"Glass's people won't confirm, but I’d say almost certainly. This is the biggest story of the year. Glass will want both sides and he loves an ambush."
"Good." I mean it. I want Dean in that studio. I want to look him in the eye while I dismantle him piece by piece. I want him to watch his career-making moment turn to ash.
The team disperses around one in the morning. I stay behind, rereading everything. Tomorrow, I have a journalist to destroy.
3. Jamie
I sit on a designer leather in the green room at Point of Contention trying not to look as nervous as I feel. There's a spread of food on the table—cheese, fruit, tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off—but my stomach is too knotted to eat. A monitor on the wall shows the live feed from the studio, where David Glass is currently interrogating the cast of Netflix’s latest big hit, pretending he is trying to get them to drop spoilers about the final season. Their laughter makes for an uncanny backdrop to the tightness in my stomach.
It's been a week since the story dropped, and it’s only gotten bigger. Congressional hearings are being discussed. The FBI has issued a "no comment" that everyone interprets as confirmation of an investigation. Senator Crane's approval ratings have tanked.
And I'm about to go on the most-watched political show in the country to talk about it.
A production assistant pokes her head in. "Mr. Dean? We'll be ready for you in about three minutes."
"Thanks."
She disappears, and I'm alone again with my nerves and my notes.
I've prepared for this. Akari drilled me for hours, throwing every hostile question she could think of. I know my story inside out. I can do this.
On the monitor, Glass wraps up his interview and the show cuts to commercial.
My phone buzzes. Akari:You've got this. Remember to breathe. And don't let him see you sweat.
I type back:No pressure then.
Her response is immediate:All the pressure. But you thrive under pressure. Now go be brilliant.
I pocket the phone and stand, checking my reflection in the mirror by the door. I look presentable. Professional. I look like someone who belongs on national television, even if I don't quite believe it yet.
The production assistant returns. "Mr. Dean? They're ready for you."
I follow her down a corridor lined with photos of Glass's most famous guests: presidents, prime ministers, celebrities, criminals. The walls are a shrine to the show's history of making and breaking careers.
No pressure at all.
The studio is smaller than it looks on TV. Bright lights beat down on a set designed to look like a sophisticated study. It has leather chairs, bookshelves, the kind of warm wood tones that say "serious journalism" without being off-putting.
Of course, most studies don’t come with an audience. Multiple pairs of eyes watch me with interest as I enter. Only the cameramen aren’t paying attention yet. They’re fiddling with their cameras, chatting to each other while they wait for the commercial break to be over.
Glass sits in one of the chairs, reviewing notes with a producer. He looks up as I enter and his face transforms into that famous welcoming smile.
"Mr. Dean." He rises to shake my hand. His grip is firm, his eyes sharp. Up close, he looks older than he does on camera,but no less formidable. "Thank you for joining us. Quite a story you've broken."
"Thank you for having me."
"We'll keep things straightforward. I'll ask about your investigation, your sources—in general terms, of course, we respect journalist-source privilege—and the public interest angle. Nothing you haven't handled before."
I nod, trying to match his easy confidence. I haven’t handled any of this before. It’s my first big story but I’d bet anything that he already knows that. "Sounds good."
A sound tech clips a microphone to my lapel while someone else powders my forehead to cut the shine. I'm guided to the chair across from Glass, positioned so the camera can capture us both. The lights are hot, the studio hushed with that particular anticipation that precedes live television.
"Sixty seconds," someone calls out.
Glass settles into his chair, shuffling his notes. He catches my eye and winks. "Relax. You'll be fine."
Easy for him to say. He does this every week and he’s not the one being interrogated.
