Picking Up the Pace By Kimberly LaFontaine

Chapter Three

Tuesday was a drag, those days always were. After taking a few days off, it's hard to go back to work, to get back into the rhythm of phone calls and writing perfect paragraphs to please editors and readers. Full e-mail boxes and voice messages take up hours of time, especially when readers called with follow-up ideas that are actually feasible. It throws off the whole schedule, the whole balancing act of juggling stories and messages. Ideas come more slowly because down-time is spent desperately trying to pick up the lost hours. She hated staying home during the week, felt like she was skipping work. Since working at that paper, she hadn't called in sick once, had taken vacation only when her editors insisted and seldom took a day off voluntarily.

Needless to say, Angie hadn't had her morning coffee and wasn't really in the mood to train an intern, which she was supposed to do. It made her feel kind of bad as she looked at the girl only a few years younger than herself. Sighing, she forced a smile.

"Well," she began. "The most important thing to do in the morning, of course, is check the council's Web site and see if there are any new announcements. Then check your messages for possible follow-ups. But before we do all that, even though I said we should do it first, we're going to Starbucks for some coffee. You game?"

"Coffee sounds nice," the intern said in a chipper tone.

They walked and talked, the reporter detailing the city council's structure and naming some of her best sources. She noted that the intern took notes while they made their way to Starbucks and smiled, remembering a similar little trip to the coffee shop a couple of years ago. She ran down a list of important ongoing city issues and dates of meetings to keep in mind. They sat at a table for a few minutes and Angie was showered with questions, each one a little more impressive than the last. Angie decided the intern was interested enough that she might work the council beat better than she had. Satisfied they had covered enough follow-your-notes training stuff, they stood up to head back to the office.

Angie looked across the street and was surprised to see that Rick and Bob hadn't made their usual appearance yet, though the old man sat on the corner as though he hadn't moved for several days. She frowned as she left Houston Street and headed west.

"So," she turned to the intern. "How much have you been reading about the Water Garden drownings?"

"All the stories I could find."

"Good, because that's what we'll be working on today. We're going to write a story together, see what you can do. I never liked just shadowing reporters for training, so you're going to participate."

The intern's eyes lit up and she hid a smile. Yes, this one would make a far better replacement than even Tom had thought. That is, if she can write like she pays attention.

Back at the office, she made a few phone calls while the intern searched for information in the electronic archives. The little red-head came over to present her latest finds while Angie was in the middle of an interview and she held up her finger to indicate the intern should wait and listen.

"So tell me more about why you think the city was justified in not spending money on safety measures that would have prevented the accident. Don't you think the early warning signs were enough -- the lawsuits, the residents' complaints -- doesn't that matter?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course it matters ?"

Angie twirled her pen between her fingers, smirking at the intern and rolling her eyes while her source rambled on about technicalities in the city's codes. That's not what the reporter was fishing for. She hated to ask loaded questions, but sometimes you can't get a source to say anything interesting unless you do.

"Don't you think the city should have done more?"

"Well, obviously there are matters that should have been attended to, but that's not the point ?"

Gotcha, she thought.

Digging away at that admission for 10 more minutes exhausted both her and the source. As usual, he ended the interview angrily. She wondered if he would ever quit returning her phone calls. Nah, she decided, he liked seeing his name in the paper too much, regardless of how it reflected his job.

The intern -- if only she could remember her name -- sat in a chair nearby, her face showing signs of intrigue.

"What you'll learn after a while is that you have to play a little to ease the seriousness," Angie said. "Let them ramble for a while and then reel them back in. It's annoying, but if you cut them off too often, they won't call you back anymore. I only interrupted this time because I have a meeting in half an hour. Now, show me what you have."

All the background information they needed was there and Angie was impressed. Glancing at the clock, she told the intern to make a few calls while she was gone and start writing the story.

"I'll be back by three o'clock. You think you'll have everything in by then?"

"I'll make sure it happens."

"Good. You do that. See you in a couple of hours. And don't skip lunch again. Rumor has it that nobody's seen you eat in the office or take a lunch break."

Angie giggled at the mortified look on the red-head's face and headed out the door. She would be meeting with Fort Worth's police chief for the first time in person and was curious to see what he was like. They wouldn't be interviewing, just chatting to feel each other out -- connect a voice with a face and establish an official, professional relationship. She deliberately left her notebook in the office as she didn't want to give the wrong impression.

There was a new swing in her steps as she made her way down Taylor Street, already writing stories in her head, seeing her byline splashed across the front page more than once a month.

*               *                 *

Stepping out onto the street, she had to shield her eyes from the blinding sun. She pulled out her sunglasses and looked at her watch, realizing she had exactly one hour until she was supposed to be back at the office. She debated returning early but changed her mind, deciding it was time for a little talk with the new guy on the square -- if he was willing.

"Can you spare a quarter?" he asked when she approached. His cardboard sign was simple enough, reading, "Homeless, please give change and God bless."

"Sure can," she said and dumped a handful of coins into his hat on the sidewalk. "You're new around here, aren't you? Do you smoke?"

"I can always use a cigarette," he said hesitantly, peering up at her, an obvious question on his face.

"Mind if I join you?"

"No, Ma'am, sure don't."

"My name is Angie," she said and offered her hand. It was apparent that he was surprised, was probably used to being ignored or brushed off. Certainly no one was willing to shake his hand. After a few seconds passed, he wiped his hand awkwardly on his pants and reached up, his handshake gentler than she expected.

"I'm Rob," he said as he took her cigarette and lighted it with a match. He stared across the street, wondering what the woman wanted. "You're not going to try and convert me or anything, are you?"

"Oh, no," she said and laughed. "I work around here, at the paper. I just like to talk to people and I've never seen you before. I talk to Rick and Bob sometimes. I like to hear them play."

They sat and smoked for a few minutes in silence while Angie searched for words that would get him to open up. It was a little harder with the homeless, unless they were drunk, because they were so used to being ignored, mistreated, or otherwise humiliated. They usually didn't trust people who were nice so she would have to pick her words carefully. She tried chatting about the weather, then about the city. He wasn't much of a talker and she was stumped at each conversation turn. Finally, she decided to be blunt.

"I'm surprised Rick and Bob didn't run you off. They do a better job of clearing the square of homeless people than the police do. They told me just the other day that they're letting you stay because of what happened to your friend. I was sorry to hear about that."

"Not sorry enough to run a real obituary, though. Just wrote about how he got stabbed and the police didn't know who he was. Should've talked to me is all I say."

"You talked to the police?"

"Yeah," he said and sighed, then looked at her expectantly, glancing at her purse. The reporter pulled out another cigarette for him and he continued. "I told 'em what his name was but they don't care. We're just a bunch of bums and Al didn't have a license. And you reporters didn't even write about why it happened."

"Why did it happen, Rob?"

"Bunch of us were fighting the night before under the bridge. There's a new guy, big and mean. He started it. He's been making things worse for all of us. Just talk to your two buddies, they'll tell you all about it."

"Have there been more killings?"

"Oh, yeah. The police don't always find the bodies and we don't talk to the cops much anyhow. Instead of writing about one guy dying and not even getting his name, you should write about that big fellow who's starting all the trouble -- how he done killed two men already and bully's the rest of us." He snorted and turned to look at the reporter. "You do it. His name is John Carpenter, says he comes from Austin. He has a record, so he says. He's a big black guy, I'd say about 40 years old. Has a real mean scar on his left cheek, says he got it in a fight when he worked in the factory. The cops don't believe a damn thing I say, but maybe they'll believe it if it's in the paper."

"Hold on, let me write that down," Angie said quickly and realized she'd left her notebook at the office. She pulled out a pen and a receipt and scribbled down the information while the homeless man looked at her quizzically.

"Are you really a reporter, writing on a scrap of paper like that?"

"Yeah, I just got out a meeting and don't have my notepad."

"Well, I hope you do what I said. I might have some more information for you if you do. I'll tell the others you were here."

"Where are they?"

"Taking care of stuff. Now go on and thanks for the change."

"I'll try to get the story as soon as possible. It might take a few days, though. Will you be here tomorrow? Maybe we can talk some more."

"I'll be here."

"Alright. Thanks, Rob," she said and hurried back to the office. She tried not to be too excited about getting a possible scoop. She didn't know Rob and took what he said with a grain of salt. She would need to conduct a background search on John Carpenter and talk to the Austin and Fort Worth police, then find other homeless people to verify what Rob had told her. But it was quite possible she had a story.

She opened up her folder and found the intern's promised work. Checking the name at the top, she remembered -- Sarah. She skimmed the piece and thought it looked pretty good, added in her own notes and made a few changes before seeking out the girl to go over the changes. Sarah seemed pleased to find her basic story structure and lead hadn't changed too much and smiled at Angie's praise.

Definitely a keeper, the reporter thought, and headed over to her boss' desk to inform him the story was in. When she couldn't find him right away, she dropped by the research department and asked if they couldn't look up John Carpenter and forward his information to her later. The clerk took the scrap of paper and Angie smiled sheepishly, quickly returning to Tom's desk.

"How'd she do?" he asked, a hopeful look on his face.

"She did great. Better than I did on my first day," she took in the smile of satisfaction with a tiny touch of jealousy but discarded the feeling quickly. "Hey, I might have an interesting story for you," she began and related her conversation with Rob. Her boss seemed as intrigued as she was and told her to pursue the issue but to train Sarah again the next day.

"I heard you made her write the story," he joked before she left for the day.

"Hey, I could tell she wanted to."

"And you made her do background grunt work. You like having an intern to do that?"

"Anyway," she blurted and laughed. "You know, if I had ten of them I could fill the whole metro section by myself. In fact, if you threw in an assistant or two to handle my messages, I could fill the whole paper."

"And would you like someone to get you coffee, too?"

"That would be fantastic, but then I wouldn't be able to sneak out of the office."

"Oh, and like that would kill you?"

"Watch it, I don't sneak out that often."

"No, you don't. You're doing a great job and your approach to training was a good idea. It'll make the intern feel more productive, have more of a stake in her work. She's been here for about three weeks now. Don't you think it's time?"

"Yeah it is. What do you have in mind?"

"Before you go to your meetings tomorrow, tell her to keep an eye on your phone in case anybody calls. That's it. Don't give any other instructions. The photo guys have something fun planned."

"What are they going to do?"

"Oh, just call about every ten minutes with a story idea, each one more bizarre than the last. I told them to pretend to be councilmen adamant about how important it was this stuff appear in the paper the next day. When she comes to me, I'll tell her nobody else is available to do the stories and that she had better get working on them. Let's see how long it takes her to figure out all of this is bullshit. I'll give her a fake list of numbers, all reporter's cell phone numbers, and see that she doesn't actually call the city people."

They giggled conspiratorially. When Angie caught her breath, she said, "That's better than what you pulled on me."

"What -- writing a story about a gay, transvestite, prostitute, conservative politician wasn't enough?" He pretended to pout. "And we had Sammy dress up in little boy shorts and everything. Really, Angie, you should have realized from the picture that it was one of our guys. I mean, you did go out on an assignment with him."

Exasperated, she sighed. To that day she was still the butt of many jokes because of that oversight. But stories of how others were "baptized" Tribune style made her giggle again and she looked forward to seeing what Sarah would do. Willing her smirking lips into a straight line, she fetched the intern to go over the story with Tom and left the office for the day debating between playing video games and being productive when she got home. Satisfied with her justification that laundry and cleaning could wait, she began imagining the cities she would build in her simulator game.

*                 *                  *

The following days flew by and before Angie could catch her breath, it was Friday. She had hit a few crime scenes and turned some good stories in. The intern was still annoyed with her after being duped quite nicely and the reporter wondered if she should take her out for coffee again. But her real interest lay in what she found out about John Carpenter.

Rob was right, he did have a record, and a mean one at that: assault with a deadly weapon, robbery, arson, forgery, attempted kidnapping. He had done five years in the slammer and was released three months ago. The Austin police hadn't returned her phone calls yet, and the Fort Worth police were acting extremely odd when she called, as though tip-toeing through her series of questions, which only served to strengthen the reporter's resolve to pursue the matter. But her boss told her to take her time on the story, do it right.

Her new homeless source had taken the news that her story would take some time well, especially after she shared what she had learned. They spent Thursday morning having breakfast while Angie interviewed him thoroughly. She made a decision then that would have infuriated her boss, had he known: She would make her way over to I-30, alone, to hang out under the bridge and interview people. The reporter felt it was the only way to she would be able to get any information and Rob promised to accompany her.

While she was eager to get cracking on the story, her attention was elsewhere that Friday. It was a big news day and she hadn't been looking forward to it. Angie rolled over and hit the snooze alarm for the third time and groaned. 7:32 a.m. The reporter snorted and knew she had to get up, snuggled back into her sleep-warmed down comforter and let out a sigh.

Five minutes later she slammed her hand down again on the buzzing thing and sat up, pouting. Mornings were usually like that. But she could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen across the hall, the automatic function on the machine saving her yet again.

Stumbling out of bed, her feet dragging, she made her way to the bathroom and ran a hot bath. Not that she really had time for one, but she refused to do without. While the water filled the tub, she rifled through her closet and pulled out a pair of comfortable gray slacks and a blouse. It was going to be a long day.

The city council was meeting in less than an hour, but she knew she wouldn't miss much if she was half an hour late. They would begin with citizen awards, argue over the city's plan to change trash disposal and have a presentation from police with McGruff, the crime-fighting dog. She shook her head while she poured a cup of coffee.

But what came much later would make the front page. After four people drowned in the city's famous attraction, the Water Gardens, city leaders commissioned an independent engineering and architecture firm to investigate what went wrong. They were holding a press conference in the afternoon to release and discuss the report. She needed to, though, catch the mayor after the council received the report, in a closed-door meeting, before the press conference began. He was most famous for not returning phone calls and it was her only shot to interview him.

Because of the late release, she would bust deadline and likely be stuck at the office calling councilmen until late in the evening. Again she sighed and was glad it was her last day on the city council beat. She had known her bosses couldn't keep her there forever and her patience had paid off.

Less than half an hour later she hit the road, fighting with the Metroplex morning traffic, listening to Howard Stern bash Republicans and poke fun at some poor soul on the radio. Nothing like starting a morning out right.

The parking garage was unusually full and she had to find a spot up high in a corner. The aging elevator seemed to take forever and she checked her watch several times. The meeting would have started by now and she regretted being late because she might not find a chair in the press room. On any normal day, that wouldn't have been a problem. But big news gets around fast and she counted on seeing all the regular television and radio crews today.

As she walked down Houston Street, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, she explored possible lead sentences in her head while dodging pedestrians and impatient drivers. She was nearly struck at Eighth Street by a red pickup but jumped out of the way and flipped off the driver.

The press room was filled to capacity and she had to sit in the actual conference room. She hated when that happened -- she would have to act attentive and keep quiet. In the press room, she could chat with other reporters and cameramen while the meeting droned monotonously in the background, delivered by a television feed. It made the job easier, because one reporter or another would pay attention for a while and if something important happened the others would pick up on the excitement. It could be called lazy, but at least no one fell asleep -- something Angie struggled with for the first twenty minutes she was there.

She got up and went back to the press room. As she had suspected, the television reporters had wandered off in search of overpriced coffee and a snack. Experience had taught her that they have very short attention spans and she always used it to her advantage. Just like she planned to do later, when she would interview the mayor. It was a simple trick that print reporters learn early. The television crews pack up and leave as soon as a source quits talking or refuses to answer brusque questions. Wait till they leave, then approach the source and ask if they wouldn't mind stepping aside for a single question or two.

She set her laptop on a desk and booted it up, then reached over and turned up the volume a little on the television. She chatted for a few minutes with the radio reporter and then poked fun at certain council members with the Dallas paper's reporter. The city's public information officer brought in a box of donuts and coffee.

Angie spent the next two hours diligently typing away, working on a round-up piece of many larger issues that were discussed. She wrote a paragraph or two of each, tacked on a quote, skipped a line in her Word document, and went on to the next issue. Her editors would run the file in a separate box somewhere inside the paper so readers could keep up with city meetings.

As she was about to e-mail the file, an argument broke out over whether to rename the city's portion of Interstate 20 to the "Ronald Reagan Freeway."

"They aren't serious, are they?" the radio reporter asked annoyed.

"They sure are," Angie replied. "Some days I wonder if they just sit around, trying to come up with ridiculous things to argue about. Look, that man with the bowtie is just a cranky old man. Everybody on the council hates him. If he supports it -- watch -- they will all vote against it. Let's hope he does."

And the man did. As predicted, the others argued against it but decided to table the issue for now. Angie typed up another few paragraphs, added a particularly funny quote at the end and sent off the document. The meeting was nearly over and she was grateful.

The television reporters were still missing. They had left their cameramen behind to give them a call if anything important happened while they enjoyed coffee at Starbucks. The cameramen sat in the hallway and compared which of their reporters had the worst ego and how badly they treated the rest of the crew. Not all stories were bad, and Angie, listening from the doorway, filed away much of the information to share with others at the office later. She snickered when she learned that her primary competitor didn't even know about the report until that morning.

"Eavesdropping is rude, you know," she heard a familiar voice say over her shoulder, making her jump.

"Larry, you nearly scared the crap out of me," she said laughing. "Where have you been all morning? I almost went stir crazy in there."

"Tom told me I didn't have to come over until the meeting ended. I thought you knew. Well, I assume the same old crap went on and I didn't miss much. Are they in executive session yet?" The other Tribune city reporter asked. He had covered the beat for nearly a decade and the younger reporter enjoyed his company and was glad they were covering the story together. Between the two of them, there was no way they would miss a single detail.

"Yeah, and they'll be there for a while, you know."

"Let's go grab some lunch. Cornerstone Bakery okay?"

"Sure, let's go."

*              *             *

Two hours later, they swarmed around him like he was going to be the next George Lucas -- fifteen cameras in his face, thirteen microphones and six notepads. The man straightened his tie and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He cleared his throat and then indicated that he was ready.

The questions rained down on him like a summer thunderstorm. He tried to be patient, but became flustered when questions were repeated more than once. Angie could almost count down the seconds to when he would snap at the reporters and tell the pack the interview was over.

"So do you think there is a direct link between city funding cutbacks and the deaths?"

"There may be a link. The city has struggled to keep up with maintenance funding and obviously that has lead to problems. But we're not entirely sure if the link is that direct, it's more complicated."

"Did the cutbacks cause the deaths?"

Ten, nine, eight.

"Well, like I just said, we're not entirely sure. It's complicated."

Several camera flashes went off as he gestured to emphasize the point.

"Were the maintenance crews unable to keep up with the Water Gardens' aging machinery? Is the city to blame?"             Seven, six, five, four.

"It's my understanding that they were unable to properly maintain the gardens, but you can't just blame the city. The reports indicate a faulty design. The workers themselves didn't adhere to some of the rules." The mayor cleared his throat and coughed.

"The debris that clogged the drains causing problems -- do you think that could have been avoided if the city hired six workers instead of five?"

Three, two, one.

"I think I've answered that question. Now, if you don't mind, I have to be going now."

Several more questions were shouted out, but he ignored them and began walking away from the crews. The cameramen turned off their cameras and began packing up. Angie caught up with the mayor and sweetly asked if she could ask just two more questions, assuring them they had nothing to do with the last few that were asked. He smiled and they stepped into an empty room. She spent fifteen minutes interviewing the mayor and they both left feeling satisfied.

"Did you get anything good?" Larry asked when she returned.

"Always."

"Good girl. Let's get the hell out of here. The press conference starts in 45 minutes."

"Fun."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you much," he chided gently and they packed up and left.

The conference was long and technical. Again the pack was there. Angie hated this sort of journalism -- so impersonal and confrontational. Something in a story is lost without one-on-one time, when sources are overwhelmed. Some like the attention, even if they have to deliver bad news. She thought it made them feel important. But most people freeze up in front of a camera and when there are ten -- well, that's when people become truly nervous. It's the reason she decided to go into newspapers and not television. A single notepad, even a tape recorder, rarely seems quite so intimidating.

She and her partner got the information and raced back to the office. He hadn't just blown off the morning meeting, as she had suspected. He had spent his time on the phone with the families' lawyer, figuring out who they were going to sue. And while she typed up all of her information, he was on the phone again with the man, seeing what his reaction to the reports was.

It was almost 7 o'clock before they finished up the article. While she waited for the edit, she shared what the cameramen said about their reporters and had a good laugh with the designers and copy editors, most of the reporters having left the office by then. When she was finally able to leave, she had the distinct feeling that she was forgetting something, but not being able to remember, she simply skipped down the hall to the elevator, out to the parking lot and happily said good-bye to the city council beat.

Now, if only she could figure out what she was forgetting.

Chapter Four

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