Anchor

Babe
Introduction

Hello, everyone. I'm

publishing a novel. It is the
adventures of an
ambitious woman with a
secret father in a
desperate race to find a
cure for a disease that
threatens her secret son.

Along the way she battles

the Great Recession,
investigates mysterious
national events, and
suffers the collapse of her
profession. She gets
unexpected help from a
team of college students
who track down the truths
behind the unfairness in
life.

My goal is to publish a
new chapter every week
with episodes inspired by
real events.

I invite you, the reader, to

help by contributing any of
the following:

• Real stories of
unfairness to fictionalize
in episodes.
• Images, video and audio
to illustrate the fiction The Sucker Punch
• Proofreading, fact The worst day of a young life.
checking and fill in the Why did this happen?
blanks. Not everything is black and white
•
--author
Chapter One:  "You're Fired!

A balding head pokes out the office door. Bland expression.

Typical drone.

"Mizz Grant, will you please come to the office ?"

A couple of folks  glance up from their cubicles  just in time

to see the target -- a mop of brunette hair framing
impossibly large hazel eyes that peer from behind a desktop
computer.

"... be with you in a sec, Mike ...  finishing up some fact

checking."

Surprisingly, that seems to annoy him a bit, so Mike Milano

steps further into the corridor.

"Sharee, I really need to speak to you right now ... that other
stuff can wait."

More heads turn. A handful of producers and

correspondents become curious.   Rarely do they hear Milano
raise his voice.  He is not called Mono Mike without reason ...
generally keeping his monotone personality parked behind a
cluttered desk.

Sharee stands up ... and up ... and up.  Her tousled mane  
doesn't really match the custom-tailored gray cardigan  that
wraps snuggly up her six-foot height.

Make that six-feet-three as she slips her narrow foot into

stylish heels.

One of the gawkers,  the news show's recently promoted

female commentator,  takes envious notice of her new rival's
outfit.  Her mind checks off the price tags.   Gray cashmere
cardigan cut long and cinched with a silk braided belt--$400. 
Underneath, a charcoal black, fitted skirt and tunic with a
faux turtle neck--$500.  The skirt slightly above the knees
and hosed in black.  This ensemble plus accessories must
have  cost $3000.     

"Are those Jimmy Choo heels," she thinks, "That's a-

thousand dollars there at least."
“It's an Armani original for sure Probably purchased from
Nordstroms at Providence Place.”

The news staff had begun looking at Sharee with new eyes
ever since that episode with the Brazilian Bomber several
months ago when his Entourage swept into the newsroom,
beefy bodyguards first, effete hangers-on next, then the
Heavyweight Champion of the World himself.

The Daily Investigative News’ top producer had gotten an

insider scoop about the Champ's personal life and had
convinced the most well-known athlete in the world to come
to the studio to answer some questions.

Everything was set up for D-I-N's new star in the chilly main
studio. As Roberto Silva paraded into the newsroom he did a
kind of radar sweep, then spotted the blonde almost hidden
behind the back desk.

"I'll do your damn interview," he growled, "...but only with

that girl !"

The producer and the news director argued with the Champ's
“yes” men.

"Sharee is too new and she really doesn't know the whole
story" they begged, "Michelle has already been briefed and
she is our top news personality."

Roberto had settled on the then-blond Sharee. A new look

for her that was having spectacular results.

"I don't give a damn if she is the Queen of Sheba, If you guys
are going to rip me apart at least I am gonna choose
someone I can feast my eyes on !"

Sharee was rushed to the set. But first she made an

important pit stop to the Dressing Room ... to powder her
nose and, more importantly, to make a quick call to her old
college news director.
Back on the set, the producer whispered some tips into her
ear and shoved a list of talking points into her hands.
Sharee took a brief return cell phone call ... listening intently
while the make-up girl primped the champ. He was ...to put
it bluntly ... eye candy for every woman in the world.

The interview went very well. Sharee wasn't nearly as bitchy

as Michelle ... but still managed to make Roberto squirm.
Finally the interview came to an end and as Sharee made her
thank yous, The Champ looked her in the eye ... and uttered
this non sequiter,

"Ahh ! _______________, you are not as dumb as you look !"

Sharee clearly offended, snapped back, "No _____________ ?"

and a few other choice words in a language no one in the
newsroom had ever heard of.

The Entourage and the Champ shuffled out of the building

but not before Roberto stopped and pivoted back to talk
quietly in a corner to Sharee

Needless to say, the producer, the news director and the

sports-spurned female commentator badgered Sharee to
learn what he had said.

"Well he apologized to me, and to make up for it...he invited

me and a D-I-N camera crew to spend three weeks at his
training camp outside New Bedford. AND he will pick up the
whole tab !"

Memorably, Sharee wheeled around and sauntered back to

her cubicle as if nothing had happened. She had already
made a couple of enemies in her new job ... no need to rub it
in.
There is always a hush whenever Sharee moves around the
newsroom, broken only by the clip clop of heels as she
makes her way to the news director’s office  ... looking
occasionally back to her desk ... as if she forgot to include a
fact or two in her story.

Sharee tries to guess what this is all about. Maybe it's a big
thank you for the mini-series on the Champ who was as
good as his word. Flying her and Julio, D-I-N's best
videographer and Puerto Rican. I guess the news bosses
felt Puerto Rican was close enough to Portuguese ... as the
producer said flippantly, "Same shit different bucket."

The champ paid for everything, even settling them in a motel

near his training camp for the entire time. The rustic, you
might say, spartan digs, were near the site of the upcoming
Bay State World Invitational track meet ... on the campus of
UMass Dartmouth. The champ liked to joke he could get
much needed speed work done there.

But back to the moment...back to the news director’s office.  

The boss "welcomes" Sharee, his eyes downcast, normal

posture in her presence.  His star staffer and top recruit has
been on the job for only a short time yet this has become a
familiar behavior.  

There are two other people in the cramped room ... barely
able to fit around the large desk.  Sharee recognizes the
Human Resources Director and gets introduced to his
assistant, a small older woman. 

Mike refuses to look up.. studying every detail of his shoe

tips shuffling awkwardly.  It is the Human Resources Director
who...intones,

"Mizz Grant.  You have been on probation for six months

now. We thank you for your service.  Unfortunately we have
decided to go in another direction with our staffing.  We
cannot offer you  employment here at D-I-N !"
Chapter two--Red Flags

Let's step back a second from the drama of this mini-

tragedy. Back to the weeks that were wonderful ... the weeks
when Sharee's star still shone brightly... but back also when
the whiff of something ominous was in the air ... when the
show honchos poured over the ratings and decided major
changes were needed.

Michelle Clark moved up to Main Anchor/Host. Before that,

she was just one of several occasional commentators. Now
she was the opening act,

"Anger ! The story of our times. Unfairness and

unemployment are its handmaidens. The jobless rate hovers
above ten per cent ...ripping the guts out of consumer
confidence ! ...and we have the President to blame !"

Michelle read the teleprompter ... but then departed from

script ... looking occasionally down at a sheet of talking
points on her desk. She was in full ad-lib .... looking
confidently .... directly... into the studio camera... to a
bemused, amused America.

It was the first time that a Point of View led the broadcast.
Michelle took full advantage, yanking position points from
her recently unsuccessful campaign for Congress. It was
little more than a stump speech snaked with snarkieness.

"Unemployment is unfair ... folks with masters degrees are

pounding the streets. Unemployment compensation is
running out ...running out after several politically motivated
extensions ! The deficit is soaring. Foreclosure rates
rising ... and housing prices tanking. It simply isn't fair !"

Michelle suddenly stood up and paraded around to the front

of the anchor desk ...then sat on the desk, lissome legs
provocatively posed.
The producers watching the monitors sensed immediately
that the show was changing directions in a way that could
become a direct threat to many of their jobs.

Why pay for a reporter, field producer, fact checker audio

man, videographer, remote truck and crew, for a scripted
show, when you can pay just one person--the anchor
babe--to rant on the air for fifteen minutes.

Of course not just anyone could pull this off. This tour de
force took the right, almost mystical, mojo. The talisman--
the recently dyed ravishing red hair --eye candy for high
definition--the bust line, legs AND the partisan resume.

She was the only one of the stable of “talkers” who had
readily strayed from objective news analyst to subjective
opinion maker. Only a handful knew the bean counters in
the background would eventually put financial pressure on
the unsustainable expenses of a news-gathering operation.
The real risk of course was whether the audience would
accept the format changes and more importantly ... accept
Michelle, red-hair and all.

Mike Milano also knew that this was a game changer. No one
noticed that he had retreated, turned off his office light,
shuttered the windows and begun furiously shooting out
emails.

"Hello, everybody. Well it's time to send out the escape

tapes. The madness has hit us ! We are at the bottom of the
slippery slope. Remember, I warned everyone. Once they
dropped the Fairness Doctrine and scaled back Equal Time in
the 80's ... we would be on our way to oblivion. Well oblivion
has arrived !"

Milano buried his head in his hands and teared up. Yes,
cried. This is a man who never cried. He wept quietly, no
one heard him ... but he really didn't care.
His entire worldview flipped. He predicted what would
happen next. He would challenge the changes, of course,
but his arguments would fall on deaf ears. His bosses would
roll their eyes, the marketing and programming people would
pooh pooh his concerns, the correspondents and producers
would not back him up because they were too busy to see
the threat. The public would not really care because they felt
journalists were elitist snobs anyway and laced with liberal
bias. Truth would be called a lie ! A new mishmash of
consultants and accountants would celebrate cost-benefit,
cheap citizen journalists, and ignore the Amateurization of
America.

Milano cringed when management brought in that

professor--the naif with, for the nonce, news experience--
to consult--or was it to expound-- on the use of Public
Journalism. Then it was that program director out of
Washington, who preached that daily journalism was
dead...that news should be more “analytical” and that
reporter-intensive coverage strategies were boring and way
too expensive... and, though incorrect, more damning ...

“...doesn't build audience...doesn’t attract revenue.”

Milano would not tell family, not even his wife, to avoid
needless worry or to know that he was worried sick. He
would quietly send out his resume and begin networking,
But Milano knew it would be much tougher to find something
at his age and he would be lucky to get a news jobs at half
what he is making now.

The first round of downsizing was bound to begin very

soon ... maybe in less than a year, Milano had already heard
about the slide in advertising revenue in virtually every
medium. He had long ago looked on with concern as internet
change swept, first the music business with Napster, then
commercial radio with the shock jocks, the catastrophe that
infected the newspaper industry as Clear Channel-clones
gobbled up and spit out hallowed newsrooms while Craigslist
continued to burrow through the bedrock of the business
model.

Milano reporters had always lived with the luxury of

obliviousness, their professional belief in the separation of
marketing and media had blinded them to the importance of
the business side which was, in fact, the underpinning of
everything they could do in journalism. The journalists’
model of the “separation of church and state”, i.e., keeping
business separate from news, had already begun to erode
with the disturbing changes in the world’s best newsrooms
at the Los Angeles Times, New York Times, the Wall Street
Journal, and the even worse events at the Chicago Tribune.

Milano could even forecast the struggle of journalism

schools as jobs in the industry vanished. The wire services
would shrink. Aggregators armed with algorithms would
take the place of original human sources, and lead to the
kind of reliance on digital information gathering which one
old FBI hand had said created the national security holes that
sank the World Trade Center on 9/11.

But perhaps what was most stunning to this old marine was
the direct threat to the democracy he fought for as a soldier
in the first Iraq war, and supported his work as a field
producer during the second Iraq war.

Now that the the shouters and doubters replaced the

scientific approach to news gathering ... where would voters
get credible information? Or would this new breed of
balloters even care?

The accuracy of information was under siege and histrionics

had taken its place. The Shock Jocking of television
broadcasting became so profitable, that the mainstream
news media shifted its core...like tectonic plates rearranging
the continents.
Mike Milano had pleaded with his professional associations
to lobby for regulatory sanity over the internet so that it
matched to the rules which radio, television, and newspapers
had to labor under. Where were the libel laws, and the
copyright protections that escorted intellectual property in
every other medium? Now under a misreading of freedom of
speech, people were allowed to yell fire in a theater... or even
worse, build bombs on the internet, or incite attacks on the
innocent.

Milano labored under the weight of all this for fifteen

minutes, then struggled to get himself together emotionally.
Maybe it's time to consider retirement and let a younger
breed rediscover sanity .... maybe even find a way to
Refinance the First Amendment.

Now back to the moment.

Sharee can hear her God chuckling at all her public and even
private plans...stuff no one at D-I-N knew about. Like the
effort it took to relocate her secret son, find medical care,
track down her wayward father, ferret out discrete addict
support groups, haul all her stuff to the condo. It had taken
all her savings, to buy the clothes she needed for the job, to
pay for the trips to hospitals in Providence, Boston and
Atlanta.

It took even more emotional capital to reconnect with

“Mom”.

Professionally, Sharee also siphoned a lot of money out of

her personal account to build a team of confidants. The
blind mother in Providence who monitored emergency
scanners, the grad students at Palisades College who did
everything from fact-checking, to research, a stable of
sources and informants-- out-of-pocket old school
journalism was very expensive.

All her planning, scheming and juggling... now coming to an

abrupt halt !
Chapter Three--The Sucker Punch.

Sharee had heard of the Sucker Punch before.  Actually saw it

in action in her first job out of college.  But she never thought
it would happen to her, Nor did she know it could take your
breath away like a shot to the kidneys or that it could recast
the real world in a starkly pukish pallor.  She didn't know, as
the H.R. flack prattles on, that the spoken word can
become--suddenly-- abstruse.

Time splits, diverges, veers away.  As if the three who know
what has just happened are in a different dimension from the
people outside in the newsroom --- who have no idea that
their new star has just been fired. 

"This can't be happening... wha..." Her mind muffles her

mouth.

Sharee quizzes the company reps, all variations of "why",

with answers that bounce back curtly, that never vary from
some predetermined script designed to dodge, evade ... and
what's that big word, oh yeah, obfuscate..

“This simply can't be happening ! I was doing so well !”

What was it Michaels told her when she got the original call
from the network to come up as an August sub for a
correspondent on vacation?

"Be ready, you might be on the Jane Pauley fast track," her old
college news director alerted her.  (Whenever one of his male
former students seemed to be moving up the ladder he would
use Peter Jennings as the example.  Both made their big
network splash in their twenties.) 
Sharee certainly thought her career was taking off ...
especially when she remembered moving up to the anchor
job a month ago.  Was it just a month ago? Her mind
continues to wander back.

Milano had phoned her to come to his office back then. He

was used to the brains and brilliance of everyone talented
enough to make it to the network level, but still he was
frequently ill-at-ease whenever he had to chat directly with
Sharee Grant. 

"Whew, what a day. What a Daayy !" He  stretched.  He always

started with small talk, as if discussing his own managerial
problems helped bolster his rank over subordinates,

"... had to demote Ted.  Took him off weekend anchor and
reassigned him to cover consumer safety stories. I told him
over and over to get rid of that part in the middle of his
head.”  

“...with his pitch black hair, his white skin, looks like a bolt
of lightning on the screen whenever he looks down at his
copy to read !"

Sharee froze.  Did he just make a funny?  Was he serious?  

Why was he telling her this? Next came the kicker.  

"You interested in the job?"

Of course Sharee accepted, knowing this would invite more

back-biting from the peanut gallery.  Summer subs simply
don't move up to any full time news position this quickly let
alone to an anchor job on a nationally syndicated show.  She
had endured this before in Kansas City, when she moved up
from floor director to main anchor in one year.  That was
unheard of in a major market let alone in a career just one
year out of college. 
She was certainly doing well for the first four months at the
network.   Several of her stories made the A block of
D-I-N...three even  got picked up by the nightly news shows.  

Yeah, they had been great gets--bona-fide scoops.   She had

used her old college journalism training to create her own
beats.  Beats were frowned upon in this shop.  So on her own
time, she would drive over to her three beats, including the
federal courthouse in Providence,  during the lunch hours on
Tuesdays. 

It was during one of those stops that she happened to sit

next to a young woman sitting on a bench outside courtroom
2A.  She was an ordinary looking but physically fit bottle
blond wearing  casual but classy _________ blouse and slacks.  
Sharee knew from her modeling days that this modest
looking outfit was made of expensive material that must
have placed it in the 500-hundred-dollar range.

They chatted about fashion, hair dyeing and even exchanged

phone numbers.   Sharee heard from her a few days later and  
agreed to meet at Cafe Nordstrom at Providence Place for
lunch and maybe a little window shopping. 

"Yeah, I think I am going to grow my hair back to its natural

color," Sharee toyed over a salad at the crowded eatery while 
omitting the real reasons ... wouldn’t everyone be surprised
if they really knew who she was.

"I only went blonde because I thought it might get me a full

time job at Daily Investigative News.  Then I stopped by
Nordstroms to buy a couple of outfits for the new job ... I
cleared out my savings and spent $5000."

"My God !"  said Cindy, "What if you didn't get the full time
gig?  I don't spend that kind of money on clothes in three
years!  I'm always telling Frank not to buy me expensive
stuff.  
He's always trying to get me jewelry.  Hey, I'm not that kind
of girl."

"Neither am I," Sharee looked away as a couple of suits have

taken notice of her ... recognizing her from somewhere that
they can't quite place.    

Of course she rarely drops by this time of day.  She always

marvels at how well-known people seemed to pop in every
now and then.

Clearly Sharee was becoming part of that club, the faces,

after  rocketing from fill-in to probationer to weekend
network anchor.  Not only that, but she is reconnecting with
her father for the first time since she was a kid. He lives in a
condo about 30 miles east, in New Bedford.  

Mr. Gomes had left the family long ago and settled back in
the area while  he had gone back to graduate school.  It's
also where a large community of Cape Verdeans lived.  He
finally felt at home after stops in the Cape Verde islands,
Sierra Leone, London and Florida where he lived with
Sharee's mom.  

Sharee was feeling as good about the latest developments in

her private and public life as Cindy felt bad about hers.   

"They are forcing me to testify against Frank" Cindy

whispered. Frank was her boyfriend, Frank Rocco, the much
older cousin of  Nick "Bones"  Bonaro,  the reputed head of
one of the last of Federal Hill's crime families.  That morning
a federal grand jury had indicted Frank on ten counts of
Medicare fraud.    

Cindy must have had reason to fear for her life.  She was a
vibrant 26 year old when Sharee had chatted with her
before ... now she was mush, visibly aging from the stress. 
For some reason, she began spilling the beans to a reporter
whom she'd just met... all about her love affair with the same
guy she would have to testify against if she wanted to avoid a
handful of fraud charges as an accomplice. Cindy is a
licensed mental health therapist, who started her own
practice when she had gotten tired of working her butt off
for someone else, for little or nothing.

It was around that time that she was introduced to an elderly

businessman named Frankie, who had dealings with the
Medicare system. He offered to finance her dreams while she
managed the business side.  Seemed there was a potentially
lucrative government push to incentivize women to own
small businesses.

They met over dinner several times during the next three
months.  He was, despite his age, a very charming fellow.  At
close to 70 he was still a very vigorous man and flush with
money.  After dinner he would always have an after party at
his condo.  A dozen or so people over to play cards, or sit
around yak-king about how to save the world.  

At any given point he would talk about the adventures of his

past life ... his many travels ... his fears during military
service and combat ... his time in Hollywood and the stars he
brushed elbows with.  

Once he reminisced about a dinner with five film stars of the

one movie he had ever had a financial interest in.  They were
nibbling at a fancy restaurant in Italy.  He ticked off the
names of the stars sitting around the table ... each one of
them in the process of becoming a legend.  

Frank told stories in that august gathering in his typical

expansive ways ... his arms flailing about ...inevitably leading
to a clever, even thrilling, climax. One was so stirring ... that
he had to jump up .... his napkin detached and dropped from
under his chin ... both arms
frozen in a victory pose, to punctuate the punch line ... when
he looked down and realized that his fly was open.  

Well, you had to be there but it was much funnier when he

told the story.  

Cindy was taken with all this.  They worked closely on

establishing her business.  He had a way of attracting angel
investors while she recruited the staff, leased a building near
a cluster of prominent medical practices and applied to be on
the referral list for various health insurance plans.

Like all small businesses ... it struggled during the first year.  
Frankie advised her to hire a marketing and development
person to help drum up business, and recommended a
woman who had contacts with area medical clinics.  
Suddenly, patients started rolling in and the  medicare
applications for reimbursements began to clog up the
process ... so they had to hire a medical records person to
handle the workload.  Frankie had run across these new
employees in his previous businesses.  

Three years into the effort, the money began to flow in, so
much so, that Cindy observed a change in the lifestyle of
some of the new people on staff.  While she continued to
wear the middle-class clothing of a typical licensed mental
health therapist ... she noticed the new hires began coming
to work dressed to the nines.  She became suspicious when
the medical records person drove up in a BMW.  

But business was so good, that Cindy and Frankie opened up

another clinic in town thirty miles away ... then another ...and
another.  Pretty soon they had ten clinics in the region ... yet,
the patients and the money kept pouring in.  
At this point in Cindy's story, the distressed young woman
gave Sharee a disk.  

"Please hold on to this.  It's the only thing I didn't hand over
to the federal prosecutors." She whispered,"It's an off-the-
books record that we began to keep, detailing our actual
costs in providing mental health therapies,  and the changes
we made to requests for Medicare reimbursements for drugs,
and physician care."

Cindy then admitted that she had become so overwhelmed

with the explosive growth of their business, that she had
begun to take shortcuts to handle the massive load of
paperwork, signing off on patients to whom the practice had
given little or no medical care. Some were referrals of people
so mentally debilitated, that it wasn't possible for them to
understand what a therapist was talking about.  

Next week, Cindy was dead ... from "natural causes"

Needless to say, she didn't have to testify and eventually the

case against Frank was dismissed, as other elements in the
case collapsed.  

Sharee had enough stuff from Cindy to piece together an

exclusive! Actually, that was only one of fifty stories  Sharee
was working on when Mono Mike called her to his office to
offer her the weekend anchor position.   That, and the anchor
job, convinced everyone in the newsroom that her career was
on the fastest of tracks.  

Oddly enough, many of the stories had to do with the hiring

and firing practices of major companies.  How the public
made that leap from the Rocco story was beyond her, but she
became fascinated with the under-covered angle of
discrimination in the work place.  
But neither Mike nor the rest of the staff knew about the
other major story she was working on.  The one generated
from an innocuous conversation at the Shawmut Diner.   The
story that led to the White House and the War.

As for Sharee's own job prospects, as good as things seemed

to be going, there were certainly red flags.  For example that
day when Mono Mike called her into the office a few weeks
ago.  

"Human Resources wants to talk to you about something.  

Get on down there and get back for the daily news meeting"

The Human Resources office was on another floor, down

where the business office and sales departments were.  
Sharee got lost several times trekking through the warren.  

"We were wondering why you applied to go to the National

Black Journalist Convention in Detroit.  We have a couple of
other folks who wanted to go, but we can only afford to send
two.  

The Human Resources Director was more than curious.  Why

was this young and attractive, yet obviously white, reporter
wanting to go to this type of  meeting.  The executive sized
her up.  Tall, stylish, professionally dressed.  Paler than
snow, with muted red lipstick and bright blonde hair.  Maybe
she wants to cover the event for a story, he thought. 

Sharee stared back for several uncomfortable moments, then

reached into her purse and pulled out a photo.  She looked
at the HR director again then dropped her professional
demeanor and smiled sheepishly...saying quietly"

"This is my father," she said haltingly,  "My biological father" 

The network executive registered a look of silent

astonishment ! 
"His name is Galen.  Dr. G.A.E.T Gomes to be exact. PhD in
Nuclear Physics. 

He was born in Sierra Leone but grew up in the Cape Verde

islands"

All the executive saw was the dark face ... he blanched.  He
could not reconcile the black face in the photo with the
image of the very white-looking young reporter standing
there in front of him.  

The session ended.  He said he would give her application

due consideration. Later that week, Sharee decided to go
back to her natural hair color ... as if it was important to
return to her "roots." 

So here's the replay:  three weeks later Sharee is summoned

to the news director's office. Photos of Mono Mike’s family,
posed shots with big shots, ornate certificates, littered on the
one shelf above his cluttered desk. Surprisingly Mono Mike is
there, but so are two other people.  The director of Human
Resources and his assistant, an older woman who never
speaks.  Just nods and listens. 

"Ms. Grant you have completed your six month probationary

period.  Unfortunately, we have decided not to offer you full
time employment here"