ACT THREE

FADE IN:

INT. BROOKE'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

Harrison is still standing there, glaring at Brooke, waiting
for an answer to his question.

HARRISON
Well?

BROOKE
I—I—I said...RUGS! Yeah, Sam's
place is pretty bare, so she's
the whole rug thing.

Brooke tries to laugh it off, but Harrison isn't buying it.

HARRISON
That's NOT what you said. You said
she's doing drugs!

He advances on her, until she starts backing away.

HARRISON (CONT'D)
What do you mean, she's doing
drugs? Huh? Tell me!

Brooke hits the edge of her bed and sits down hard, actually
cowering as Harrison leans over her.

BROOKE
Harrison, please...

HARRISON
TELL ME!

BROOKE
She's popping pills!

With it said, Brooke buries her face in her hands.

HARRISON
No...it's a lie. Someone's just
making this up.

BROOKE
No...

HARRISON
Yes! Come on, you know Sam! You
know she'd never take pills! Or
any other drug!

BROOKE
It's true, Harrison.

HARRISON
No! Whoever told you—

BROOKE
I saw her buying from a dealer,
okay?

That seems to take the steam out of Harrison; he sits down
heavily on the bed beside her.

HARRISON
Maybe...maybe you just saw it
wrong. Maybe she was...maybe she
researching a story! Right?

BROOKE
(shaking her head)
I'm not the only one. Natalie,
Lily, Carmen...we've all seen her.

Harrison takes this in, and stands up again.

HARRISON
And you've all been lying to me.
You most of all.

BROOKE
What? Harrison, no—!

HARRISON
Oh, I think so! I just heard you
telling Lily to lie.

BROOKE
That's not—I meant—I just didn't
want you to—

HARRISON
To what? What didn't you want me
to do?
(pause)
I'm going to find Sam and get to
the bottom of this!

Harrison storms out of the room.

BROOKE
(to the empty room)
That was it.

CUT TO:

INT. THE CHRONICLE ARCHIVE ROOM - LATER

Sam is immersed in a Byzantine array of filing cabinets. She
is moving file folders from one cabinet to another in a
bizarrely robotic fashion.

Without warning, Rick Doyle, one of the editors—a burly,
rotund man in his 50's—steps up to the edge of Sam's space.

DOYLE
Hey!

Startled, Sam looks up, banging her head on one of the
cabinets.

SAM
Ow!

DOYLE
You're Fleischer's girl, right?

SAM
(carefully)
I'm Mr. Fleischer's...intern.

DOYLE
Good! Come with me.

Doyle turns on his heel and walks off; after a moment of
confusion, Sam scrambles to her feet and follows him.

CUT TO:

INT. CHRONICLE NEWSROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Doyle walks into the newsroom with Sam trailing on his heels.
The large bullpen space is about as empty as it ever gets.

DOYLE
(disgusted)
Look at this! How am I supposed to
get anything done when nobody's
working?

SAM
Uh, Sir? It's New Year's Eve?

He rounds on her.

DOYLE
You think news stops happening on
New Year's Eve?

SAM
N-no, Sir. I don't. Sir.

DOYLE
Damn straight! You can write,
right?

SAM
Huh? I mean, yeah. Right. Uh,
yes. Sir.

DOYLE
Good!

He picks up a pad and pen off a nearby desk and shoves them at
her.

DOYLE (CONT'D)
There's a Redevelopment Commission
meeting at the County Annex at
four o'clock. Go cover it.

SAM
Uh—huh? I, uh—

DOYLE
I don't need a five-part series,
Kid. Nothing ever happens at these
things, especially over the
holidays. Just show up, and on the
off-chance they DO vote on
something, write a blurb on it. Do
you think you can do that?

SAM
Oh—yes. Yes, Sir.

DOYLE
Good!
(shooing)
Well? Go, go, go!

Spurred to action, Sam turns around and rushes out.

CUT TO:

EXT. THE CHRONICLE BUILDING - LATER

Sam is standing on the curb, her laptop slung over her
shoulder, trying to figure out the best way to get to the
County Annex, when a Chronicle minivan pulls up in front of
her. In the driver's seat is Matt Watney, a fresh-faced boy
not much older than Sam. He leans over and rolls down the
passenger-side window.

MATT
Going to the Revelopment
Commission?

SAM
(confused)
How'd you—?

MATT
Want a ride?

As Sam stands there, undecided—

MATT
I won't bite. Promise.

Finally Sam opens the passenger door and climbs in. Matt
pulls out into traffic.

CUT TO:

INT. THE COMPANY MINIVAN - MOVING

MATT
You're McPherson, right? Mr.
Fleischer's pet project?

SAM
(exasperated)
Is that all anyone knows me as?

MATT
(shrugs)
People talk. High-school whiz-kid,
in line for a staff position...

SAM
What?

MATT
Didn't know that? You are. You're
kind of like the prodigal daughter
around here.

SAM
(muttering)
Just great.

As the conversation peters out, she turns around in her seat
and spies a mass of camera equipment in the back.

SAM (CONT'D)
Photographer?

MATT
Me? Yep.

SAM
(grinning)
Cub?

MATT
You have no idea how glad I am that
phrase is pass.

SAM
(gesturing)
Hey—wombat here.

MATT
Oh...yeah. Photography interns
don't get called that, just
journalism ones. Never did get it.

SAM
You mean, no one ever told you why
"wombats"?

Matt shakes his head.

SAM (CONT'D)
Well, the way it got told to me...

CUT TO:

EST. L.A. COUNTY ANNEX BUILDING - AFTERNOON

A typically ulitarian, two-story concrete-and-glass structure,
probably built in the 60's. The L.A. Chronicle minivan pulls
into an empty diagonal parking space in the front lot.

CUT TO:

INT. THE COMPANY MINIVAN

As Matt puts the car in park, both he and Sam are apparently
recovering from a serious belly laugh.

MATT
...no, really? Serious?

SAM
I swear! Hey, it was before my
time, okay? I woulda thrown them
off the roof.

MATT
(still laughing)
Think of the nickname you would've
gotten THEN.

SAM
Oh, my God...maybe "wombat" isn't
that bad.

MATT
(checks his watch)
I'd better get in there. I have to
set up. You can take your time—
hardly anyone comes to these
things.

Sam takes a look in the back again.

SAM
Oh, I can help carry stuff.

CUT TO:

INT. COMMISSION MEETING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Matt is setting up a tripod in the back of the room, while Sam
sets a shoulder bag down. Except for them, the room is mostly
empty: only a couple of the audience chairs are occupied, and
the only official-looking person in evidence is a clerk
sitting off to the side, going through a stack of notes. Matt
starts to unpack and mount his camera equipment.

SAM
So, how come you have to be here?

MATT
The paper updates its file photos
of all the minor county officials
at the beginning of each year.
Nothing meetings like this are a
good way of getting some of them.

SAM
(guessing)
And, it's something nobody else
wants to do.

MATT
(deadpan)
Are you kidding? Fires, rescues,
sports—even the guys on the
Lifestyle beat snapping kids in the
park—they're all saying, "Man, what
I wouldn't give to be shooting
portraits of county flunkies right
now!"

SAM
Yuh-huh. Nevermind. I can see
EXACTLY why you're here.

MATT
Is that an insult, wombat?

Sam just raises an eyebrow at him.

MATT (CONT'D)
Go. Sit. Before all the good
places are taken.

She gazes over the nearly-empty audience chamber, makes a
mildly rude noise at him, and goes to find a seat.

INSERT: WALL CLOCK

A typical civil-service clock, found in government buildings
everywhere. It reads "3:04", then dissolves to read "5:15".

Someone behind the commission bench is droning on, but Sam
isn't listening: she's slumped over in her chair, snoring
softly. A hand touches her shoulder, and she starts awake.
Matt is crouching in the row behind her.

SAM
(half-whispering)
Did I miss anything?

MATT
(snorts)
Yeah, they voted on world peace
about fifteen minutes ago.
(pause)
It didn't pass.

SAM
I'm sorry, my brain is too numb to
appreciate sarcasm. Please try
your call again later.

MATT
Here.

He brings up a container with a plastic lid and hands it to
her. She peels a corner back and takes a sip.

MATT (CONT'D)
Thought you could use some coffee.

SAM
Thanks.

She takes another sip.

SAM (CONT'D)
Did you say world peace didn't
pass?

MATT
Nope. Got shot down five-to-two.

SAM
(absently)
Huh.

After Matt pats her on the shoulder and moves off, she drops a
hand into her pocket, surreptitiously pulls out a couple of
pills and pops them into her mouth, washing them down with a
swig of coffee. Then she straightens up and tries to focus on
the bureaucratic droning.

Just then the commission chairman, sitting behind the center
of the bench, stops talking, and unnecessarily bangs a little
gavel.

CHAIRMAN
That concludes the commission's
scheduled business. The floor is
now open to public comment, if
there is any.

His tone suggests that he doesn't believe there will be any,
and since there are only a couple of people besides Sam in the
audience, it looks like a safe assumption. The Chairman is
halfway to calling the meeting adjourned when a figure rises
from the back, catching everyone off-guard. Sam turns in her
seat and sees a rather burly man coming down the short center
aisle.

MAN
Yeah, I wanna talk.

The Chairman seems flustered, as though this has never
happened before—which might just be the case.

CHAIRMAN
Oh—ah, of course, Mr., uh, Mr.—?

MAN
Campbell. Buck Campbell. And what
I gotta say, I gotta say to HIM.

The man—Campbell—is pointing to the Chairman's immediate left,
causing another stir of surprise. The most surprised-looking
person is the one being pointed at; an undistinguished fellow
with a receding hairline.

CHAIRMAN
(confused)
I'm sorry—you want to address Mr.
Jesper? A-a-a comment on his, uh,
proposal?

CAMPBELL
(picking up volume)
The only proposals I wanna talk
about are the ones he's been makin'
with my WIFE, LEANN!

At the mention of the name "Leann," Jesper goes pale and
scoots away from the bench. Campbell reaches into his plaid
hunting jacket with one beefy hand, and everyone—including
Sam—gasps. But instead of a weapon, out comes a fistful of
photos, which he waves in front of Jesper.

CAMPBELL
Yeah, that's right! I hired a
private eye to get the goods on you
two. Remember the Sunset Motel?
Huh? REMEMBER, YOU LOUSY
S.O.B.?

Campbell launches himself across the bench, grabbing Jesper.
In the process, the photos go flying; one of them flutters to
the ground at Sam's feet. After looking at it for a moment,
wide-eyed, she snatches it up. As the conference room
dissolves into chaos—or at least as much chaos is possible,
given the number of people there—Matt has grabbed his camera
off the tripod and is busy snapping pictures.

The two men grapple at each other for a few moments, before a
couple of security guards finally pull Campbell off. The
Chairman pounds his gavel on the bench repeatedly.

CHAIRMAN
Quiet! Quiet! Everyone calm down!

Meanwhile, Sam has made her way to the back of the room and is
standing next to Matt. That's when the Chairman spots them.

CHAIRMAN (CONT'D)
(pointing)
Hey! Hey, you!

Rather than take their chances, Matt and Sam hurriedly gather
up their equipment and fush out of the room.

CUT TO:

EXT. SAM'S APARTMENT BUILDING - LATER

The front door opens and Harrison comes out, looking both
unhappy and preoccupied. So preoccupied, in fact, that he
nearly runs into George while coming down the steps.

GEORGE
Hey!

Harrison looks up sourly.

HARRISON
Oh, you too, I guess!

GEORGE
Excuse me? Look, I don't know what
your problem is, Harrison—

HARRISON
(heatedly)
My problem is everyone knowing
Sam's using but me!

George takes a step back, and from the look on his face
Harrison realizes the truth.

HARRISON
You...didn't...

GEORGE
(catching up)
Sam's USING? As in DRUGS?

Instead of answering, Harrison sits down on the steps. After
a moment, George sits beside him.

GEORGE (CONT'D)
Did she deny it?

HARRISON
She's not home. Took me all
afternoon to find out where she
lives, and she's not even here.

A long pause.

GEORGE
What did you mean, everyone knows?

HARRISON
The girls...Brooke, Carmen, Lily,
Natalie... I only found out
because I overheard Brooke talking
about it.

GEORGE
I can't... Are you sure?

HARRISON
(nods glumly)
Brooke saw her buying.

GEORGE
(struggling)
Well...maybe she's just...

HARRISON
—working on a story?

Harrison shakes his head, once. Tears start welling up in his
eyes.

HARRISON (CONT'D)
They've seen her high.

George just shakes his head, unable to say anything. There is
another long moment of silence.

HARRISON (CONT'D)
This is my fault. I drove her to
this.

He sneaks a glance over at George.

HARRISON (CONT'D)
Feel free to join in.

GEORGE
(exploding)
Man, you are so full of yourself
it's unbelievable! You know
there's nothing I'd like better
right now than to lay this on you.
But we both know that's not true,
don't we? You don't start doing
drugs because you had a bad day, or
you blew the big game—or because
your boyfriend's cheating on you.
This isn't on you. Or Brooke. Or
anyone else. It's on Sam. She did
this to herself.

HARRISON
I could've been there for her.

GEORGE
(rises)
You got THAT right.

George walks off, leaving Harrison to sit and wallow in his
own misery.

CUT TO:

INT. CHRONICLE MINIVAN - MOVING

The minivan is careening through traffic; Matt is hunched over
the wheel like some manic race car driver, while Sam sits in
the passenger seat, furiously typing on the laptop balance on
her knees.

MATT
(wildly)
Wow! Do you believe that? A real
fight!

SAM
(not looking up)
Just drive!

SLIDE CUT TO:

INT. CHRONICLE NEWSROOM - LATER

Doyle is reading a paper copy of Sam's story, while Sam stands
nearby, barely able to contain herself. Finally, he looks up,
his face scrunched.

DOYLE
Kid...this ain't news.

Sam's ebullient expression crumbles.

SAM
But—but—this guy ATTACKED—

DOYLE
Nobody, Kid. He attacked a nobody.
If this was the mayor, yeah, it'd
be news. Or a county supe. This
is just a nobody member of a
nothing commission nobody cares
about. He's having an affair? So
what? There's a million people
having affairs in this city. In
fact, I guarantee there's ten
thousand people out there having
adulterous sex RIGHT THIS SECOND.

Sam pales slightly at the thought of that. Doyle folds his
arms.

DOYLE (CONT'D)
Now, Kid...what did I tell you to
do if something happened at the
meeting?

SAM
(sighs)
Write a blurb.

DOYLE
Good! So give this to me in a
blurb. Right now.

SAM
(thinking)
Uh... "A man attacked a County
Revelopment Commission member at a
Commission meeting last night,
accusing him of having an affair
with his wife. After a brief
scuffle, order was restored, and
no arrests were made."

DOYLE
Good! Write that up, right now.

Dejected, Sam sits at one of the empty terminals and types for
a few seconds.

SAM
(heavily)
There. Now what?

Doyle comes over and reads over her shoulder.

DOYLE
Good! Now—Fleischer never took you
through this?

Sam shakes her head numbly.

DOYLE (CONT'D)
Well, Jeez Louise!

He goes to a nearby terminal and starts tapping keys.

DOYLE (CONT'D)
Okay, listen up, Kid. Every
contributor to the paper's got
their own code... What's your
name?

SAM
Sam McPherson.

Doyle punches a few more keys.

DOYLE
Here you are. You're S-M-C-P. In
the box where it says "Contrib" you
put that. Then click "Submit" and
"Confirm".

Sam dutifully follows these directions, and the terminal beeps
in response. Doyle straightens up, satisfied.

DOYLE (CONT'D)
Good! You're done.

SAM
Uh, I am?

DOYLE
Go home, have a happy new year.
(pause)
Oh, and, Kid!

Sam, who has started to gather her things, stops and waits
expectantly. Doyle picks up her original story and waves it.

DOYLE
This is a great story!

The expression on Sam's face clearly shows that she's totally
lost again.

SAM
Huh? But—I thought you hated it!

DOYLE
(incredulous)
Hate it? I LOVE it! I just can't
USE it! But this writing—crisp,
balanced, nuanced—I wouldn'ta had
to change more than a half dozen
words. When you get your hooks
into a story that's real news,
write it up EXACTLY like this.
(pointing at her)
You're gonna be an editor's wet
dream, Kid.

Sam blushes at that. Then she thinks of something else.

SAM
Oh! What about the photos?

DOYLE
That photo kid's shots of the
fight? We might run one, if
there's a hole in Metro somewhere.

SAM
(shaking her head)
No, no, the photos the guy had, of
his wife and the commissioner.

She digs out the photo she had snatched and shows it to him.
Doyle in turn, snatches it away, holding it as though it were
a chunk of gold.

DOYLE
(bug-eyed)
There's dirty pictures? And you
GOT one? Jeez Louise, now I
REALLY wish this guy was a
somebody!

He hands the photo back to her.

DOYLE (CONT'D)
Souvenir, Kid. No doubt about it—
you've got the Touch.

SAM
The wha'?

DOYLE
Reporter's Touch—right place, right
time. Can't wait for you to start
beating the bushes for real, see
what you dig up then. Oh, you're
going places, Kid. Don't know what
Fleischer's doing wasting you with
filing.

SAM
Well, I—I do research, too.

DOYLE
(scoffs)
Research! I got a dozen airhead
coeds doing research! Okay, I've
heard enough.

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a business card,
which he hands to Sam.

DOYLE (CONT'D)
From now on, you're working Metro,
for me.

SAM
(flummoxed)
But, uh, Art, I mean, Mr.
Fleischer, won't he—?

Doyle fixes his gaze on her.

DOYLE
Kid. He's a columnist. I'm an
editor. Which one of us do you
think is higher on the food chain?

SAM
(carefully)
Ah...you. Sir.

DOYLE
Damn stright, Kid. My office,
Monday morning.

With his business done, Doyle turns and starts to walk away.

SAM
(calling)
Uh, Sir? I have school on Monday.

He stops and turns back, with a pained expression on his face.

DOYLE
(rubbing his temple)
School. Right. You're in high
school.

SAM
(helpfully)
I'm a senior.

DOYLE
(sighs)
You're killin' me, Kid. Monday,
after school, my office.

Then he turns and walks away, vigorously this time.

SAM
(to his back)
Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir!

For a long moment Sam just stands there, trying to process
what's just happened.

FADE OUT.

END OF ACT THREE