The Newsmakers Read Free

Nylan?”
    Nylan makes eye contact with Greg, letting the rest of the nonentities blur in his peripheral vision.
    â€œI want her,” he says, and walks out of the room.

CHAPTER 1
    ERICA SPARKS STRIDES DOWN NINTH Avenue on her way to the Global News Network headquarters on Sixth Avenue. It’s her first day on her new job as a field reporter, her first job in New York City. And, if things go well, the first step toward scaling the heights of television news. She feels a little shiver of pinch-me excitement race up her spine. Stay cool, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. Getting here was hard, but she’s made it. Now she just has to stay on the beam. It’s five thirty a.m., her call time is six, and she’s just three blocks from the studio. Erica believes just being “on time” means you’re already five minutes late.
    She reaches West Fifty-First Street and heads east, and catches a glimpse of herself in a storefront window. The tailored coral suit looks just right. Her hair is hidden under a cap and her face is plain. She’s going to leave hair and makeup to the pros. She got up at four, showered, had a cup of Irish breakfast tea and a banana, did her half hour of Tae Kwon Do exercises, and then scoured the Web looking for potential stories. She’s not going to sit back and wait for the world to come to her; it doesn’t work that way. The inquisitive bird gets the worm. The corporate rental she leased for six months is convenient if soulless, but that’s all right for now. She doesn’t want anything fancy, no chicken counting, budget-budget, focus-focus.
    It’s mid-April, a mild morning. Around her the city is kicking to life, trucks rumbling down the pavement, early commuters rushing past, empty taxis cruising for fares, maintenance men hosing down sidewalks, food vendors pushing carts from their garages to take up their stations on the midtown streets. The neighborhood is a mix of shiny, new condo buildings, all glass and amenity-filled, and tenements, home to long-term New Yorkers and immigrant families of all stripes and colors. Erica loves the city’s gorgeous mosaic, the crazy cacophony, the sense of endless possibility and promise.
    Suddenly she hears yelling, a woman’s voice, slurred and hysterical. Up ahead there’s some kind of commotion. A police car pulls up, the doors fly open, and two cops leap out. Erica’s reporter instincts kick in and she picks up her pace, remembering her maxim: always rush toward the sound of gunfire. When she gets close, she sees the wailing woman sprawled on the sidewalk, skinny and strung out, pale-skinned with skanky hair. A Hispanic man stands nearby, clean and bright-eyed, holding a little girl.
    â€œThe bastard won’t let me in my own apartment,” the woman screams at the cops.
    â€œShe’s been out all night doing drugs and I don’t know what else. I don’t want her around my daughter,” the man explains, soft-spoken and sure.
    â€œShe’s my daughter too, you filthy creep!” the woman wails. She jumps up and races to the man, grabbing for the girl. The little girl starts crying, “Mommy, Mommy.”
    One of the cops pulls the wasted woman off the man. She turns and slaps the cop, hard. Out come the cuffs.
    Erica watches. The little girl is crying, crying so hard. Domestic disturbance. Unfit mother. Unfit mother.
    Suddenly Erica feels that terrible, raw hurt come crashing down and hears another little girl crying. Mommy, Mommy, wake up, wake up! It’s twelve o’clock, Mommy, please wake up! I’ll miss kindergarten, Mommy. And Erica, curled on her side on the living room floor, does wake up. Her head feels like concrete being chipped at by a jackhammer, her mouth tastes like sand and dirt and shame.
    Erica blinks and she’s back on the sidewalk. She knows what she needs to do. She ducks into the nearest doorway and takes five deep