Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sin
Shot Down
The Monday after a long weekend in DC is usually a slow day. Most people are off on PTO they used to take advantage of the long weekend. But in The Spectator’s office, we’re buzzing with activity.
It’s open pitch day and I’m almost ready. I check each stall to make sure the bathroom’s empty and send a silent apology to my dad for all the lies I’m about to tell before I press the green phone icon.
The call is answered on the first ring.
“Good morning. Event office. This is Laila. How can I help you?” A chipper woman’s voice trills.
I clear my throat and lower my voice an octave.
“Good morning. I’m calling from Ozwald Annan’s office.
I wanted to confirm you received his RSVP for the fundraiser on Saturday.
I found the card as I was cleaning and wanted to make sure you had him down.
” I read the words from a notecard so I don’t make a mistake.
“Of course. Let me double-check.”
She puts me on hold for forty-eight agonizingly long seconds. “We have your RSVP. It says Zuri walked it in herself. I remember it like yesterday.”
“Oh, that’s right. She must have forgotten to tell me when we talked this morning.” So Zuri is back and working with him. I need to let Leon know.
There’s a beat of silence before she answers. “I thought Zuri left. What did you say your name was?” The suspicion in her voice makes me queasy.
“I’m new. Still learning everyone’s names. Thanks for your help, bye.”
I hang up and glance at my watch.
The open pitch meeting starts in five minutes and today I got confirmation from my task force contact that the man in the picture is the man they’d been looking for. I didn’t send the pictures of the items I took. I’m still waiting to confirm their authenticity.
I grab my phone and laptop and head for the conference room.
I take three steps before I remember my suit jacket and dash back to my desk to grab it.
I stuff myself into it while I sprint down the hall.
I pause at the closed doors of the conference room to catch my breath. I open the door to find the room empty. Relieved that I’m the first to arrive, I arrange my notebook, put the coffee service in the center of the table, and snap a selfie so I can remember the moment I took a chance on myself.
Unlike the rest of the spare utilitarian light grays and whites of The Spectator’s newsroom, The Pearl, as this room is called by us, is luxe. Decorated in a stylish composition of cool purples with accents of creams and golds, it’s not like any other conference room I’ve ever seen.
I choose one of the seats facing the window. The wall of floor-to-ceiling windows opens to a view that never fails to steal my breath.
The emerald-green lawn that starts across the street from our office at Lafayette Square serves as the north and south lawns of The White House.
The gently sloping grass lawn runs under the Washington Monument, is broken by the Tidal Basin, but continues past the Jefferson Memorial before it stops on the banks of the Potomac River.
Beyond the symbolism of it all, it’s fitting that the country’s leading news organization occupies this space.
When I look out there, my doubts about taking this job dim. DC may be a town with tunnel vision, but it’s the root of all the major stories that have shaped politics and culture for the last decade.
The rest of the writers who plan on shooting their shot file in and soon it’s standing room only.
The doors open again and my excitement goes into overdrive when my editor, Kathy, walks in with Sofia Lallemand, the head of the news division and my idol.
No wonder there are so many people here today. This is my chance. If Kathy had liked my pitch, sending it to Sofia would have been the next step. This is a chance to cut out the middleman.
An awed hush falls over as she takes her place behind the lectern. She’s not just my idol—she’s an icon in the news business.
Kathy stands next to her smiling like she’s displaying a prized and priceless possession.
“I know you’re all excited that Sofia’s here, but we’re going to try and have a regular open pitch meeting.
This is your chance, so make your case and don’t make me look bad.
” She gives us a warning glare that elicits a round of nervous laughter.
“Thank you for letting me sit in. The paper is very excited about the fresh voices and diversity of opinion you all bring to this newsroom, I look forward to hearing about the stories that are keeping you up at night,” Sofia says, her gaze traveling around the table like a ruler taking in her subjects.
The loud trill of a phone ringing cuts through the reverent quiet.
I glance around like everyone else until the weight of several eyes falls on me.
I look down and realize the sound is coming from my pocket and nearly combust from embarrassment. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I duck my head and fumble to silence the call and switch off the phone.
I drag my eyes up until they meet Kathy’s and swallow hard at the icy annoyance in them. The people gathered around the table keep their eyes glued to the stack of documents, but their pity is palpable.
I clear my throat and force myself to speak but can’t look at Sofia. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t reply. “Kathy will introduce you by name and then you may start.” She turns to the man on her left. “We’ll start with you.”
A few minutes into his presentation, I risk a sidelong glance in Sofia’s direction and almost faint when our eyes meet. I give a small smile that she doesn’t return.
I spend the next hour second guessing myself.
I’ve made a bad first impression. Maybe this isn’t the right time to pitch?
I shake off the negative voice. Stars aligned to make this moment happen. What if it’s another six months before I have this chance again? What if the timing isn’t right?
This is Sofia’s first year in a hyper-visible job. She’s not just the first woman to lead the newsroom, she’s the first in the organization’s one-hundred-and-five-year history who doesn’t come from a family whose name is on the side of a museum or stadium.
For those without anything but our grit and talent to recommend us, she’s proof that the pinnacle is possible for anyone who works hard enough.
All eyes are on her in this role. The industry has been abuzz about her historic leadership and there are plenty of people waiting for her to fail.
I wonder if that’s made her more risk adverse or daring.
“Arsino?”
I’ve always gritted my teeth and never corrected Kathy on her mispronunciation of my name. Having Sofia here though, I feel like it’s important for her to know how to say it.
“Actually,” I clear my throat to dislodge the lump of discomfort that’s formed there. “It’s pronounced R-sin-no-way.” I turn my eyes to Sofia. “Most people call me Sin.”
“Okay, Sin.” She quirks an eyebrow and purses her full, expertly outlined, tinted, and lacquered lips and continues to stare at me for five deeply uncomfortable seconds that inspire a couple of cleared throats and makes mine go dry.
Her expression softens and her smile is warm.
“Give me the budget line of your pitch.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. I wasn’t expecting her, but I’m prepared.
“Reclamation and Robbery. How the effort to hold on to plundered art is a billion-dollar black market that is fueled by the most powerful philanthropists in the world. Last year I worked on a story that led to the recovery of stolen artifacts and jewelry, all of which have significant cultural significance to the countries they—”
“Wait.” Sofia holds up a hand and looks down at her laptop.
Startled by the interruption, I press my lips together and stifle the nearly feral urge to ask her what’s wrong while she scans her screen for nearly a full minute.
The rush of blood in my ears grows louder by the second and I wish I could read people’s minds.
My mind’s latest party trick is its ability to create narratives based on a single glance.
My therapist said it’s a defense mechanism.
But right now, it only makes the waiting harder.
Does that raised eyebrow mean she’s about to tell me I’m brilliant?
Or is she about to laugh in my face? I’m prepared for anything.
“Hmmm,” she begins finally. “It says here that you’re the advice columnist. What has art got to do with that?”
I was ready for this question too. “Nothing. But I could write this as well. I’ve done all the research. I know a politician’s wife is wearing a piece of jewelry that I recognize as one of the items stolen from a transport truck earlier this year.”
She lifts her brows. “How would you know that?”
My face hurts from the effort it takes to smile and pretend her condescending smile doesn’t infuriate me.
“As I was saying, I worked on a story earlier this year that led to the recovery of over one hundred items. I ate, breathed, and lived that story for two years, and I am familiar with every single piece. They were stolen while in transport the MAAHC.”
A smirk pulls up one side of her mouth and she huffs in dismissive amusement. “You think an politician’s wife is wearing a piece of stolen jewelry?” Her words are dripped in skepticism that sends chuckles rippling around the room.
I sit up straighter and let their humor at my expense roll off my back. I’m used to being dismissed and have learned to appreciate the power in being underestimated. They won’t be laughing when this story gets A1 placement.
“I know she is. I spoke to one of the people who used to make deliveries for the individual I believe is behind the thefts and the sale of the items.”
She leans back in her seat. “You believe? Oh good, let’s just chase tips based on vibes and gossip.”
I’m too insulted and surprised to respond.
She looks at Kathy. “I thought you said she was sharp.”
Kathy glances at me with something like panic her eyes. “She’s still learning how our desks work.”
“I see.” Sofia wrinkles her nose.