“You need help up there, Sid?” I don’t have time to help, but I have to ask because I was raised right. Besides, I know full well he won’t accept the offer.
“You think I can’t handle taking some lights off a tree? Get on up to work now.” Sid waves me away playfully.
I know what he’s going to say next before he opens his mouth.
“You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart, darn good. It sure is something to see you on TV. Representin’！ I tell you.”
Sid says the same thing every time he sees me. It should get old, though it never does. It’s a reminder that my success is not only mine, but that of everyone who came before and sacrificed so that I could have this unimaginable opportunity. So I pause to say a sincere thank-you, even if I’m not fully here in this moment, but stuck somewhere across time in the parking lot at St. Mary’s.
No sooner do the elevator doors open into the newsroom than I hear Scotty’s voice thundering. “There you are, Wilson! My office, now!”
He turns to walk down the hall. I don’t even bother to stop and drop my coat and purse off at my desk before I hurry to catch up with him. He slams his office door behind me and then leans against his desk, glaring, arms crossed.
“How do you know Jennifer Murphy?”
A screaming static fills my head. It takes every ounce of strength to remain calm and collected. This was bound to happen. If Sabrina found out, it was only a matter of time before Scotty did too. I was reckless to think it wouldn’t. But today of all days. I need to do damage control; I’m just not sure how, until I know what exactly Scotty knows.
“We grew up together.” It’s a Herculean effort to keep my voice even.
“And you were close? Friends?” His tone matches mine, which doesn’t give me a lot to work with—it’s more unsettling than if he were shouting.
“Yes,” I answer, forcing myself to not look away. At least we were. “But that hasn’t stopped me from being completely professional in my coverage.”
He makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort and sits in the chair on the other side of his desk. It creaks under the crush of his weight.
“What did I tell you when I hired you, Riley? What’s the one thing I can’t stand?”
“Drama and bullshit.” I’d even written it in my notebook that day. No drama. No bullshit. Which is technically two things, but I obviously didn’t point that out.
He stares hard at me across his absurdly messy desk, takeout wrappers everywhere, like he’s trying to decide what to do with me. Once again, I’m on the brink of losing something I desperately want. If Scotty pulls me from the story, there’s no way I’ll get the anchor chair. I may never get back in his good graces again. My career in Philly could be over before it’s begun, my miracle second chance squandered.
After what feels like an hour, he speaks. “You should have told me, Riley. I expected better from you.”
“I’m sorry, Scotty. I am. But I knew that I could be objective. I knew I was the best person for this story, and I didn’t want to give you any reason to doubt me.” I can hear the waver in my voice. I hope he doesn’t. “This is my job, and that’s my personal life. I can keep them separate. I haven’t compromised this story.”
“Yeah, yeah. Not so far you haven’t. But Jennifer Murphy had a baby ten days ago. A preemie. I assume you knew that.”
“I did.” I’m not about to lie now. “But it’s not part of this story, Scotty. The baby isn’t. We’re not TMZ.”
That’s not true. The baby is a part of the story. Anything related to the Murphys is part of the story. It’s surprising that no one has discovered it until now. Would I have reported it if Jen wasn’t Jen? Probably. I would never do that to her though. There are lines I won’t cross. Which is what I tell Scotty now.
“I’m covering this case, Scotty. Not Kevin Murphy’s personal life.”
He drums his fingers on the desk.
“First of all, you should have told me about the baby. Also, you cover what I tell you to cover.” His voice is cold.
We’re back to the brink. I wait, steel myself for what happens next, dizzy from anticipation and adrenaline. Am I off the story? Will Scotty send Quinn to cover the press conference to punish me? The thought makes me want to vomit right into my lap.
“You don’t have much time to get to city hall,” he says, traces of frustration lingering. He nods at the door to dismiss me.
I’m light-headed with relief and have to fight the sudden desire to walk around the desk and hug him. “I’m ready,” I say.
I’m in the hall when Scotty calls out to me. “Don’t make me regret this, Wilson. I’m not giving you another chance.”
I walk back into the newsroom and look for Bart. There he is perched on Quinn’s desk eating a banana. “We gotta head out,” I tell him.
As soon as we’re in the van, I sink into the passenger seat and feel the full weight of my fear, relief, and embarrassment. Remember, what’s done in the dark always comes to light. Another one of Gigi’s favorite mantras. I probably deserved to be pulled from the story. At this point though, I’ve become the face of it for KYX. Scotty had little choice, or he’d risk curious viewers asking questions. It kills me that I put him in such a position, that he may always doubt if he can trust me. For now, I picture my conversations with Jen and Scotty as words I can put in a box, and then I lock that box away.
We hear the crowds at city hall before we see them. Bart angles the news van in line with a dozen others in the designated press area. Through the smudgy windows, I see that the swarm of protesters has divided into two groups facing off like regiment soldiers on a battlefield; rather than muskets, they carry signs proclaiming whose lives matter—Black or blue. The burden of keeping these two groups apart so their passions aren’t stoked into violence falls on a grim-faced line of Philadelphia police officers. I spot a young Black mother with her son perched on her shoulders carrying a sign that reads, IS MY BABY NEXT? Across the imaginary dividing line, a group of women stretch a blue vinyl banner between them—BLESS OUR HUSBANDS, THE PEACEMAKERS. BLUE LIVES MATTER.
Bart, in the driver’s seat, whistles. “This shit is intense.”
It is. If it wasn’t for my job, I would be out there too, sign in hand. I might even be screaming through a bullhorn at those women with the banner. “Tell your husbands to stop fucking killing us.” But that’s not my part in this.
As we leave the van and push through the masses, the energy is fervent, almost suffocating. A dangerous charge hovers in the frigid air, a sense of barely contained chaos, water seconds before a boil. I walk past the bronze statue of Frank Rizzo facing city hall and see that someone has defaced the likeness of the former mayor; a shock of red paint covers his pumpkin-shaped head, drips like blood down over the shoulders, onto a pile of old snow. There are still some people in this city who consider Rizzo a hometown hero, a scrappy cop who rose through the ranks of the PPD before serving his two terms as mayor. Others remember him as the guy who famously told Philadelphians to “vote white,” or who was captured in a photo showing up to a race riot in Gray’s Ferry in 1969 wearing a tuxedo with a nightstick tucked in his cummerbund. He looked like all he needed was a water hose or snarling dog. Pastor Price has been leading a charge to have this statue ripped down. The city finally seems to be listening.