A photo loaded with my name sideways along the edge. That picture of Adam with his arms around Eden, hands flat on her midsection. The quality was subpar because Andy had to zoom in so far on that photo. I should have known he’d figure it out. I should have deleted it when I had the chance.
I read the text again. “Now I get it. He totally planned this.”
Zion rubbed my shoulders. “Josie, you need to calm down.”
I was shaking from anger. “That fucker. I’m going to bring him down.”
“Go home. Get some lunch. Take a nap. Those are my orders. Okay? Do you hear me?”
I nodded, but I had no intention of going home. I dropped from the stool, trying to figure out how I’d ever fix this. “I’ll see you later, Zion.”
Zion called after me. “Go home, Josie. Don’t try to do anything right now. Wait until it blows over.”
But I was already emailing Eden before I’d left the building.
Eden,
I swear I had nothing to do with the article that posted today. I didn’t break the news to Andy. He had someone following you and figured it out.
Please call me.
Jo
She didn’t respond. I wasn’t surprised. I hadn’t talked to her since Micah’s story ran, assuming I’d have time over the next week to figure out how to explain it and warn her to go ahead and share the news with her family when Adam came home. For all I knew, she’d already written me off the day before when the story on Micah ran, and this article was the final nail in my coffin. It looked so bad, even Micah might conclude Eden’s suspicions had been justified all along.
I dodged a lone reporter, jumped on the subway to Park Slope, and walked to Micah’s. There were no cameramen out today. I figured they’d all be swarming outside Eden’s door. If I brought the paparazzi nightmare to her stoop, she really would never talk to me again. I knocked on Micah’s door, but there was no answer, so I sat and waited. He’d have to come out or come home eventually.
After an hour, a woman approached and started up the steps. She wore a housekeeping outfit and carried cleaning supplies.
I stood. “Are you Anna?”
She nodded.
“Can you let Micah know I’m out here?”
She let herself in and then peeked out. “Mr. Sinclair is not home.”
The temperature had dropped as a dark cloud obliterated the sun. I walked down to the corner coffee shop, ordered a hot tea, and sat at a corner table near the front, hoping lightning might strike twice and Micah would stroll in again. I took out my phone and started an email to Kate in human resources.
Kate,
I’d like to file a formal complaint against Andy Dickson. In the past week, he has asked me to skirt journalistic ethics on a number of occasions. I realize the company turns a blind eye to his activities since these actions increase the revenue for the company, but nonetheless, I feel it’s important to document his bad behavior.
1.Last week, he asked me to give him information that was off the record after I had lunch with a musician he obsessively (and psychotically) hounds.
2.He also rewrote a story I’d submitted, changing the tone of it from neutral and newsworthy to vicious and derogatory. And he disregarded the photo I’d submitted. Instead, he combed through my files and found the most unflattering one. He then posted the story with my name on the byline, misrepresenting my work.
3.Finally, he made a verbal promise to me on Monday that he would not run a story (about that musician he stalks) until next week provided I give him some information for another story. And even though I upheld my end of the bargain, he went against his word and posted both stories anyway. This has had serious ramifications on my personal life.
Please consider taking action against him.
Jo Wilder
Reading it back, I realized how insane it all sounded. Most people would rightfully say I was only bitching about how the sausage was made. Complaining about a lack of ethics in tabloid journalism was akin to complaining about a lack of dryness in water.
I sent it anyway. More than likely, I was already out of a job. If Andy hadn’t taken my statements as a resignation, surely, he’d started the paperwork to have me terminated.
As I swirled my tea, I began to relax. For the first time in a day, nobody pursued me. Nobody expected me to be anywhere. Nobody expected me to hunt humans for sport. I was nobody. I had no agenda. It felt liberating. And it gave me time to think.
