”

Barely over five feet tall, the news director waddles surprisingly fast down the hallway toward Jonathon. Mitch has learned to compensate for every short inch with an intimidating personality and an unconditional demand for respect.
“
Walk with me,
”
Mitch says. His legs almost blur as they move past, expecting the much taller creative director to catch up to his forced pace. Mitch lowers his voice.
“
Sorry to jump on you right as you
’
re coming in,
”
he says without really meaning it. The news director looks secretively back down the busy hallway.
“
But something
’
s about to hit the
‘
holy shit
’
fan.
”

“
Breaking news?
”
Jonathon asks. His irritation quickly changes to curiosity. Veiled fear betrays Mitch
’
s normally guarded eyes.
Something
’
s up.
An overwhelming need for information suddenly ignites in Jon, pushing away all of this morning
’
s distractions.

The department heads walk to the metal stairs and take them down into the steel, blue epicenter of the KOMO 4 Newsroom.
“
There will be,
”
Mitch whispers. His eyes dart around.
“
Two U.S. security council members were assassinated this morning. Our source in the White House says the administration is talking action, Jonathon.
”

“
Which kind?
”
Jon scoffs.
“
We
’
re gonna boycott your economy until it collapses? Or bomb your ass back into the Stone Age?
”

Mitch points sharply back at him, his face lighting up.
“
That
’
s the use of democracy I was thinking. China and Russia have taken a wait-and-see stance, so the U.N.
’
s hands are tied. The press secretary hasn
’
t released a statement yet. But there
’
s a news conference scheduled for 1
P
.
M
. Eastern.
”

The news director stops at the LCD-monitor wall beside the massive glass assignment desk, scanning the frenzy across his 60-person newsroom.
“
News meeting! Now!
”
he bellows. The journalists freeze at the unusually urgent tone.

“
We
’
ll need a custom open and CGs,
”
Mitch says to Jonathon. The news team converges around them with eager eyes.

“
I
’
ll talk to graphics,
”
Jonathon says.
“
What are you slugging it?
”

“
Assassination in Tehran.
”

8:59
a.m.

Dense fog hangs low over Seattle, blotting out the scarlet sun. Jonathon
’
s glasses streak with rain as he lumbers up to the KOMO 4 News building downtown. His long legs take the last few steps to the entrance in a single leap. Brilliant fluorescent lights pour through the television station
’
s stately glass entryway.

Jonathon ducks out of the weather beneath an overhang. He wipes several drops from his cherished Rolex with the corner of a pinstripe jacket, shaking the water off his charcoal suit collar. The creative director rummages into his pocket for a thin, magnetic security card.

The man
’
s legs look almost too tall for his body, pushing his broad torso closer to a third of his 6
’
4
”
height. He doesn
’
t mind his odd proportions though. At least not anymore. Now all of his suits are custom-tailored; he prefers them that way. The perfect fit. The flawless lines. He wipes the rain off his forehead and up through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“
At this point, just give her what she wants,
”
he shouts into the cellphone at his divorce lawyer. His eyes darken. He
’
s had to repeat the same damn thing over and over all morning after talking to his estranged wife
—
first to the legal aid and now his attorney. It festers. Like a sore picked too many times.

Jonathon scrubs at his glasses with a pristine white silk cloth always kept in his inner left pocket. He folds and replaces it carefully, turning to look out at the blurring lights moving along 4th Avenue. He runs a hand down his graying goatee.
“
I don
’
t care. I need to be done with it.
”

“
She
’
s the one that left you, Jonathon,
”
the lawyer reminds. He can almost feel the victory slipping away.
“
We have some real leverage there.
”

“
You think I don
’
t know that?
”
Jonathon barks.
His stomach twists.
Am I really letting her do this to me?
He closes his navy blue eyes, the memories of a broken marriage flashing through his mind. Rain thunders down off the blackened sidewalks. It roars like static in his ears.
“
All I want is custody of Chris. She can have everything else,
”
Jonathon whispers. He holds his security key and ID badge to KOMO
’
s exterior sensor, pinning the phone to his ear so he can grip the door handle.

Beep.

“
Need help, Jon?
”
a silky voice asks from behind him.

Without turning, Jonathon opens the door and steps back. His eyes go wide as the familiar scent of Bulgari perfume wafts up to him.

Jean Barlow, an ambitiously attractive executive producer from the news department, strides past. Her calculated body grazes his ever so slightly, almost like the touch of a breeze. Jean
’
s violet eyes sparkle back.

A flicker of remembrance flashes in his own. He unconsciously straightens his crisp, red tie.
“
Oh, hey. Morning, Jean,
”
he stammers, nearly dropping his phone when he changes hands.

A light gray business suit clings to the 32-year-old
’
s fit body. Her graceful strides seem to float across the lobby. The creative director
’
s eyes dart away when he realizes they
’
re staring.

“
You sure about that, Jonathon?
”
a voice presses.

“
Hmm?
”
Jonathon says, forgetting for a second that he has a phone up to his ear.
“
Yes. Just make it go away.
”
He shakes the fluttering feeling in his head, and walks right past the stranger at the receptionist
’
s desk without even a glance of welcome.

“
Alright,
”
the lawyer sighs.
“
Come by the office on your lunch, and we
’
ll finish it.
”

“
See you at noon.
”
Jonathon taps the
“
end
”
button on his touchscreen and stuffs the phone into his right pants pocket. He sighs, finally feeling a shred of peace.

The feeling ends quickly.

He beeps in through the interior security door, stepping past it into a tumultuous world. The bustling activity and ever-present deadlines of major market broadcast news are all around him. Bodies rush down hallways, their quickened pace and panicked looks routine. Stress hangs on their faces. Fear of ratings and fierce competition is etched into dozens of wild eyes. Spotting a familiar shape lodged in the conference room doorway, Jonathon stiffens.

KOMO
’
s news director, Mitch Davis, is just wrapping up an impromptu meeting with his senior leadership team.
“
Hold on,
”
Mitch interrupts, putting a finger of silence up to cut off his assignment editor. He scoots his chair back into the pulsing hallway and glances around. His uncanny radar sense always seems to trigger whenever someone he wants something from walks by.
“
Jonathon!
”
Mitch yells. His brash, high-pitched voice bounces down the corridor.
“
Wait up!
”

Not today.
Jonathon sighs again. His glossy black Kenneth Cole
’
s reluctantly stop. Jon
’
s fraying patience tells him to run, to sprint down the hallway and let the news director
’
s thankless orders try and give chase. The repercussions may even be worth it.