place. Don’t you feel some obligation to tell the police? Warn Kindell? Warn the public? Right now?”
“Are you losing it, girlfriend? Where’s the ratings-hungry Charlotte I signed up to work with? You know it’s all about big results. And big numbers.”
The light turns green. Franklin shifts gears into Drive, puffing incredulously as he turns left onto Charles Street.
“You can’t win the sweeps if your story’s on too early. And we’re in it to win it.”
Franklin and I are partners. But, more and more, it seems like we’re not on the same team.
I’ve always thought my job as an investigative reporter meant helping people, warning them of danger, keeping them from harm. And exposing the bad guys. It always worked. I treasure every Emmy, but the need to considerschedule before substance seems so cynical. Am I still a good guy if I keep a secret just to boost the ratings?
Why haven’t I thought of this before? Who’s suddenly out of balance? Franklin? Or me?
“Franko? J.T. and I could have been killed this afternoon. We were driving a dangerous car. Unrepaired recall, no air bags. Yes, we got the video. Yes, it all worked out in the end. But Frick said it—we were lucky. I say we talk to Kevin. Monday, first thing. Tell him what we know. And I bet he’ll want to get this on the air. Sooner rather than later.”
Franklin waves me off, shrugging. “Bet he won’t. I bet he’ll grab the fifth-floor graphics gang and whip up some hot ‘Charlie McNally Investigates’ promo spots. For February. Bet you ten thousand dollars.”
“You’re on,” I say. But I’m not exactly sure who’s going to win that imaginary bet. On the other hand, truth be told, we don’t really have a story. Just suspicions. We certainly don’t have enough nailed down to go on the air. What if we sent viewers into a panic over missing air bags and it turned out to be a coincidence? Or a one-time-only event? Putting that on television would do far more harm than good. I struggle to regain my news equilibrium. Maybe I’m suffering PTSD from this afternoon.
I rest my chin on one hand, elbow on the armrest, watching bag-laden shoppers and camera-toting tourists swirl through the darkening afternoon. A woman in a sleekly tailored camel’s-hair coat throws her arm across a little girl’s shoulders—she’s about Penny’s age—bending briefly to kiss her hair. They’re wearing matching plaid mufflers and carrying glossy bright red shopping bags. A thirtysomething man in a tasseled ski cap and puffy black parka peeks at a tiny passenger in an expensive stroller, then pushes it across the white-striped crosswalk. How many of them might be renting a car someday?Driving blissfully along, husbands and wives and their children, unaware of the danger?
How many families will be on the road before we air our story?
Chapter Eight
T he glossy deep-brown front door opens with a twist of its old-fashioned wooden knob. Inside the warm vestibule another ornately carved door is latched tight. A harsh buzz sounds when I push the middle button on the ultra-modern electronic keypad.
Michael Borum’s condominium is one of three in a postwar brownstone in the South End. Post Spanish-American War. Built in boom times of a golden age, these elegant three-story buildings were battered and disdained through Boston’s turbulent 1960s. Now they’re the city’s most desirable housing: bohemian, artsy and urban. Borum’s place is right on the edge of safe, with aching poverty just a few blocks away. The Power House Garage is down the road in the other direction. Wonder if Michael takes his blue Mustang there. Wonder where he parks it. Maybe there’s a lot out back? I don’t see it on the street. Probably a sports-car thing.
No answer to my buzz. I know this is dicey territory. Close enough to noon on a Sunday morning not to be completely socially objectionable, but still pushing it.
Franklin left several messages for Michael Borum,
“Are you losing it, girlfriend? Where’s the ratings-hungry Charlotte I signed up to work with? You know it’s all about big results. And big numbers.”
The light turns green. Franklin shifts gears into Drive, puffing incredulously as he turns left onto Charles Street.
“You can’t win the sweeps if your story’s on too early. And we’re in it to win it.”
Franklin and I are partners. But, more and more, it seems like we’re not on the same team.
I’ve always thought my job as an investigative reporter meant helping people, warning them of danger, keeping them from harm. And exposing the bad guys. It always worked. I treasure every Emmy, but the need to considerschedule before substance seems so cynical. Am I still a good guy if I keep a secret just to boost the ratings?
Why haven’t I thought of this before? Who’s suddenly out of balance? Franklin? Or me?
“Franko? J.T. and I could have been killed this afternoon. We were driving a dangerous car. Unrepaired recall, no air bags. Yes, we got the video. Yes, it all worked out in the end. But Frick said it—we were lucky. I say we talk to Kevin. Monday, first thing. Tell him what we know. And I bet he’ll want to get this on the air. Sooner rather than later.”
Franklin waves me off, shrugging. “Bet he won’t. I bet he’ll grab the fifth-floor graphics gang and whip up some hot ‘Charlie McNally Investigates’ promo spots. For February. Bet you ten thousand dollars.”
“You’re on,” I say. But I’m not exactly sure who’s going to win that imaginary bet. On the other hand, truth be told, we don’t really have a story. Just suspicions. We certainly don’t have enough nailed down to go on the air. What if we sent viewers into a panic over missing air bags and it turned out to be a coincidence? Or a one-time-only event? Putting that on television would do far more harm than good. I struggle to regain my news equilibrium. Maybe I’m suffering PTSD from this afternoon.
I rest my chin on one hand, elbow on the armrest, watching bag-laden shoppers and camera-toting tourists swirl through the darkening afternoon. A woman in a sleekly tailored camel’s-hair coat throws her arm across a little girl’s shoulders—she’s about Penny’s age—bending briefly to kiss her hair. They’re wearing matching plaid mufflers and carrying glossy bright red shopping bags. A thirtysomething man in a tasseled ski cap and puffy black parka peeks at a tiny passenger in an expensive stroller, then pushes it across the white-striped crosswalk. How many of them might be renting a car someday?Driving blissfully along, husbands and wives and their children, unaware of the danger?
How many families will be on the road before we air our story?
Chapter Eight
T he glossy deep-brown front door opens with a twist of its old-fashioned wooden knob. Inside the warm vestibule another ornately carved door is latched tight. A harsh buzz sounds when I push the middle button on the ultra-modern electronic keypad.
Michael Borum’s condominium is one of three in a postwar brownstone in the South End. Post Spanish-American War. Built in boom times of a golden age, these elegant three-story buildings were battered and disdained through Boston’s turbulent 1960s. Now they’re the city’s most desirable housing: bohemian, artsy and urban. Borum’s place is right on the edge of safe, with aching poverty just a few blocks away. The Power House Garage is down the road in the other direction. Wonder if Michael takes his blue Mustang there. Wonder where he parks it. Maybe there’s a lot out back? I don’t see it on the street. Probably a sports-car thing.
No answer to my buzz. I know this is dicey territory. Close enough to noon on a Sunday morning not to be completely socially objectionable, but still pushing it.
Franklin left several messages for Michael Borum,
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