The elevator arrived. Dana stepped in and pressed three. On the third floor, the activity seemed to have increased, if that was possible. Reporters were rushing to make their deadlines. Dana stood there, looking around frantically. Finally, she saw what she wanted. In a cubicle with a green sign that read GARDENING was an empty desk. Dana hurried over to it and sat down. She looked at the computer in front of her, then began typing. She was so engrossed in the story she was writing that she lost all track of time. When she was finished, she printed it and pages began spewing out. She was putting them together when she sensed a shadow over her shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?” Matt Baker demanded.
“I’m looking for a job, Mr. Baker. I wrote this story, and I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Baker exploded. “You don’t just walk in here and take over someone’s desk. Now get the hell out before I call security and have you arrested.”
“But—”
“Out!”
Dana rose. Summoning all her dignity, she thrust the pages in Matt Baker’s hand and walked around the corner to the elevator.
Matt Baker shook his head in disbelief. Jesus! What the hell is the world coming to? There was a wastebasket under the desk. As Matt moved toward it, he glanced at the first sentence of Dana’s story: “Stacy Taylor, her face battered and bruised, claimed from her hospital bed today that she was there because her famous rock star husband, Tripp Taylor, beat her. ‘Every time I get pregnant, he beats me up. He doesn’t want children.’” Matt started to read further and stood there rooted. He looked up, but Dana was gone.
Clutching the pages in his hand, Matt raced toward the elevators, hoping to find her before she disappeared. As he ran around the corner, he bumped into her. She was leaning against the wall, waiting.
“How did you get this story?” he demanded.
Dana said simply, “I told you. I’m a reporter.”
He took a deep breath. “Come on back to my office.”
They were seated in Matt Baker’s office again. “That’s a good job,” he said grudgingly.
“Thank you! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” Dana said excitedly. “I’m going to be the best reporter you ever had. You’ll see. What I really want is to be a foreign correspondent, but I’m willing to work my way up to that, even if it takes a year.” She saw the expression on his face. “Or maybe two.”
“The Tribune has no job openings, and there’s a waiting list.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “But I assumed—”
“Hold it.”
Dana watched as he picked up a pen and wrote out the letters of the word “assume,” ASS U ME. He pointed to the word. “When a reporter assumes something, Miss Evans, it makes an ass out of you and me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then came to a decision. “Do you ever watch WTE? The Tribune Enterprises television station.”
“No, sir. I can’t say that I—”
“Well, you will now. You’re in luck. There’s a job opening there. One of the writers just quit. You can take his place.”
“Doing what?” Dana asked tentatively.
“Writing television copy.”
Her face fell. “Television copy? I don’t know anything about—”
“It’s simple. The producer of the news will give you the raw material from all the news services. You’ll put it into English and put it on the Tele-PrompTer for the anchors to read.”
Dana sat there, silent.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just that—I’m a reporter.”
“We have five hundred reporters here, and they’ve all spent years earning their stripes. Go over to Building Four. Ask for Mr. Hawkins. If you have to start somewhere, television isn’t bad.” Matt Baker reached for the phone. “I’ll give Hawkins a call.”
Dana sighed. “Right. Thank you, Mr. Baker. If you ever need—”
“Out.”
The WTE television studios took up the entire sixth floor of Building Four. Tom Hawkins, the producer of the nightly news, led Dana into his office.
“Have you ever worked in television?”
“No, sir. I’ve worked on newspapers.”