Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

A Dilemma for Dena

New York City

1973

Dena had met the Reverend Charles Hamilton at several charity fund-raisers and had been surprised. Every year Reverend Hamilton was named as one of the ten most admired men in America. His church in New York was not the largest but he had become well known nationally because of his books. Although he and his wife, Peggy, had both come from humble beginnings, a small town in rural Kentucky, over the years he had become known as the man who swayed and inspired millions and counseled presidents. Still, apart from his popular public appearances, he tried to keep a low profile in his personal life. Dena had no special interest in preachers, but found the Hamiltons to be exactly what they seemed to be, two extremely nice and genuinely kind people.

At first glance Peggy Hamilton would not strike you as being beautiful, but she was one of those women who, after you spent some time with her, became more and more attractive and then, suddenly, became beautiful. When she talked she made you feel like you were the most important person in the room. Although she usually had only men friends Dena genuinely liked Mrs. Hamilton.

For years now everyone had sought a personal interview with the Hamiltons and they had declined; but, for a reason dear to their hearts, they agreed to give Dena an interview in their home. Years ago, Peggy had quietly founded Children, Inc., an organization that had escalated into a worldwide operation and fed and clothed children. But contributions had slowed and Dena promised to devote half the interview, which would be aired on the network, to promoting Children, Inc., and the other talking about their family life, their marriage, and the secret of its success. Dena was excited. She knew they had picked her to do it because they liked her and it couldn’t have come at a better time. She knew Ira Wallace was getting closer and closer to a decision about possibly adding her to the major news show, and this would be another important interview she had brought in on her own.

Four days before the taping, Wallace called Dena into his office. When she walked in, she saw three men, two of whom she recognized as staff researchers. The third person, a ferret-faced man, was a stranger. For once, Wallace, who never bothered with introductions, said, “Dena Nordstrom, say hello to Sidney Capello; he just made you a star, kid!”

Dena glanced at the man, who managed some sort of half smile in her direction. She nodded. “How do you do.”

Dena sat down. Ira looked like a wolf licking his chops after a serving of Little Red Riding Hood. He was pleased over something.

“I didn’t tell you this because I didn’t want to worry you but I’ve had my best people on this for weeks … and they kept coming up with zero, zilch, nothing. That son of a bitch was as clean as a baby’s ass.”

Dena was confused. “Who … are you talking about?”

“Who? Your reverend friend, Mr. White Bread. For the piece, whattaya think, we couldn’t find a thing, not even a parking ticket, for Christ sakes. But I didn’t give up. I knew this was probably the only chance we’d get to nail him and we’re gonna blow that dumb redneck right out of the water and we got him—thanks to Sidney here. I knew there had to be some crack we could get into and Sidney found it. Not Hamilton but the next best thing—better, if it’s handled right. The little wife, and we’ve got it, one hundred percent, on paper, sworn witness.”

Dena felt a knot in her stomach, anticipating what might be coming next.

“Sidney went down to Kentucky to nose around and he scored big. Before Little Miss Holier Than Thou married Hamilton, she went and got herself knocked up. Not only that, she gave the kid away and hasn’t seen it since.”

“Oh, no, Ira, I can’t believe that,” Dena said, stunned. “Where did this come from?”

Wallace picked up a paper. “Straight from the horse’s mouth, straight from the hayseed who knocked her up. I can’t wait. You’ll schmooze them along, get them going on that happy marriage routine, and then you slip it in. ‘So, Mrs. Hamilton, how long has it been since you’ve seen your first child?’ She’ll be confused, she’ll say whatever the name of her first kid is with Hamilton, and you’ll give her that innocent look of yours and say, ‘No, I was speaking of your daughter that, according to our records, was born in 1952, and you gave up for adoption.’ Then all we do is sit back and watch them sweat and wiggle like worms on a hook. Oh, I love it.”

Dena took a deep breath and sat back in her chair, feeling ill. “Does Charles Hamilton know about this?”

“Who knows, who cares? If not, more the better … we can see the great phony-baloney Christian marriage blow up right on TV. Biggest scoop of the year and you got it, thrown right in your lap; do I take care of you or what?”

Wallace was waiting for Dena to thank him for the scoop but she was not responding the way he thought she would.

“Ira, I know these people personally. They gave me this interview as a favor. They’re going to think I set them up just to trap them.”

Wallace looked at the others. “And what bait, right?”

They laughed. Wallace looked at Capello. “And don’t let that innocent, corn-fed mug of hers fool you, Sid. She has the instincts of a killer. She sits there, smiling, batting those baby blues at them, they start to relax, and then, wham—straight for the jugular. They’ll never know what hit them.”

“Thanks, Ira, just what I always wanted to be, a killer,” Dena said. “Could I talk to you alone, please?”

Wallace was getting concerned now. “Yeah, sure. Boys, take a hike.”

The three men got up and left the room. Wallace looked at her.

“What’s the matter with you? Do you know how lucky we were to get this thing? Capello could have taken it and run with it and sold it for a fortune. I had to promise the dago bastard to make him an associate producer but I got the story for you. You should be grateful.”

“I am. It’s not that, it’s just that …”

Wallace was impatient. “What, just what?”

Dena leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Why do it?”

“Hire him? I had to, he could have sold it right out from under us.”

“No, why do the story?”

“What?”

“I said: Why do it?”

“Are you kidding me? It’s news.”

“Is it? I’m not sure. It seems so … I don’t know, so unnecessary. I mean, shouldn’t we at least let her know it’s coming, and not just ambush her on the air?”

“Listen, we are handing these jerks millions of dollars of free advertising for Christ sakes and you’re gonna let them control the interview? Hell, no. We ask them what we damn well want to, and when we want to; this is a free country.”

“I know, but—”

“What’s with you? All of a sudden you’re Mary Tyler Moore? You’ve asked the hard questions before. Look how you nailed Bosley and the others. They’re all still screaming, for Christ sakes, not to mention the ratings.”

“Yes, but Ira, they were crooks and frauds, cheating the government. They deserved to be exposed. But Peggy Hamilton is a sweet lady who never hurt anybody. There’s a big difference here. Besides, what’s the point?”

“What’s the point, what’s the point? The point is people have a right to know what phonies they are. Now, come on, be happy. You got you the biggest story of the season, maybe the year, thrown right in your lap.”

“Ira, do you have any idea what kind of position you are putting me in? And if I do ask the question, people will hate me for doing it.”

“Oh, please, what, are you kidding? People are gonna love you. It makes them feel better about their own crappy little lives. You’re gonna be a hero … the boys upstairs are gonna love you. Your fans are gonna love you for exposing the truth about these two. Don’t feel sorry for them, they’ve got plenty of money. Grow up, they’re not the poor, innocent people you think they are.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know, believe me, they’re no different than any other schlemiels out there grabbing. All this fund-raising for kids—fund-raising for the Hamiltons, probably.”

“Ira, don’t make me do this. They have children. Think how this is going to affect them. And whether or not you believe it, they have done an awful lot of good for people, people respect him.”

“For Christ sakes, don’t tell me you fall for all that religious hype; the man’s a hypocrite.”

“It’s his wife you’re talking about. What if she did make a mistake? She’s human. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

“Sure, but I’m not passing myself off on the public as some kind of saint. Let me tell you something. You want to be a do-gooder? This is your chance. That’s what’s wrong with this country … people need to know the truth about these bums. That’s your job. You want to live in a dream world, go to Disneyland.”

“I don’t think they’re bums.”

“Well, whatever, just ask the questions. I know what I’m doing; you’re gonna thank me. Now, get out of here.”

Wallace waved a hand to dismiss her, picked up a rundown of the next show, and started working on it. Dena sat for a moment, went to the door, and turned back. “Why do you hate Charles Hamilton so much?”

Wallace looked up at her, genuinely surprised. “Hate him? I don’t hate him. Hell, I don’t even know him.”

Dena went to lunch but she couldn’t eat. Ira had taught her well, and she knew it was not the answer Peggy Hamilton would give that could hurt her, it was the question. Once asked, it would open a floodgate of inquiries. And if she refused to ask it, she could destroy her chances of getting the network job. Nobody crossed Ira Wallace—if you did, you were out. She had worked all these years to get to this point, and now this. Ira had been right about one thing. She was certainly not a saint. She had smiled and charmed people into interviews before and suddenly surprised them on camera with a fact that Wallace’s people had given her. She had been coached to get around her toughest interview of the year by smiling and saying, “I know our producers signed an agreement not to discuss on camera the assault and battery charges your first wife filed against you in 1964, and I respect that, but how do you feel about violence in general?” She knew the tricks and she was good at them. Too good. Ira knew she could do this kind of interview without batting an eye, but something was wrong. This was different. Maybe if they had uncovered something criminal or scandalous about Charles Hamilton, she might feel differently, but this was his wife they were going after. She also knew that Ira had started doing some pretty low stuff to get ratings, but this was a new low, even for him. In less than a year Ira Wallace had brought their news department from third place up to second, and now he seemed obsessed with beating out the first-place network no matter what he had to do.

Dena had been back from lunch a few minutes when Sidney Capello, without knocking, walked in her office and went over and flopped down as if he belonged there. Dena looked at him with the same revulsion as if a snake had suddenly crawled into her office and curled up on her red leather couch.

Capello did not bother to look at her. “Ira wants you to run your questions by me, make sure you get it right.” His eyes darted around the room as if he were looking for flying insects. “You know, the knocked-up preacher’s wife. He wants us to work together.”

Dena stood up. “Oh, no. You and I are not working together on anything, you creep.”

Capello’s eyes darted in her direction. “Hey, I don’t have to take any lip off any bimbo. You don’t want to work with me, that’s your problem, sister.”

Dena did not hear the last sentence; she was storming down the hall. She barged into Wallace’s office. “Did you tell that slimebag he could work with me?”

Wallace was, as usual, on the phone and looked at her. He put his hand up and motioned for her to sit down. Dena sat down and waited. She was so mad her stomach started to hurt again. She took some deep breaths, trying to cool off. Wallace put the phone down. “Now, which slimebag are you talking about?”

“Sidney Capello.” Dena tried to remain calm. “Did you tell him he could work with me?”

Wallace seemed puzzled that there was a problem. “Yeah, so? I told you—I had to make him associate producer.”

“Ira, you may be able to be in the same room with him but I can’t. It’s bad enough I have to work with those other two cretins you call researchers but this guy is disgusting.”

“All right, whatever. I thought he could help you out, that’s all. You two have a personality problem, OK, no big deal. We can work it out, problem solved. Anything else?”

“How can you trust him, Ira? He may be lying about the Hamilton piece. He could have made it up.”

“He ain’t lying. We double checked. He may be a slimebag, but he’s an expert slimebag. You may not like what he comes up with but he’s the best. Trust him? Please, he’d sell his grandmother for fish bait if he thought he could make a dime, but that don’t mean he ain’t good.”

“How can you work with somebody you don’t trust? I don’t understand.”

“Hey! What’s trust got to do with work? This ain’t no popularity contest we’re in; you don’t have to trust someone to do business.”

“Well, maybe you don’t, but I do, and I just don’t feel right about asking that question.”

“Not that again. You know, kid, you disappoint me, as hard as I worked for this. And you, angling for a permanent network shot.”

“I know, Ira, but I know Peggy Hamilton and she trusts me, and her husband does, too. That’s how I got the interview in the first place.”

“Let me ask you something. She knows what kind of business you’re in, right?”

“Yes, but …”

“So business is business. They know that. Why are they doing the interview in the first place? To hustle money, right? They know the score. You’re just doing your job, they use you, you use them, business. Come on, you know better than this. You start thinking like a sap, you’re gonna have your hat handed to you and be on the first bus back to Hicksville Springs.”

Dena flinched. Wallace checked his watch and leaned back in his chair. “Let me tell you a little story. My grandfather came to this country, didn’t have a dime. He had to hustle on the streets all his life. He sold buttons from door to door; he worked eighteen, nineteen hours a day. But when he died he had saved fifteen thousand dollars and he paid my way through NYU. Do you know how many buttons he had to sell? One day I was four years old, he took me in the kitchen and stood me up on a chair. He held out his arms to me and said, ‘Jump.’ I was scared. He said, ‘Come on, jump. I’ll catch you.’ I still didn’t jump. He says, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you trust me? I’m your grandfather.’ So I jumped—and wham, I hit the floor, flat on my kisser. He looks down at me and he says, ‘That’s your first lesson in business, boy. Don’t ever trust nobody. Not even me, don’t ever forget it.” Wallace almost had tears in his eyes. “God, I loved that man and I’ll tell you something else. I never forgot it.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, Ira,” Dena said. “When I was little my grandfather did the same thing to me—only he caught me.”

Wallace said, “Yeah, well, don’t kid yourself. He didn’t do you no favor.”