Filthy Truth
The media is a weapon.
A bead of sweat slips down my brow as I adjust my blouse. Eyes watch me strut across the office, forcing my chin up high, eager to survive the next 15 humiliating seconds it takes to get to the door and out of view.
My stories are good, but they’re not breaking news. The editor-in-chief needs something refreshing and bold by Friday, or I might as well pack my desk now. I’ve worked my ass off to get this position, I can’t let it go. I’ve shimmied through dusty crawlspaces, waited for hours in the pouring rain, even crossed a few police lines to get the best shot; I deserve more recognition, I’ll show them. I just need one good story. No matter what it takes, I’ll get that story.
One. Story.
My mind wanders as the elevator journeys from the 57th floor, making far too many stops along the way. Where am I going to find the next huge story in less than a week? Perhaps Central park is the best starting point, something is always going on over there-No. Oversaturated. Okay, maybe Trump tower, surely some protestors out front will be getting rowdy-Ugh. Reports will already be there, though. I need something no one else has. This story needs to be fresh.
DING. Finally, the elevator releases me into the lobby, where business-men and women are swarming in and out. Other reporters pass me, looking me up and down; of course word of my failure has already spread. The media is too fast, even for me. I quickly turn to duck out of a sidedoor, desperate to escape anymore judgemental stares. I’m about to take a shortcut through the nearest alleyway when a voice catches my ear. I turn my head, and just behind the corner of my building there’s a woman confronting a poised business-man. I tuck myself into the alleyway to listen.
“You’re withholding. You can’t just decide what’s relevant.” She points a stern finger.
He calmly places a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to usher her away. “Please, this is not the time or the place.” I scramble to get my phone from my pocket. This could be it.
“You buried evidence.” Her raised voice lingers across the square. People begin to notice. I poke out around the corner and press record. In a matter of seconds the woman is being dragged away by security.
“Know your place, analyst.” He tucks his hands in his pockets, completely nonchalantly.
I take a step closer to capture her face when her eyes meet mine. She stares. She knows. She mouths, please. I’m frozen, I can’t get involved. I am still the press afterall, and I need this story. I mouth back to her, sorry, as I get one last picture before she’s pulled around the corner and out of view. A crowd forms around the man. That’s when it hits me, that man is Jack Holloway, lead investigator for the Eastside Executioner: Serial Killer Case. He is the angel of New York City; untouchable.
I couldn’t wait, I rushed straight home to type up my article. My mind is already racing with article title ideas: Crazed woman attacks lead detective, no. I can do better-
BREAKING NEWS: UNSTABLE ANALYST CONFRONTS NYC’S LEAD DETECTIVE
I didn’t know who she was. I had no clue what I’d done. I turned in my story the next day.
When the boss promptly summoned me to his office, I knew this was it. Either my story was a success or a flop, my career depended on this meeting. I shuffled into his office and plopped down in the seat, my shoulders tense as I watched his jaw set. Oh, god, I’m finished.
“Your story…” He trailed off, surveying the ceiling for the words. The suspense is killing me, damn near literally.
“It’s good,” he finally says. It’s good? That’s it? I wait, there must be more.
“It’ll be going to press this afternoon. We shall see how it performs.” Yep. There it is. Of course he only cares about the response, how the people will react. But he likes it, and that’s not an easy thing to do in this business. Considering this a win, I leave his office unable to hide my smirk.
The days that followed were not as easy.
Internet sleuths started looking into her, turning the woman into this aggressor, painting her as an evidence tampering villain. It was all just based on the story I wrote, I accidentally started something huge. The paper ate it up, it was the city’s biggest scandal for the time. The checks just kept rolling in with my name on them. I couldn’t believe I actually did it, I got the dirt.
As new developments arose in the ongoing Eastside Executioner case, I was rewarded with the ability to report on them. I became the lead reporter on the case, all because I caught the perfect moment on camera, by accident. When this case blew up and my various articles circled the internet, the sleuths got right to work, uncovering multiple suspects.
I was chosen to attend the next press conference, as the most knowledgeable journalist on the case (Ironic, I know). The city hall conference room was smaller than I expected, and sardine packed with other journalists, starving for a story nearly as juicy as mine. Cameras flashed, questions were being yelled left and right, hands waved for attention; and I stood there watching, observing the frenzy of reporters. Do I look this desperate as a reporter? I could feel my stomach flip at the thought, then I came to and noticed questions being aimed at myself, even Jack Holloway glanced in my direction. Someone has a question for… me?
The entire room of people shushed to complete silence, except for the occasional click of a camera or pop of flash. I squinted to find the small woman in the back who stood over the crowd. The room found her as the host of the press conference motioned for her to speak.
She spoke loud and vigorously.
“My name is Catherine Bernsley, I was the lead analyst on this case. I lost everything because of that woman’s fabricated article.” Her finger darted everyone’s eyes straight back to me. My cheeks started to feel hot, my breathing picking up rapidly, and the look of shock in my eyes over what I had done finally hit. The room remained dead silent. She continued.
“I uncovered several of these suspects you take credit for months ago. Evidence was buried. The truth was hidden, because the time wasn’t correct. I lost my job, the one thing I have worked so diligently and honestly for. I pride myself on having my cities back, and the city did not have mine. This win was mine, and you took it away for your own glory. You know what you did. Now you must live with your filthy truth.”
She sat down. Everyone’s mouths agape, including mine. I darted out, no response, no contest.
This was truly the end of my story.