The Manny

‘Same thing every time we lose one to her: “Seebright seems so much sweeter than Joe Goodman.”’

How had I let this interview slip through my fingers when we had it solidly in the bag? Why hadn’t I taken extra steps to secure her? And why were we doing this interview in the first place? Just because Hartley was a controversial, pro-family politician with four children? Did his prurient behaviour deserve all this media coverage? Absolutely.

Hartley wasn’t a deeply entrenched Christian conservative, but his ferocious anti-homosexual, pro-family oratory singled him out as one of the most outspoken Southern politicians. About eighty pounds overweight and six feet four inches tall, he usually walked around the lectern to speak so he could tower over the audience, rattling his fist in the air as his jowls jiggled. His grey moustache and goatee highlighted his enormous mouth and protruding lower lip. He had crystal-blue eyes and a perpetually sweaty bald spot that reflected the camera lights. He helped win the 2004 elections for Mississippi and the White House by supporting the drive to put the anti-gay-marriage referendums on ballots in twenty-four states. That White House strategy brought all the mega-church crowds out in their Greyhounds and was a major factor in the triumph of the Republican Party. Now he’d already jumped on the anti-gay bandwagon again for 2008: lobbying to put the ancient anti-sodomy laws on the ballots in the thirty-odd states where they weren’t already on the books.

I tried to accept the magnitude of my screw-up before I walked into executive producer Erik James’s office. That way, I wouldn’t argue. Arguing was never a good idea when Erik was angry. He was behind his desk finishing up a call when his assistant showed me in. I stared at the dozens of Emmy Awards lining his top shelf. He had worked for NBS for almost twenty years, at first executive-producing the Sunday news shows and then launching the multi-award-winning ratings bonanza Newsnight with Joe Goodman.

He hung up the phone and stared me down. Then the diatribe began.

‘You talk a big game.’

‘I don’t mean to.’

‘And your follow-through is lacking.’ He pushed his chair back, walked around to the front of his desk and took off his gloves. At five feet six, Erik had a pot belly like a pregnant woman two weeks past her due date. Even though he was standing a safe distance away, his stomach was almost touching me. ‘YOU! SUCK!’

‘I do not!’

‘DO TOO!’ He waved his hands in the air like King Kong. One of his suspenders popped and he furiously clawed at his back trying to reach it. Now he was really pissed off.

‘Erik, Leon Rosenberg assured me …’

‘I don’t care what he assured you! How many times did you go down there? What were you doing, shopping?’ That was low. No question I was the only Newsnight producer with a rich husband, but I’d worked my behind off for over ten years for this guy and I’d broken more stories than any producer on his staff.

‘That’s really unfair. You know I’ve killed myself to get this story.’

He flared his nostrils. ‘Last I checked, you didn’t get me any story, F-fuckin’-Y-I.’

‘I, I …’

He sneered at me. Then he reached into a huge glass jar on his desk and gobbled a fistful of jellybeans. ‘Get out o’ here,’ he mumbled, and some of his Kelly-green spit landed on my shirt, next to a coffee stain.

The battle was over for now. We’d start fighting for another angle on this Theresa Boudreaux story together as a team again in the morning. This wasn’t the first time I’d gone through this. Not that my defeat didn’t depress me, but I refused to let it derail me. The pressure was intense to break some news and advance the story. Every tabloid in the country had published cover photos of Theresa, many with a question mark, ‘Hartley’s Heartthrob?’ Right-wing radio talk shows chimed in with their unwavering support of Hartley while they trashed the bloodthirsty members of the liberal media elite.

Ultimately, as the story played out, Theresa gave nothing away to Kathy Seebright, she’d merely gotten her to confirm that she knew Hartley, that they were ‘close’. So, at that moment, my bosses and I were having a meltdown over nonsense. But histrionics over nothing are the price of entry in the network news business.

Back in my office, I applied some lipstick very carefully as I tried to take control of my day. I stopped for a moment with the compact in my hand and stared out the window at the Hudson River. The anxieties piled on: a major professional screw-up, my insufferable husband, Dylan and his troubles. My watch read eleven o’clock – Dylan had gym before lunch: perhaps the exercise had already cheered him up. He had asked me to cancel his play dates that week. Obviously the humiliation at the game made him want to hide behind his door after school and get lost in a Lego robotics trance, but I told him I wouldn’t cancel anything, believing that interaction with his friends was curative. I felt bewildered about what else to do with him except follow the routine and make sure he didn’t close in on himself. When I get very depressed, I eat KitKats. As I tore the wrapper off with my teeth, my cell phone rang.

‘Honey, it’s me.’ I heard honking and car brakes screeching in the background.

‘Yes?’

‘I want to apologize.’

‘All right. Let’s hear it.’

‘I’m sorry about this morning. I’m sorry I was difficult.’ A siren whizzed by.

‘Difficult?’

‘Sorry I was impossible.’

‘You were.’ I took a bite of chocolate.

‘I know. That’s why I’m calling. I love you.’

‘Fine.’ Maybe I could forgive him.

‘And you’re going to love me more than ever.’

‘Oh, really? And why would that be?’

‘Well, you know my success with the Hadlow Holdings deal has had some ripple effects.’

‘They owe you big.’

‘And they’re giving me something big.’

‘OK. And what might that be?’

‘The question is, what are they giving my wife?’

‘Phillip, I have no idea. It’s not cash, so what is it? How can they repay you?’

‘They asked me that very question.’

‘And …?’

‘How does pro bono work for Sanctuary for the Young sound?’

My charity. The board I had served on for a decade that supported foster children. The organization was broke, almost going under, they could barely serve the desperate kids. My eyes welled. ‘You didn’t.’

‘I did.’

‘How much help?’

‘Lots.’

‘Like how much?’

‘Like they’re going to treat it like a regular account.’

‘I can’t believe you did this. It’s going to change everything.’

‘I know. That’s why I did it.’

‘I don’t even know what to say.’

‘You don’t need to say anything.’