Warrior Pose (8 page)

“Sure, let's go,” I said, having never heard of William Morris Agency and not having a clue what
representing
me meant.

Lindner took me to the most expensive restaurant in Sacramento, where all the lobbyists at the state capital dined, and soon explained how it worked. Top market and network reporters had well-connected agents who negotiated their contracts and supported them throughout their careers—for a percentage of their salaries, of course. Lindner said he had been watching me for more than a year
and met with Langlois to seek permission to represent me. “I think I can get you into a top ten market right away,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

It felt suspicious to me. He seemed a little too slick, and being an investigative reporter, I was cynical about anyone and everyone's motives, never taking anything at face value. “Give me one day, okay?” I responded.

“Sure,” Lindner answered as he handed me his business card with his private number handwritten on the back. “Take all the time you need.”

Back in the newsroom I rushed into Langlois's office. He immediately read my mind. “It's the real deal,” he said. “William Morris is a major agency and Lindner is a pro. You're in good hands. We'd like to keep you here, but it's easy to see your ambition and I'm not going to hold you down.”

“Thanks, Pete,” I said, shaking his hand hard then heading back to my desk to call Lindner immediately and say, “When do I sign?”

A few months later, as promised, Lindner negotiated a new job for me in a top ten market, at WFAA-TV in Dallas, an ABC affiliate and one of the most respected news organizations in the country. It had a consumer unit similar to Call Three, but it was flagging. I was the perfect person, Lindner convinced them, to re-energize it. Before I knew it, I was off to Texas.

I quickly turned the consumer unit into an investigative one. We exposed racial discrimination at several of Dallas's posh nightclubs, where the city's rich and famous gathered. The clubs had secret policies of requiring a second photo identification from African Americans, then denying them entrance even if they managed to comply. We used hidden cameras and microphones to expose them turning away a black woman who happened to be a lawyer in the attorney general's office. Subsequent lawsuits shut down several clubs.

Just as it had been in Eureka and Sacramento, corruption and white-collar crime were plentiful, and I was more aggressive than
ever. Only in Texas, the conservative establishment pushed back hard. Business and political leaders began complaining to WFAA management, and the station started trying to tone down my work. I pushed back even harder, refusing to dilute a story and standing my ground. Marty Haig, the news director, was a legend and a man of incredible integrity. But he was on the spot and did his best to walk a fine line between management and news.

When I began working on the plight of a Dallas oilman locked away in a Caracas prison after being framed for a major oil scandal involving the Venezuelan government, the station declined my proposal to cover it. Bullheaded as ever, I took two weeks' vacation, hired a freelance cameraman, flew to Caracas, and shot the story anyway. I even managed to smuggle a camera into the prison on visitors' day and recorded a secret interview with the Texas oilman.

Returning to Dallas, I pitched the story to ABC's primetime network news magazine show
20/20
; the show agreed to buy it. When I shared this with Marty Haig, he was upset and quickly decided WFAA wanted the story. He grudgingly agreed to pay me for all my expenses plus a hefty freelance bonus. The reports, which I titled
Petrospies
, created a sensation in Texas, got the attention of diplomats in Washington, D.C., and ultimately the oilman was freed. But my relationship with Marty Haig and WFAA would never be the same. I distrusted and resented them, and vice versa. My next story proved to be my last.

It was 1984 and the Republican National Convention was about to be held in Dallas, where the delegates would nominate President Ronald Reagan to run for a second term. As it turned out, the construction company I had exposed in Sacramento was based in Dallas and played a major role in Republican politics. The federal government was still investigating them, so I updated the story and produced a five-part series. The night before it was scheduled to run, Haig called me into his office to say the station's legal department was killing my stories. “They say the reports don't pass legal review,” he said matter of factly. “They're libelous and will get us sued.”

Furious, I demanded to meet with the legal department and challenge its position. To his credit, Haig supported me on this.
That afternoon, as I rifled through all my files to defend my work, I discovered something I had never noticed: WFAA's law firm also represented the construction company my reports had exposed! The next morning, I tore into the legal team, defended my work, pointed out its obvious conflict of interest, and promised that if the reports were killed I'd take it to the Dallas newspapers and expose the whole thing. When it was over, Haig said, “We'll air one report tonight, and one only. You'll have to cut the series down to something less than three minutes. That's it.”

Haig didn't have to say anything more. I knew this would be my last report for WFAA. I went back to the station and worked right up to the five o'clock evening news deadline, then walked onto the set to give the lead-in live and answer a few softball questions from the anchors when it was over. The next morning when I arrived at the station, Haig called me straight into his office.

“It's time to cut the sheets,” he said, looking down at some papers in his hands.

“You mean not working here any longer?” I said, as if clarification was necessary.

“Yes,” Haig said, finally glancing up. “We're letting you go.”

“No need,” I shot back, “I quit.”

I stood up and shook his hand, and thanked him for everything. He was a good man in a tough spot. “See you around,” I said and walked back to my desk.

In less than a minute, a security guard tapped me on the shoulder and stated with authority, “Please give me your station identity card. WFAA has the legal rights to all of your files. I'm here to escort you to your car. A settlement on your contract will be negotiated with your agent.”

I opened my wallet, handed over my identity card, and walked away, saying politely but firmly, “I can show myself out.”

It was the first time I'd ever been fired from anything. I had occasionally wondered if something like this might happen one day,
and the thought had always made me shudder with fear. Now, I was surprised at how great it felt.

“Don't worry,” Lindner comforted me when I called him from my high-rise apartment overlooking the Dallas skyline. “We'll find a better spot for you. Just give me some time.”

“Okay,” I answered. “I'm going back to California as soon as I can book a flight. I'll be in touch from there.”

It took a few days to arrange for the packing and shipping of my things, then I was off to a small island in San Diego Bay called Coronado, where I had relatives. I rented a condo overlooking the bay and began catching up with family and friends. The settlement on my contract paid my salary for another year. Surely, I thought, Lindner would come through in a flash. I could just relax, sun myself at the beach, and have a good time. But before two weeks was up, I was going stir-crazy. I had no idea what to do with myself without reporting. It was like having no identity. No reason for being. I was completely lost.

The weeks turned into one month, then two, then three. After half a year, I thought I might explode. That's when Lindner finally called. WBZ-TV in Boston, an NBC affiliate in an even bigger news market, liked the reel of my reports that William Morris sent them. I soon had a new contract and an even higher salary. I could breathe again; I was back in the game.

I leased a grand old apartment in the historic Back Bay overlooking the Charles River and the verdigris dome of MIT. It was thrilling to be in this sophisticated city with its rich history, but I knew, even at this prestigious station, local news would never be enough. Going to Afghanistan was just a start. I had to pitch more global stories, stretch the limits, make a mark. I was thirty-six years old. By the end of my three-year contract at WBZ, I'd be close to forty. After that, I told myself, I had to be at the network or I'd be past my prime. Ambition was consuming me again.

CHAPTER 4

Tropical Storm

T
HE OCTOBER SUN BREAKS the morning horizon and bathes us in golden light. It's already freezing in Boston, but it's sublime here in the Bahamas. Warm breezes carry the rich aroma of the salt air across the tiny island. Gentle ocean waves roll in a soft song, lapping onto the white sand. Pelicans, gulls, and kingfishers soar above us, then splash into the ocean for a meal.

It's the end of 1986, and it's my first vacation in years. I've always been so obsessed with my career that I haven't wanted to take a real holiday since the day I began. There was only the break between the Dallas and Boston jobs, and that was all stress. Now, after being on the road airing my reports from Afghanistan at our other stations, followed by weeks of investigative work at WBZ, I need the downtime. And I'm actually interested in really getting to know someone: Mary Beth, the graphic artist at WBZ who I've always found to be a little mysterious and intriguing in her graceful silence. We've dated for a month, and now we're on this adventure together.

Mary Beth and I have been here five days—five restful days on a remote little island in the Bahamas called Elbow Cay, sunning ourselves on isolated beaches ringed by palms, papaya trees, and tropical pines. In the morning, we snorkel with giant manta rays and tropical fish. As evening nears, I drift our tiny motorboat over crystal-blue waters, dive over the side, and swim down to coral reefs in order to grab spiny lobsters for dinner. At the end of the day, we watch the
sunset color the horizon through our wine glasses, then gaze into the skies until the first stars appear.

It's amazingly beautiful, and getting to know Mary Beth better is a joy, but I just can't relax. I'm dying to get back in the groove, break another story, or pitch another international trip. When I'm in the field confronting the target of an investigative report, or even on turbulent foreign soil, like I was with the mujahideen in the Afghan war, I feel perfectly calm and stress-free. Here in paradise, I'm stressed out and distracted, consumed with thoughts of getting to network news. It's an obsession that even a romantic vacation can't drive away. I'm Type A, healthy as a horse, and I feel invincible. I'm also dying to know what's going on in the world as we wake on our last full day of vacation. Little do I know that the worst accident of my life is screaming across the ocean and heading straight for me.

Mary Beth and I plan to spend this final day soaking up the sun, eating cold lobster salad, and snorkeling in the shallow inlet of our favorite little beach, where we've never seen another soul. The beach is just a short walk from our vacation rental home, and today's another perfect morning, with calm breezes and tranquil waters. When we arrive, the beach is all ours again, and we spread out our towels on the fine sand, dab on some sunscreen, and agree to take a swim after a little sunbathing. I doze off but soon awaken with a start. A thick black mass of clouds has appeared on the horizon, and the ocean is starting to roil and froth. The wind is kicking up hard, wailing through the island pines, and bending the palm trees sideways.