Some corner of Andy Sach's mind registered first, the arrival of two uniformed New York City policemen and a third man in civilian suit, who, judging by the cut of the suit, had to be a plain clothes detective, and then the quiet entry of the men into Greg Sargent's office, the door closing behind them.
But the vast majority of her attention was focused on the article on her computer screen about levels of toxic substances found in readily available goods one could buy from the local Lowe's or Home Depot. She was completing her final edits. She had no sooner hit the send button than the phone on her desk buzzed. "Sachs, can you come in here? Greg asked gruffly.
"Sure, Boss" she answered in a cheery tone whose element of falsity she did not bother to hide.
"Not the crime beat, not the crime beat, not the crime beat," she intoned as she crossed the newsroom floor. There were more than a few admiring sets of eyes that quietly followed her journey to Greg's office. Andy had met with some hostility when she first arrived at the Mirror, fresh from a storied flameout at Runway, the country's, if not the world's, premier fashion magazine. There could be no different work place cultures (tense, neurotic, hierarchical vs democratic, free wheeling, profane) or interior decorating schemes (elegant, understated vs scheme, what scheme? We got these desks in a bankruptcy auction) than that of Runway and the Mirror, the upstart, crusading, daily newspaper where Andy had landed thanks to the effective if bewildering recommendation that her former boss, Miranda Priestly had given her.
"My greatest disappointment. You'd be an idiot not to hire her."
She worked hard and well. If she dressed better than she ever would have without her year in fashion, she also knew that she could only afford to adopt the casual style of young urban professionals. "What are you wearing Andrea? The love child of Annie Hall and hipster couture?" Andy imagined Miranda asking in the quiet deadpan voice that used to lacerate her ego on a daily basis when she took a final look in the mirror before hitting the streets every morning.
Andy's raw talent, her generosity, her ready smile and her eagerness to pitch in and help anyone had softened the suspicions of her new colleagues. In three years she had earned the newsroom's respect. She preferred to work on stories that revealed systemic problems - her series on New York's foster system had won awards - or stories about quirky, free spirited responses to the failing or corrupt systems that she documented. Her series on the anonymous artists who waged a gorilla style campaign against corporate green washing by posting advertising posters that looked astonishingly similar to actual subway and bus stop ads, but bore devastating slogans ("Yes we call ourselves 'Green Solutions,' but we still invest in coal fired plants,') was the talk of water coolers around Manhattan and earned a reference in one of Jimmy Kimmel's monologues.
So Andy's only concern as she crossed the newsroom floor that morning was that Greg had decided to post her to the crime beat and that the men in blue were here to fill her in on some heinous deed that Greg would insist she write about. She was both right and wrong. She'd never write this story.
"Andrea Sachs?" the detective in plain clothes asked.
"Hi," she replied, extending her hand. The gesture seemed to fluster the detective.
"Ambrosino, John Ambrosino," he answered, taking her hand and then reddening as he dropped it. "Miss Sachs," I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Nate Cooper."
"Nate?" Andy gasped, shocked and bewildered. One of the uniformed officers pulled her arms behind her back and the second put her hands in cuffs. "Nate's dead?" she asked as Ambrosino droned on.
"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney..."