The Laid Plans

Clutching the pages in his hand, Matt raced toward the elevators, hoping to find her before she disappeared. As he ran around the corner, he bumped into her. She was leaning against the wall, waiting.

"How did you get this story?" he demanded.

Dana said simply, "I told you. I’m a reporter."

He took a deep breath. "Come on back to my office."

They were seated in Matt Baker’s office again. "That’s a good job," he said grudgingly.

"Thank you! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this," Dana said excitedly. "I’m going to be the best reporter you ever had. You’ll see. What I really want is to be a foreign correspondent, but I’m willing to work my way up to that, even if it takes a year." She saw the expression on his face. "Or maybe two."

"The Tribune has no job openings, and there’s a waiting list."

She looked at him in astonishment. "But I assumed – "

"Hold it."

Dana watched as he picked up a pen and wrote out the letters of the word "assume," ASS U ME. He pointed to the word. "When a reporter assumes something, Miss Evans, it makes an ass out of you and me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He was thoughtful for a moment, then came to a decision. "Do you ever watch WTE? The Tribune Enterprises television station."

"No, sir. I can’t say that I – "

"Well, you will now. You’re in luck. There’s a job opening there. One of the writers just quit. You can take his place."

"Doing what?" Dana asked tentatively.

"Writing television copy."

Her face fell. "Television copy? I don’t know anything about – "

"It’s simple. The producer of the news will give you the raw material from all the news services. You’ll put it into English and put it on the Tele-PrompTer for the anchors to read."

Dana sat there, silent.

"What?"

"Nothing, it’s just that – I’m a reporter."

"We have five hundred reporters here, and they’ve all spent years earning their stripes. Go over to Building Four. Ask for Mr. Hawkins. If you have to start somewhere, television isn’t bad." Matt Baker reached for the phone. "I’ll give Hawkins a call."

Dana sighed. "Right. Thank you, Mr. Baker. If you ever need – "

"Out."

The WTE television studios took up the entire sixth floor of Building Four. Tom Hawkins, the producer of the nightly news, led Dana into his office.

"Have you ever worked in television?"

"No, sir. I’ve worked on newspapers."

"Dinosaurs. They’re the past. We’re the present. And who knows what the future will be? Let me show you around."

There were dozens of people working at desks and monitors. Wire copy from half a dozen news services was appearing on computers.

"Here’s where stories and news breaks come in from all over the world," Hawkins explained. "I decide which ones we’re going with. The assignment desk sends out crews to cover those stories. Our reporters in the field send in their stories by microwave or transmitters. Besides our wire services, we have one hundred and sixty police channels, reporters with cell phones, scanners, monitors. Every story is planned to the second. The writers work with tape editors to get the timing exact. The average news story runs between a minute and a half and a minute and forty-five seconds."

"How many writers work here?" Dana asked.

"Six. Then you have a video coordinator, news tape editors, producers, directors, reporters, anchors…" He stopped. A man and woman were approaching them. "Speaking of anchors, meet Julia Brinkman and Michael Tate."

Julia Brinkman was a stunning woman, with chestnut-colored hair, tinted contacts that made her eyes a sultry green, and a practiced, disarming smile. Michael Tate was an athletic-looking man with a burstingly genial smile and an outgoing manner.

"Our new writer," Hawkins said. "Donna Evanston."

"Dana Evans."

"Whatever. Let’s get to work."

He took Dana back to his office. He nodded toward the assignment board on the wall. "Those are the stories I’ll choose from. They’re called slugs. We’re on twice a day. We do the noon news from twelve to one and the nightly news from ten to eleven. When I tell you which stories I want to run with, you’ll put them together and make everything sound so exciting that the viewers can’t switch channels. The tape editor will feed you video clips, and you’ll work them into the scripts and indicate where the clips go."

"Right."

"Sometimes there’s a breaking story, and then we’ll cut into our regular programming with a live feed."

"That’s interesting," Dana said.

She had no idea that one day it was going to save her life.

The first night’s program was a disaster. Dana had put the news leads in the middle instead of the beginning, and Julia Brinkman found herself reading Michael Tate’s stories while Michael was reading hers.

When the broadcast was over, the director said to Dana, "Mr. Hawkins would like to see you in his office. Now."

Hawkins was sitting behind his desk, grimfaced.

"I know," Dana said contritely. "It was a new low in television, and it’s all my fault."

Hawkins sat there watching her.

Dana tried again. "The good news, Tom, is that from now on it can only get better. Right?"

He kept staring at her.

"And it will never happen again because" – she saw the look on his face – "I’m fired."

"No," Hawkins said curtly. "That would be letting you off too easily. You’re going to do this until you get it right. And I’m talking about the noon news tomorrow. Am I making myself clear?"