6. Portia
6
PORTIA
A YEAR AND A HALF LATER…
“Good evening Newport, this is Portia James, coming to you from the meat-packing district, where just moments ago, there was gunfire. We’re told by NPPD that the assailants involved were from rival gangs,” I say, speaking into the microphone. The late evening wind whips my hair across my face as I stare into the camera and brief viewers at home on all the grisly details. “Officers are currently canvasing the factory where the gunfight broke out, but from what we can gather, two individuals have succumbed to injuries while several more are en route to Newport General.”
I turn to a rosy-cheeked woman in a puffer coat and rollers in her hair, holding out the microphone for her to speak.
“Ma’am, you say you were in the area when the gunshots went off. Can you tell the viewers at home more about what you witnessed?”
“It went BANG-BANG-BANG!” she blurts out loudly, pawing at the handle of the microphone. An awkward second passes where I refuse to give it up and she tries to pry it out of my hand. “I was out walking my dogs Fifi and Coco, and next thing I know, there’s this nasty rotten egg stench in the air. I cowered by that fence right over there. Fifi and Coco got so nervous, they got liquid diarrhea on the spot. Took a huge shit right on the sidewalk. See for yourself.”
“Uhh…. I’ll have to take a raincheck on that offer,” I say, casting an artificial smile at the camera. “Did you happen to see any of the assailants involved in the incident?”
She shakes her head so vigorously, a roller slips free of her fiery red hair. “Hard to tell. All I saw was smoke and some men running out of that old factory across the street. There was some van waiting for them. They hopped right on in. Some other guys ran out to get ’em but were too late.”
“There you have it, Newport,” I say. “Eyewitness testimony seems to corroborate this was a conflict between two opposing criminal gangs. Newport Police ask that if you have any information on what occurred tonight, to please contact them at the number on the screen.”
The live broadcast ends with my field producer, Baron, calling cut.
I drop the microphone from my mouth and step toward the filming crew. “Have we made any headway with getting a one-on-one with the lead detective on the case?”
“It’s an active police investigation, Portia,” says Baron. “Patience is a virtue.”
“Patience is also what costs news stations the next big story. Get Captain Poveri on the phone.”
Baron sighs, pulling off his headphones and half rolling his eyes. “Portia, how many times do I have to tell you? We can’t treat Captain Poveri’s direct number like a free use hotline.”
“He’s a public official.”
“And this is an official investigation.”
“People have died. Innocent civilians were in danger. You heard the lady I interviewed—Fifi and Coco had the shits all over the sidewalk. This is important and you know why it is. You know who and what was behind this.”
“Portia—”
My producer calls after me, but it’s too late.
I’ve already pivoted on my heel and strode across the street where the gaggle of squad cars are gathered.
I flash my press badge and duck under the neon yellow tape cordoning off the scene of the crime. Several of the police officers on the scene glare in my direction as if tempted to apprehend me, though they refrain from interrupting. I’ve walked right up to the lead officer on the scene and tapped him on the shoulder.
He turns around from the conversation he’s having with one of his junior officers, his unibrow ticking up.
“Yeah?” he grunts.
I read the name on his badge. “Officer Christopher Cobb.”
“Yeah?” he grunts again.
“Portia James. Newport Metro News field reporter.”
His blinks are dry and slow. “Yeah,” he repeats a third time. “I know who you are.”
“Then you can guess why I’m here,” I snap. “We have two deaths on our hands and the culprits on the loose. What headway have you made connecting this to the obvious crime organization involved?”
“Obvious crime organization involved?” He croaks out a laugh that sounds arid and hoarse. “Allow me to school you, sweetpea. This is an active police investigation. No assumptions are made. Words like ‘obvious’ are not in our vocabulary. We do the work, study the clues, and determine who the bad guys are?—”
“Surely you’re aware the Belluccis are involved,” I interrupt. “The license plate on the van the individuals left in?—”
“We do the work, study the clues, and determine who the bad guys are,” he interrupts me right back, his tone gruffer, more condescending. He grips at his belt buckle as if asserting dominance and peers down at me like I’m a bug he’d like to squash. “You seem confused, sweetpea. Wandering over here like you’ve got weight to throw around. Why don’t you skip back across the street where it’s safe? You can go cover some other puff piece and win all those news awards you love.”
My face stings like I’ve been slapped across the cheek. I stand taller in my heels, all sixty-six inches of me, and push my shoulders back. “Officer Cobb, I am an official member of the press corp. Meaning I have just as much a right to be here while reporting this incident as you do. May I remind you to show some respect?”
His face scrunches up in distaste, his stained chiclet teeth gritted.
Before he can think up a response, a hand clamps shut on my elbow and I’m drawn back. Baron has followed me.
“Portia, what do you think you’re doing?” he asks. “How many times do I have to remind you?—”
“I’m here to report the story, Baron. Maybe stop handicapping me? It’s no wonder nothing ever gets solved in Newport. From the top down there’re people happy with being complacent. With letting crime bosses take over the city!” I say, throwing up my arms. “Remember what won us that National Press Club award? It was breaking the Kaminski story, going where no other journalists were willing to go ’til we cracked the case! It was not sitting on our hands and playing nice!”
“Shhhh,” he hushes me with a furtive glance around. “You know me, Portia. You know I’m on your side. But we’ve got to be smart. We can’t go making enemies wherever we go. Let’s give it a few hours. Let the police do their thing and we’ll follow up on their leads tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes and fold my arms over my chest. “We both know who’s involved. It couldn’t be more obvious.”
“Which is why we need to wait for the police to gather evidence.”
I don’t like Baron’s answer, though deep down I recognize he has a point. We can’t go shooting off at the hip with little to nothing to go off. Even if we’re ninety-nine percent certain who was involved, we need more than journalistic instinct.
I concede his point and follow him back across the street. Our crew packs up their equipment over the next few minutes and loads it up in the action van we’ve driven over in.
Truthfully, my eyes ache from exhaustion.
Over the last week, I’ve gotten maybe twenty-four hours of sleep. I’ve been so engrossed in my work that my brain hasn’t been able to shut off.
The price to pay after my career’s exploded the way it has. The success has fueled my obsession with work.
I’ve spent years grinding, receiving the soft stories to report on. I was forced to be the coffee runner for the main talent and for executives who couldn’t remember my name.
It wasn’t until me and my team broke the Kaminski story that we started getting a little respect. It wasn’t until my hard-hitting investigative reporting on the Bellucci and Tuco crime families that we were elevated to the A-list.
I’ve worked my ass off to achieve what I have over the last year. I’ve gone from being a no-name field reporter reporting on local car accidents and severe weather conditions to the network’s top pick for any breaking news story.
And I won’t stop where I am.
When I was married to Lincoln, he used to find it cute that his wife was a journalist. He liked flipping on the TV and seeing my little five-minute puff pieces. He liked being able to tell people his adorable wife was on the local news.
But he didn’t take my career seriously. No one did until now.
But even though I’ve broken through and finally earned some notoriety, I haven’t slowed up. I’ve only gone harder. I’ve delved straight into the stories nobody else wants to touch.
The crime families that have begun to take over the city.
Newport was once one of the safest cities in the country. Yet over recent years, crime has spiked, and a pattern has emerged. Organized crime has taken over, and a mafia war has broken out. The Bellucci and Tuco families have risen to the top as the aggressors, with the fearsome crime boss nicknamed Il Diavolo in charge.
But he’s been as elusive as the wind. Both crime families have maintained enough discretion to slip past the police’s clutches.
I won’t stop ’til that changes. I won’t stop ’til I’ve not only exposed both crime families, but I’ve exposed Il Diavolo himself.
It’s become the focal point of my life. Something Jayla says isn’t healthy, but something I know I must achieve.
We ride across the city in the action van with only half-assed attempts at conversation. Baron taps away at his phone, the device pinging every few seconds.
He sighs and scrubs a hand at his brown-gray stubble. “Shit. Why now?”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Finkle wants us at the station for a meeting.”
“Right now? It’s almost seven in the evening.”
“He says it’s important. Apparently, some acquisitions meeting.”
“Acquisitions?” I can’t hide the dip of my lips as I blink at him.
“There’ve been rumors, but I hoped it wasn’t true.”
I don’t get much more out of Baron over the next few minutes. We pull up to the station and the camera crew hops out to unload their equipment. He beckons me along, heading straight for the doors of the tall building. I swallow down the hundred different questions I have and follow.
We ride the elevator to the top floor with Baron offering no further details.
The elevator doors roll open to the hall outside the executive board room, walled in by glass on every side. He leads the way through the doors, nodding at Finkle. I do the same, still lost as to what’s going on.
And then I freeze.
Seated around the long table are various high-ranking members at the news station. They’re waiting, businesslike as usual, with only a few empty seats between them. But they’re not the ones who knock the air out of my lungs and halt me in my tracks.
It’s the man in a neat all-black suit and tie seated at the head of the table. His dark eyes land on me instantly, shining bright at the sight of me.
“Portia,” Baron says. “Meet Mr. Calderone. He’s in talks to purchase Metro News.”