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Authors: Caitlin Rother
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he didn’t want to fail as soon as the editors gave him a chance to prove himself.
He’d hoped he would get to see what a dead body looked like, but the police wouldn’t let him near her. After chatting with Detective Goode, Norman spent a while trying to schmooze with the other cops, but he couldn’t get any of them to talk on the record either. He also tried knocking on some doors, hoping to interview a neighbor who knew the girl, but that, too, proved fruitless.
Goode seemed like a pretty good guy, a little intense, but cool. Norman hoped to run into him again. He didn’t even really look like a cop. More like a surfer. Muscular but not overly so, he had the kind of athletic body Norman always wanted but knew he’d never achieve. Not as long as he refused to join a gym and kept drinking beer after work.
Norman was sitting on a bench, going over his thin set of notes one more time when an officer came over, shoved a piece of paper at him, and walked away. It was a news release, if you could call it that, only two paragraphs long. Norman started to panic.
That’s it? That’s all there is?
He needed more on-the-record information. Some good juicy details. He jumped up and made a beeline for the sergeant, who was standing next to a potted palm and talking to two young officers who seemed to be listening politely. The sergeant stopped midsentence and glared at him.
“Everything we know is in the release, son,” he said before Norman could get a word out.
Norman didn’t believe him for a minute. He slapped the notebook against his thigh in frustration as he walked back to his car. It was 6:30 P.M. and his head was pounding. He had two hours until deadline. How was he going to make it as a reporter if he couldn’t get anybody to talk on the record? Maybe he hadn’t pushed hard enough. He wasn’t good at confrontation. It made him uncomfortable. Nobody told him that getting people to answer simple questions could be so damn hard.
Norman tried to prepare himself for the grief the city editor would give him if he came back with nothing. He sped through two yellow lights, hoping he’d made it in time, and if not, that no cops were watching. On his meager salary he couldn’t afford a ticket for going through a red light.
He thought he still had enough time to squeeze in a few phone calls to flesh out the news release and the few notes he’d taken. He had some decent quotes, but no attribution. He might just have to wing it. The other reporters said that if he turned in his story right on deadline Big Ed wouldn’t have much time to mess with it. He felt his stomach eating itself as he turned into the office parking lot.
Big Ed, nicknamed for his large girth and his deep, resonating voice, didn’t help matters by barking at him the minute he was within shouting distance. “Give me something quick for the web, then write me a longer version for the paper tomorrow. And it had better be good ‘cause it’s going A-1,” Big Ed yelled, loud enough for the whole newsroom to hear.
A-1 , Norman said to himself. That means even more pressure than I planned for. At this rate, I’ll lose my job faster than I got it.
He had to come up with a lead and quick. He didn’t have a whole lot of time to make phone calls, but he didn’t even have the victim’s name.
Norman called the county Medical Examiner’s Office and, after waiting on hold for five minutes, asked if the dead woman in PB had been identified. The investigator finally gave him the barest of information: Tania Marcus, twenty-four years old.
Norman managed to charm the woman into also giving him the names and phone number of Tania’s parents, who lived in Beverly Hills. He called and talked to Helen Marcus, who sounded pretty drunk and quite upset, but she gave him a couple of quotes he was able to use. By the sounds of it, she probably wouldn’t even remember talking to him.
Apparently tired of waiting for him, Big Ed sent him an email an hour
He’d hoped he would get to see what a dead body looked like, but the police wouldn’t let him near her. After chatting with Detective Goode, Norman spent a while trying to schmooze with the other cops, but he couldn’t get any of them to talk on the record either. He also tried knocking on some doors, hoping to interview a neighbor who knew the girl, but that, too, proved fruitless.
Goode seemed like a pretty good guy, a little intense, but cool. Norman hoped to run into him again. He didn’t even really look like a cop. More like a surfer. Muscular but not overly so, he had the kind of athletic body Norman always wanted but knew he’d never achieve. Not as long as he refused to join a gym and kept drinking beer after work.
Norman was sitting on a bench, going over his thin set of notes one more time when an officer came over, shoved a piece of paper at him, and walked away. It was a news release, if you could call it that, only two paragraphs long. Norman started to panic.
That’s it? That’s all there is?
He needed more on-the-record information. Some good juicy details. He jumped up and made a beeline for the sergeant, who was standing next to a potted palm and talking to two young officers who seemed to be listening politely. The sergeant stopped midsentence and glared at him.
“Everything we know is in the release, son,” he said before Norman could get a word out.
Norman didn’t believe him for a minute. He slapped the notebook against his thigh in frustration as he walked back to his car. It was 6:30 P.M. and his head was pounding. He had two hours until deadline. How was he going to make it as a reporter if he couldn’t get anybody to talk on the record? Maybe he hadn’t pushed hard enough. He wasn’t good at confrontation. It made him uncomfortable. Nobody told him that getting people to answer simple questions could be so damn hard.
Norman tried to prepare himself for the grief the city editor would give him if he came back with nothing. He sped through two yellow lights, hoping he’d made it in time, and if not, that no cops were watching. On his meager salary he couldn’t afford a ticket for going through a red light.
He thought he still had enough time to squeeze in a few phone calls to flesh out the news release and the few notes he’d taken. He had some decent quotes, but no attribution. He might just have to wing it. The other reporters said that if he turned in his story right on deadline Big Ed wouldn’t have much time to mess with it. He felt his stomach eating itself as he turned into the office parking lot.
Big Ed, nicknamed for his large girth and his deep, resonating voice, didn’t help matters by barking at him the minute he was within shouting distance. “Give me something quick for the web, then write me a longer version for the paper tomorrow. And it had better be good ‘cause it’s going A-1,” Big Ed yelled, loud enough for the whole newsroom to hear.
A-1 , Norman said to himself. That means even more pressure than I planned for. At this rate, I’ll lose my job faster than I got it.
He had to come up with a lead and quick. He didn’t have a whole lot of time to make phone calls, but he didn’t even have the victim’s name.
Norman called the county Medical Examiner’s Office and, after waiting on hold for five minutes, asked if the dead woman in PB had been identified. The investigator finally gave him the barest of information: Tania Marcus, twenty-four years old.
Norman managed to charm the woman into also giving him the names and phone number of Tania’s parents, who lived in Beverly Hills. He called and talked to Helen Marcus, who sounded pretty drunk and quite upset, but she gave him a couple of quotes he was able to use. By the sounds of it, she probably wouldn’t even remember talking to him.
Apparently tired of waiting for him, Big Ed sent him an email an hour
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