CHAPTER 1
It’s a slow news day.
Scratch that.
It’s a slow news day, according to David Matthew. There are plenty of stories to tell in a metro area of five million people, but when your executive producer has an inferiority complex about working in Phoenix instead of Los Angeles, it’s an argument you often lose. We call David “Sexy” behind his back. Not because he’s sexy. Because he’s always asking if a story is sexy.
“Hey, it might be silly but at least it’s a first.” Nate glances at me from the driver’s seat of our news truck.
I grunt. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.”
“You’re just hangry,” he says.
“And tired of chasing stupid stuff.”
Nate’s worked with me long enough to let it go. He flips the radio to KEZ. Christmas is six weeks away and Mariah Carey, Nat King Cole, and José Feliciano dominate the airwaves. I’ve never felt as rich as my first holiday season in Phoenix. Lounging coatless in a wicker chair on a slab of concrete patio, I was Oprah on the terrace of my Maui estate. After two years without snowstorms, freezing rain, and below-zero wind chills, I still pinch myself. As Nate hums along to “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” I check my phone, hoping for a new text. But the same words that interrupted our lunch taunt me.
Mayor’s stuck in elevator. Get to city hall.
Although Phoenix is the nation’s fifth-largest city, we lack the Hollywood A-listers found in the second-largest, so on this day our biggest star is a local politician.
“Wonder how Mayor Ace is doing.”
“Don’t call him that, Nate. He’s not our friend. He’s—”
“Yes, Jolene, I know your opinion. He’s an elected official and we should refer to him by his last name. But Ace is how he introduces himself and it’s what everybody calls him. I’m just being conversational. That’s what broadcast news is supposed to be, right?”
This time, I let it go. Not every story can be as big as the murder of Larry Lemmon, a controversial radio talk show host. To be clear, I don’t need to come face-to-face with a killer again, but covering legitimate news would be welcome. My reporting on Lemmon’s murder landed me on the network’s radar a couple months ago, but since then it’s been radio silence.
We pass the twenty-story city hall and my eyes are drawn to the sunburst sculpture above the main entrance, its copper center a nod to Arizona’s mining industry. Nate takes a right at Third Avenue and pulls into the only available parking space between two oversized SUVs. I open the door and slide out, giving myself a mental pat on the back for wearing sensible shoes.
“I can carry the tripod.”
“I got it,” Nate says. “We’ll use the backpack unit if we have to go live.”
“If? C’mon, you know we will.”
Nate slips black straps over his shoulders. Through the magic of cellular networks that I’ll never understand, the eleven-pound device lets us report live without stringing cables from the truck. It’s faster and safer.
“You’re probably right.” Nate grips the camera in one hand, tripod in the other. “After all, we’re dealing with a mayor who is unavoidable for comment.”
“And a manager who is unable to recognize real news.”
Waiting on the corner for a break in traffic, we watch a woman direct a young girl to stand under the Orpheum Theatre marquee. They probably decided to wear their matching pink shirts as they giggled over homemade pancakes with fresh strawberries. The woman straightens a ribbon in the girl’s hair before kneeling and taking a photo.
As we cross the street, the girl squeals, “Now both of us, Mommy!”
Nate offers to take their picture while I extend a courtesy smile and curse my phone. Still no text offering an escape.
Nate holds the woman’s phone horizontally. “I’ll take a couple this way to get the Orpheum name and building.” He flips the camera. “And then this way. Will that work?”
“That’s perfect.” The mother bends down and wraps an arm around her daughter. “What do you say, Riley?”
“Perfect!”
“No, sweetie, what do you say to the man who’s taking our picture?”
“Thank you.”
“That’s my girl.” She kisses her cheek and says, “We’re celebrating Riley’s last birthday before she starts school. Having photos that aren’t selfies will be special. Thank you.”
“I understand,” Nate says. “My daughter’s in kindergarten.”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I called in sick to work so we could have a mommy-daughter day.”
“Family is more important than any job.”
I grab the tripod. “Nate, I’ll meet you at the entrance.”
As I walk by the memorial wall honoring city employees who’ve died in the line of duty, I realize I’ve avoided Mr. Unavoidable since last year’s ceremony. Of course, I’ve seen his social media posts. Who hasn’t? Somehow, the mayor managed to turn the murder of a local radio talk show host into a springboard for his own talk show. A syndicated TV show, picked up by half the markets across the country.
Nate’s smiling when he arrives. “I might have to schedule a daddy-daughter day.”
“Ready?” I plunk the tripod on a conveyor belt.
One guard eyes our gear through the X-ray machine and another asks, “Are you here for Mayor Ace?”
Nate smirks at me. “We are here for Mayor Ace. How’s he’s doing?”
“Oh, probably getting antsy would be my guess. Been in there about half an hour.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Yep.” He jams thumbs into belt loops and hikes up polyester pants. “PPD. That’s personal protective detail.”
Near the faulty elevator, a congregation has gathered, heads bowed in devotion to digital devices. Sexy must be psychic because he texts for an update.
I respond with, We just got here.
You need to post! Mayor is.
“I’ll get a few shots while you figure out what’s going on.” Nate pops in an earbud. “I’ll be listening. Here’s the mic.”
Holding a microphone with the station’s call letters is like walking into a political fundraiser waving a wad of cash.
“Hi, Jolene, nice to see you again.”
It takes me a second to recognize Faith Williams, the mayor’s chief of staff. Like the mayor, Faith has changed since the radio host’s murder. She’s traded conservative blazers for trendy dresses. Dropped eyeglasses and added fake lashes. But her focus remains the same: making her boss look good.
“Did you see Mayor Ace’s posts? Is that what brought you here?”
“The station texted us to come. That’s all I know.” I raise the mic so Nate can listen in. “Can you fill in the blanks?”
“Happy to. The mayor was heading to a meeting with the human services team on the eighteenth floor to express his gratitude for their hard work when the elevator got stuck. Inside, the button for eighteen is lit. Outside, seventeen is lit. We’re waiting for the technician to arrive.” She peeks at her phone. “Are you going live?”
Not if I can help it, I want to say. Instead, I ask who else is in the elevator.
“One officer is with Mayor Ace, a member of his security detail. Once the technician’s here, we’re told it should take about fifteen minutes to open the door.” She inches closer and lowers her voice. “But we can hold off if you need more time to set up a live shot.”
I drift back. “No, no. That’s unethical. Besides, if you were stuck wouldn’t you want to get out as soon as possible?”
“Most definitely. However, we are talking about Mayor Ace. As you know, he has a flair for drama.”
And a knack for getting fluff coverage.
“Any idea what went wrong?”
“Not yet,” Faith says. “Could be a blown fuse. It’s happened before.” She gestures to the elevators. “There’s been talk of replacing them, but you know Mayor Ace, he’s all about fiscal responsibility and making sure taxpayers get their money’s worth. With proper maintenance, we should get a few more years out of them.”
“Thanks for your help, Faith. I need to check in with my producer and photographer.”
“My pleasure. Let me know if I can do anything. You have my number?”
I nod.
“And just so you know, the mayor still has cell reception, so you could even talk to him during your live shot. Or maybe you could be reporting live as the door opens. That would be fun!”
Yikes. Is she related to Sexy?
As I make my getaway, Faith calls out, “I’ll keep you posted. I can give you a countdown to the door opening.”
To avoid wasting time texting back and forth, I dial the dreaded hotline. Producers from the four, five, and six o’clock newscasts can jump on. It’s meant to provide clear communication for everyone at the same time, but people are often multitasking, not listening, or in Sexy’s case, hearing only what he wants to hear—accurate or not.
“Why aren’t you posting?”
“David, I’ve been here all of five minutes. First, I gathered information. Then I thought you might be interested in what I learned. But if you’d rather I hang up and post, I can do that.”
“How about you skip the sarcasm and tell us what you have?”
After I explain, David suggests I look at the mayor’s posts. “He tells a much more interesting story.”
“Because he’s the one stuck. And he’s a politician. I’m a reporter.” I watch Nate come down the grand staircase. “Nate’s shooting video and we can talk to the mayor after he’s out. You’ll have stories for the early newscasts.”
“Jolene, have you learned nothing from our social media meetings? The story’s happening now. You’re live on the scene of a big-city mayor trapped in an elevator. Any other stations there?”
“No.”
“How about going live on Facebook as he’s freed?”
Freed? He’s not leaving prison after being wrongfully convicted.
“Oh, looks like the mayor’s chief of staff is waving for me. Gotta go.”
“Get posting.”
I stab the red button to disconnect but David beats me to it.
“What’s the word?” Nate asks.
“Technician’s on the way,” I say. “Then it’ll take about fifteen minutes to get the mayor and one officer out. Can you keep an eye on the mayor’s chief of staff?” I hand him the mic. “She’s by the security desk, in the purple dress. I need to take photos and post.”
Nate sticks the mic in his back pocket. “No problem. All I need is video of the door opening.”
After snapping a shot of the atrium with the elevators in the background, I circle around the crowd to get a tight shot of the elevator doors.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to move back.”
A tall woman wearing brown pants, a beige shirt, and a stern expression blocks my view.
I point to the lanyard with my press ID. “I’m a reporter. Just need to get a photo.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to let anyone pass. We have an emergency response team on the way.”
“Yes, I know a technician is coming, but I won’t be in the way, I promise. It’ll take thirty seconds.”
“Ma’am, you are not—”
“Need help?”
The mayor’s chief of staff can not only spot a microphone from a distance but also smell a reporter in trouble.
“Hi, Faith. I just need to get a little closer for a quick pic.”
Faith shows the guard her ID and promises to escort me.
“Ma’am, my orders are to keep the area secure.”
“I appreciate that, Officer…?”
“Begay, ma’am. But I’m not a police officer. I’m private security.”
“But you provide the first line of defense, Officer Begay, and I can assure you the mayor will be pleased to hear about your diligence. And he’ll appreciate learning that this reporter was treated appropriately as she carried out her professional duties in keeping the public informed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She steps aside, her face blazing with disdain.
I follow Faith to the elevator and snap photos of the doors and floor number. Walking away, Faith gives the guard a thumbs-up. She responds with a sharp nod.
“Thank you, Faith.”
“No worries. Let me know if you want to talk to the mayor during the rescue.”
“My orders are to post right now but that could change.”
“I’ll be around.”
I move to the edge of the crowd to compose a post.
“Excuse me, aren’t you the reporter who helped catch Larry Lemmon’s killer?”
The question comes from a person I see every night before falling asleep.
“I’m Whitney Wright.”
No introduction needed. Whitney and her brother Marcus are household names. Thanks to catchy jingles, a unique tagline, and ample advertising budget, more people on the street can name their law firm than can name the mayor. For six months straight, the same commercial has been airing on every station’s late newscast. “The Wright team will get you the right results.”
The real-life Whitney interrupts my TV version. “Are you interested in a real story?”
I almost say, “You mean the right story?” but her expression stops me.
CHAPTER2
Like a good lawyer, Whitney Wright plays to my ego.
“Since you solved Larry Lemmon’s murder, you’ll find what I have to say intriguing.”
Before I reported on the controversial talk show host’s murder, I was an average reporter. No major social media following, no chance of making the New Times’ Best of Phoenix list or being featured in Phoenix magazine. But when Larry lost his life, I gained a new one, granting interviews to national media and winning my first Emmy.
Whitney pulls her shirt cuffs and clears her throat like she’s about to address a jury.
“I have put the city on notice that the Wright Legal Firm, on behalf of our client, is prepared to file a complaint in Superior Court over an unlawful contract.”
“What’s the contract?’
Scouting for potential eavesdroppers, she motions me away from the elevators. If Whitney really wants to avoid attention, she should skip the band of metal bracelets on her wrists.
“It’s a flooring contract,” Whitney says. “A two-year deal worth a million dollars with an option to renew.”
“Sounds like a lot of flooring,” I say while scanning the crowd for Faith. I can’t miss the mayor’s magnificent exit.
“The city owns a lot of buildings. Police and fire stations, community centers, libraries, public housing, just to name a few.”
“What’s your client’s complaint?”
“The bid system is rigged. Same guy always gets the contracts.”
“And you’re saying he doesn’t offer the best deal?”
“I’m saying something shady is going on.” She twists a shoulder, providing a view of thick monogrammed letters on a leather satchel: WOW. “Shady enough to cause the winning bidder to verbally threaten my client’s life.” Whitney flicks the flap, pulls out a red folder, and rifles through papers. “Here’s our letter of intent.”
Copyright © 2025 by Christina Estes
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