Chapter 1: Life Happens Jo approached the large sign announcing Channel 8 as Detroit's News Authority. She took a deep breath. "Lord, I know I've been asking way too much of you lately, but today I could use some special attention just the same," she prayed aloud. "Could you please let my first day in this joint be as uneventful as possible? Maybe you could even see fit to make everyone, including me, at least pretend to be friendly," she said. "Also, do you think you could catch me before I tell someone that a story idea is racist, chauvinistic, fact-light, ill-conceived, ill-prepared, or just plain stupid?" Jo smiled guiltily. "Okay . . . at least let me be pleasant if I do have to tell somebody off." "May I help you?" the guard asked Jo as she pulled her car up to the electronic gate protecting WXNT television from its audience. "Good morning. I'm Jorja Grace, the new executive news producer." She handed him her new employee ID, the one with the photo that made her look like a frightened Chia Pet. The guard glanced at the card, then handed it back. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Grace," he said. "Your first day, huh?" "Yes, it is." "Well, best of luck to you." He leaned closer to her window. "They can be something else in there," he said with a wink. Jo pulled into the parking space marked Executive Producer. She glanced up into the rearview mirror, giving her MAC makeup-enhanced face a final inspection. The first thing most people commented on when they first met Jo was her striking resemblance to Oprah Winfrey-magazine-cover Oprah, not The Color Purple Oprah. A solid size ten, she had large, smoldering brown eyes and full, sumptuous lips. In her navy pin-striped Jones of New York pantsuit and cream silk blouse, Jo stepped out of the car. She retrieved her box of personal effects from the backseat, then made her way toward the back entrance. "Showtime." Bob Sheridan, WXNT's assistant news director, stood waiting at the door to greet her. "Good morning, Jorja. Ready for life in major-market television?" "I think so," she said, offering up as much humility as she could muster. Though she had spent the past three years in Toledo, Jo was, in fact, a Detroit native. Besides the salary, she had accepted the job at Channel 8 because it offered a return to the city she loved. Bob took the box from her, then directed Jo down the corridor leading to the newsroom. It was only eight-thirty, but already the place was a zoo. The assignment-desk editor was leaning out from his glass-enclosed booth, simultaneously screaming into a telephone and barking out orders at someone standing at the opposite end of the room. A news crew raced out the door on their way to cover a story. From the bank of monitors lined up along the back wall, the morning news team could be seen finishing up their broadcast. Both of the anchors were white, Jo noticed. The male lead looked to be in his mid-forties, with a deep tan that belied the winter frost outside. His perky coanchor was an attractive young blonde. "Well, this is your office, Jorja," Bob said as they entered an empty room off the newsroom. "Why don't you take a moment to get settled in before the morning meeting starts?" "Thanks, Bob." Once alone, Jo took a look around her new digs, pleased with what she saw. "So this is major-market television." She grinned as she dropped the box onto the chair. "I could get used to this." With great care she removed her Emmy from the box and placed it on the credenza behind her desk. Jo didn't want it to be too conspicuous, but she did want the highest honor given in television to serve as a reminder to herself and her new coworkers that she indeed belonged here. She'd won hers two years ago for a special report she had produced on single working mothers, a report she had had to fight tooth and nail to get on the air. Her news director at the time questioned whether anyone still cared about the subject matter, much less wanted to watch a three-part report about it. After Jo showed him the statistics-and then informed him that she was one of them-he relented. Shortly after the Emmy nominations were announced, Jo was promoted to assistant news director. The new job at WXNT was actually a step lower in the pecking order than the one Jo had given up for it. There were differences, however, between being the second banana in the sixty-third largest television market in the country and third in the ninth largest-not the least being a salary increase of twenty thousand dollars a year. Jo would get over titles. After she had finished unpacking, she took a seat behind her new desk and started reviewing the pile of rundowns, producer's reports, and ratings for each of the preceding week's newscasts. As she sat there trying to make sense of the mass of information in front of her, the telephone rang. "This is Jorja Grace." "Join us in the conference room for the morning meeting," her new boss said dryly. Jo looked at her watch, and sure enough she was already on CP time to her first meeting. "I'm sorry, David," she said apologetically. "I was just looking over the reports and numbers from last week's shows. The time must have gotten away from me." "Not to worry," the news director said as reassuringly as he was able. "We don't ever get going until about nine-fifteen anyway." Jo hung up the phone. "I swear I'm going to be late for my own funeral," she said, racing out of the office with pen and pad in hand. When David saw her enter the conference room, he waved her over. "OK, come on, people, get settled. We don't have all day here." He ushered Jo to the empty chair beside him. "First things first . . . I want to take this opportunity to officially welcome the newest member of the WXNT team, Jorja Grace." The assembled members gave Jo the standard shit-eating grin, the one people gave when they either knew a secret you didn't or had just smelled something foul in the air but weren't sure from whom it was coming. Jo returned the plastic grin, reminding herself that her salary, at least, was genuinely pleasant. "This young lady is going to be a great asset to this station," David continued. "We couldn't be more pleased to have scooped up someone with Jorja's experience and proven track record of success." He then paused briefly before dropping the bombshell. "She's an Emmy award winner, by the way." Take that, you trolls , Jo thought as she continued smiling away. "Prior to joining our dysfunctional little family, Jorja was the assistant news director at WTEL in Toledo. She took them to number one," David said deliberately, as he eyed WXNT's current assistant news director. With the possible exception of Bob Sheridan, whom the assistant director remark was meant to rattle, no one else at the table had heard a word David said after Emmy award winner. Those three words pretty much knocked the wind out of the inflated egos sitting around the table, which, of course, was David's intent. "I trust that each of you will help Jorja become acclimated to the wonderful world of Channel Eight," David said. "With her help, we might actually have a snowball's chance of reclaiming the top position in this market. Now, what's on the sheet today . . . ?" As the meeting progressed, Jo looked around the table, quietly surveying the faces of the people charged with deciding what the million-plus viewers in metropolitan Detroit would be told was newsworthy. How could a room that was 95 percent white, she wondered, possibly understand-or articulate-the issues important to a viewing audience that was 70 percent black? Yet forty-five fighting, whining, compromising, deal-making minutes later, this group of mainly middle-aged white men had agreed upon-for the time being, anyway-the content for today's five-, six-, and eleven-o'clock newscasts. After the meeting ended, Jo made her way back into the newsroom to get the lay of the land before her next meeting. "I don't care! I asked you to start on that damned story an hour ago, Charlie. I need it now!" "Then I suggest you write it yourself." The lanky young producer slammed his fists on his desk angrily, then stalked toward the offending writer. "You pompous ass!" he shouted. Jo rushed over to the two men, placing herself in the path between them. "Tom, right?" "Yes," he growled. "What's the problem?" she asked calmly. "I asked Charlie to write the school-board recall story over an hour ago. It's the show's lead," Tom complained. "He hasn't even touched it yet." Jo placed her hand on the tense producer's shoulder and assured him that his story would be ready in time for the show. She then turned on the heels of her navy Ferragamos and marched over to Charlie's desk. Being the solution-oriented professional that she was, Jo politely asked the writer if there was any possible way he could make room in his doughnut- and coffee-filled schedule to actually do his job. Charlie stood up from his chair. "And you are?" he asked condescendingly. "The new executive news producer." Jo gave him a tight smile. "In case you aren't clear on this . . . that would make me your boss." The noisy newsroom grew instantly silent as everyone turned their attention to the battle of wills in the making. They couldn't wait to see if the new EP was up to the task of handling Charles Barbour, a man known as much for being one of the biggest assholes on the staff as he was for being one of the best news writers in the state. "Charlie, is it?" Jo asked. He didn't respond. "This is the lead story for the noon show," she said evenly. "Certainly you understand what that means." "An hour ago the freeway pileup was the lead. Thirty minutes before that, the missing baby was the lead," Charlie snarled, then pointed at Tom. "The little wunderkind over there knows that I'm the only writer here this morning, but he's too damned prissy to help me out and lift a pen to write one story for his show," he said. "Tell you what, honey . . . I'll get to the story when I get to the story." Jo could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising to full attention. She continued to smile even as her eyes became slits through which she glared at the rotund challenge standing before her. Though Jo could certainly appreciate Charlie's frustration, his shitty attitude rubbed her raw. She moved in closer and looked him squarely in the eye. "Here's the deal, Charlie. I'm going to finish writing whatever story you're working on now, and you are going to write the lead," Jo said in a friendly but unmistakably threatening tone. "You will write it, and you will do so within the next ten minutes . . . no exceptions, no excuses," she instructed. "Now, listen closely, because here's where it gets interesting." Everyone in the newsroom strained their necks to hear her. "If you defy me, I'll suspend you for insubordination without a moment's hesitation and write the damned thing myself." Jo started to walk away, then turned back to him. "Oh, and one more thing," she said. "Never call me 'honey' again. . . . I don't like it." Charlie studied his new boss's face for any hint of weakness. Seeing she was deadly serious, he returned to his desk and hastily crammed a stack of notes into a yellow folder. "This is the story I'm working on," he said, handing the folder to Jo. "You can access it on the computer under the file 'Tanker Overturn.'" She took the folder, then eased into a chair at one of the empty desks to begin writing what would be her first story for WXNT television. Not at all sure if the station's best writer was still in its employ, she was relieved when Charlie handed her the completed story eight minutes later. Jo read the copy and marked it in a few spots with her red felt-tipped pen. "This is really great writing," she said, sincerely impressed with his talent. "I just punched up the first graph a bit, but otherwise it's perfect." Charlie offered her a weak thank-you. He disappeared down the hall. Jo lowered her head and rubbed her temples. She had survived round one in the big city. With a little luck, round two would wait until tomorrow. When she looked up, her eyes locked with those of David Samoan. The news director had watched the entire exchange between her and Charlie from the comfort of the doorway of his corner office. He nodded at Jo approvingly before quietly stepping back into his office and closing the door behind him. * Over the next five hours Jo found herself bouncing around from one task to another. She did manage to get in a quick call to her best friend, Danny, because he'd insisted she call and report. By the time the three P.M. planning meeting rolled around, Jo was starting to think she might actually get through the rest of her first day drama-free. That was until she met Deirdre Lang. Along with the nauseatingly all-American Kip Carson, Deirdre was the ringleader of Channel 8's five and eleven P.M. weekday newscasts. Although ratings for both shows had tumbled over the past three years, they remained the crown jewels of the WXNT news franchise. Billboards featuring an old-by television standards-but still quite attractive Lang lined the freeways and major arteries throughout metro Detroit. When the station had hired her twenty-five years earlier, the role of women in television was far more limited than it was currently. Back in the seventies, females were expected to be little more than pretty accessories to the male anchors, who, of course, were the true journalists. The female coanchor didn't write stories and was rarely encouraged to do anything resembling real street reporting. Essentially, Deirdre was a well-paid actress. She batted her eyes, smiled on cue, and served as the source of bedtime fantasies for male viewers. All that changed three years ago when WXNT fired its popular lead anchor, Bob Blaine, for alcohol abuse. Deirdre saw his termination as the perfect opportunity to finally become the journalist she'd long aspired to be. When her contract came up for renewal a month later, she gave station management an ultimatum: Promote her to the lead anchor chair and give her Blaine's $750,000-a-year salary, or watch her become the lead anchor for the competition. Hours before she was about to sign a five-year deal with Channel 3, WXNT relented and gave Deirdre what she wanted. Her three-year reign as chief news diva, however, had been anything but stellar. A perennial market leader for almost two decades, Channel 8 was now a distant second in the ratings. Station management was in perpetual panic mode, and Deirdre Lang was finding it increasingly difficult to remain viable in a news business dramatically different from the one she had known two decades ago. "Really, David, why is a story about the amount of fat in a Coney dog important to our viewers?" Deirdre asked, her words formed by her perfectly lined burgundy lips. "Come on, does anybody really think there's any other ingredient in one besides fat?" She stood up from her chair, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her perfectly tailored size-four gray Chanel suit. With the dramatic flair of a seasoned stage actress, Deirdre sauntered over to the coffee service in the corner of the conference room and refreshed her cup of coffee as the management team-her audience-watched in silence. She went on to tell how her viewers had shared their concerns with her over Channel 8's limited amount of real news as of late. Deirdre took a delicate sip from the mug. "I'm not against the occasional human-interest feature. Hell, I've built a career on puff pieces." She chuckled. It was her expert opinion, however, that the Coney story was beneath the standards her viewers had come to expect. She returned to her seat, turned to a red-faced David, and offered him a disingenuous smile. Her final words hung in the air like an ominous cloud. "But you're still the boss, so as always I leave the decision-for better or worse-to you." "Fine, the story is dead," David grumbled. "Might you have any suggestions as to what we can use on this molasses-slow news day to fill the two minutes and thirty seconds by which you just lightened our five-o'clock show?" Deirdre looked at him as if he were speaking in a foreign tongue. "I believe," she said haughtily, "that's what you're paid to do." David rolled his eyes at his diva anchor, then turned to Jo. "Any thoughts, Ms. Grace?" Before Jo could respond, someone from the assignment desk burst into the room excitedly. "We've got a breaking story!" The staff let out what could best be described as a group cheer. Everyone in the room was ecstatic that something newsworthy had actually happened, no matter how sick or sinister. "Just got a report over the police scanners that shots were fired at Pyramid Towers on West Jefferson . . . multiple injuries, maybe a fatality!" the man said breathlessly. David jumped up from his seat, barking out commands rapid-fire. "Get the helicopter en route!" he screamed at no one in particular. "Steven, move the school board follow-up down to the second block," he shouted at the five-o'clock producer. "This is your lead," David yelled, then pointed at the assistant news director. "Bob, I want team coverage on this shit," he demanded. "Tell graphics to create some kick-ass billboards and aerial maps." David turned to Jo. "Didn't you say breaking news was your strength?" "Sure did," she answered confidently. "Then this must be your lucky day," David said with a shrewd grin. "You get us on the air with this before those bastards at Channel Five scoop us again." "You got it." Jo rushed over toward the five-o'clock producer. "Steven . . . you come with me to the control room," she said, grabbing him by the arm and hurrying him toward the door. "I wanna run an idea for a cold open by you." As she crossed the threshold, she stopped in her tracks and glanced back toward David. "We should have a crew camped out in front of the hospital in case there're any dead or injured," she suggested. "Love it!" David shouted. "All right, people . . . let's make magic!" --from Five Dimes by Darrious D. Hilmon, copyright © 2003 Darrious D. Hilmon, published by New American Library, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., all rights reserved, reprinted with permission from the publisher. Excerpted from Five Dimes by Darrious Hilmon All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
