Amanda Wakes Up Read online

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  penguin.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Project Juno Productions LLC

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  9780399563997 (hardcover)

  9780399564017 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Ale, Cessa, and Nate—the lights of my life. May you each find your calling.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART I: Setup Piece Chapter 1: Breaking News

  Chapter 2: The Impossible Dream

  Chapter 3: Left and Right

  Chapter 4: Backstory

  Chapter 5: Jump Cut

  Chapter 6: Hair and Makeup

  Chapter 7: Jewel Tones

  Chapter 8: Chemistry Test

  Chapter 9: The Rundown

  Chapter 10: Cold Open

  Chapter 11: The A Block

  Chapter 12: Pitches

  Chapter 13: Good Get

  Chapter 14: The Dangle

  Chapter 15: Split Screen

  Chapter 16: The Demo

  Chapter 17: Studio M

  PART II: Devil’s Advocate Chapter 18: Rubik’s Cube

  Chapter 19: Solid Sources

  Chapter 20: Fair Way

  Chapter 21: Ratings Gold

  Chapter 22: Man on the Street

  Chapter 23: Pot Luck

  Chapter 24: Right and Left

  Chapter 25: Hard Out

  Chapter 26: Suzy Berenson

  Chapter 27: Blow the Break

  Chapter 28: Bury the Lede

  Chapter 29: Feet to the Fire

  Chapter 30: Terminal Break

  PART III: True and Equal Chapter 31: P. O. V.

  Chapter 32: White House

  Chapter 33: October Surprise

  Chapter 34: The Scoop

  Chapter 35: Hot Mic

  Chapter 36: The Kicker

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PART I

  Setup Piece

  Chapter 1

  Breaking News

  My eyes snapped open. I’d been dreaming that an alarm was going off somewhere just out of reach. Only now as the fuzzy room came into focus did I realize the sound was my cell phone chirping next to my head. I fumbled around on the nightstand, almost knocking over my water glass, then croaked, “Hello?”

  “Hey,” Laurie said, wide awake, as though it weren’t a Saturday morning in August. “You’re not asleep, are you?”

  “Sort of,” I said softly, trying not to wake Charlie.

  “Are you still at Patricia’s house?”

  I was grateful for the memory jog because my brain hadn’t yet squared why the pale curtains with the sun streaming through them looked so different from the blinds in my apartment, which faced a brick wall.

  “Yeah, we’re still here,” I said, rubbing my left temple. “We stayed out late last night. There was this great beach bar that had this fantastic ska band. And we were dancing, and it’s possible we were overserved, so we decided to stay over.”

  “There’s something going on at the post office in Smithtown.”

  “There’s something . . . going on . . . at the post office . . . in Smithtown,” I repeated slowly, as if learning a foreign language.

  “Dataminr has something about a gunman inside the Smithtown Post Office. It’s just a couple of weird tweets. I can’t find anything else online and the PIO at the police department is useless. She’s not returning my calls. Don’t you have a contact at the PD there?”

  “Uh, yes, I do,” I said, waiting for my brain to connect and retrieve his name from six months ago. A cop contact was always better for real info than the public information officer. “He’s a good one, too. I helped him find that fugitive, whatever his name was. I can call him.”

  “Why don’t you just drive over there and see what’s going on?” she said.

  “What am I, your intern?”

  “Hey, I’m giving you a hot tip. An active-gunman story could catapult you to the top of Newschannel 13. You could leapfrog that guy who loves the walk-and-talk stand-up. ‘Look at me! Reporting live from the scene, I’m Dave Jeffries,’” she said in a fake TV voice.

  “It’s Jeff Davis!” It cracked me up that Laurie couldn’t be bothered to learn the name of the guy who considered himself king of the hill at my lame local station. “I’ll call my detective and call you back.”

  “Good. I’m in the truck. We’re heading there.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “BNN is already rolling a truck? What if it’s nothing?”

  “We got nothing else going on. Maybe we get lucky and it’s a hostage crisis.”

  “Doesn’t get luckier than that.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “I’ll take a hostage situation any day over some dumbass election story. This’ll be refreshing.”

  “Fly in, get the gore, fly out,” I said, quoting Laurie’s own favorite expression back to her.

  “Exactly,” she said. “See what you get from your source and call me back.”

  “What was that about?” Charlie asked, his eyes shut and voice thick with sleep.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, as though that would make up for just having had a phone conversation next to his ear. “That was Laurie. She read some tweet about a gunman or something at the post office in Smithtown and she wants me to call my source.”

  “That sounds like it can wait,” Charlie said, putting his arm around me and pulling me toward his warm body.

  “Hold on, hold on,” I said, laughing. I always found it funny, and a little annoying, when people not in the news business thought breaking news could wait.

  “Let me call my detective and confirm it’s nothing,” I said, pulling my arm back from Charlie so I could scroll through my contacts until I saw one that rang the right bell. I dialed.

  “Pultro,” he answered.

  “Hey, Detective Pultro. It’s Amanda Gallo, Newschannel 13. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday. I just got a tip about something possibly happening at a post office in your area.”

  “I can’t confirm anything, Amanda. You know that. You gotta go through my PIO.”

  “Yeah, I’m having a hard time getting in touch with her right now,” I said, neglecting to mention I hadn’t tried. “I just need to know if there’s a situation that would warrant my driving over to Smithtown right now.”

  He paused. “Yeah, that’d probably be wise.”

  “Oh. Okay. Really? So is there a gunman at the post office?”

  “I’m on my way there. That’s all I can tell you.”

  I hung u
p and turned to Charlie. “I think I have to go. It sounds like something’s happening.”

  “Really?” He rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  My heart was starting to race as I looked around and tried to figure out the steps necessary to get from bed to a live shot location. In situations like this, I always wondered what it must be like for regular people: people who could wake up and get the news about a crazed gunman or a plane crash or a hurricane, taking it in at their leisure, maybe even from bed; people who could let someone else handle it. How easy and effortless it must feel to “watch” the news rather than deliver it. And sometimes, like this morning, I envied the numb listlessness of letting news wash over you, rather than taking a heart-pumping dive into the middle of it. My hands were shaky as I dialed the number to the newsroom.

  “Newschannel 13!” Zeke answered like his hair was on fire.

  “Zeke, it’s Amanda.”

  “Amanda, I’m in the weeds! We’re getting reports of a gunman at a post office on the Island, but I haven’t been able to confirm it.”

  “I know!” I told him. “I just talked to my detective source there. It sounds like it’s for real.”

  “Shit, really? Okay, I’m going to roll the truck. I wish I could send you, but I already gave it to Jeff. He’s ready, but none of my fucking fotogs are answering their fucking phones. Call me in an hour. Maybe I could have you do a setup piece from the studio tonight or something. We have to see what happens. I just don’t know yet.”

  “But Zeke, I’m here! I’m already on Long Island. I’m like ten miles away from Smithtown.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes! I’m here. Don’t send Jeff!”

  “Gallo is there! She’s ten minutes away!” Zeke yelled to the newsroom. “Jesus, that’s fantastic! How quick can you be live?”

  “I’m leaving right now. Maybe fifteen minutes?”

  “Make it ten. Call me as soon as you get there. You won’t have a crew, but you can do a phoner. No other station is at the scene yet, so GET GOING!”

  I jumped up, beginning to scour the floor for my clothes, suddenly feeling self-conscious and silly to be undressed in the face of such a serious news story, as if the camera crew were in the room and the viewers were watching me look for my clothing. What the hell? Had someone hidden my clothes?

  “Have you seen my pants?” I asked Charlie, who was stepping unsteadily into his own khaki shorts.

  Charlie rubbed his forehead. “I’m going to go out to the kitchen and see if I can find some coffee. I don’t remember you having any pants.”

  “Very funny,” I said to his back as he walked out. Then it hit me, with the same sudden anxiety that comes in those dreams where you’re late to a final exam and realize you’re in your underwear. I had no pants. Charlie and I had decided, on a whim, to escape the sweltering city and head to my friend Patricia’s beach house. I’d thrown on a bathing suit, T-shirt, and some flip-flops, then grabbed a towel and off we’d gone in the Zipcar. We hadn’t planned to stay over . . . or drink those margaritas.

  Across the room I spotted my blue bikini hanging limply on the back of a chair and made my way toward it. Clutching the chair, I teetered on one leg, stepping into the bottoms, which were, to my surprise, still a tad damp, then I fastened the unpleasantly clammy top around my back. I retrieved my bright pink T-shirt from the floor and pulled it over my head, realizing too late it was on inside out. I saw my sunscreen on the chair and threw it in my bag just as my phone trilled excitedly on the nightstand again. I grabbed it, thinking how royally screwed I’d be if I’d left it there.

  “Hey,” Laurie said, “what did you find out?”

  “It sounds like something is happening. My detective said he’s on his way to the scene.”

  “Dataminr says there could be nine people inside.”

  “Jesus. Okay, I’m getting dressed and heading over there.”

  “Hurry up,” Laurie said. “We’re pulling up now.”

  Of course she is. Of course Best News Network, or BNN as everyone called it, was arriving while Newschannel 13 was still dicking around looking for a crew. Laurie and BNN were always three steps ahead of everyone else.

  “Is Gabe there? Which stations are there?” I asked. “Is WNBC there? Laurie?”

  She’d hung up.

  I threw my phone in my bag and headed to the kitchen, where Patricia was standing at the sink filling a kettle with water.

  “I’m sorry, did we wake you? We’ve gotta go,” I told her.

  “I know. I heard. If you can wait five minutes, I’m making coffee.”

  “I really can’t,” I said. “Charlie, you and I can hit a drive-through when we get there, okay?” I was trying to sound accommodating, but my voice came out too loud and urgent.

  Patricia turned from the sink and stopped. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “I don’t have anything else!” I said, my chest getting tighter. “It was so hot when we left the city.”

  “But shouldn’t you put on some . . . shorts?”

  “I didn’t bring any!” I practically yelled, circling the sofa now, looking for my purse. “I thought we’d just be at the beach!”

  She screwed up her mouth. “I’d give you some of mine, but you’d swim in them.”

  “Let me try ’em,” I said, sending Patricia into her room, from which she emerged twenty seconds later holding out a pair of faded blue cotton shorts. I stepped into them, zipped them up, snapped the top snap, then watched them fall directly down to my ankles. “Yeah, that’s not gonna work,” I said. “Shit! I can’t go to an armed standoff at a federal post office with no pants.”

  “What is the proper attire for an armed standoff?” Patricia asked seriously. People were always asking me about my TV clothes, where I got them, how much they cost, how I knew which colors to wear to which stories.

  “I mean, there’s no handbook for a hostage situation per se,” I said, in a ridiculous attempt to try to actually answer her question. “But I’d say pants. For starters.”

  “I can drive around and find you something,” Charlie offered. “As soon as I find coffee.”

  “Has anyone seen my flip-flops?” I asked, scanning the carpet until I spied them under the sofa. “Oh, thank God,” I said, holding one up and waving its pinkness at Patricia, “though, may I add, these are not appropriate footwear for an armed standoff. Let’s go,” I said to Charlie, who was already grabbing the car keys from the counter. “The assignment desk needs me there in ten minutes!”

  The radio reports in the car were a jumble of urgent bulletins that I tried to commit to memory in order to repeat them for my phoner: SWAT teams arriving, police setting up a perimeter. Post office opened at eight. First reports twenty-three minutes later. Unclear how many inside. Gunman’s identity not yet known. Unknown number of injuries or fatalities . . .

  I found a white cocktail napkin in my bag, a cling-on from last night, and jotted notes as Charlie drove. “The cops have got to know the gunman’s name by now,” I told him.

  Now I was excited. This was exactly the kind of story I’d been waiting for: something big, the kind that would require insight and depth and tenacity and good sources. A story I could own. One that Jeff Davis couldn’t bigfoot. A story that would get attention, and maybe get me out of Newschannel 13, Land of Car Crashes and Water Main Breaks.

  Man, how many water main breaks had I covered? There was that horrible one in Midtown last winter, where I stood in the middle of the street, a deluge gurgling around my rubber boots, sending ice-cold blood from my toes to my brain and giving me the dreaded mouth freeze that makes reporters sound drunk. Then that other one in North Jersey in February, where I was stuck for five hours and had to cancel on Charlie for dinner.

  I thought about Laurie’s life at BNN, that coveted wonderland of high salaries and rich resources, a haven of Ivy
League—educated producers and brand-name anchors—so far from my little world of local news with its budget cuts and worn-out equipment. BNN seemed an almost mythical place: A deep-pocketed national network, with good lighting, great bookers, greenrooms with goodies, and cameramen who don’t make reporters carry the tripod. A paradise of professional makeup artists and wardrobe mavens who transform correspondents into brightly hued television creatures. Working at a network was like living in a shining castle on a hill, with gold statuettes lining the lobby shelves, and big scoops just waiting to be broken. Dammit. Laurie was probably working over some sheriff’s deputy at the post office right now, getting an exclusive interview. If only Charlie would step on it, maybe I could beat the other local reporters there. And maybe this one could be my ticket off the local news bus and onto the network luxury liner.

  “I have to find out the gunman’s identity and backstory,” I told Charlie as I turned up the radio, hoping for some new nugget.

  “I’m going to guess he’s the same as a lot of these guys,” Charlie said. “Unhinged, mentally unstable, susceptible to suggestion, then something sets him off.”

  I wrote that down: Unhinged, susceptible to suggestion, set off by something. I liked how Charlie phrased that—plus I was desperate for something to say on the phoner. I rolled down my window, taking in big gulps of air. The sun was up, revealing a baby blue sky. I had to admit, it was perfect. I couldn’t ask for a better day for an armed standoff. Being outside for twelve hours of live shots would be a breeze. I watched the trees out the window passing too slowly and felt my right foot pressing down on an imaginary accelerator. “Hit the gas, would you!!” I almost yelled at Charlie, though I couldn’t very well expect my mild-mannered boyfriend to have the same pedal-to-the-metal excitement for a developing calamity that those of us in news did. Charlie was different—he got excited by a well-written thought piece in the Nation. His students loved him for being an approachable, open-door professor. And I loved that he was a globally minded do-gooder rather than a jaded news guy who got off on ambulance chasing and talking about his last kick-ass assignment that always somehow took place in a war zone. I’d first spotted Charlie a year ago, one night last summer. I’d just moved back to New York and Laurie convinced me to abandon all the cardboard boxes in my fourth-floor walk-up so we could celebrate my new reporting job in the number one market and my escape from the crappy Roanoke station where I’d been trapped for two years.