“She says we should call her Tosca. Tosca. Yeesh.” Jane swiveled her chair to face Fiola. The producer had been poised to snap up any tidbit she could glean from Jane’s end of the phone call. Now that Jane had hung up, Fiola leaned forward, reaching out as if to touch Jane’s arm.
“Did she say exactly what happened? Think her story will work for us?”
Fiola had twisted her cascade of dark curls into a bun on top of her head, jabbed it through with a yellow pencil. Until today, their first “interview” day, Jane had never seen her in anything but jeans. She fussed with the hem of her black skirt, twin of Jane’s but maybe two sizes smaller.
“Will she go on camera?” Fiola went on, opening her top desk drawer again, this time pulling out a brown paper package, ripping it open. She poured several M&M’s into her hand, then popped a few of the multicolored chocolates into her mouth. “I knew the Facebook thing would work,” she said, chewing. “Is she a student? Got to love it. M’s? For dinner?”
“No, thanks.” Tempting, sure, but her dinner would be with Jake. And soon. Ish. “And yeah, she’s a student at Adams Bay.”
Jane turned back to her pad, flipping the spiral-bound pages. She didn’t like to take notes on her computer, even though it was more efficient. Callers could hear the typing, and it often made them nervous. Especially if they were counting on being confidential. Half the time Jane had trouble reading her own scrawly handwriting, but it was better than having a source clam up.
She blew out a breath as she read over her notes. Had she been too aggressive with poor Tosca? Convincing reluctant people to talk, persuading them to go on camera—that was one of the worst parts of TV reporting. Jane had never quite come to terms with arm-twisting persuasion. Sometimes with an indecisive possible interviewee, especially a crime victim, it crossed her mind to whisper, You know, you don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to go on camera. Just say no, and I’ll go away. But then Jane wouldn’t get the story. And someone else might.
Plus, how could she know what was in their minds? Maybe they wanted to talk. Maybe it would be beneficial for them to talk. Maybe convincing was exactly what they needed.
First do no harm, that’s what doctors promised. Part of a journalist’s job was the opposite: to do harm. But only to the bad guys. When it came to the good guys? Especially victims? All Jane could do was be careful with people’s fragile lives.
“Tosca, huh?” Fiola took out a shiny black compact, checked her teeth, patted a foam puff across her nose, frowned into the tiny mirror. “Got to love that state of mind. A diva. And dead.”
“Poor thing.” Jane thought about the other person she’d tried to convince to go on camera today. “Did our Adams Bay guy say anything about—”
“Tarrant didn’t say anything worthwhile about anything.” Fiola snapped her compact closed, waved a dismissive hand. “He was a total jerk.”
True, Jane remembered. “Mr. Big. Couldn’t wait to get us out of there. Can you imagine being a college student who’d been assaulted? Or drugged? Trying to tell him about what happened at some vodka-fueled frat party?”
She shook her head, not waiting for Fiola to answer. “There has to be someone else at the college. Like … a rape counselor. Or whatever they’d call it. I think the feds require it now, under the Title Nine law.”
Jane punched up the Internet, talking while she clicked at her keyboard. “That’s who we should talk to. That’s who’s gonna know.” Jane loved this part, when she got to learn the rules, to pull open the investigative doors, see what went on behind them. If you were going to discover where the system was broken, first you had to know how it was supposed to work.
She turned back to Fiola, now arranging her hair in the mirror she’d thumbtacked, precariously, to their wall. “I’ll find out.”
Jane looked at her notes again, thinking about “Tosca” and where she was, and what she said had happened to her. Why would she choose that particular name, a woman doomed by love and revenge? “She might call me tomorrow,” she said. “Cross your fingers.”
“Go on camera?” Satisfied with her hair, Fiola turned from the mirror. “You think?”
“Fifty-fifty.” Jane wobbled a maybe hand at her. “But listen, where’s Adams Bay’s procedure for handling these things? Do you have their handbook, or whatever? Seems like the school didn’t support her, and she’s pretty clear the guy was never punished or anything. Oh.” Jane held up one finger, then turned to her computer again. “The guy. She said he’s on Facebook.”
“Find him. We’ll nail him.” Fiola pointed at Jane’s monitor. “Did she say his name?”
“No. But we couldn’t say his name and not hers.” Jane shook her head. “That’d be so unfair.”
“We’re not saying it,” Fiola said, waving her off. “She’d be saying it. Tosca. Not us.”
“That’s—” A lawsuit waiting to happen, Jane didn’t say. “Anyway. She didn’t give me any way to find him,” Jane lied. Not a chance she was naming a guy without … well, without a criminal conviction. She’d read that Rolling Stone disaster a few years ago. She’d read about Duke. And the kid at UMass Amherst who said his life was ruined by a false accusation.
She was convinced Tosca was telling the truth. Pretty convinced. But if Tosca didn’t want to show her face, how could they show his? She and Fiola could cross the fairness bridge later, though. No need to argue about identifying hypothetical student rapists. Now, at least.
“Hey, you two.” Marsh Tyson, a cell phone in each hand, took up all the space in their office doorway. Jacket off, pale blue oxford shirt with white collar, yellow tie. “Burning the midnight oil?”
Jane smiled, trying to be optimistic. It was hardly ever a good thing if the news director wanted you. And it was never a good thing if the news director was at your door. It could mean an unpleasant assignment. Bad news. A lawsuit. Maybe all of the above. Harder to say no—or make up an excuse—when the boss was looking right at you.
“Hey, Marsh,” Jane said. “Just working on our—”
“It’s going great,” Fiola interrupted. “We’ve got an Adams Bay student, a sexual assault victim, who’ll talk on camera about what happened to her.”
Jane felt her eyes widen.
“Jane’s clinching it, tomorrow. But we are so rocking this,” Fiola chirped.
Very high degree of chutzpah, for Fiola to take the credit for Jane’s success, yet still make it Jane’s fault if it fell through. Jane was glad this day was almost over. She hoped Jake wouldn’t be too late, whatever he was doing. His text hadn’t specified.
“Terrific,” Marsh said. “But, Jane.” He held up one of his cell phones. “Just got a call from the DA’s office. ADA named Frank McCusker?”
“Yeah,” Jane drew out her answer.
“You witness some kind of car accident?” he asked. “They want you over there, like, now.”
“It was a—”
Marsh held up both phones, not letting her finish. “’Parently you told them about it. Good for you. Said you had to talk to me first. Good for you. However, you didn’t talk to me. Not so good.”
“Well, just not yet, you know? Because I, we…” Should she have immediately gone to his office? Right then? “… I figured tomorrow would be fine.”
“Well, the DA’s office didn’t think it was so fine. Neither did Barbara Dougan, or Allan Migdall.”
The station’s lawyer, the station’s owner. “You talked to them? Tonight?”
“I figured tomorrow was too late,” the news director said. “So did they. So off you go. McCusker’s waiting for you at the DA’s office.” He stashed a phone into one pants pocket, pulled out a yellow piece of paper from the other. “Here’s a cab voucher. Go.”
“Is Barb Dougan coming with me?” Jane stood, clicked off her computer, grabbed her tote bag. “I’d feel better with a lawyer.”
“Why would you need a lawyer? You do something wrong?” Marsh gave her a look. “Ha ha. Just go.”
“And tell them everything? I mean, is it our place, as reporters? It feels like we’re crossing a line, Marsh.” Jane looked at Fiola, saw she was on her own. “What happens when we don’t want to tell them something? Then they can say, How about that other time, when Ryland came to our office? Why is there suddenly a problem? See what I mean? What if they want me to testify in court? I mean, there’s no way I’m going to do that.”
“What’s the big whoop?” Marsh put both palms up, stopping her words from reaching him. “We help them, maybe they’ll help us next time there’s a big story.”
“But they won’t. And anyway, that’s not how it’s supposed to work.” Jane was fighting this losing battle without Fiola’s help. But she’d go down swinging. “We do our jobs. They do theirs. Separately. Nobody ‘helps’ anybody. Plus, I won’t get there till, like, eight-thirty.”
“That’s exactly when they expect you. And, Jane? Your job, right now, is to get over there and tell them what you saw. Capisce?” He turned away from her, then pivoted back. Held up a cell. “Call if you need me.”