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was championed by Kate’s editor, Reeka Beck, a twenty-eight-year-old Ivy League management zealot.
    Reeka had a cover-girl face, an insatiable ambition and was convinced that her news judgment was superior to that of seasoned journalists. Reeka had been a junior copy editor at Newslead’s Boston bureau, whose collective work had been a finalist for a Pulitzer. In reality, she possessed little reporting experience. She’d never covered a homicide or asked an inconsolable parent for a picture of their dead child.
    But her moneyed bloodline gave her an advantage. Reeka’s uncle sat on Newslead’s board of directors. However, most people strained to tolerate her—her dealings with reporters were often so curt and officious they bordered on rudeness. Conversations with her nearly became confrontations. Reeka had embraced the staff efficiency process even though it was killing morale.
    Last month twenty people were let go from headquarters. Some were news veterans like Liz Cochrane, who’d covered wars, interviewed Mexican drug lords and escaped being kidnapped by terrorists in Iraq. Liz had sat near Kate and that day had been horrible.
    She’d seen Liz falling apart at her desk while reading her severance letter then tenderly placing her belongings in a box for printing paper— A cardboard coffin for my career, she’d joked while saying goodbye.
    Even though Kate had made it through the latest round of terminations, watching the funereal march of dismissed colleagues had been heart-wrenching. She’d been in their shoes; she was familiar with that soul-shattering feeling, for she’d struggled much of her life.
    She was a thirty-two-year-old single mom with a nine-year-old daughter and she was living with her sister, Vanessa. There were days when Kate felt like she was hanging on by her fingertips but she was still here, doing the best that she could because she was a fighter who never gave up.
    The cab left the tunnel and passed through the toll gates. As it accelerated on the Long Island Expressway, Kate’s phone rang.
    It was Reeka. “What’re you doing, Kate?”
    â€œHeading to LaGuardia. We’ve got a plane in trouble.”
    â€œYou’re not on today. Who assigned you to go to LaGuardia?”
    â€œNo one. I was in the newsroom working on my subway crime feat—”
    â€œI just spoke with Sloane. He’s on duty and he assures me that this Buffalo jet thing is minor. He’s been listening to the scanners all day.”
    â€œNo, he wasn’t there when I was there, when things were popping!”
    Sloane’s trying to cover his ass by hanging me out to dry—
    â€œKate, were you in today hoping to collect overtime?”
    â€œNo. Reeka, listen, I was there on my own time working on my feature when this broke on the scanners. Sloane was out buying scones.”
    â€œI don’t think so. I know Sloane and if he says—”
    Anger bubbled in Kate just as her phone chimed with a news alert. The Associated Press had issued a bulletin: “Commuter jet with multiple injuries on board declares emergency landing at LaGuardia.”
    â€œReeka, did you see what AP’s just put out?”
    A moment passed before Reeka responded.
    â€œI see it. Okay, get to the airport and file as soon as you can.”

Four
    Queens, New York
    S irens wailed and emergency lights flashed as two ambulances sped by Kate’s cab on the Grand Central Parkway near the airport.
    â€œWe need Terminal C, arrivals pickup area.”
    She directed the driver while keeping her phone to her ear. After four attempts, she’d finally reached Dwayne, somebody with EastCloud’s public affairs. He’d put her on hold.
    She’d already left messages with the National Transportation Safety Board, the Federal Aviation Administration, LaGuardia Airport, the Port Authority and several other agencies. No responses. Her taxi was on the ramp to