Chapter 6 - The Executive Review
The third-floor conference room of the WVRA building looked like a war room. Papers were strewn across the long glass table, digital tablets showed live feeds of the station’s social media traffic—which was currently spiking at five times its normal holiday volume—and the air was thick with the scent of cheap delivery pizza and corporate panic.
Dave Miller, the news director—a harried, red-faced man in his late fifties who lived on Tums and coffee—was pacing the floor, his cell phone pressed to his ear.
"I don't care about the country club association, Bob!" Dave shouted into the phone. "She’s our lead anchor! The tape is already on Twitter! We can't pretend it doesn't exist!... No, we’re not running a pre-recorded special on the history of the Jamestown settlement instead! Goodbye!"
He slammed the phone down onto the table and turned as Faith walked through the door, followed by Marcus, her lead investigative producer—a sharp, twenty-six-year-old Black man with a degree from Howard University and a laptop that currently contained enough state corruption data to clear out the General Assembly.
Dave stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes locking onto the purple swelling on Faith’s cheek. "Jesus, Faith. It’s worse than the phone video looked."
"The audit files are clean, Dave," Faith said, ignoring his comment as she took a seat at the head of the table. She pulled Marcus’s laptop toward her. "The land deeds are verified. The Delaware shell company belongs to Brett Anderson, and the secondary account that received the county funds has Todd’s signature as the trustee. The councilwoman took a fifty-thousand-dollar campaign contribution disguised as a historic preservation grant three days before she signed the zoning variance."
"Faith, listen to me," Dave said, leaning his hands on the table, his voice dropping into that nervous, managerial tone she had learned to distrust years ago. "The story is huge. It’s an incredible piece of journalism. But the legal team from the network’s corporate office in New York is on the line. They’re worried about the timing. They think if we run this story tonight—three hours after an incident that looks... well, that looks like a domestic dispute—it’s going to look like a personal vendetta. They want us to hand the files over to the federal prosecutor’s office and run a standard report on the zoning laws tonight, without the names."
Faith looked at the speakerphone in the center of the table, where the green light indicated the New York corporate attorneys were listening.
"Mr. Miller," a sharp, female voice came through the speaker—Sarah Jenkins, the head of network risk management. "Miss Underwood is a valuable asset to the station, but we have to maintain the appearance of objective distance. Running an investigative segment that targets your anchor’s husband and brother-in-law, immediately after a viral personal altercation, violates our core journalistic guidelines. We recommend Miss Underwood take a two-week paid leave while the internal affairs team reviews the conflict of interest."
Faith leaned forward, her voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying Alto that had dismantled three consecutive governors during her career.
"Miss Jenkins," Faith said, her eyes fixed on the speakerphone. "My husband didn't slap me because of a domestic dispute. He slapped me because I was standing at his mother’s table with the proof of a million-dollar municipal fraud in my pocket. He didn't hit his wife, Miss Jenkins. He hit the lead investigative reporter for WVRA because he thought the Anderson name had enough weight in this state to keep her quiet."
She stood up, her tall frame blocking the bright overhead fluorescent lights. "The story isn't about my marriage. The story is about forty acres of public historical land—a burial ground containing the remains of Black Virginians who built that county—being paved over by a corrupt real estate firm using public tax dollars. If you take me out of that chair tonight, you're not protecting the network’s objectivity. You're helping the Anderson family complete the erasure."
The silence from the speakerphone lasted for five long seconds.
"The legal risk—" Sarah Jenkins began.
"The legal risk is that I walk across the street to the independent public station, hand them Marcus’s laptop, and go on their live midnight stream with the bruise still on my face," Faith said smoothly. "And then we can let the viewers of Richmond decide why WVRA decided to protect a crooked councilwoman on the Fourth of July."
Dave Miller let out a long, low whistle, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his harried expression. He turned toward the speakerphone. "Sarah, call the network CEO. Tell him we’re running the package at eleven. And tell him to buy more commercial space, because every television in the state of Virginia is about to turn to this channel."
He looked back at Faith, his eyes softening as he nodded toward her face. "Faith... we need to get you to the makeup room. The lighting in Studio A is brutal on bruises."
May you like
Faith reached up, her fingers tracing the swelling line of the handprint across her skin. She looked at Marcus, who was watching her with a quiet, profound pride.
"No makeup, Dave," Faith said, her voice dropping into a register that sounded like stone. "We change the lighting. We turn up the keys. If the people of this city are going to see the truth about the Andersons, they’re going to see exactly what the truth looks like when it hits back."
