used to provoke reluctant interviewees to blurt out the information she wanted in spite of themselves, Sammy squirmed in his seat as she badgered the hedging physician.
Doctor Lawton tried to smile. “We can’t treat your problem unless we know what’s causing it. I realize the uncertainty can be frustrating, but medical science has yet to provide us with every answer we seek on demand.”
“ You must have some idea what the possibilities are.”
“ Not until we find the causal factor or eliminate enough of them to suggest a diagnosis. Or you develop other symptoms.”
“ Like what?”
“ Anything. Short circuits in other motor controls, pain, tenderness, vertigo--you’re going to have to tell me, Miz Madigan, when and if they develop. It could very well be the neck bone that’s shifted position through a fall or blow or some internal anomaly. We go in and fix it, you’re fine.”
“ Doc, please do not patronize me. I’m a big girl. I have a lot going on in my life I need to deal with now.”
A flicker of doubt crossed the surgeon’s face. “You may have to slow down. You’ll be hospitalized for a few days. It’s not life-threatening surgery, but delicate, so plan on a week or two recuperating.”
“ Two weeks!” She was almost shouting. “I’m up to my eyeballs in the biggest story of my career! I can’t afford two days.”
Sammy shook his head in obvious frustration, his tone resigned. “If you’re not interested in improving your condition, you’re not going to finish this story. What’s the point in me betting my future prospects on a dead-end investigation?”
She turned to examine his face as though she had never seen it before, her expression puzzled, as though she was trying to recall something she had known once, but couldn’t remember. She turned away for several moments, frowning, breathing deeply. Her eyes were moist when she placed her fingers on his arm and dared to look at him again. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
He covered her hand with his and met her gaze without smiling. “No more of this Scientology craziness, OK?”
A little laugh escaped her lips. “Sam, I don’t even believe in God.”
“ You better start taking care of yourself, then.”
She squeezed his muscular forearm, her look contrite and serious. “Promise.”
The physician seemed to regain his composure from Sammy’s support. “Your symptoms are good reason for concern, but by no means discouraging. With intensive diagnostic techniques and remedial action we should be able to reverse the problem.” He pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket and thumbed through the pages. “I want to perform the neck procedure as soon as possible, Andrea. How about Thursday, next week?”
* * * * * *
Andrea’s initial aversion to the Preacher Lady assignment stemmed as much from her reluctance to abandon her artifact leads as her confirmed atheism that made her uncomfortable in any religious context. Once she had studied the paucity of information on Hannah Ogie, however, her innate curiosity started her scheming to secure the on-camera interview that would either expose the woman as a non-issue or prolong her incipient fame and prominence.
The evening before the Ogie woman was due to arrive in Macon, Andy and Steve Sarno checked into the Holiday Inn. At mid-afternoon the following day, Andrea hired a car and driver to follow the Preacher Lady’s unmarked van to the sprawling Toyota plant on the outskirts of the city. Steve elbowed his way through competitive cameramen to the forefront of the gathering crowd to capture the voice and image of the woman’s oration to several hundred day-shift employees of the car manufacturer as they emerged from the factory into their east parking lot through chain-link gates. Andrea mingled with the hesitant audience reminiscent of a herd of deer caught in headlights on a dark road, their expressions wary as they listened intently to the compelling woman dressed in a
Doctor Lawton tried to smile. “We can’t treat your problem unless we know what’s causing it. I realize the uncertainty can be frustrating, but medical science has yet to provide us with every answer we seek on demand.”
“ You must have some idea what the possibilities are.”
“ Not until we find the causal factor or eliminate enough of them to suggest a diagnosis. Or you develop other symptoms.”
“ Like what?”
“ Anything. Short circuits in other motor controls, pain, tenderness, vertigo--you’re going to have to tell me, Miz Madigan, when and if they develop. It could very well be the neck bone that’s shifted position through a fall or blow or some internal anomaly. We go in and fix it, you’re fine.”
“ Doc, please do not patronize me. I’m a big girl. I have a lot going on in my life I need to deal with now.”
A flicker of doubt crossed the surgeon’s face. “You may have to slow down. You’ll be hospitalized for a few days. It’s not life-threatening surgery, but delicate, so plan on a week or two recuperating.”
“ Two weeks!” She was almost shouting. “I’m up to my eyeballs in the biggest story of my career! I can’t afford two days.”
Sammy shook his head in obvious frustration, his tone resigned. “If you’re not interested in improving your condition, you’re not going to finish this story. What’s the point in me betting my future prospects on a dead-end investigation?”
She turned to examine his face as though she had never seen it before, her expression puzzled, as though she was trying to recall something she had known once, but couldn’t remember. She turned away for several moments, frowning, breathing deeply. Her eyes were moist when she placed her fingers on his arm and dared to look at him again. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
He covered her hand with his and met her gaze without smiling. “No more of this Scientology craziness, OK?”
A little laugh escaped her lips. “Sam, I don’t even believe in God.”
“ You better start taking care of yourself, then.”
She squeezed his muscular forearm, her look contrite and serious. “Promise.”
The physician seemed to regain his composure from Sammy’s support. “Your symptoms are good reason for concern, but by no means discouraging. With intensive diagnostic techniques and remedial action we should be able to reverse the problem.” He pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket and thumbed through the pages. “I want to perform the neck procedure as soon as possible, Andrea. How about Thursday, next week?”
* * * * * *
Andrea’s initial aversion to the Preacher Lady assignment stemmed as much from her reluctance to abandon her artifact leads as her confirmed atheism that made her uncomfortable in any religious context. Once she had studied the paucity of information on Hannah Ogie, however, her innate curiosity started her scheming to secure the on-camera interview that would either expose the woman as a non-issue or prolong her incipient fame and prominence.
The evening before the Ogie woman was due to arrive in Macon, Andy and Steve Sarno checked into the Holiday Inn. At mid-afternoon the following day, Andrea hired a car and driver to follow the Preacher Lady’s unmarked van to the sprawling Toyota plant on the outskirts of the city. Steve elbowed his way through competitive cameramen to the forefront of the gathering crowd to capture the voice and image of the woman’s oration to several hundred day-shift employees of the car manufacturer as they emerged from the factory into their east parking lot through chain-link gates. Andrea mingled with the hesitant audience reminiscent of a herd of deer caught in headlights on a dark road, their expressions wary as they listened intently to the compelling woman dressed in a
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