Surprising Hope
Summary: Meredith Carson becomes the surprising hope in her quest to prove
Gary's innocence in the murder of Frank Scanlon. This very short story was
inspired by "The Paper", "His Girl Thursday", and "Fatal Edition".
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whoever created them. No
copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made.
Author: Tracy Diane Miller
E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com
Surprising Hope
Vegas has been dubbed "Sin City". But Vegas, with its flamboyant shows, the
neon lights along the strip whispering "Come hither" to the curious with
wanderlust and craving excitement, doesn't hold the monopoly on behavior
that is never dull. Vegas has showgirls parading along its stages with
bright costumes and sometimes sporting ostentatious feathers like peacocks
in heat. Vegas has boisterous casinos and hopeful patrons dreaming of
instant wealth. And Vegas has David Cassidy, that 1970s pop icon (the root
of scores of teenage girls' fantasies) whose ballad "I Think I Love You"
sent adolescent pulses racing.
But Vegas has competition: Washington, DC
Washington, DC is never dull, either. With its old and new money and
boasting political intrigue and a power elite of larger than life
characters, DC is often the hotbed of controversy. The machinations of
the rich and famous feed the grist mill and satisfy a hungry media whose
appetite is whetted for juicy gossip.
Could the media be accused of prostituting itself to an audience of readers
and viewers craving tantalization rather than serious news stories? Maybe.
Television executives worship the god of ratings where sky rocketing numbers
mean advertising dollars. Advertising dollars translate into wealth for the
network bigwigs. The print media has its own deity, circulation, with the
same desired blessing- more subscribers equaling more money in the pockets
of the executives.
In a newsroom in the heart of DC, she stared at the story that had come
hot off the wire service. The Fourth Estate was abuzz with the news about
the murder of one of its own. Frank Scanlon. She had no love lost for
Scanlon. She remembered the Pulitzer Prize columnist from her illustrious
career as a Sun-Times reporter. Scanlon was an oily man, an unscrupulous
miscreant and immoral leech that happily sucked the dignity out of people
through his scathing columns. Scanlon lacked a conscience. Exploiting other
people's misery was his signature. Scanlon wasn't just a dog with a bone.
He was a pit bull that gnawed into its victim's flesh. His untimely death
did not signal a bevy of mourners.
Her concern wasn't about the death of a journalistic brethren. Rather, she
focused on the man accused of Scanlon's murder.
Gary Hobson.
The copy just off the wire service painted a picture of Hobson as a
psychopath who had murdered Scanlon because the celebrated columnist was on
the verge of exposing Hobson's "secrets". Meredith heard the whisperings
of her colleagues in the newsroom who were filling in their own blanks with
the connotation of the word secrets. And the fact that Hobson sported
"All-American" good looks further fueled the flames of the media's prurient
interests. There had to be dirt there, a lot of dirt. Scanlon had
uncovered the dirt on Hobson and Hobson killed him. Pure and simple.
Meredith heard her colleagues taking bets on the likelihood of a conviction.
It was 10-1 for conviction. Some of the wagers felt that with a good
lawyer, Hobson could get off on voluntary manslaughter, a "heat of passion"
crime. Good-looking guy with volatile temper kills reporter. Hobson could
serve maybe 10-20 in prison. Others suspected that the district attorney was
going for first degree murder with a life sentence as the probable
punishment. Reporters wanted to fly to Chicago for the trial. This trial
was expected to be juicer than a T-bone steak.
Then it happened. Another story came off the wire service with the blazing
headline of "Hobson Escapes From Custody." Fled by leaping from a court
house window before his arraignment. Demented fugitive on the loose. An
indicia of guilt if ever there was one.
Meredith felt a chill run down her spine as she read the story. She gazed at
the mug shot photo of Gary accompanying the story. Those beautiful mud
green eyes stared back her. Those eyes looked afraid not lethal. They were
not the eyes of a killer. She'd bet her life on that.
When she first met Gary, she wasn't as generous in her character assessment.
He was in Hawks' office and she stopped in. Gary tried a pathetic attempt
at flirtation by telling her that he read her work. But he had confused her
with Rebecca from the Tribune.
Strike one.
Then she realized that he knew something about the story that she was
working on, information about the New Jersey plates that would only have
been known if he were involved with the "bad guys". Her desk had been
rigged with an explosive device in which Morris, the Sun-Times archivist,
had been injured. Gary came to see Morris in the hospital. She
misinterpreted a remark that he had made as a threat on her life and he
joked about being a hit man for the mob. Later, she realized that he was a
good guy, a good guy with a secret. She was an investigative reporter so
she could smell secrets a mile away. Why did he live in a hotel? How did
he know the things that he knew? The mystery that was Gary Hobson excited
her. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but the man himself excited
her even more. His steamy kisses left her sweaty with desire. He was like
a sleeping volcano, a wonderment to behold but swelling with such intensity.
She couldn't get enough of him.
She discovered his secret while they were trapped in the basement of the
Sun-Times by killers and awaiting death. That paper that he carried held
advance information about the future. They were rescued and clumsily began
what she assumed was the beginning of a relationship. Loving gazes (neither
of them would admit that to the other), a few hot kisses, and Moo Goo Gai
Pan by the dim light of the lamp on her desk and then...
Nothing.
No phone calls. It was goodbye Gary. He had intruded upon every fiber of
her being and his Houdini act had adversely affected her work. Determined
to confront him as to why he had turned cold all of the sudden to the
prospect of a relationship, she spiked a story about a toddler's fall from
an El platform knowing that it would bring him out of hiding. Her deception
worked. When she talked to him, he still wanted to run. She challenged
him. He wasn't running from the fact that she had discovered his secret. He
was running because she had invaded his heart and that terrified him.
A short while later, she waited for him outside of his hotel room. She told
him about her impending job in DC. She wondered whether he would allow her
to walk out of his life. His answer was pulling her close for a smoldering
kiss that started outside of his room and continued once they entered the
room. They both had courted the idea of intimacy, but that night, she slept
on his couch...alone.
But their relationship never really had a chance. She was a curious
reporter, a disciple of Pandora, and he was the guy who knew the future.
Even as she promised him that she wouldn't look at The Paper she knew that
it was a promise that she couldn't keep.
A lack of trust (on both their parts) was the nail that had shut the coffin
to their premature relationship.
She took the job in DC. He told her that he'd call her when she got settled
and he did. But she didn't take his call. Instead, she listened to his
voice on her answering machine. He called several more times over the
ensuing weeks and she never picked up when she was in her apartment and
never called him back when she returned home to an answering machine message
from him. Finally, the calls stopped. It was better that way. When they
stared into each other's eyes that day on the platform as she said goodbye
to Chicago for her new life, she knew that she was saying goodbye to him.
And she sensed that he knew that, too.
Now, he was running for his life. Why hadn't The Paper provided him with an
advance warning him about his arrest for Scanlon's murder? What had Scanlon
uncovered about him? Did Scanlon know about The Paper? Who really killed
Scanlon? Why?
Her reporter's instincts were in overdrive. But her motivation wasn't to
break a big story, solve a murder case for journalistic accolades. Her goal
was to save his life. Gary needed her.
Meredith arranged to go to Chicago. It was easy convincing her boss that
she should have the Hobson story because of her ties to the Sun-Times. She
had proven herself during her tenure in DC. Her boss was seeing a Pulitzer
in her future. She was seeing Gary Hobson vindicated. That was her only
goal and she would do anything she could to help him.
He was the surprising hope that had awakened feelings within her. And now
she would be his surprising hope in proving his innocence.
The End.
Summary: Meredith Carson becomes the surprising hope in her quest to prove
Gary's innocence in the murder of Frank Scanlon. This very short story was
inspired by "The Paper", "His Girl Thursday", and "Fatal Edition".
Disclaimer: Early Edition characters belong to whoever created them. No
copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made.
Author: Tracy Diane Miller
E-mail address: tdmiller82@hotmail.com
Surprising Hope
Vegas has been dubbed "Sin City". But Vegas, with its flamboyant shows, the
neon lights along the strip whispering "Come hither" to the curious with
wanderlust and craving excitement, doesn't hold the monopoly on behavior
that is never dull. Vegas has showgirls parading along its stages with
bright costumes and sometimes sporting ostentatious feathers like peacocks
in heat. Vegas has boisterous casinos and hopeful patrons dreaming of
instant wealth. And Vegas has David Cassidy, that 1970s pop icon (the root
of scores of teenage girls' fantasies) whose ballad "I Think I Love You"
sent adolescent pulses racing.
But Vegas has competition: Washington, DC
Washington, DC is never dull, either. With its old and new money and
boasting political intrigue and a power elite of larger than life
characters, DC is often the hotbed of controversy. The machinations of
the rich and famous feed the grist mill and satisfy a hungry media whose
appetite is whetted for juicy gossip.
Could the media be accused of prostituting itself to an audience of readers
and viewers craving tantalization rather than serious news stories? Maybe.
Television executives worship the god of ratings where sky rocketing numbers
mean advertising dollars. Advertising dollars translate into wealth for the
network bigwigs. The print media has its own deity, circulation, with the
same desired blessing- more subscribers equaling more money in the pockets
of the executives.
In a newsroom in the heart of DC, she stared at the story that had come
hot off the wire service. The Fourth Estate was abuzz with the news about
the murder of one of its own. Frank Scanlon. She had no love lost for
Scanlon. She remembered the Pulitzer Prize columnist from her illustrious
career as a Sun-Times reporter. Scanlon was an oily man, an unscrupulous
miscreant and immoral leech that happily sucked the dignity out of people
through his scathing columns. Scanlon lacked a conscience. Exploiting other
people's misery was his signature. Scanlon wasn't just a dog with a bone.
He was a pit bull that gnawed into its victim's flesh. His untimely death
did not signal a bevy of mourners.
Her concern wasn't about the death of a journalistic brethren. Rather, she
focused on the man accused of Scanlon's murder.
Gary Hobson.
The copy just off the wire service painted a picture of Hobson as a
psychopath who had murdered Scanlon because the celebrated columnist was on
the verge of exposing Hobson's "secrets". Meredith heard the whisperings
of her colleagues in the newsroom who were filling in their own blanks with
the connotation of the word secrets. And the fact that Hobson sported
"All-American" good looks further fueled the flames of the media's prurient
interests. There had to be dirt there, a lot of dirt. Scanlon had
uncovered the dirt on Hobson and Hobson killed him. Pure and simple.
Meredith heard her colleagues taking bets on the likelihood of a conviction.
It was 10-1 for conviction. Some of the wagers felt that with a good
lawyer, Hobson could get off on voluntary manslaughter, a "heat of passion"
crime. Good-looking guy with volatile temper kills reporter. Hobson could
serve maybe 10-20 in prison. Others suspected that the district attorney was
going for first degree murder with a life sentence as the probable
punishment. Reporters wanted to fly to Chicago for the trial. This trial
was expected to be juicer than a T-bone steak.
Then it happened. Another story came off the wire service with the blazing
headline of "Hobson Escapes From Custody." Fled by leaping from a court
house window before his arraignment. Demented fugitive on the loose. An
indicia of guilt if ever there was one.
Meredith felt a chill run down her spine as she read the story. She gazed at
the mug shot photo of Gary accompanying the story. Those beautiful mud
green eyes stared back her. Those eyes looked afraid not lethal. They were
not the eyes of a killer. She'd bet her life on that.
When she first met Gary, she wasn't as generous in her character assessment.
He was in Hawks' office and she stopped in. Gary tried a pathetic attempt
at flirtation by telling her that he read her work. But he had confused her
with Rebecca from the Tribune.
Strike one.
Then she realized that he knew something about the story that she was
working on, information about the New Jersey plates that would only have
been known if he were involved with the "bad guys". Her desk had been
rigged with an explosive device in which Morris, the Sun-Times archivist,
had been injured. Gary came to see Morris in the hospital. She
misinterpreted a remark that he had made as a threat on her life and he
joked about being a hit man for the mob. Later, she realized that he was a
good guy, a good guy with a secret. She was an investigative reporter so
she could smell secrets a mile away. Why did he live in a hotel? How did
he know the things that he knew? The mystery that was Gary Hobson excited
her. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but the man himself excited
her even more. His steamy kisses left her sweaty with desire. He was like
a sleeping volcano, a wonderment to behold but swelling with such intensity.
She couldn't get enough of him.
She discovered his secret while they were trapped in the basement of the
Sun-Times by killers and awaiting death. That paper that he carried held
advance information about the future. They were rescued and clumsily began
what she assumed was the beginning of a relationship. Loving gazes (neither
of them would admit that to the other), a few hot kisses, and Moo Goo Gai
Pan by the dim light of the lamp on her desk and then...
Nothing.
No phone calls. It was goodbye Gary. He had intruded upon every fiber of
her being and his Houdini act had adversely affected her work. Determined
to confront him as to why he had turned cold all of the sudden to the
prospect of a relationship, she spiked a story about a toddler's fall from
an El platform knowing that it would bring him out of hiding. Her deception
worked. When she talked to him, he still wanted to run. She challenged
him. He wasn't running from the fact that she had discovered his secret. He
was running because she had invaded his heart and that terrified him.
A short while later, she waited for him outside of his hotel room. She told
him about her impending job in DC. She wondered whether he would allow her
to walk out of his life. His answer was pulling her close for a smoldering
kiss that started outside of his room and continued once they entered the
room. They both had courted the idea of intimacy, but that night, she slept
on his couch...alone.
But their relationship never really had a chance. She was a curious
reporter, a disciple of Pandora, and he was the guy who knew the future.
Even as she promised him that she wouldn't look at The Paper she knew that
it was a promise that she couldn't keep.
A lack of trust (on both their parts) was the nail that had shut the coffin
to their premature relationship.
She took the job in DC. He told her that he'd call her when she got settled
and he did. But she didn't take his call. Instead, she listened to his
voice on her answering machine. He called several more times over the
ensuing weeks and she never picked up when she was in her apartment and
never called him back when she returned home to an answering machine message
from him. Finally, the calls stopped. It was better that way. When they
stared into each other's eyes that day on the platform as she said goodbye
to Chicago for her new life, she knew that she was saying goodbye to him.
And she sensed that he knew that, too.
Now, he was running for his life. Why hadn't The Paper provided him with an
advance warning him about his arrest for Scanlon's murder? What had Scanlon
uncovered about him? Did Scanlon know about The Paper? Who really killed
Scanlon? Why?
Her reporter's instincts were in overdrive. But her motivation wasn't to
break a big story, solve a murder case for journalistic accolades. Her goal
was to save his life. Gary needed her.
Meredith arranged to go to Chicago. It was easy convincing her boss that
she should have the Hobson story because of her ties to the Sun-Times. She
had proven herself during her tenure in DC. Her boss was seeing a Pulitzer
in her future. She was seeing Gary Hobson vindicated. That was her only
goal and she would do anything she could to help him.
He was the surprising hope that had awakened feelings within her. And now
she would be his surprising hope in proving his innocence.
The End.