together at the far end of the table. Seated to Masterson’s left was Greg McKenzie, a fourth-year associate who worked with Masterson and made Ginny uneasy. McKenzie was huge and had been an offensive lineman at Iowa before going to Stanford Law. McKenzie always seemed angry, and Ginny wondered if he used steroids to maintain his pro wrestler physique.
“Ah, Miss Striker, come in and close the door,” Masterson said. Everyone stopped talking and looked her way. Masterson introduced Ginny. Then he smiled.
“Want to guess what we’re doing?” Masterson asked her.
“Helping Ms. Stewart prepare for her confirmation hearing?” Ginny asked cautiously. She hoped she had guessed correctly. If that was her assignment it would be the most exciting one she’d received since starting at the firm.
“A-plus,” Masterson answered with a smile. Then he addressed everyone in the room.
“I was delighted when President Gaylord nominated Audrey to the Court. We met when we worked together at the CIA, and we’ve kept in touch since we both left. The Court needs first-class minds, and Audrey was far and away the sharpest person I worked with at the Agency.”
Masterson stopped smiling. “Sadly, the liberals are going to attempt to discredit her by focusing on practices that kept them safe after 9/11 but have now fallen into disfavor. I’ve already heard from several sources that Senators Cummings and Vasquez are sharpening their knives. These liberals cowered in their holes while Audrey was facing fire on the front lines. Now they’re going to cast stones at the very people who protected them. So we have our work cut out for us. But,” Masterson said, breaking once more into a smile, “I feel confident that we will prevail, because our cause is just and we have God on our side, not to mention a bunch of very smart lawyers.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The offices of Exposed , Washington’s most widely read supermarket tabloid, took up two floors of a renovated warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of D.C. that was equal parts gentrification and decay. Abandoned buildings and vacant lots peopled by junkies and the homeless could be found within blocks of trendy restaurants, chic boutiques, and rehabilitated row houses owned by urban professionals. Exposed was an unrepentant rag that had gained a measure of respectability when it broke the Farrington case, thanks to a deal between Dana Cutler and Patrick Gorman, the paper’s owner and editor. But its bread and butter still consisted of Elvis sightings, accounts of UFO abductions, celebrity gossip, and guaranteed miracle diets.
Dana found Gorman eating an extra large pepperoni and cheese pizza in his second-floor office. A good deal of the wall space was given over to framed copies of the paper’s most outrageous headlines. The fact that none of them made Gorman blush said a lot about his regard for journalistic integrity. Dana stared at a section of one wall displaying the Pulitzer Prize the paper had won for its coverage of the Farrington scandal.
“That’s a nice addition to your wall of shame,” Dana said.
Gorman hated to be interrupted when he was working or eating, but he broke into a grin when he saw who was standing in the doorway.
“How’s my favorite anonymous source?” he asked as he motioned Dana into a chair. Most gentlemen would have stood when a lady entered, but Gorman was grossly obese. Dana knew it took a real effort for him to heave himself to his feet, so she forgave him for his lack of chivalry.
“I’m well, thank you. And you? How are you handling being a legitimate journalist?”
Gorman waved his hand. “I got over that months ago. Though I do get the occasional flashback in which I’m standing on the podium with our Pulitzer and looking down at the sickly green complexions on the faces of those effete snobs at the Times and Post .”
“I have noticed that you haven’t stooped to including any more legitimate reporting
“Ah, Miss Striker, come in and close the door,” Masterson said. Everyone stopped talking and looked her way. Masterson introduced Ginny. Then he smiled.
“Want to guess what we’re doing?” Masterson asked her.
“Helping Ms. Stewart prepare for her confirmation hearing?” Ginny asked cautiously. She hoped she had guessed correctly. If that was her assignment it would be the most exciting one she’d received since starting at the firm.
“A-plus,” Masterson answered with a smile. Then he addressed everyone in the room.
“I was delighted when President Gaylord nominated Audrey to the Court. We met when we worked together at the CIA, and we’ve kept in touch since we both left. The Court needs first-class minds, and Audrey was far and away the sharpest person I worked with at the Agency.”
Masterson stopped smiling. “Sadly, the liberals are going to attempt to discredit her by focusing on practices that kept them safe after 9/11 but have now fallen into disfavor. I’ve already heard from several sources that Senators Cummings and Vasquez are sharpening their knives. These liberals cowered in their holes while Audrey was facing fire on the front lines. Now they’re going to cast stones at the very people who protected them. So we have our work cut out for us. But,” Masterson said, breaking once more into a smile, “I feel confident that we will prevail, because our cause is just and we have God on our side, not to mention a bunch of very smart lawyers.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The offices of Exposed , Washington’s most widely read supermarket tabloid, took up two floors of a renovated warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of D.C. that was equal parts gentrification and decay. Abandoned buildings and vacant lots peopled by junkies and the homeless could be found within blocks of trendy restaurants, chic boutiques, and rehabilitated row houses owned by urban professionals. Exposed was an unrepentant rag that had gained a measure of respectability when it broke the Farrington case, thanks to a deal between Dana Cutler and Patrick Gorman, the paper’s owner and editor. But its bread and butter still consisted of Elvis sightings, accounts of UFO abductions, celebrity gossip, and guaranteed miracle diets.
Dana found Gorman eating an extra large pepperoni and cheese pizza in his second-floor office. A good deal of the wall space was given over to framed copies of the paper’s most outrageous headlines. The fact that none of them made Gorman blush said a lot about his regard for journalistic integrity. Dana stared at a section of one wall displaying the Pulitzer Prize the paper had won for its coverage of the Farrington scandal.
“That’s a nice addition to your wall of shame,” Dana said.
Gorman hated to be interrupted when he was working or eating, but he broke into a grin when he saw who was standing in the doorway.
“How’s my favorite anonymous source?” he asked as he motioned Dana into a chair. Most gentlemen would have stood when a lady entered, but Gorman was grossly obese. Dana knew it took a real effort for him to heave himself to his feet, so she forgave him for his lack of chivalry.
“I’m well, thank you. And you? How are you handling being a legitimate journalist?”
Gorman waved his hand. “I got over that months ago. Though I do get the occasional flashback in which I’m standing on the podium with our Pulitzer and looking down at the sickly green complexions on the faces of those effete snobs at the Times and Post .”
“I have noticed that you haven’t stooped to including any more legitimate reporting
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