Presently a technician was fitting Denise with an earpiece, the coiled cord for which ran under her hair and was clipped to her collar in the back, and from there joined the tangle of cables and cords that covered the floor. A tiny microphone was clipped to her lapel, and the technicians stepped away, allowing her to see herself for the first time as she would appear on network television. She was not at all displeased with what she saw.
“Ms. Carpenter?”
The voice, from very close by, startled her until she realized it came from her earpiece. “Yes?” she said, as though she were calling across a room.
“Hi, Ms. Carpenter, I’m Allen, the director of this segment. Do you mind if I call you Denise?”
“No, not at all.”
“Good,” Allen said, even as she gave her permission. For just an instant, Denise wondered what would have happened if she had answered: Yes, I mind. “You look great,” Allen continued. “Couple of things to think about before we go on-air. First of all, you don’t have to shout. Even if you mumble, that mike will pick up everything. Shouting just gives headaches to us folks in the control room.
“Okay,” Denise said. “Sorry about that.” It was a common mistake to new radio jocks as well.
“No problem,” Allen laughed. “Now we can put our headsets back on and not have to worry about nosebleeds. This should be really simple stuff. There was some kind of scheduling problem in New York, so they’ve expanded your segment by ninety seconds to four minutes. That might not sound like much time, but trust me, it’s plenty of time to get the whole story out, okay?”
Denise nodded. “Okay,” she said.
“Have you ever done a television interview before?”
“No,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “But I do a lot of radio.”
“I know,” Allen acknowledged. “I listen to you every day. You’re great. Just remember, though, that no one can see what you’re doing in radio. On TV, you need to be conscious of where your eyes are, okay? Always direct your answers straight into the camera.”
“All right.” This seemed like pretty basic stuff.
“Start now, Denise, okay? You look like you’re trying to figure out where I am. Don’t worry about that. Just give your answers to the camera. Talk to it like you would to a friend. And we’re going to turn the monitors away from you so you don’t get distracted.”
“I can do that,” Denise said into the camera. It did feel a little awkward.
“Good. Now here are the ground rules, okay? You’re going to be sharing this spot with some other guy on the set in New York. Be careful not to answer the questions directed at him, and try to keep your answers short but complete. Okay so far?”
“No problem yet,” Denise said with mock confidence. Into the camera.
“And now for the last bit of advice,” Allen went on, giving the impression that he was working off a checklist. “And this one’s for you, not me. Remember, it’s only four minutes, okay? You can do anything for four minutes. I took a CPR class one time, and they told me you can cut off the blood to the brain for four minutes and still be okay. That means that you can endure any itch, stray hair or urge to sneeze for four minutes. Once the light goes off that camera and you hear the bump into the commercial, you can pick your nose for all I care. But for your own sake, please don’t do anything distracting during the interview—even if you’re not on-camera at the time.”
Instantly Denise sensed dozens of itches all over her body. “Not a big believer in the power of suggestion, are you, Allen?”
The director laughed in her earpiece. “Of course I am. I just like to watch people squirm. One last, final thing. Don’t get bothered if I tell you something in your ear while you’re talking.”
“What kind of thing are you going to say?” Clearly, Denise was bothered and he hadn’t even done it yet.
“No speeches, I promise.” Allen said. “Just maybe a suggestion like ‘speak up’ or ‘slow down’ or ‘there’s a booger in your nose’. You know, that sort of thing.”
Denise’s hand jerked to her nose, eliciting a hearty laugh from the director.
“Just kidding, Denise. You look great and you’ll do great. We go live in three minutes and twenty seconds. Break a leg.”
With that, her earpiece went dead, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the hoard of butterflies that had spawned in her stomach. When she glanced off into the wings toward Enrique, he flashed her a smile and a thumbs-up. She had to laugh. God, he looked miserable. And what a good sport he was for helping her through this.
After a successful career founded on the qualities of her voice, Denise was unexpectedly aware of her hands. They seemed like unnatural appendages. Should they be folded on her lap, placed on the arms of the chair, or maybe just rested on her knees, where they would undoubtedly leave indelible sweat stains on the fabric of her skirt?
“We go live in thirty seconds, Denise.” Allen’s familiar voice had a sweet smile in it now; carefully practiced, she was sure, to keep nervous guests from bolting at the last minute. “And I vote for keeping the hands crossed on your lap. Looks most natural that way, even though they’ll never be in the frame.”
When Allen was done, the audio in her ear switched to the familiar theme music for Good Morning America. The sound quality wasn’t bad, though nothing compared to the stereo ‘phones’ she was accustomed to. Denise took a deep breath and let it out slowly. As she did, a feeling of calm poured over her. She was in control again.
“Okay, Denise,” Allen coached in her ear. “Don’t say anything until you’re asked a question. Your mike is live… now.”
Denise acknowledged him with a slight nod. And waited for the light on the camera.
“Welcome back,” Joan’s voice said to America. “Much has been said and written recently about the increase in violence among children. Law enforcement officials have become concerned in many areas of our country about violent crime which not only victimizes children, but which is committed by them as well.
“Over the Fourth of July holiday, in a quiet suburb of Washington, D. C., a guard in a juvenile detention facility was murdered, apparently by one of the residents—a twelve-year-old boy named Nathan Bailey, who subsequently escaped and is still at large. Joining us this morning in our studios here in New York is the Honorable J. Daniel Petrelli, the prosecutor with jurisdiction in this case, and from our affiliate in Washington we have Denise Carpenter, a syndicated radio personality, who talked with Nathan Bailey during her radio talk show yesterday morning. Welcome to both of you, and thank you for joining us.”
With the mention of her name, the two lights on the bottom of Denise’s camera lit up, and she smiled pleasantly into her fish-eyed reflection. Nobody said anything about Petrelli being on the show! “Thank you, Joan,” she said. “It’s nice to be here.”
“Mr. Petrelli,” Joan said, “let’s start with you. What happened the other night?”
Petrelli had been flown to New York the previous night-first class, of course—where he’d spent the night in a deluxe hotel, and had been shuttled to the ABC studio by limousine. He sat across from Joan on a tan leather sofa, wearing a charcoal gray suit with the blue shirt and striped tie that had been selected by his media consultant. He was trim, if somewhat soft, with a bald pate that had to be matted with pancake to prevent reflection of the bright lights off of his normally shiny crown. When he spoke, his voice masterfully mixed professional disinterest with compassion, his Richmond accent adding a certain air of sophistication.
“Sometime between seven and nine P. M. on July fourth, Nathan Bailey, a very troubled young man with a history of car theft and violence, attacked and killed one of the child care supervisors at the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center, and subsequently escaped. He remains at large, and our search for him continues to this moment.”
“How did he kill the guard—excuse me, child care supervisor?” Joan asked.
Petrelli looked uncomfortable in a professional gee-I’d-like-to-tell-you-but-I-can’t sort of way. “I really can’t go into detail, because it’s part of a continuing investigation…”
But we all know you will anyway, Denise thought.
“… but I can tell you that he was brutally stabbed to death with a knife.”
Joan seemed incredulous. “Where would a prisoner get a knife?”
Petrelli resisted the urge to snicker. Like it wasn’t common knowledge that prison inmates fashioned shivs from anything they could get their hands on. “I really can’t go into specific detail. But we are very concerned at
