“I HAVE AN announcement to make about myself,” I said at the morning news meeting.
“You’re getting married again?” one editor said.
I sighed.
“No, I’m not getting married.”
“Are you getting divorced again then?” another editor asked.
“How can she get divorced before she gets married?”
“Well, her marriages are so short maybe she decided to skip that in-between step and go right to the divorce.”
Everyone laughed. My marital status—or lack of it, at the moment—was a constant source of amusement in the newsroom.
“I’m going back on the air to personally cover a story,” I told them.
“My God, that sounds like a bigger disaster than any of your marriages,” someone said.
More laughter.
“What’s the story?” asked Maggie, always the pragmatist.
“The murder of an elderly man named Martin Barlow on the streets of New York a few nights ago. The police think it was a random robbery that went bad. But Barlow was an old friend of mine, and so I want to look into it further. I think there’s more to this story than a simple robbery. A lot more.”
“Like what?” one of the people in the room said.
“I’m not sure yet.”
I believed there was a big story here—though I wasn’t sure what it was yet. I also believed that going public with what I did know might break more information open. And I knew, too, that Jack Faron—who I’m pretty sure wouldn’t have allowed me to do this—was away at a business meeting on the West Coast. These factors were not necessarily listed in their order of importance.
When the meeting was over, Maggie asked if she could talk to me alone. We went into my office.
“You disapprove of me going on air myself to do this story?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
“Really?”
“Why would I disapprove?”
“I don’t know … this kinda seems like a disapproval situation. How come you’re on board with it?”
“Do you remember Dora Gayle?”
I sure did remember Dora Gayle. The previous year, a homeless woman was found dead in a seemingly meaningless murder that no one else in the media was interested in covering. But Maggie convinced me that we should do it. “You never know where a story is going to lead—any story no matter how insignificant it appears at first” was her quote to me at the time. Well, actually, it was my quote. One I’d used in the newsroom many times. But Maggie threw it back at me to convince me to cover the Dora Gayle murder, which turned out to be a sensational story involving a number of prominent New Yorkers before it was over.
“There’s only one problem with you doing this, Clare.”
“It’s not my problem. It’s your problem. Jack Faron.”
She was right. I knew Faron would go ballistic when he found out I was doing this without telling him. But I had a plan to handle that. Well, sort of a plan. I’d break the story wide open before Faron got back. He’d find out I pulled off this big exclusive, he’d praise me for my initiative and give me a big raise. Or maybe not.
I explained this game plan to Maggie. She looked dubious.
“Faron’s going to find out before he gets back here, Clare.”
“Who’s going to tell him?”
“You’re going on the air with it tonight, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
I had to admit it wasn’t a perfect plan.
I told Maggie to cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day so I could concentrate on getting the Martin Barlow story ready to put on the air for the 6 p.m. newscast.
“Including Gary Weddle?” she asked.
“Who’s Gary Weddle?”
“Uh, that big media consultant. Faron arranged a meeting for you with him this afternoon.”
The station had hired a media consulting firm to analyze our newscasts and come up with ideas for improving ratings. This was supposed to be my first meeting with the hotshot media guy that would be handling it all. Faron had told me it was a top priority before he left for LA.
“Call Weddle and tell him I can’t make it today. Say there’s a big breaking news story or whatever else halfway believable reason you can come up with.”
“Jack Faron’s not going to be happy with you,” she said.
“He rarely is.”
That night I went on the air with what I knew about Marty Barlow and his death. Well, not all of it. I couldn’t confirm a lot of things about illegal activities at the individual buildings or any possible involvement by Terri Hartwell or Thomas Wincott. Not yet anyway. But I talked in general about Marty’s investigation before he died into corrupt housing practices in New York City. About the holes in the police version that Marty’s murder was just a random robbery. About the possibility that his murder could have been related to what he was working on as a reporter. And, I talked about my long, personal relationship with him, too, and what a terrific journalist he’d been for his entire life. That may not have been totally professional, but it was pretty damn poignant—if I do say so myself.
I knew there would be reprisals. And they came quickly. When I got back to my office after the newscast, I found a series of voicemail messages.
The first one was from my ex-husband Sam Markham. He was even angrier at me than the last time I’d talked to him. He accused me of attacking his integrity—and that of the entire police department—by implying they didn’t do a proper investigation of Martin Barlow’s murder. He questioned my ethics as a journalist. He also made several comments about my sexual performance in the past with him that weren’t … well, let’s say they weren’t complimentary. The word “bitch” was used several times in his phone diatribe.
The second angry call—which I expected—came from Thomas Wincott. He didn’t specifically mention my reference to Marty’s investigation of housing owners in New York City, but I’m pretty sure that’s what set him off. He said I should let his father-in-law rest in peace and not use his death as a cheap ratings ploy.
The next call was a surprise—and a disturbing one. The caller did not identify himself but left a message in a gravelly voice saying: “You were warned about this story, Carlson. This is your last warning.” That was it. I couldn’t say for sure that the caller was the same big guy I’d met outside one of the buildings Marty was investigating, but it seemed like a pretty good bet.
Then I heard from Gary Weddle, the hotshot media consultant I’d blown off that afternoon. He wasn’t happy, either. He said we had critical business to discuss and we had to reschedule immediately—and implied, without actually saying it—that I damn well better show up this time.
Finally, there was the message from Jack Faron in LA. “What the hell are you doing, Clare? You cancel the important meeting I set up for you with Gary Weddle without any notice or explanation. And you go on the air yourself, without my permission, to do a story that I specifically told you we shouldn’t be doing. When I leave the office, I put you in charge to deal with problems. But you’re not dealing with a problem there for me, you are the problem. Just do your job!”
Damn. I sure had gotten a lot of people mad at me today. Not that there was anything new about that. I’m very good at getting people mad at me. It’s a special talent of mine. But then, making people mad meant you were asking the right questions as a journalist. That you were opening the right doors. I sure hoped so. Because I’d just opened the first door on this story, and now there was no turning back.