ONE OF THE newsroom traditions I’d brought over with me to the TV news business was the Page One bar celebration. Whenever a reporter scored a big front-page scoop, the staff took him or her out to celebrate with drinks that night.
We didn’t have a front page at Channel 10. But breaking a big story on air like I did was the equivalent. So, after the Terri Hartwell announcement and all the accolades started pouring in for the story we did, everyone took me to a place called Headliners that was not far from the station.
It used to be a legendary newspaper hangout, but these days—with newspapers dying out and staffs at them being drastically cut back—it was more of a journalism bar. Filled with people from TV news, magazines, websites, and all sorts of other media. So it was still a good place to celebrate a big scoop. Tradition, history, colorful surroundings. And they served liquor, so there was that, too.
Everyone was there when I got to the place. Faron, Maggie, Brett and Dani, Cassie O’Neal, Janelle Wright, Wendy Jeffers, Steve Stratton, and most of the other reporters and editors on staff. Even Brendan Kaiser, the station owner, showed up. And, even more importantly to me at the moment, Gary Weddle was there, too. I was the big star. The center of attention. That’s happened to me a few times in the past during my journalistic career, but do you want to know something? I still love it!
There was a big bar surrounded by pictures of famous reporters over the years who had scored big scoops and won awards. One of the pictures on the wall was of me. Not the today me, the me from nearly twenty years ago when I won a Pulitzer Prize for my coverage of the big Lucy Devlin disappearance story. I looked at myself now in that long-ago photo. I looked so young and so pretty and so … well, happy. No idea that the Lucy Devlin story was a long way from being over.
Next to the bar was a buffet table with chicken, cold cuts, and a bunch of seafood appetizers—shrimp, oysters, salmon.
As I surveyed the offerings, Jack Faron was one of the first people to come over to congratulate me on our big success.
“Jeez, I can’t ever remember a story coming together as fast as this one did,” he told me. “Everything fell into place perfectly. And the public praise from the DA—well, that was icing on the cake.”
I hadn’t told him about my phone conversation afterward with Terri Hartwell. Because I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I wanted to hear Hartwell out, listen to whatever she planned to tell me later about everything. I still had a lot of questions about the relationship between Enright and Morelli. Something was going on there. The biggest question was whether or not Hartwell was involved, too. I sure hoped not. I kinda liked her.
“Carlson’s the name, scoops are my game,” I said brightly to Faron.
I took a big swig of the drink I’d gotten from the bar.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asked.
“I’m just starting.”
“I was afraid of that.”
I started to sample the food. I couldn’t decide between the shrimp, the boiled ham, and the chicken wings, so I filled a plate with all of them. Moderation is not one of my specialties. While I was doing this, Cassie O’Neal came over and started looking over the seafood selections, too.
“They say fish food is good for the brain,” I whispered to Faron.
He looked at me questioningly.
“If I was Cassie, I’d eat a very large amount,” I said.
Cassie is an enigma to me at Channel 10. She looks great, she’s one of the most popular on-air reporters we have with the viewers, but she’s also, well … dumb as a plank. I’d recently had a go-round with her when I assigned her to cover a hearing on First Amendment rights for the media. She asked me if that was the amendment that you took when you didn’t want to testify in court. I said no, it was the one that repealed prohibition. She laughed, but I still don’t think she quite comprehended the whole free press concept. The worst part was she made a lot of money. Even more than me. That’s because rival stations had tried to hire her away from us several times; each time, Faron made me give her big money to stay at Channel 10. It was a source of constant frustration with me about the state of journalism in the world today.
“Are you going to start up again with all your jokes about Cassie being stupid?” Faron asked.
“Let’s face it, her elevator doesn’t go to the top floor.”
“Jeez, Clare …”
“She’s a few beers away from a six-pack.”
“My God, you never stop, do you?” Faron said, shaking his head.
“All I’m saying is if she ever grew another brain, it would die of loneliness.”
At some point, Faron asked me about the serial killer stuff again.
“I don’t know, Jack, I don’t have anything substantial. To be honest, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to do anything to back that up. Or come up with any answers on that Becky Bluso killing in Indiana after thirty years. The trail is long cold. There are better stories—easier stories to get—for us to go after now. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“Does that mean you’re going back to being my news director again?”
“Bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Now you’re talking sense, Clare.”
There was a lot more praise and adoration for me before the evening was over. A few people like Faron and Maggie and Brett and Dani stood up to toast me and the story I’d broken wide open. The best toast came though from Brendan Kaiser, the media baron who owned Channel 10 and a jillion other media properties. He called me “the embodiment of the best of journalism, TV or newspapers. We’re just so glad to have Clare Carlson with us here at Channel 10.”
“Do I get a raise?” I yelled out.
I’d had a few more drinks by that point.
“You’re the hotshot investigative reporter, you figure it out,” someone shouted back.
All in all, it was a great night. Weddle and I kept a respectful distance away from each other for most of the party. But, when things were close to wrapping up, I found myself sitting next to him. Lots of people had been hugging and kissing me during the night. I wondered if maybe I should do that with Weddle now. Probably too soon. Maybe after a few more drinks.
“You’re really something, Clare,” he said, looking around the place at all the people who’d turned out for my big night.
“You mean as a journalist?”
“I mean in a lot of ways.”
Weddle was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a checkered sports jacket. He almost looked cool. Well, the sports jacket didn’t quite match the T-shirt, and the jeans were a bit too baggy. But I was never a stickler for detail in this kind of situation. His face was very near to me now. I took it all in. His blue eyes. A cute dimple on his cheek.
“How much time is left on this consulting contract between you and the station?” I asked.
“Two months, two weeks, and three days to go.”
“I’ll be counting the minutes,” I told him.
Then I kissed Weddle quickly—without anyone seeing us—and moved away to mingle before either of us had a chance to succumb to temptation.
When I looked around a little later, he had left.
I went home, too, a bit after that.
Alone.
I walked into my empty apartment, took off my clothes, grabbed a box of Chocolate Mallomars out of the refrigerator—my favorite guilty indulgence after I’ve been drinking a lot—plopped down on the bed, and watched a forgettable movie on TV until I drifted off to sleep.
Virtue thy name is Clare Carlson.