The Last Handful of Clover - Book 3: The Stone in the Stream

3.02 Show Me the Fucking Truth

June 15, 10:06 pm

As darkness deepened across the city, the KUTV newsroom made the reluctant decision to call in all of their field crews.

Earlier in the afternoon, before they knew how bad things were going to get, they had sent more than a dozen teams out into the streets—covering everything from the fires to the riots, and whatever else they stumbled across. But by sundown it had simply become far too dangerous. And after a second reporter was killed in the Sugarhouse riots—on camera this time—station management decided that there was nothing else they could do. Now that night was falling, keeping their people safe had to take precedence, even over the people's right to know.

Morgan Jensen and her cameraman, Stan Kirshner, arrived at the KUTV studios in the Wells Fargo Building at 10:00 pm—just an hour after they had been called back, and just before the declaration of imminent martial law was being broadcast. They piled into the building past a surprising number of nervous, aggressive, and poorly trained security guards, dropped their equipment in the storage lockers off the lobby, and rushed to the elevators. The newsroom was on the 21st floor, and Morgan thought the elevators had never moved so slowly.

There was a TV monitor in the elevator, but no sound. The piped in audio was typical Utah easy listening, the Mantovani providing an ironic accompaniment to the faces of the anchors on the screen. Phil King and Brenda Weaver looked desperately haggard, but what caught Morgan's eye weren't the anchors themselves, as much as the text on the bottom of the screen. She nudged Stan and pointed.

MARTIAL LAW EXPECTED, it read, in bold italics.

The scrolling line beneath was still moving: ...curfew in effect. Police authorized to fire upon anyone found out after dark...

"Jesus Christ," Stan murmured, just as the elevator doors opened.

"Morgan! Stan! Thank god you're safe!"

The reporter looked down from the screen to see her producer, Rhonda Ferguson, advancing on them down a strangely dark and empty hallway. Rhonda was a squat little forty-something woman with a face that never earned her a shot at the anchor chair, but a newshound's instincts that were sharper than anyone Morgan had ever met. She'd been her producer for four years now, and nobody at the station knew Morgan's strengths and weaknesses as a reporter better than Rhonda.

"Come on," the woman rasped, grabbing Morgan's wrist. "We're going to need you on the air, pronto. Phil and Brenda have about exhausted their storehouses of banter and every synonym for 'shocking' they know."

"Wait, you want me on the set?" Morgan stammered. "I'm not dressed to anchor!"

"Do you really think anybody gives a fuck how you're dressed tonight, Jensen? Come on! We only have a few minutes. Just comb your damn hair, and you'll be fine."

Rhonda hustled Morgan and Stan into a conference room just off the set, where the station manager, a half dozen junior producers, and a few station big-wigs were gathered around a whiteboard. It was so full of writing, sticky notes, and arrows that just looking at it made her head hurt. She took a deep breath.

"Okay, tell Morgan where we are," Rhonda said, sinking into a chair at the conference table.

Larry Wiggins, the station manager, seemed suddenly more interested in her than the big board.

"Morgan! Thank God! The last we heard from you was at the hotel fire, and that's been," he checked his watch, "almost two hours ago! We thought... I guess we thought the worst."

Morgan sighed. "No trouble. At least, not any more than you would have expected to run into in Syria or Afghanistan."

"What happened?"