“Look, I’m a Black woman on the morning news who takes herself seriously and doesn’t dress like a sex doll. Of course I get threats,” she said.
“Most of them are misspelled and max out at around fifth grade grammar,” Chris added. “Any threats our team deems as serious, we pass on to the local authorities.”
“How many threats do you pass on?” Riley asked.
Chris squinted at the ceiling. “Not a ton. Maybe only eight or nine a week.”
“Has anything ever come out of the investigations into the threats?” Kellen asked.
“You tell me. From where I sit, it looks like the only thing that gets any action are statements that get passed on to the Secret Service. If you’re a regular person talking shit about another regular person, you can say just about anything you want online without repercussions until someone gets a lawyer involved.”
“It’s not hard to figure out who these people are and where they live,” Chance pointed out. “But most of the individuals misbehaving online don’t have anything worth suing over. It usually comes down to whether or not it’s worth pursuing legal action.”
Well, that was depressing.
Kellen ran through a few more standard questions before excusing Valerie.
“Next up is Armand Papadakis,” Chris said, consulting his clipboard.
Riley remembered Armand from her days at Channel 50. He was the mail room supervisor who always had a smile on his face and a pack of Twizzlers in his shirt pocket.
But the man who stomped into the room with a plunger in one hand was not smiling.
“This better be a surprise birthday party with cake,” he said.
“We don’t do staff birthday parties anymore because of budget cuts,” Chris reminded him. “Happy birthday.”
Armand slapped the plunger down on the table, making a gross slurping noise. “Then what the hell is more important than a blocked-up toilet?”
“Aren’t you the mail room supervisor?” Riley asked.
“Yes. And then I also became the head custodian and the person in charge of ordering garbage for the vending machines in the breakroom.” He sat down next to the plunger.
“There have been some budget cuts around here,” Chris explained. “We’ve all had to make adjustments.”
“That is a dirty lie. Weasel Face and that high-pressure system he’s marrying got big fat raises. The rest of us got screwed.”
Chris pulled a bottle of Pepto Bismol out of his cargo pants and guzzled it.
“Now I mop up dog piss after the adoption segments and watch people turn into Russian spy robots online,” Armand continued.
“He means bots,” Chris cut in.
Armand was on a roll now. “You know the guy at the front desk? He answers the phones, writes copy for the six o’clock news, and styles hair forWake Up Harrisburg. He bartends on the weekends just to afford his rent.”
“What happened around here?” Riley asked.
“Griffin Gentry had his daddy negotiate a sweet contract extension that cost us ten full-time jobs and our entire maintenance budget,” Chris explained.
“Things are falling apart so quickly in this building that one of these days the entire place is going to collapse in on itself. And when it does, I’m going to set whatever’s left on fire,” Armand announced.
“I’d advise you both not to discuss the station’s financial situation or any future arson plans with law enforcement,” the attorney said without looking up from his game of Candy Crush.
Armand suddenly looked guilty. “If this is about who took a poop in Mr. Gentry’s convertible, I want a lawyer,” he announced.
“It’s about murder, not poop. And there is a lawyer,” Chris pointed out.
“Mr. Papadakis,” Kellen began, trying to wrestle back control of the conversation. “Are you aware of any strange packages being delivered to the studio?”
