Page 5 of Demo
“What’s up, girlie?” she says cheerily.
“Oh, you know, same ol—”
“Listen,” she cuts me off mid-sentence. “Cherice is looking for you. There’s a guy in a suit in her office, and he’s been waiting for a while.”
“Did you tell them I was on assignment?”
“Oh yeah, she knows. She’s not mad … I don’t think.”
I shrug, then straighten up, slip back into the suit jacket I had been carrying and start to turn toward my editor’s office. I stop mid-turn and look back at Dee. “If I’m not out in fifteen minutes—”
“You’ll have a phone call. I got you.”
“Thanks.”
To get to Cherice’s office, I have to go through the bullpen, otherwise known as the newsroom. It is an open area full of chaos. Three cubicles are arranged in the center, either backing up to one another or adjacent to one another. Each houses a reporter, including me.
The photographer’s “suite,” otherwise known as Monty’s mess, is a desk tucked into the back corner of the space. He uses three computer screens stretched across tables and desks.
I drop my notebook and keys on my desk as I make my way to the back office. I knock lightly on the door that reads CHERICE ARMSTRONG, EDITOR.
“Come in,” I immediately hear from inside.
I crack the door open slowly and peek my head around, seeing Cherice sitting behind her large mahogany desk, waving me inside without looking up.
She is dressed to the T, as usual. Today she is wearing a skirt suit in deep maroon, with a lacey black silk top underneath. Her nails match the color of her suit, and a chunky silver bracelet hangs around her forearm.
She tucks a piece of her dirty blonde locks behind her ear. A few pieces have fallen out of the twist it is in, which is unusual for her, but it is the end of the workday, after all.
Cherice points to one of the chairs sitting across from her desk, and I know it’s an indication I should sit. In the other chair, is the suit. A man, maybe in his 60s, gives me a nod. The first thing I notice about him is the bald spot on the back of his head, with dull brown hair circling it.
“This is Carl Phillips from our legal team,” Cherice says as Carl reaches across to shake my hand.
“Lyzbeth Mitchell.” We shake.
Being called into the editor’s office with a lawyer present might rattle some reporters. It’s much like being called into the principal’s office in high school. But it has happened enough times in my experience that I know not to get worried until there is something to worry about.
“Mr. Phillips got a call from someone representing Ms. Tamara King.”
And that, right there, is something to worry about.
“This name should ring a bell. You did a story on her son, Jerome.” Cheriece pulls her reading glasses off as she finally looks up at me.
“Yes. Jerome King was killed in a drug raid gone bad, about three months ago,” I say.
“Yes, that’s the case,” the attorney chimes in. “Ms. King, the mother of the young man who was killed, is upset about the manner in which the coverage was handled. She claims her son was in no way connected to the other men who were selling. She says he was just walking back from school at that time. A wrong-place, wrong-time situation.”
“OK, but why is this our problem?” Cherise interjects. “Looking back at the articles, I can tell you we covered every angle. Lyzbeth got comments from the victim’s family, she obtained all the police reports that were filed on the incident. If Ms. King is upset her son came out looking poorly, we can’t help that.”
“And Ms. King’s attorney tells me they very well understand that,” says Carl. “This type of thing is typical in this type of case. The grieving family always wants justification. I’m sure we’ll be able to clear this matter up when we meet with the family.”
“The Kings want to meet with us?” I ask, trying to hide the stress in my voice.
“Yes. Well, it’s just Ms. King and her remaining son, Anthony. He’s older than Jerome. Late twenties.”
“When do they plan on meeting?”
“We’ll meet them at their lawyer’s office Friday afternoon downtown,” replies the suit. “And then,” he reaches down and picks up his worn brown leather briefcase from the floor beside his chair, “we’ll get this whole thing straightened out and move on.”
