ERICA SPARKS IS STRIDING DOWN the hallway at GNN, heading for the executive conference room. She’s got a big ask, and the half dozen men and women she’s about to face have the power to grant it. She’s keyed tight and her heart is thwacking like a metronome—there’s a lot at stake. Yes, her nightly show, The Erica Sparks Effect, is still at or near the top of the ratings, but she’s getting antsy stuck behind a desk night after night. She’s beginning to feel more like a newsreader than a journalist. And that’s just not acceptable.
She walks into the conference room, with its walls of windows looking out at midtown Manhattan, the buzzing heart of the American news business.
News business.
Remember that word, Erica.
It’s a word that Greg, her husband, drilled into her as he helped her with the pitch. They may not be working together at GNN anymore—Greg has started his own consultancy, which has led to some major friction in the marriage—but the man knows how the industry works inside out.
“Good morning, Erica,” Mort Silver, the head of GNN, says. He’s sitting at the head of the table looking avuncular and self-important. On one side of him are the CFO and her top lieutenants, on the other the COO and his. They’re all poker-faced and expectant.
“Good morning, Mort.” Erica nods and smiles. It’s a tight smile. She’s anticipating some resistance to her proposal. She’s girded.
Charm, Erica, charm. You attract more flies with honey.
“Good morning, everyone,” she says, this time with a warm smile, the smile that has helped her win millions of loyal viewers. Without waiting for an invitation, she sits at the end of the table opposite Mort, whose eyes narrow. She’s going to take this meeting by the horns.
“Coffee, water, how about a little nosh?” Mort asks.
Erica hates these silly niceties. She looks at the plate of soggy Danish. Man has evolved. Why do depressing Danish platters persist?
“I’m fine, thanks. First of all, thank you all for coming. I hope everyone knows how committed I am to GNN. This is my home.” If there’s one thing Erica doesn’t romanticize, it’s home. Home is where the pain was. “This network has given me extraordinary opportunities.” She takes a pause and slows her cadence. “And I think the benefits have flowed both ways.” She takes another pause to cue up the money shot. “Now I want to take our relationship to the next level.”
The suits around the table remain impassive. Considering the millions she pumps into the network’s bottom line, Erica was hoping for an encouraging smile or two. But this is a don’t-rock-the-boat-or-kill-the-goose crowd, paid to keep the gravy train running on time. What a bore.
Erica stands up. Mort tries to disguise his discomfort.
Sorry, Mort, but go-along-to-get-along isn’t my style these days.
“I feel very strongly that fearless, muckraking journalism is a lynchpin of our democracy. It has been for our entire history. The Founding Fathers understood how crucial a free press is, and they wrote its protection into the Constitution. In the search for the truth there can be no sacred cows. And I feel that all the news networks have been intimidated and defanged by political pressure, corporate pressure, ratings pressure.”
Erica turns and takes a few steps, letting the tension in the room build. Then she wheels around. “Look at the Iraq War. It was based on lies. Lies that the press for the most part accepted, cowed by the bullying and belligerence of the White House. And our nation is still paying a price for that acquiescence. This isn’t theoretical or hypothetical.” Erica can feel her emotions rising, anger and sadness—she is passionate about our veterans.
“Tens of thousands of young men are scarred forever, missing their limbs, their eyesight, their sanity. Disfigured, disabled, and traumatized. Their lives have been reduced to endless struggle. I remember one vet I interviewed when I was working at a local station up in New Hampshire. His name was Ryan Taylor. He was nineteen years old. His family had no money, and he’d enlisted so he’d be able to pay for college. He was sent over to Iraq, and one cold morning an IED exploded beside his patrol. He was blinded and lost both arms below the elbow.” Erica feels another wave of emotion sweep over her—she will never forget the despair on Ryan Taylor’s face. She never wants to forget it.
Around the table, eyes look down, papers are shuffled, someone coughs. This wasn’t what they were expecting first thing on a Thursday morning. Too bad.
“Ryan Taylor’s happiness, his future, was snatched away from him. And we in the press bear some responsibility. We didn’t do our job. And that’s why I asked you here today.”
Now the room is pin-drop silent, statue-still. Erica slowly sits down, leans forward on the table, lowers her voice. “I would like GNN to be in the forefront of a new American journalism. One that is truly fearless and follows a story wherever it leads—even if it’s right to the Oval Office. I propose a monthly, single-issue program dedicated to finding the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Each month we’ll cover a different subject, and we’ll go deep, toppling pedestals and speaking truth to power.” Erica slowly scans the faces around the table, looking each one in the eyes, bringing them on board.
“I’d like to call it Spotlight—on whichever topic we’re covering that month. Corruption. Malfeasance. Greed. Lies. We won’t go searching for the controversial and sensational, but if we find it we won’t look away.”
The room remains quiet. Mort eyeballs Erica, and she sees a mix of skepticism and admiration in his eyes.
Time to hit the bottom line. “I believe we can make great television together. Television that, not incidentally, will have sponsors clamoring for ad time. Television that will also, quite frankly, keep me engaged.” It doesn’t hurt to remind them that she’s the network’s number one asset. Erica leans back and softens her voice. “You’ll all find a mock-up of Spotlight’s budget and organization in your mailboxes. As well as a half dozen potential stories.” She stands. “I want all of us here to be part of something we can be proud of, something bigger than ourselves. At its best I hope Spotlight will not only report news, it will make news.” Erica pauses. “And maybe even history.”
Without loosening the screws, she smiles at the room, a welcoming, even conspiratorial smile. The expressions that meet her are 180 degrees from what they were ten minutes earlier—there are nods, murmurs of approval, smiles of encouragement. “Thank you for your time, and I’m hoping to get a green light within forty-eight hours. Now, I’ve got a show to prepare.”
Erica strides back down the hallway with only one thought: Onward!