Alison had Krevolin park the TV van a block away and around the corner from the church where the memorial service for Deborah Lemon was being held. It was impossible to be unobtrusive if you were a TV reporter, but at least this way they wouldn’t be on the street where the mourners were gathering.
The service was set to start in about half an hour. Alison was scheduled to broadcast live when the church doors opened fifteen minutes before it began. She and Krevolin got out of the van and walked around the corner. The little church was at the far end of the block, and she could see a crowd had already gathered outside. This was a close-knit, working-class neighbourhood. They passed homes on the street where families, despite the blustery cold weather, had come out into their small front yards to watch.
At times like this, Alison wished she were a newspaper reporter and could sit quietly in the back of the church to watch the service and listen to the eulogies without being noticed. Talk to people privately. Write up her story on her own time. Cover the event and not become part of it.
But being a TV reporter meant showing up with a cameraman and everyone knowing you were there. She couldn’t film inside the church and was limited to interviewing people as they came in and out of it. To bulk up the story she had to get tape of what they had to say.
She was under a lot of pressure to deliver a good report. Her boss was skeptical about her doing this story, and Alison had fought hard for it.
“We cover funerals of rich and famous people all the time,” she’d argued, “why don’t we ever cover the funeral of a homeless person?”
“Hundreds of people die in this city every week,” Persaud had said. “That doesn’t make it news.”
“Deborah Lemon was the second murder victim in the valley this week.”
“True.”
“We never do real stories about the poor or the homeless.”
“We cover the homeless issue.”
“That’s my point. We talk about the issue. Interview experts. But when do we do stories about the people who actually live on the street? And the people they leave behind?”
Persaud had agreed. Even though Krevolin had been up with her since they’d rushed out to the Humber Valley early this morning, the cameraman had volunteered for the assignment.
As they approached the church, Alison could see people were huddled together in two different groups. The first group was well dressed. Some wore Humber River Hospital togs with name tags clipped on them and badges dangling around their necks. The people in the second, smaller group were poorly dressed and most of them were smoking. Alison recognized some of the faces from the protest that Dr. Burns had led outside Police Headquarters. There was no sign of the dead woman’s family.
Sylvia, the receptionist from the clinic, was there. She spotted Alison and gave her a condescending glare. Alison looked for Burns and was surprised that he wasn’t there. She had a fleeting thought: Was she only looking for him for professional reasons? Did she have personal motives for setting this whole thing up?
She had called him this morning when she got the go-ahead for the assignment.
“I’m impressed,” he said.
“I think it’s an important story.”
“Especially if there’s a serial killer out there.”
“That’s what sold it,” she admitted.
As Alison walked closer to the church, Krevolin put his hand out to stop her. “I need an establishing shot,” he said, hoisting up his camera. She stood beside him as he filmed the scene. She looked around. More people were becoming aware that they were there. Some were pointing.
“Done,” Krevolin said. “Let’s go.”
They started by interviewing the health-care workers. Lemon’s former colleagues from the hospital spoke eloquently about what a dedicated and professional nurse Deb had been before her fall. Many were crying.
Alison checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. There was still no sign of the family or Burns.
She approached the homeless crowd and smiled at Sylvia.
“Good afternoon,” Alison said.
“Arnold told me you were coming,” Sylvia said, as unimpressed as ever. “You interviewed all those hospital workers first. You going to bother to talk to some of Nurse Deb’s real friends?”
“That’s why I’m here.” She motioned Krevolin to follow her. She took out her mic, he rolled the camera, and she started to talk to people. Some were articulate, others rambled, and others were almost unintelligible. The one thing they all said was that “Nurse Deb” assisted people in the valley and was always trying to help them get off drugs.
All at once the crowd grew quiet as a black limo drifted along the street and parked in front of the church. A middle-aged man and two teenage boys got out. They looked awkward in their badly fitting suits. A few of the hospital workers went up to hug the boys and their father.
Alison looked around for Krevolin. He’d quietly slipped back from the crowd and was filming from a respectful distance.
The family climbed the steps to the church. The moment they were inside, Alison heard a loud noise behind her. She turned, and there coming around the corner was Burns out in front of a group of protesters, carrying a new set of signs: “Remember Nurse Deb” and “Nurse Deb Helped the Homeless,” and “Cops—Help Us Now!”
Burns led them as they chanted: “Toronto police, save the homeless,” over and over again.
Alison walked over to Krevolin. They both knew what had happened. Nothing like a TV camera to create a story.
He looked at his watch. “You’re going live in thirty seconds,” he said, hoisting his camera on his shoulder and stepping behind her so the protesters who were gathering on the sidewalk were squarely in the background of his shot.
Alison looked at Burns and caught his eye. He grinned at her. She didn’t smile back.
He’d set her up and they both knew it.
He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Come on, we all know this is how the game is played.”
Should she be angry with him? Or impressed with the depth of his commitment to get this story out? After all, rich people and big corporations and popular entertainers had publicists and handlers who knew how to play the media game and get maximum coverage. Why not a homeless advocate?
“Toronto police, save the homeless!” his little crowd was shouting louder and louder. “Toronto police, save the homeless!”
She rolled her eyes at him. With a hint of a smile.
“Five, four…,” Krevolin said.
She turned her back on Burns and the protesters and put on a serious face.
“Three, two, one.”
The green light went on.
“This is Alison Greene,” she said. “Reporting live for T.O. TV News.”
She finished her report and again, the protesters stopped their chanting.
“That’s enough,” she said to Krevolin. They walked back around the block and had just finished packing up the TV van when she heard the sound of a bicycle riding up.
She whirled around. Burns was standing there, his hands on the handlebars of his bike, his chain and lock dangling around his neck, that charming smile of his dancing across his face.
“I should be quite cross with you,” she said, arching an eyebrow at him. “Shouldn’t I?”
“Why?” he said. “For helping people exercise their right to protest?”
“Perhaps for talking me into doing a story so you could get more publicity.”
The grin disappeared from his face. “Drug companies spend millions on their high-priced publicists to get stories about their so-called new miracle drugs or breakthrough cures for cancer, and nobody says boo, do they?”
When he turned off the charm, he was much more convincing.
“You’re right,” she said. “I used the same argument to convince my producer to let me do this story.” She turned to Krevolin. “This is Randy, my cameraman. He’s working on his own time even though we’ve been up all night.”
Burns reached out and shook hands with Krevolin.
“Appreciate it,” Burns said.
“No worries,” Krevolin said, and walked around the van and got in the driver’s door.
Burns smiled at Alison.
“You free tonight?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“How about helping feed some hungry people?”
“That sounds like a hot date. Where?”
“There’s a church across town on the Danforth that runs a program on Monday nights. They’re always looking for volunteers.”