Hair? Check.
Shoes? Check … and new, by the way.
Suit? Compensatory navy with white lapel, well-fitted. (Thank you Mrs. McDougal from two doors down. That woman is a genius with a needle and thread.)
They don’t call me The Network Clothes Horse for nothing!
Sit straight, legs crossed. (Softer lighting, please, Jeffrey! Does no one listen to me around here? And about the camera angle, itself … I’d pull closer to the front of my face, which looks deceptively full from your lower vantage point.)
Ah, here they are … Carson and … and … I’m blanking. What’s her name? What is her name? Ah, Elyse! Yes! The Hughes’ daughter. My God, these two must be 20 years apart! He’s so young-looking – I mean, truly youthful – and she’s so … I mean, she looks younger than 60 but 60 is tough to hide in real life.
Stooley, the director, raises his hand. (His real name is Samuel, but he never uses it. After a rough night of tacos, tequila, and beer in Spanish Harlem, the Stooley era was born.)
“Ms. Cotton … in 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … aaaaaaaaand GO!
(There is nothing I love better than Stooley’s clean, clear countdowns. So good!)
I turn toward the camera, mindful of Stooley’s suggestion that my right side is my best. “One for the career reel,” he said to me. Let’s hope.
As I begin to talk, my stomach begins to rumble. I’d avoided eating too much this morning, just so I felt energized and not weighed down by breakfast. Seems I’d not had quite enough. I move my hand to my tummy, hoping the noise wasn’t rendering through the microphone pinned on my left lapel.
I look directly into the camera as the lead-in pre-taped package plays, ignoring the spotlight directly above it and the one directly to its left. The teleprompter, situated just below the lens, begins to roll through slowly. I feel confident, in control, fearless.
The red light signaling me that the camera was on blinks to life. I got this.
“Good evening. We’re here with Silicon Valley whiz-kid-slash-billionaire-investor-and-inventor Carson Sigmond and his fiance, Elyse Hughes, a native of Middle Valley and one of the area’s most respected social workers … it’s like some sort of star-crossed thing, you two! Thrilled to have you both on our air. … Elyse, we’ll come over to you in a moment as we get to the point of this discussion … but to start, Carson, what brought you to Middle Valley? You aren’t a “son of the banks of the Chickotee” as the local paper indicated not too long ago. How’d you find your way here?”
Carson shifts in his seat, crossing his legs in my direction away from Elyse, and strikes a formal, professional pose wrapping his fingers together around his knee.
“Well, Susan, first of all I am, of course, glad that fate took a hand in my life … there was a good bit of tragedy toward the end of my time out West with my co-founder – without question a certified genius – passing away quite suddenly right out in the middle of a sidewalk. We had worked in lock-step, of course, getting PowerBreak to market, so naturally working with someone so closely for so long and seeing such success … when such an event occurs, it’s bound to change any thinking person’s orbit, and I’m no different than anyone else. It was like receiving a difficult health diagnosis or experiencing a debilitating accident, the sort of event that makes you step back and take stock of … well, of life, of work, of purpose. It was my secretary that told me about Middle Valley, her being a downstate native. She grew up in Hell’s Kitchen and spent summers in the Finger Lakes, so with her direction, I landed on the banks of that beautiful Chickotee you mentioned. Truthfully, Susan, I’ve never looked back.”
As Carson speaks, I glance in Elyse’s direction. The look on her face was one of pain, of uncertainty. While I’ve only been in town a short time, I’d never seen the woman do anything but smile. I would have thought that, in Carson, that little girl that played along the banks of the Chicktee all those years ago had every one of her dreams coming true after so many years of broken promises and emotional distance. A gray color befell her face, the divorcee with three young (female) teenagers to feed, clothe, seemed suddenly ill.
I return my attention to Carson – smarm or charm, I suddenly feel myself unable to decide. This is a whole other level, a different Carson, one that I’d not seen before, though I can certainly see how he talked people into throwing scads of money into a dopey video game. Those capabilities are as transparent as Saran Wrap. It was clear that this guy could talk a sandwich bag into funding a Tupperware party if he wanted to.
“That’s wonderful, Carson … so glad to see that you’ve started your new chapter and that that new chapter has a lovely lady in it! Which, of course, brings us to one Elyse Hughes Rossie … Elyse, tell us about yourself. You’ve lived here all your life, yes?”
Elyse seems startled to be called upon to speak.
“Um, yes … I have, though I’ve traveled a good bit. Around the world. … It had been my plan alongside my daughters and former husband to move to New York City at some point, but that never quite came to fruition.”
I am glad she mentions Bernie first.
“I see … so you mean your family with your first husband, Bernie Rossie, who, if I understand correctly, is the editor at the Chickotee Dispatch. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“So … judging by my research notes, you’ve dropped his last name since the divorce? And I actually just used it, so for that, I am sorry.”
“Yes, I am changing my name back to just Rossie.”
I point in Carson’s direction.
“But soon … soon … I hear wedding bells are in your future, correct?”
I wink at her, trying to warm her up or make her babble. I’m not sure that Barbara Walters ever winked, mind you, but that’s the approach I choose in this most excruciating moment
Elyse shies away, bothered by the pointing as she looks directly at my hand gesture.
No matter. I am, for all intents and purposes, in control of the narrative in front of her. (Sorry, Elyse. You agreed to this.)
Suddenly, Carson uncrosses his legs and leans toward Elyse. He takes her hand. I glance in Stooley’s direction and he gives me a thumbs up to indicate that he is getting that footage. I am relieved.
“I am blessed today to be able to say this beautiful gem of a human has agreed to give me her hand in marriage. May I kiss your hand, dear love?”
Elyse nods. I believe I detect a giggle, or perhaps it’s simply a noise of resignation that, now that he’s asked on camera, it simply had to happen.
He lifts her hand to his lips, then looks up at her face, then toward me.
“Well, having done that, I’m not sure we’re here to watch me romance my betrothed, are we? I mean we are talking about other things, right?”
I realize suddenly that I’ve lost my edge. The man has an agenda for this interview, and he’s executing on it.
“Yes! Now, let’s get to it … the night of August 16 of this year … Carson, in your own words, what happened?”
He’s shifting in his seat, as if bracing himself. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. I’ve seen salesmen do this when they’re trying to close. Lovely strategic move. Wildly transparent for a billionaire who took on Silicon Valley and won – big!
“Well, as everyone knows,” he opens, “the evening was meant to remember the late, great Mick Righteous, who has ties to this area and actually was married at one point to one of our business owners, Cassie Cunningham. Yes, his ties on these banks run deep, and like those greats before him – whether in government, science, education, politics – Mayor Charlotte, she of great vision and clarity, decided building a memorial to his life on the Southern river bank facing the water would be a great way to celebrate his life each and every day.”
Elyse takes his hand with a dramatic flourish and leans in toward him. Hardly a social worker move.
“Yes, and we decided it was a worthy cause that we were in a strong position to support. The fact that it became a community mission is a testament not only to Nick’s appeal but Mayor Charlotte’s leadership.
“And your parents?” I ask. “Did your parents offer some money for the project?
Carson is clearly wrankled by the inquiry and begins to speak, but Susan silences him.
“I don’t believe I should be discussing my parents’ finances, I’m sorry.”
I back off. “Ah, probably took it one too far … I’m sorry, Elyse … I know that’s not what we’re here to discuss. What did you see on the night of August 16?”
Carson leans forward and takes Elyse’s arm. “I’ll take this, dear. Don’t you … don’t you have to get back to work, actually?”
Elyse looks at her watch. “Yes, I do, actually. Thank you, dear. Susan, I’m afraid I’ll need to be running along. I’m sure you’re in good hands here.”
I stand and look back at Stooley, his eyes wide and in a state of shock as Elyse exits and heads out the door. My earpiece beeps and I can hear him whispering.
“This is coming apart, Sue. We don’t have a story.“
I look in his direction and nod.
“So, Mr. Sigmund, may we continue?”
Carson looks at his watch again. “Well, based on the number of advertisements your network is running about this, I’m thinking I better stay here with you and get this done.”
I look toward a clearly relieved Stooley behind the camera who is nodding profusely. He whispers in the headset to me, “Don’t forget the ace in the hole!”
Not knowing the reference, I plow through.
“Great! So … start from the beginning. I hear the Mayor went door-to-door to raise money.”
Carson nods. “Yes, that was the start of it. And, you know, with Bitsy’s health returning … Bitsy McMurtry … and her home nearling completion of its rebuild, we were able to enlist her expertise in putting together what can only be called one of the most elegant affairs ever. We even had Cassie, Mick’s former wife, catering it. It was a beautiful night to be on the water. Lindy and Mercury were divine hosts, bringing the boat in from Liechtenstein as they did … so cool, and so next-level. We talk about that a lot out West – what’s ‘next level’ and this was, without question, ‘next level.’
“Arrivals were well-paced thanks to Bentley, whom we all know. Everyone called him to shuffle them across town out to the boat, and he did a top-notch job – shout out to him as he expands his lemonade stand out there. We had all the local influencers there – Wanda Moreno from the chamber of commerce, Bernie Rossie from the Dispatch, of course, the lovely and talented Marjorie Hughes, better known as Miss Comportment. And on a personal note, we had delightful conversation with Elyse’s parents as to whether Marjorie and Elyse’s family were, in fact, distant relatives as they share the last name Hughes, but no one seemed to be able to make the connection, which may have been because we were all three drinks in.”
Carson continues.
“Bitsy got up and gave her quick introductions, thanking all for coming and Cassie for agreeing to cater even though it was an emotional event for her. Then she turned the mic over to me. I’m up there jibber-jabbering away about what a great cause this is … then BAM! Sheriff Paul steps in front of me. I see a gun in his hand and suddenly Bernie tackles him from my left and gets him into an instant chokehold. Someone calls 9-1-1 and the Deputy Sheriff. We hold him there for a few minutes as the vehicles arrive … and before you know it the whole thing is over.”
My stomach continues its loud assault on the day, growling every which way – and, yes, toward the mic. I’ve lost it. This is the world’s worst interview ever about a story that has held the nation’s attention for months. It has all the elements – rock and roll, small town drama, odd people and places, people who live in hotels and boats. Is it me? Am I not prepared?
I look toward Stooley and wave a hand. “Carson, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a five-minute break.”
He nods, gets up and looks at his phone.
Suddenly, a vision appears in my mind’s eye – a camera and an anchor in a chair on a raft, sailing out to sea.
I walk into the bullpen where the cameras and mixing boards are situated.
“Stooley, I don’t know what to do.”
Stooley chuckled into his headset. “You forgot already, didn’t you?”
“Forgot what?”
“The ace in the hole – the one Sir Carson is not expecting. Professor?”
I had forgotten. The fiance of Carson’s business partner, Professor Tracy Dunphy, steps into the bullpen and smiles.
“I’ve been listening, and, as compelling as this has been so far, I have a feeling I’ll bring a lot to the conversation – that is if you’re interested in hearing another angle on the story, and on our own Mr. Sigmund.”
I look at Stooley smiling as he set up the next two-shot in the camera. He turns to me and leans back in his chair.
“Gotcha.”