Five Dimes - Brossura

Hilmon, Darrious

2,92

12 valutazioni di Goodreads

Brossura

ISBN 10: 0451208692 ISBN 13: 9780451208699

Casa editrice: New Amer Library, 2003

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Despite the urgings of her best friends, single mother Jorja Grace, a busy television news producer in Detroit, is reluctant to become involved with the handsome Dr. Mark Collins. Original.

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L'autore:

Darrious D. Hilmon received a Bachelor's degree cum laude from the University of Michigan. He is the Marketing and Advertising Director for FantastiCon.com, an entertainment-based media company.

Estratto. � Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:

Chapter 1: Life Happens

Jo approached the large sign announcing Channel 8 as Detroit's News Authority. She took a deep breath. "Lord, I know I've been asking way too much of you lately, but today I could use some special attention just the same," she prayed aloud. "Could you please let my first day in this joint be as uneventful as possible? Maybe you could even see fit to make everyone, including me, at least pretend to be friendly," she said. "Also, do you think you could catch me before I tell someone that a story idea is racist, chauvinistic, fact-light, ill-conceived, ill-prepared, or just plain stupid?" Jo smiled guiltily. "Okay . . . at least let me be pleasant if I do have to tell somebody off."

"May I help you?" the guard asked Jo as she pulled her car up to the electronic gate protecting WXNT television from its audience.

"Good morning. I'm Jorja Grace, the new executive news producer." She handed him her new employee ID, the one with the photo that made her look like a frightened Chia Pet.

The guard glanced at the card, then handed it back. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Grace," he said. "Your first day, huh?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, best of luck to you." He leaned closer to her window. "They can be something else in there," he said with a wink.

Jo pulled into the parking space marked Executive Producer. She glanced up into the rearview mirror, giving her MAC makeup-enhanced face a final inspection. The first thing most people commented on when they first met Jo was her striking resemblance to Oprah Winfrey-magazine-cover Oprah, not

The Color Purple Oprah. A solid size ten, she had large, smoldering brown eyes and full, sumptuous lips. In her navy pin-striped Jones of New York pantsuit and cream silk blouse, Jo stepped out of the car. She retrieved her box of personal effects from the backseat, then made her way toward the back entrance. "Showtime."

Bob Sheridan, WXNT's assistant news director, stood waiting at the door to greet her. "Good morning, Jorja. Ready for life in major-market television?"

"I think so," she said, offering up as much humility as she could muster. Though she had spent the past three years in Toledo, Jo was, in fact, a Detroit native. Besides the salary, she had accepted the job at Channel 8 because it offered a return to the city she loved.

Bob took the box from her, then directed Jo down the corridor leading to the newsroom. It was only eight-thirty, but already the place was a zoo. The assignment-desk editor was leaning out from his glass-enclosed booth, simultaneously screaming into a telephone and barking out orders at someone standing at the opposite end of the room. A news crew raced out the door on their way to cover a story. From the bank of monitors lined up along the back wall, the morning news team could be seen finishing up their broadcast. Both of the anchors were white, Jo noticed. The male lead looked to be in his mid-forties, with a deep tan that belied the winter frost outside. His perky coanchor was an attractive young blonde.

"Well, this is your office, Jorja," Bob said as they entered an empty room off the newsroom.

"Why don't you take a moment to get settled in before the morning meeting starts?"

"Thanks, Bob."

Once alone, Jo took a look around her new digs, pleased with what she saw. "So this is major-market television." She grinned as she dropped the box onto the chair. "I could get used to this."

With great care she removed her Emmy from the box and placed it on the credenza behind her desk. Jo didn't want it to be too conspicuous, but she did want the highest honor given in television to serve as a reminder to herself and her new coworkers that she indeed belonged here. She'd won hers two years ago for a special report she had produced on single working mothers, a report she had had to fight tooth and nail to get on the air. Her news director at the time questioned whether anyone still cared about the subject matter, much less wanted to watch a three-part report about it. After Jo showed him the statistics-and then informed him that she was one of them-he relented. Shortly after the Emmy nominations were announced, Jo was promoted to assistant news director.

The new job at WXNT was actually a step lower in the pecking order than the one Jo had given up for it. There were differences, however, between being the second banana in the sixty-third largest television market in the country and third in the ninth largest-not the least being a salary increase of twenty thousand dollars a year. Jo would get over titles.

After she had finished unpacking, she took a seat behind her new desk and started reviewing the pile of rundowns, producer's reports, and ratings for each of the preceding week's newscasts. As she sat there trying to make sense of the mass of information in front of her, the telephone rang.

"This is Jorja Grace."

"Join us in the conference room for the morning meeting," her new boss said dryly.

Jo looked at her watch, and sure enough she was already on CP time to her first meeting. "I'm sorry, David," she said apologetically. "I was just looking over the reports and numbers from last week's shows. The time must have gotten away from me."

"Not to worry," the news director said as reassuringly as he was able. "We don't ever get going until about nine-fifteen anyway."

Jo hung up the phone. "I swear I'm going to be late for my own funeral," she said, racing out of the office with pen and pad in hand.

When David saw her enter the conference room, he waved her over. "OK, come on, people, get settled. We don't have all day here." He ushered Jo to the empty chair beside him. "First things first . . . I want to take this opportunity to officially welcome the newest member of the WXNT team, Jorja Grace."

The assembled members gave Jo the standard shit-eating grin, the one people gave when they either knew a secret you didn't or had just smelled something foul in the air but weren't sure from whom it was coming. Jo returned the plastic grin, reminding herself that her salary, at least, was genuinely pleasant.

"This young lady is going to be a great asset to this station," David continued. "We couldn't be more pleased to have scooped up someone with Jorja's experience and proven track record of success." He then paused briefly before dropping the bombshell. "She's an Emmy award winner, by the way."

Take that, you trolls, Jo thought as she continued smiling away.

"Prior to joining our dysfunctional little family, Jorja was the assistant news director at WTEL in Toledo. She took them to number one," David said deliberately, as he eyed WXNT's current assistant news director.

With the possible exception of Bob Sheridan, whom the assistant director remark was meant to rattle, no one else at the table had heard a word David said after Emmy award winner. Those three words pretty much knocked the wind out of the inflated egos sitting around the table, which, of course, was David's intent.

"I trust that each of you will help Jorja become acclimated to the wonderful world of Channel Eight," David said. "With her help, we might actually have a snowball's chance of reclaiming the top position in this market. Now, what's on the sheet today . . . ?"

As the meeting progressed, Jo looked around the table, quietly surveying the faces of the people charged with deciding what the million-plus viewers in metropolitan Detroit would be told was newsworthy. How could a room that was 95 percent white, she wondered, possibly understand-or articulate-the issues important to a viewing audience that was 70 percent black? Yet forty-five fighting, whining, compromising, deal-making minutes later, this group of mainly middle-aged white men had agreed upon-for the time being, anyway-the content for today's five-, six-, and eleven-o'clock newscasts.

After the meeting ended, Jo made her way back into the newsroom to get the lay of the land before her next meeting.

"I don't care! I asked you to start on that damned story an hour ago, Charlie. I need it now!"

"Then I suggest you write it yourself."

The lanky young producer slammed his fists on his desk angrily, then stalked toward the offending writer. "You pompous ass!" he shouted.

Jo rushed over to the two men, placing herself in the path between them. "Tom, right?"

"Yes," he growled.

"What's the problem?" she asked calmly.

"I asked Charlie to write the school-board recall story over an hour ago. It's the show's lead," Tom complained. "He hasn't even touched it yet."

Jo placed her hand on the tense producer's shoulder and assured him that his story would be ready in time for the show. She then turned on the heels of her navy Ferragamos and marched over to Charlie's desk.

Being the solution-oriented professional that she was, Jo politely asked the writer if there was any possible way he could make room in his doughnut- and coffee-filled schedule to actually do his job.

Charlie stood up from his chair. "And you are?" he asked condescendingly.

"The new executive news producer." Jo gave him a tight smile. "In case you aren't clear on this . . . that would make me your boss."

The noisy newsroom grew instantly silent as everyone turned their attention to the battle of wills in the making. They couldn't wait to see if the new EP was up to the task of handling Charles Barbour, a man known as much for being one of the biggest assholes on the staff as he was for being one of the best news writers in the state.

"Charlie, is it?" Jo asked.

He didn't respond.

"This is the lead story for the noon show," she said evenly. "Certainly you understand what that means."

"An hour ago the freeway pileup was the lead. Thirty minutes before that, the missing baby was the lead," Charlie snarled, then pointed at Tom. "The little wunderkind over there knows that I'm the only writer here this morning, but he's too damned prissy to help me out and lift a pen to write one story for his show," he said. "Tell you what, honey . . . I'll get to the story when I get to the story."

Jo could feel the ...

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