activism with common sense and have worked to make
positive change, you know?”
He
nodded. “Yes. And you have. Even if we’re on opposite poles of the political
spectrum I admire your commitment to Clara Faircloth’s campaign.”
“I
wouldn’t have taken the job as her manager if I didn’t believe in her platform,”
Lindsay said. “I know there are people out there who shill for candidates
because it’s a good living. But I couldn’t stand up in front of people in my
community and pretend to support someone I knew wasn’t worth the office.”
Ron
smiled. “That’s very noble,” he said. “And rare in this game. It’s so
dog-eat-dog in politics. I hope you never change.”
“I
don’t plan to,” she said, smiling at him. “I feel really fortunate, Ron. Really fortunate. I have this great job. I have you. I’d
say my life is just about perfect.” She paused. “Except for the sneaking
around. I don’t like this at all.”
“Neither
do I,” Ron said, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him
for a kiss. “But don’t worry. We won’t have to do it forever. When the time is
right, everyone will know everything.”
***
Randall
Zell, metro editor of The Times, was not having a good day. In the space of
just a few hours he’d had to kill a front page story after a source’s
credibility had been called in question, been informed of an error in another
story that would warrant a correction and had just finished reading what he
considered a lackluster rehash of the Faircloth and Hopkins campaigns.
Sitting
back in the chair he glared at reporter Sandra Beckwith.
“Is
this really the best you could do?” he asked. “I mean, come on, Sandra. All
this has already been reported.”
“What
is exactly what I tried to tell you when you assigned this to me.” She ran her
hand through her frizzy red hair. Unlike some reporters, Beckwith wasn’t afraid
to speak her mind, and now she was quick to remind her boss that there was
nothing new to report on other than the latest back-and-forth between the two
candidates.
“Everything
that can be drudged up has been drudged up by the respective campaigns,” she
said. “That leaves little for jackals like us to feed on.”
Zell
shot her a look. “Careful,” he said. “Even if it’s true you shouldn’t say it.”
Beckwith
smirked.
Zell
tapped the printout copy of the article and sighed. “I’d wanted to run this on
1A to replace the story that got bumped, but it’s so goddamned boring.” He
looked up at the reporter. “No offense.”
“None
taken,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I
think maybe…” he began, then excused himself to answer
the phone that had begun ringing on his desk.
“Randy
here.”
Beckwith
watched as her boss listened intently to whoever was on the other line. Then he
sat forward and got a gleam in his eye that she’d seen before. He had
something. Something big.
“And
you’re sure about this?” he asked, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Because we
can’t risk a lawsuit over a case of mistaken identity. I’ll need to see some
proof.”
He
was quiet for a moment. “You sent it to my email? Well hold on and let me have
a look.”
Zell
cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear and began typing on his
computer. A moment later he was grinning ear to ear. “Holy shit.” Then to
Beckwith: “Look at this.”
The
editor turned the monitor of his computer around so his reporter could see it.
On the monitor was a split screen of Lindsay Martin – one a photo of her
taken at a rally for Clara Faircloth and the other a mug shot of the campaign
manager as a younger woman. Her hair hung in blonde braids and she held a plate
in front of her bearing the words Farmer, Lindsay.
Beckwith
shook her head. “God it sure looks like the same person,” she said. “But the
name.”
Beckwith
spoke into the phone. “Hold on.” Then again to his reporter. “She apparently took her
positive change, you know?”
He
nodded. “Yes. And you have. Even if we’re on opposite poles of the political
spectrum I admire your commitment to Clara Faircloth’s campaign.”
“I
wouldn’t have taken the job as her manager if I didn’t believe in her platform,”
Lindsay said. “I know there are people out there who shill for candidates
because it’s a good living. But I couldn’t stand up in front of people in my
community and pretend to support someone I knew wasn’t worth the office.”
Ron
smiled. “That’s very noble,” he said. “And rare in this game. It’s so
dog-eat-dog in politics. I hope you never change.”
“I
don’t plan to,” she said, smiling at him. “I feel really fortunate, Ron. Really fortunate. I have this great job. I have you. I’d
say my life is just about perfect.” She paused. “Except for the sneaking
around. I don’t like this at all.”
“Neither
do I,” Ron said, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him
for a kiss. “But don’t worry. We won’t have to do it forever. When the time is
right, everyone will know everything.”
***
Randall
Zell, metro editor of The Times, was not having a good day. In the space of
just a few hours he’d had to kill a front page story after a source’s
credibility had been called in question, been informed of an error in another
story that would warrant a correction and had just finished reading what he
considered a lackluster rehash of the Faircloth and Hopkins campaigns.
Sitting
back in the chair he glared at reporter Sandra Beckwith.
“Is
this really the best you could do?” he asked. “I mean, come on, Sandra. All
this has already been reported.”
“What
is exactly what I tried to tell you when you assigned this to me.” She ran her
hand through her frizzy red hair. Unlike some reporters, Beckwith wasn’t afraid
to speak her mind, and now she was quick to remind her boss that there was
nothing new to report on other than the latest back-and-forth between the two
candidates.
“Everything
that can be drudged up has been drudged up by the respective campaigns,” she
said. “That leaves little for jackals like us to feed on.”
Zell
shot her a look. “Careful,” he said. “Even if it’s true you shouldn’t say it.”
Beckwith
smirked.
Zell
tapped the printout copy of the article and sighed. “I’d wanted to run this on
1A to replace the story that got bumped, but it’s so goddamned boring.” He
looked up at the reporter. “No offense.”
“None
taken,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I
think maybe…” he began, then excused himself to answer
the phone that had begun ringing on his desk.
“Randy
here.”
Beckwith
watched as her boss listened intently to whoever was on the other line. Then he
sat forward and got a gleam in his eye that she’d seen before. He had
something. Something big.
“And
you’re sure about this?” he asked, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Because we
can’t risk a lawsuit over a case of mistaken identity. I’ll need to see some
proof.”
He
was quiet for a moment. “You sent it to my email? Well hold on and let me have
a look.”
Zell
cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear and began typing on his
computer. A moment later he was grinning ear to ear. “Holy shit.” Then to
Beckwith: “Look at this.”
The
editor turned the monitor of his computer around so his reporter could see it.
On the monitor was a split screen of Lindsay Martin – one a photo of her
taken at a rally for Clara Faircloth and the other a mug shot of the campaign
manager as a younger woman. Her hair hung in blonde braids and she held a plate
in front of her bearing the words Farmer, Lindsay.
Beckwith
shook her head. “God it sure looks like the same person,” she said. “But the
name.”
Beckwith
spoke into the phone. “Hold on.” Then again to his reporter. “She apparently took her
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