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Part I: Call to Adventure
COMING TO YOU LIVE FROM ROCKEFELLER CENTER, THIS IS TOUGH TRUTHS, WITH ELIZA TAYLOR
It began slowly, as all great disasters do.
"Good evening, America, I am Eliza Taylor. But you knew that already," the toothy, busty reporter jabbed a finger over her desk and right into the eyes of her hypothetical audience, "Here's something you don't know.
"Two people have been killed and 13 injured in Syrian and Russian attacks on rebel-held east Aleppo, in the latest human travesty in what appears to be a war without end. I have it here that the city's largest trauma hospital closed, and we know what that means."
Eliza grinned, "Hundreds of dead people. That's right. If you've been following this story as long as I have, you're probably wondering what this civil war is even about," she leaned forward, "That's a damn good question.
"Pedro Sanchez, the leader of the Spanish Socialist Workers Party has resigned, as the country's radical right wing begins consolidating power," she cocked an eyebrow, "That was not an endorsement of socialism. Merely a comment as to the deterioration of international democracy.
"We are currently seeing an erosion of democratic norms around the globe. Now, this being a contentious election season, you might be worried about the safety of our government. Will we be able to handle an electoral crisis? Can we trust our elected officials not to be corrupt, greedy, or beset by wild dogs?"
That somewhat very attractive and very snide smirk that characterized all her headshots flashed into the camera, "If you're watching this show. You already know the answer."
Another day, another disaster.
"Hurricane Matthew, a Category 4 storm, is set to make landfall in Jamaica tomorrow," Eliza's voice is terse, her nails clacking against the counter, "The National Hurricane Center has advised hurricane warnings for eastern Cuba, including Guantanamo Bay."
She shrugged, "Guantanamo Bay? Hurricane warnings? Where the hell are they supposed to go? But, you know the place, they're probably used to getting wet."
There's some muttering on the set. Eliza ignores them, retrieving her next news item.
"A man has been arrested for killing 48 senior citizens at a hospital in Yokohama, Japan. I would tell you why he did it, but I don't think he knows either. As a matter of fact, show me a mass murderer who can explain why they did it in 16 words or less, and I will personally shake their hand.
"In Sports news, Vin Scully, who has broadcast for the L.A Dodgers since they were the Brooklyn Dodgers, calls his…why is this on my desk? Do I look like frigging Sports Center?" she leans over in her chair, calling off the set, "This is a news show! I am not Stephen fucking A…"
***
Third time's the charm.
"In the latest display of force from our courageous government," Eliza's smile is fixed, her eyes glassy, she speaks like she has an ax to grind, "the U.S Air Force announced today that a Syrian militant leader was killed in a drone strike. That's a relief, I was afraid it would be another children's hospital…
"The Italian coast guard recovered more than 5,600 migrants in a massive operation. We can only assume they will be welcomed with open arms by the harmonious and gregarious people of Europe. Do you know, the first time I read one of these migrant stories, I cried? Imagine that. me, crying. How naïve I was! How precious! Christ, what are we doing? Really? What are we doing about this? They don't care! The governments don't care! If they did, they wouldn't be funding the wars these people are escaping from!
"But you know that. If you didn't, you wouldn't be watching this show."
***
"My producer is very insistent I apologize for my outburst on air yesterday. I, of course, have no opinions about the fates of refugees to this or any other country. I, as a matter of fact, have no opinions on anything! Why should a reporter have any opinions? I guess that only applies when you're fat and balding and you've got testosterone cream to sell…
"But, yes, I am very, very sorry to have offended my producer, who happens to own stock in the company that makes the drones they drop on hospitals. But funny coincidences like that are part and parcel of this business.
"In other news, the guys at Johnson & Johnson, you know the baby shampoo people, are very eager for you to know that their new line of Wi-Fi enabled insulin pumps are vulnerable to hackers."
She looks around, "What? What? Are you fucking shitting…"
***
Disaster is not a long way off.
"Here's something fun. Russian President Putin has suspended the 2013 nuclear agreement with the U.S. prohibiting uranium research. So, if the rising tides don't get us, nuclear winter certainly will.
"Police in the Indian city Thane have arrested more than 750 people suspected of defrauding U.S. citizens via a fake call center. You know, I know a funny story about phone fraud…"
***
Disaster is always closer than you want.
"U-unknown assailants have…" she lowers her face, "they've…they've attacked a r-refugee camp near a village called Tass…Tass…" she gets to her feet, tears in her eyes, "CLEAR UP THAT FUCKING TELEPROMPTER, THE PEOPLE DESERVE TO KNOW WHERE THEY LIVED!"
***
Disaster is natural.
"Hurricane Matthew has made landfall in Florida as the death toll in Haiti rises to 877. I'm sure we can expect several lively telethons or New-10s equivalent to raise money for those affected. Maybe we can get Carole King and Billy Joel to duet 'Up on the Roof'. That'll show 'em we care.
"The Obama administration has accused the Russian government of cyber attacks on the Democratic Party in an attempt to influence the upcoming presidential election. Of course, that would imply the minds of Americans are not their own, and they can't think with their own minds and make their own decisions. I don't know how that seems to you, but I can't possibly conceive of something so ludicrous."
A high, shrill laugh.
"Oh, and then there's this thing with Donald Trump and an Access Hollywood tape, but I don't even want to touch that…"
***
Disaster is inevitable.
"140 people have died in Saudi-led civilian airstrikes. They were…mourning at a funeral of some…some Interior Minister guy. No? What?" her voice is hollow, "It wasn't the Interior Minister? No, no…it…it was his father."
She sighed heavily, "140 civilians. Blown up. Why? The Saudis, if you must know, are intervening in Yemen as part of a decades-long territorial dispute and…
"What does it matter, right? 140 people. Think about that. 140 people murdered at a funeral. I read that this morning on the brief and I didn't bat an eye. Did you, hearing that? God fucking bless you if you did, but I bet you didn't.
"Remember when life meant something?" she leans forward over the table, "I mean…we tell ourselves it does, it did. But let me tell you what I see.
"I see corporations eating governments, and governments eating the people. I see the rich slaughtering the poor like they mean nothing, influencing wars and collapsing economies, and turning people against each other. I see strongmen and bullies in public office telling us that they aren't the problem, it's the poor and homeless we have to worry about!
"And every day I become more and more certain of that. And every day, I get less and less horrified.
"Good night, America. There's a truth for you."
The lights go down in the studio and Eliza Taylor staggers to her feet, "Fucking Christ damned hell, I need a cigarette!"
"Liz!" one of the production assistants approaches. "Liz, I just got a call from station management."
"That's great. I've got Ben Shapiro in my Twitter mentions demanding I debate him, and I'm seriously considering getting drunk enough that that sounds like a sensible thing to do."
"Liz, they cut the show."
She stops in her tracks, "What?"
"They cut the feed, like, ten minutes before we went off the air."
"They can't cut me. I'm news."
"Look, they did warn you after that thing with the producer…"
"The producer can suck my dick!" Eliza cries, her voice rebounding in the studio. All eyes are on her.
"Am I being fired?" she asks at last, the reality of her situation slowly sinking on her.
He can only shrug. Another one without an answer.
***
Liz wasn't fired. But she was in the doghouse. She knew what it was like, had been in this position too many times before.
But then she'd been just a small town reporter at a small town station. This was the big leagues. This was the world.
So, why did it feel so fake?
She sits on the D train, Brooklyn-bound from Rockefeller Center, toying with a pack of cigarettes. The car is packed at this hour. Occasionally, somebody turns as if they recognize her, but those looks are fewer and farther apart now. If people recognize her, the recognition doesn't excite them the way it had a year, half a year…even a month ago.
The truth… she considers bitterly, Tough damn pill to swallow.
But if she didn't serve it…who would?
The train halted to a stop at Union Street, Liz's stop.
Unbeknownst to her, a figure follows her!
Eliza was halfway across the platform when she noticed the hunched over figure shuffling along several paces behind her. A man, by the look of him...baggy jacket, cap lowered over his eyes so she couldn't make much out. He was lowering his face, which was bog standard New York behavior...
Except he wasn't looking at a phone or a map or a greasy sandwich. He was just shuffling by, looking at the ground ahead of him.
This might not be anything, but Eliza had lived in this beautiful hellscape of a city long enough to know which flavors of strange man she should be weariest of.
1. Guys in ballcaps.
2. Guys in ballcaps that were not Yankee caps.
3, Guys with their hands in their pockets.
4. Guys who stared at the floor.
And this guy was 4 for 4.
She quickened her pace, moving through the press of the station.
The figure still follows in hot pursuit, gently shoving an old man in a flat cap. The two pass a jazz artist killing it on the saxophone.
Okay, so he was obviously following. Eliza was tempted to look over her shoulder for a better look, but knew better. Putting her aviator shades on, she hot-footed past the jazz artist.
Men in the crowd call out after her as she goes, "Nice cakes!" "Strut that stuff, chiqita!" "嘿美女!"
A robotic female voice echoed through the station: This is a Queens bound local train. THE NEXT STOP IS Atlantic Avenue-Barclays Center.
The R. It was impulsive, and it would take her back the way she'd come, But if there was anyway to make sure she wasn't just on a caffeine kick after a shitty ass week...
She jumps the R train just before it leaves.
She was hotfooting it. The figure started to push through the crowd, knocking down an irritable commuter. "王八蛋!" The doors are gonna close!
Shoving some teenager too immersed in his Spotify playlist, the figure catches the door, the automated voice repeating, "Be clear of the closing doors, please!"
Eliza tensed at the automated voice.
Shit.
He must've jumped the car at the last minute. Shouldering her bag, Eliza made her way through the press as the train started trundling along the tunnel. The connecting door was right up the aisle...
"Oof!" she gasped, bumping into a man just short of the door.
"Er...personal space?"
Oh, thank God, it was just a glib Brooklynite. Wool pullover instead of blue jacket, and skullcap instead of ballcap.
"You've got it, guy," she shoved him out of the way, cranking open the connecting car.
The wind of the moving train whistled past her in the darkness as Eliza moved along the narrow metal trellis, the tracks a bare two feet below her, screeching and snarling by.
She yanked open the door to the next car entering with a sigh of relief.
A few commuters eyed her strangely as she closed the door, but she paid them no mind, sinking into the nearest empty seat.
The figure looked to the door. Eliza had entered his car and sat down. What a stroke of luck. He grabbed her by the shoulder.
Eliza nearly jumped out of her skin.
Wrong. Fucking. Move.
"Hands off!" she cried, throwing a punch right into his bread basket. He went sailing across the car...
'This is ATLANTIC AVENUE- BARCLAYS' CENTER. Transfer is available to the B,N,R,2...'
The door slides open as the voice rattles off the transfers, leaving Eliza's pursuer sprawled halfway between train and platform.
"This fool bothering you?" asks a pleasant-looking man, his features contorted into an expression of fury at Eliza's follower.
"He sure was! Feed him to the dogs!"
She darted out of the train and onto the platform, thinking only too late to turn and see just who it was under the cap...
The stalker gasped for air as he stumbled back, the train slowing down knocking him fully on his back. Reeling in pain, he moved to get to his feet.
"What's your deal, man?" One of those "See something, say something" disciples lurched over him, about to take off his cap.
But he wouldn't allow it. The stalker took some spare change from his pocket and flung it at the guy's face.
"Argh! What the fuck?!" The apparently decent guy staggered back. The stalker took advantage of this opportunity to lunge for the door, catching it. He surveyed the platform, trying to find Taylor.
There! Just as some middle-aged woman complained, "GET OFF THE TRAIN, YOU MANIAC!", he complied and continued to chase after the reporter.
Eliza tore across the massive double-layered station, hearing the desperate clatter of footfall on the tiles behind her.
Too much to hope he's here for a Nets Game, she thought wryly, ducking past a stall selling bootleg Brooklyn Nets memorabilia.
With a burst of inspiration, Eliza seized the kiosk and pushed it over, to the great consternation of the Korean man in charge.
"Yes, yes, I know, it's terrible, here's fifty bucks," she pressed a bill into his spasming hands and started up the escalator.
She could certainly blend into the crowds on Atlantic Avenue, maybe duck into Barclays and gather her thoughts. But he'd expect that. In all the stories Eliza had ever heard about women (and reporters, and sometimes woman reporters) shaking off tails, they'd avoided them in two main ways:
1. Sticking to the familiar...
2. But doing the unexpected.
After a year in New York City, little about it was unfamiliar to her, though so much was still unexpected. She'd never understand this place the way she'd once understood Lakewood, Louisiana, but she did know it, after a fashion.
She knew how to get around it too. She had to count her stalker lacked that skill.
'This is a Bronx bound 2 train,' the voice echoed as she reached the upper level of the station, 'THE NEXT STOP IS- Nevis Street. Flatbush Avenue.'
Bronx bound. That's the ticket. He'd never expect her to go there.
She dashed onto the train.
The Nets stall fell to the ground, bootleg merch spreading everywhere. Desperate, the figure picked up one of the tiny rubber Nets balls, hoping to stop Taylor from a distance.
Nothing.
He moved on slowly, throwing arm lowered, trying to spot her out in the crowd. "Unbelievable. Like $50 covers the CustomInk. Stupid..." The vendor muttered as he collected his things but the figure ignored him.
He'd lost her.
"ELIZA TAYLOR?! IS THAT YOU?!"
The figure heard the cry from a distance, looking for the source of it.
Sure. The one time she got recognized in public...
Eliza turned on her heel, halfway aboard the 2 train, "No!" she cried, heedless of her better judgment, "No, it's not! It's Rachel fucking Maddow!"
"Word?" asked some man hovering over her shoulder.
"Word."
"Hey, Miss Taylor..." a preteen girl asked her from a seat across the train.
"No, honey, I'm Anderson Cooper."
"...do you have any advice for a girl who wants to be a reporter?"
"Yeah," she nodded, "Buy stock in missile manufacture."
She hurried down the aisle of the car.
Taylor seemed to have fans...and boarded the 2 to the Bronx?
The stalker had to admit, he never expected that.
He jogged over there, shoving people in the crowd, looking through the dirty windows of the train. She was about to enter...that one! He'd be the first to greet her.
The stalker boarded the car she was approaching.
Eliza broke into a full on run when she spotted that ballcap at the end of the car.
Why? Why me? What the hell have I done to deserve this?
She decided not to follow through on that line of thought, throwing open the connecting door to the next car and passing on...
"Hey girls!" there was a crowd of teenage girls here, lined up in two neat rows along the car. Their leader, who had spoken, stood at the head of the column, between the lines, speaking like a military commander, "You know what they're saying?"
"What?" all the girls ask in perfect unison.
The leader continues, seeming to look right through Eliza, "They say that we can't stomp!"
A collective gasp goes up. Eliza got a look of their black teeshirts, bearing the logo 'Stomp to Survive'.
"C'mon, now!" the leader commands, and stomps her foot on the floor. The other girls follow suit, stomping their feet so the car seemed to shake.
"Y'all can do better than that!" the leader clapped her hands, stomping both feet. The girls do the same, forming up in two lines, switching places, initiating a complicated dance that Eliza cannot begin to understand.
"Excuse me, sorry, oh my God," Eliza muttered as she attempted to weave through the performers, "Great job. Yeah, that's some great stomping."
She approached the leader, intending to sidle her way past, but the girl is unmovable, "Stomp, girls!"
"Yeah, that's nice, can I please..."
"Let 'em have it!"
The girls continued their rhythm, oblivious to Eliza standing in the midst of them. Eventually, as much to compromise as anything else, Eliza began stomping too, not that her stomps were very effective, and hurt like hell besides, given her heels.
Some of the people sitting in the car were staring at her, a few had even taken out their phones to film the whole spectacle, which was just grand. The stompers, however, paid her no mind.
She just couldn't stay put! Taylor made a move for that stomping group.
The stalker was desperate. He'd have to stomp with them...
Unfortunately, he wasn't that good, and stood out like a sore thumb due to his size and horrific lack of rhythm.
Nevertheless, he inched closer to her, nudging her from behind. "Hey!" he called to her to further get her attention.
Oh, Jesus.
So here it was. She was cornered on the 2 Train, trapped between a zealous stalker and a very determined urban dance society.
Eliza rounded on him, "Three fucking trains!" she cried, as the train rumbled beneath them and the girls stomped around them, "Three trains, one souvenir stand, and a dozen girls with heavy shoes, and you're still on my ass! Who the hell are you and what do you..."
She yanked off the ballcap, "Greg?"
For it was. Greg, one time crew member from Lakewood KLA.
Tension turned to anger turned to relief turned to anger.
"What the hell are you doing chasing me around the subway?"
Greg was exhausted but happy this ridiculous chase had come to an end. "I...I just wanted to talk," he panted, and then smiled, glad old friends can finally talk face-to...
One of the girls behind him clapped in the wrong place, hitting him in the head and knocking the distraught camera guy out.
"Greg!" Eliza gasped as he crumpled to the floor, "Greg!"
"We showed 'em girls!" announced the lead stomper as, in a single instant, the dance ended.
"You sure did..." Eliza muttered, crouching at her ex-colleague's side.
'This is a Bronx bound 2 Train. THE NEXT STOP IS...'
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It had taken some wrangling, but Eliza had eventually been able to convince Greg to explain himself at a Dunkin' Donuts conveniently situated next to the 2 Train station at East 180th Street.
"It's great," she'd told him, "Starbucks is princely piss compared to this stuff. I drink it all the time..."
Her coffee was purchased by an assistant who went to some artisanal place across Rockefeller Plaza, but there was no reason the likes of Greg needed to know that.
"It's the lifeforce of this city!" Eliza declared, bending down to check her seat and discovering what she hoped was just a very large wad of gum, "Maybe you want me to sit closer to the door? You know, just in case an active shooter comes in."
"Isn't the Bronx great?" Eliza asked, taking a sip of her coffee, "This is the New York. I mean, every part of this city is a new story, but this is the borough that never stops giving!"
A few teenagers were throwing hands under the elevated train tracks outside the window. Eliza caught one of their eyes and gave them a ginger thumbs' up before returning to Greg, "So...great to see you, of course."
Her phone buzzed with her thousandth notification in the last half hour. She didn't need to check what it was. Likely, now it was her producer's turn to check out new viral sensation 'SCREAMING NEWS LADY GETS STOMPED', also known as 'NOT YUR GRANDMA'S LIZ TAYLOR!', 'WHITE LADY CAN'T DANCE' and, most delightfully, 'SCREECHING LIBERAL HARPY GETS CULTURALLY APPROPRIATED'.
"Can't say it was the best time," she leaned forward, "I know it would be acidically cruel of me to assume you came here with an agenda but...well, we are in the business of agendas, aren't we? So, Greg...why have you come blundering back into my life?"
Greg bounced the bootleg Nets rubber ball he picked up from that stand as Eliza spoke, occasionally sipping from his own Dunkachino. "Well, I...I got news. From the old hometown. Lakewood." Then, as if suddenly remembering, "Oh! Everybody at KLA misses you, by the way. Even Arnie! I mean, he had some choice words when you left..."
"That's delightful, Greg, really," Eliza interrupted, "But we both know your salary doesn't cover spontaneous visits to old friends."
And, in truth, Greg had never been much of a friend. Sure, the onus for that was mostly on Eliza's shoulders. She hadn't been the most affable person to work with, but given the workplace atmosphere was more toxic than CO2, she refused to accept full responsibility.
She almost asked what the hell Arnie was even still doing at that station. All she'd asked was a payraise, a job on a heavier beat, maybe some relevant work to reflect the strides she'd made covering their living nightmare.
But no. She didn't merit a raise, there wasn't enough money for a raise, she hadn't covered much at all, really, she'd put herself in danger so often that she was a serious liability. If she wanted to put on airs with her fancy book deal and her little press tour, let her! She'd come crawling back in a week.
She'd picked up her book deal, gone on the press tour, and had never looked back. For better or worse.
"What's this all about?"
"A kid died," Greg immediately dropped small talk and got to the point. "Like, a lot of kids in Lakewood died since you've left but this one...he was killed yesterday." He bit his lip. "By, well, you can guess who."
Eliza sat up straight, "A kid?"
She'd kept her finger on the news out of Lakewood with a regular consistency since she'd gone. When the murder spate had kicked up again in the spring, she'd found herself fairly drowned in new correspondence, and her book sales had rocketed back up. Not that she bragged about that.
She'd known Jake Fitzgerald. Grinning asshole shithead, sure...but he'd wanted to do right by the end, as his burnt-up friend had. Lorraine Brock, the hardened police detective whse mutual presence on the case they had each grudgingly tolerated.
And of course, she knew quite a few things about Mayor Quinn Maddox. For some people, the story of the Lakewood Slasher began with Nina Patterson, for others, it was two dumb kids named Stacy and Brock, still others began on Halloween, 1994 and the terror of Brandon James.
For Eliza, the Lakewood Slasher began with Quinn Maddox, and the sorry kids who'd tried to milk him for a secret too terrible, too shameful, too elusive to name.
For so long, she'd figured him a cog in the machine...surely he was responsible for Will's kidnapping, for Gemma O'Neil's reign of terror, for the fire at the Belmont farm...
But he was dead now, as dead as all the others.
"Kieran Wilcox is in maximum security," she said distantly, "I know. Checking up on that is something of a religious routine for me. We've got a new asshole in a mask?" she leaned forward, "Who was the kid?"
The names flickered through her head. Emma Duval, consummate victim, butch Audrey Jensen the textbook red herring. Her little fanboy Noah Foster. And sprightly, spirited Brooke Maddox, who had wanted so desperately to learn the truth.
Eliza had asked her to call her if anything new came up. But murder after murder after murder, boyfriend and father both, and Eliza hadn't heard a thing.
Perhaps she couldn't blame her.
Greg nodded solemnly, holding the ball in two hands. "Terrance Smith. Fitz Smith's kid. I'm not 100% on the details but it happened at some park. A bunch of the usual suspects were there--Duval, Jensen, Maddox. But it was Smith who was killed. By another asshole in a mask."
"Smith?" Eliza cocked an eyebrow, "As in Smith's Sweeties?"
She'd had to do a godawful puff piece on Lakewood's very own gilded dynasty. The Smith patriarch had proved much less than forthcoming. His son's rebelliousness seemed like a foregone conclusion.
"The Smiths were tight with the Maddoxes once upon a time," said Eliza softly, "This happened just last night? Jesus, you guys must be hard pressed. Who's doing the coverage?"
But it occurred to her even as she said it that, if Greg were here, sitting across from her, a world away from Lakewood, things at KLA couldn't be that hard pressed.
"It is being covered, right?"
"About that..." Greg took a big exhale, not sure how to break this to her. "KLA has kind of...slowed down, I think is the word, on, um...murder-related stuff. Like, you were the only one who wanted to pursue that kind of hard news. When the second murders came around, I-I actually tried to step up and do a story myself." He swallowed, traumatic memories returning to the forefront of his mind. "It didn't go well. Arnie told me to be fair a-and balanced and I thought that meant totally centrist and, uh...I kinda stumbled into doing a pros and cons of the killings."
He bounced the ball twice, letting that soak in for a second.
"So KLA kinda stuck to offbeat stuff about historical Lakewood landmarks and local chili competitions and all that stuff," Greg continued. "Arnie wasn't interested in being criticized for perpetuating the Murderville image like when you were reporting--even though it was the truth!" He slammed the ball with such conviction it bounced high and hit the ceiling. Greg flailed desperately to catch it, missing after about three bounces.
Collecting himself, he said, "So they didn't report it then, they're not reporting it now. But..." A smile creeped onto Greg's face as he leaned forward. "I'm not gonna let the truth go uncovered. I can't uncover it but I know someone who can." He bounced the ball towards her. "Ball's in your court."
Eliza gawped at him, "They wanted you to 'both-sides' a serial killer?" she sighed, "Well, at least with the mayor, it might've made sense..."
She shook her head, "What the fuck are those clowns doing? Who does it serve to normalize murder?"
But she thought of her own desk, her own day-to-day. Drone attacks, war, famine, disaster...
It wasn't just Lakewood that had numbed itself to tragedy. Somewhere along the way, the world had stopped caring.
She gave a start at the ball bouncing her way, catching it with a flourish, "I'm listening."
"You and me, the dream team at KLA!" Greg pitched, brimming with excitement. "We get to the bottom of this mystery like we did last time. Well, you did. But I filmed it! And I'll gladly do it again!" The passion was fiery within him, but those fires were somewhat quelled with what he said next. "That is, if you're willing to drop this TV gig. I know that pays well but," he laughed. "it was never about money." His eyes darted with uncertainty. "Right?"
"Money..." Eliza repeated, "It wasn't supposed to be."
First thing you learn in J-school...this isn't a job for money. Nobody goes into journalism to get rich, and if they do, they don't last long.
"It was supposed to be about the truth. Lifting the mask..." she chuckled, "I interviewed you for the book, do you remember?"
Granted, she hadn't printed his name, referring to him only as 'a Lakewood KLA staffer' whose opinion of the general situation was "It was scary." But, still...she'd immortalized him in print, for all that was worth. And isn't that what it's really all about?
"Do you watch my show?" she asked abruptly.