Page 56 of The Business Trip

The guy whose name was above mine, Trent Something-or-other, had signed so largely that it spilled into my box, but I wanted mine to be small and almost illegible anyway so that no one would know that it wasn’t really Stephanie. Scribbling her name, I turned to find my table.

The ballroom was crowded, and most people were at their spots already. As I approached table four, I tried to walk in a steady, confident way but felt like I might faint. Three others were already there. A tall woman in a dark blue pantsuit and gold earrings, a short guy with curly hair and glasses in a gray suit that looked like it was made of cheaper material, and a taller guy with broad shoulders and slicked-back hair with a suit coat over a T-shirt.Steady, Jasmine, I told myself,steady and calm.

“Are you the fourth person at table four?” the tall guy asked and flashed me a smile with teeth so white I knew they had to be fake or at least mega-bleached.

“Yes,” I said, controlling my voice and trying to project confidence. “My name is Stephanie Monroe.”

“Trent McCarthy, NBC6, Atlanta, and it certainly is nice to meetyou, Stephanie.” He gave me a full up-and-down look. I realized that this was likely the guy who signed his name in such a sprawling way, and based on that, his white teeth, and his leering eyes, I did not like him.

The woman and the other guy introduced themselves and asked what station I was from. My mind raced back to the piece of paper where I had scribbled notes, the one that now sat in Stephanie’s purse on my shoulder. I couldn’t remember the call letters of the station she worked at, but I knew it was CBSin Madison, so I said that and they seemed to accept it without any further questioning. We sat down, and the emcee went up onto the stage.

“Welcome, one and all. We are so excited to have you at the News Coverage Summit. I hope you all had a good trip to beautiful San Diego. We have a jam-packed few days for you, so let’s get going!”

What the hell am I doing here, I thought as the speakers started up. Most of what they were talking about didn’t make sense to me. I mean, I got it in a broad sense, but they were throwing around terms like “FOIA” and “VOSOT” and “package” and “stand-up” and “nat sound” and “track” and “MMJ” that were like Greek to me. I tried to stay still and stoic, though, just sitting quietly as if I were absorbing all of the information. I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at Stephanie’s phone once or twice to make sure no one had called or texted her (they hadn’t) and at mine to make sure Glenn hadn’t somehow been able to get ahold of me (he hadn’t). There were two texts to me from Anna asking me if I was OK and telling me that Glenn was pissed, but I ignored them for now. The good news, though, was that there were now a dozen likes and a few comments on the fake Stephanie Facebook post I had put up. Perfect.

As we were getting close to lunch, I began to feel nervous again. Listening quietly to speakers was one thing. Conversing with strangers and pretending to be Stephanie was another.

“OK, folks, before we break for a wonderful lunch, I want to invite you all to turn to your tablemates and share things that are working in your newsrooms. Go ahead—don’t be shy. Be sure everybody gets a chance to share!”

The room began humming with conversation. My anxiety spiked. What was I going to say? At table four, Trent took command, as I could have predicted.

“Dorothy… Alan… Stephanie.” He pointed at each of us and looked piercingly into our eyes. I tried hard not to avert mine. “In Atlanta, I run a tight ship. I’ve learned over the years that if you give an inch, most will take a mile. It’s also important for the boss to be decisive, so I choose what we’re covering each day and stick to it. Crime is rampant, and we’re known as the breaking news station. People turn to us for that, and we have to live up to it. It bleeds, it leads. You know what I mean, right, Al? How about you, how do you run things up there in the Zoo?”

The wiry guy spoke. “Well, we actually take the opposite approach from your style,” he said. “We try to hear all viewpoints in the newsroom about what we should cover. I think that makes for the best newsroom atmosphere. It should be a democracy, not a dictatorship.”

Immediately, I liked him more than Trent. Then the woman took her turn in a warm voice.

“We’re trying community journalism in Boston. We have assigned reporters to specific neighborhoods and they are embedded there. Some even live in those neighborhoods. We do what we call ‘hometown stories’ and profile restaurants and people in addition to breaking news, politics, and, yes, crime. But crime is not our focus. I think people want solutions-based journalism, not just an amplification of problems. We’re actually tryingnotto run out breathlessly to every breaking news scene. Just because crime happens and is the low-hanging fruit doesn’t mean it automatically gets anointed to the top spot.”

I knew I was next, and my mind was scrambling for something, anything to say.

“So what about you, Steph? How do you do it in Mad-town?” Trent asked and grinned with those ridiculous teeth again. My distaste for him was growing.

“Umm,” I answered and spit out the first thing I could think of. “We kind of do a little bit of everything you all said. You know, we just do our best to cover the news every single day.”

“Uh-huh,” Trent replied. “But like, what is your style?”

“My style?” I gulped. What did that mean?

“Yeah, as a news director,” he added, taking a sip of water and staring at me. Dorothy and Alan were also waiting for a reply. Trent went on: “Are you someone who likes to… punish others? Or do you prefer, you know, a softer touch?”

I saw him wink. His attempts at innuendo were so obvious. It reminded me of guys at the bar who just tried too hard. But I had to answer something.

“Oh, ummm.” I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable. “Well, my style is to be nice to everyone—but tough when I need to. I can do it all.”

They all just looked at me, and I wondered if I had said something wrong. I needed to get out of there.

“Excuse me, I have to run to the restroom.”

Grabbing Stephanie’s purse, I dashed for the bathrooms at the back. In the stall, my head was pounding. Being someone else was exhausting, and I was living off very little sleep and only cheese, chocolate, and coffee for breakfast. My stomach growled. I needed some real food. I would have to eat something at lunch, but my original plan to stay all day at this conference was seeming more and more difficult to achieve. It would mean I would have to put on the facade for a very long time, and what if they did more “sharing” things and I looked like a fool? Would I invite suspicion then?One step at a time, girl, I reminded myself.Get through lunch and then decide.

Emerging from the restroom, I saw the attendees making their way to an outdoor plaza area with a big fireplace. Tables were set up all around, and waiters and waitresses were startingto mill about. My plan was to get away from my current tablemates and just eat quietly with a new group. I drifted toward a table off to the side and near the back and was just about to sit down next to a woman about my age when Trent came up and pushed his way past her.

“Mind if I take this seat?” he said. “There’s an empty one over there for you. Stephanie and I have some unfinished business to attend to.” He winked at me. The woman huffed and walked away.

“Hiya, table-four friend. I thought we should get to know each other better,” he said. As we sat down, he turned his body so that it engulfed me, making me feel trapped in my chair and unable to turn my head to talk to the person on my other side. Then he started asking me questions. My brain was tired, but I managed to have enough firepower to accurately answer where I went to school (DePaul), where I was from (Indiana), and if I had any kids (a son named Evan). Trying to deflect the conversation from me, I asked him about himself. University of Illinois (he even told me what frat he was in, as if I cared), divorced, two kids, wife wanted all of his money. It started to feel too personal for a business conference.

Trent looped his arm around the back of my chair in a much-too-familiar way as we spoke, and he leaned in closely. I could smell stale coffee breath and feel his sexual desire oozing off him, and it sickened me. I mean, we had only just met. Did this guy think I would just go back to the room and sleep with him? I had seen his type many times at the bar, too many. I found myself leaning away from him as much as I could. Thankfully, the waitress approached.

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