Officer Jones

Chapter 23

Lauren pulled her heel out of the muck and looked with disgust at the ruination of her designer shoe. We hadn’t spoken since our lunch at Norvell’s. Her first words weren’t about missing me.

“This place is dreadful, John Peter,” she said with a look of nausea.

I pondered escape possibilities. I was captured again. “I think you two are lost-the royal wedding you came dressed for is not here.”

The gruesome twosome inched closer. When Sutcliffe got close enough to sting my senses with his heavy cologne, he reached out with his clammy hand and attempted to shake, but I pulled away. I could tell that Lauren was repelled by the sloppy chicken I held, which saved me from a fake hug-the best investment I’d made in a long time.

“I would go to the ends of the earth for my favorite GNZ employee,” Sutcliffe said with a salesy smile. He theatrically sniffed the air. “And I think I have-is that pleasant odor cow shit I smell?”

“I don’t know if you forgot to read the fine print on my contract, but as of August I’m no longer a GNZ employee.”

It felt good to say it out loud.

“My sources tell me you are thinking of signing on with CNN-please tell me this isn’t true, John Peter?” Lauren belted out. She received a dirty look from Sutcliffe for venturing off the script.

“I don’t know anything about this CNN stuff, but if your sources said so, then it must be true,” I replied.

Lauren soaked in the “compliment,” as usual not picking up on the sarcasm.

Sutcliffe got their orchestration back on track. He winked at Lauren, before asking if he could talk to me alone. Lauren flashed her blinding, toothy grin, as if she was trying to lock up this year’s Razzie award for bad acting.

I tried to walk away, but Sutcliffe was easily able to keep up with me. He attempted to put his arm around me, but I managed to pull away.

We eventually sat down at an empty picnic table. He looked at me as if his job were on the line-it probably was. He reached into a stylish leather briefcase and pulled out a thick bound document, which he laid on the table. It looked like the tax code.

“What do I have to do to get your JP Hancock on this contract?” he asked like a sleazy used-car salesman.

“I told you, Cliff-I’m done. I don’t have it in me anymore. I shouldn’t have been in Serbia. I almost got Byron killed.”

“How is Byron?” he asked with a look of insincere sincerity, as if he’d taken lessons from Lauren.

“He’s paralyzed.”

“I know that. I mean, can GNZ do anything to help him along in his recovery. He won’t take any calls.”

Translation: Sutcliffe’s bosses were worried about a lawsuit.

“I taught him well then. Can we get to why you’re here?”

He smiled. “Nightly studio show in prime-time. You and Lauren-The Warner and Bowden Show! Point counterpoint stuff. Politics … pop culture … hell, I don’t care if you two spend the hour singing karaoke. It’s your show, you’ll have complete control.”

“Why is Lauren pushing for this? She’s already got her own prime-time show.”

“Honestly?”

“It would be a nice change of pace.”

“We overrated her appeal. What people liked most about her was her relationship with you, and we misread the ratings that spiked during your capture. It was great drama.”

“Yeah, a real fiesta. I’m thinking about going back next year, maybe invest in a time-share. Listen, Cliff, I really don’t want to spend an hour with Lauren, in a television studio or anywhere.”

“If you want Lauren out, then she’s out! Between you and me, JP, she’s been totally screwing up the whole Kingsbury investigation. The other networks are beating us to the punch on every break in the case. And she couldn’t even get an interview with you after your release … and she was sleeping with you!”

“It’s easy to hire a bubble-headed beauty queen when the sea is calm and the boat will drive itself. But when the water gets rough you need an experienced captain.”

“I don’t know what kind of mind-altering stuff they gave you in Spain, but…”

“I was in Serbia.”

“Either way, I’m talking about news and you’re talking about boats.”

“GNZ used to do news. And they didn’t need swimsuit models to deliver it.”

“Which is exactly why we need you to come back as News Director. Forget the studio show-this is much bigger. You’ll have final call on what we report and who we hire to report it. We are offering you a blank slate to bring GNZ back to where it belongs-tabula rasa.”

He reached into his left breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to me.

“I know our last offer was insulting. You know how negotiations work, JP. But the contents of this envelope will guarantee you are the highest paid person in the history of the news industry.”

I’m sure he figured J-News couldn’t turn down that kind of offer. He probably was right. But unfortunately for him he was talking to JP.

I stood and began to limp away. Sutcliffe followed after me.

“I got more, JP.”

“That’s the thing-I don’t.”

He remained undeterred, pulling a small plastic doohickey out of his pants pocket and attempting to hand it to me. I again rebuffed him.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked desperately.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s a JP Warner action figure!”

I was speechless-more like frozen in horror. And like someone unable to avoid looking at a gruesome car crash, I accepted the small piece of plastic. The figure wore camouflage and carried a M-16 rifle, depicting me like some sort of GI-Joe superhero reporter.

Once I got my bearings, I tossed the action figure down on the littered fairgrounds next to a garbage can, where I thought it belonged. Sutcliffe desperately scooped the figure off the ground and hurried after me.

“The action figure is just the beginning, JP. We’re going to market you like the sizzling hot superstar you are, beyond the scope of news!”

I kept walking without a word. And when it became obvious that I wasn’t interested, his tone predictably turned “sore loser.” “You’ll be back,” he grumbled.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’s who you are, Warner.”

I wish I had a quarter for every time I’d heard that one.

Lauren carefully navigated toward us. She looked at Sutcliffe and immediately knew it was bad news.

“I can’t believe you, John Peter,” she spat at me like a child who didn’t get her way. Her sixth sense was the sense of entitlement.

“When everyone told me not to be seen with you because you were a washed up has-been, I stuck with you. I told them that with a new agent and PR firm, you could be somebody again. Then you get this lucky break of being captured by terrorists and you just throw it all away!”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What I really wanted to do was run, but that wasn’t an option. So I said the only thing that made sense to me at that moment, “I’m going on the Ferris wheel. I’ll see you guys around.”

I turned and limped away to the distant shouts of, “John Peter, get back here! John Peter!”

I went to the nearest garbage can to throw away the envelope. But for some reason I decided to hold on to it.