The Newsmakers (10 page)

“Yes?”

“Erica Sparks to see Ms. Barrish.”

The gates swing open and they drive up a small rise and find themselves in a parking court in front of a rambling white house that looks as if it were airlifted in from Connecticut—except for the pop of neon color provided by the blooming vines that artfully climb the façade. It's a large house, yes, but not at all gaudy or intimidating.

Erica gets out of the car just as Kay Barrish comes out of the house. She's wearing Levi's, a white cotton shirt, a brown leather belt, and
blue sneakers—the orange scarf tied around her neck gives her a splash of color. She looks lovely: fresh, fit, and vibrant. She grasps Erica's hands and gives her a radiant movie-star smile. “Erica, welcome. How terrific to meet you.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you. Before we go any further, I have a message from Nancy Huffman, the head of wardrobe at GNN, and Rosario Acevado, one of our makeup artists: ‘We
love
you.' I, on the other hand, reserve judgment.”

Barrish roars with laughter. Her face looks unlifted, if pampered, she's wearing nothing more than lipstick, and her silver-blonde hair is swept back and picks up glints of sunlight. “Oh good, you'll keep me on my toes! And love back to those two ladies. Come in, come in.”

Erica follows Kay into the house. The living room is large and comfortable, the furnishings a mix of traditional and modern, with bold abstract art on the walls. The far wall is all glass and looks out onto a large yard, a pool, and several outbuildings. Kay leads them down a wide hallway and into the kitchen/family room, which is huge and filled with sparkly appliances, but lived-in and homey at the same time.

“How about a cup of coffee?”

“Love one.”

“And I made us some muffins.”

“Did you really?”

“No.” The women smile at each other. “I'm not much of a cook, although I do make delicious boiled water.”

“You should taste my Cheerios.”

Kay pours them both mugs of coffee. “So, Mom was very impressed with you.”

“We had a nice time. She's really mastered aging, hasn't she?”

“I'm awfully proud of her.” Kay leans forward, forearms on the counter, and lowers her voice, pulling Erica in. “It was so tough on her when Dad died. They just adored each other. If she hadn't had to take care of me, I think she would have drowned in her grief. But she got up every morning and did what she had to do. There wasn't any money.
She went back to college and got her teaching degree. She cooked dinner every night and helped me with my homework. And, as you saw, she found a passion, a way to bring beauty into the world. When I look at her garden, I see grief transformed.”

Listening to her, Erica completely forgets she's talking to one of the most famous and formidable women in the country, someone with a good chance of becoming president.

“How did it affect you?” she asks.

“It was a terrible shock, of course. I was Daddy's girl and then suddenly Daddy was gone. I'm not sure you ever fully recover from a shock that great.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I think it gave me my drive. I was so little, but kids
feel
things that they may not understand intellectually. I could feel Mom's sadness, and to be honest, I wanted to get away from it. It was more than I could handle. And I wanted to
live
, fully and completely, to make my life
matter
. In honor of Dad, but also because I instinctively understood how fragile life is. We don't have forever.” Kay looks out the window at the beautiful day.

Erica is moved by her words. Was there an element of performance? Of course there was. But all great performances contain truth—that's what makes them great.

Kay stands up tall, and when she speaks, her voice is full. “Well, we certainly got to the nitty-gritty in record time.”

“I know your father would be very proud of you.”

“I sure hope so.” She makes an encompassing gesture. “None of this happened by accident. Come on, let me show you around.”

For the next hour Erica gets a tour of Barrishland. She sees the pool, the children's playground, and the gardens with their crazy-quilt California colors and view of the Pacific, blue and crashing and infinite.

“Not a single hosta,” Kay cracks.

The sprawling guesthouse has been turned into her office, nerve center, and de facto campaign headquarters. One room is home to half a dozen nicely dressed operatives and aides, several of them on their smartphones, the others hunched over computer screens, monitoring
social media sites and keeping Kay's posts up to the minute. A second room is filled with younger, casually dressed interns who are working the phones, reaching out to voters across the country. There are a couple of private offices. In one Erica is introduced to Audra Ruiz, Kay's chief of staff, a woman whose fiercely intelligent eyes quickly size up Erica. The second is lined wall to wall with books and is home to a researcher and a speech writer. As Kay walks through the rooms, she answers questions, makes requests, asks about family members, and banters with an easy jocularity—she is clearly a much-loved boss. Doing her research, Erica discovered that many of Barrish's staff have been with her since she first entered politics. The whole place hums with a sense of unity, purpose, and momentum. People are working hard, very hard, but they are happy to be doing so.

Finally there's Kay's private office, the door guarded by a no-nonsense middle-aged male secretary.

“Bob Franklin, Erica Sparks,” Kay says.

Franklin smiles but—like Audra Ruiz—there's a protective scrutiny in his eyes. Erica gets the sense these people would lay down their lives for Kay Barrish.

“Bob is an organizational genius. Without him I'd be nothing but Post-it notes and missed appointments.”

“And gray roots,” he adds.

“I've asked you not to reveal any state secrets.”

Kay leads Erica into her office. One wall is book lined; there's an enormous desk, a comfortable seating area, and a view of the ocean out a picture window.

“Well, there you have it,” Kay says. “Our foundation is headquartered downtown and is much more formal.”

Unlike most successful people's offices, this one has no wall filled with plaques, awards, and certificates. “Where's the trophy wall?” Erica asks.

“I'm much more interested in where I'm going than where I've been.”

“It's all very impressive. May I ask one question?”

“Shoot.”

“When are you going to announce your decision on running for president?”

“Mom was right about you, Erica. You're direct and honest. I like that. Mom also told me about your struggles. I
admire
that.”

Kay sits on one of two facing sofas and gestures to the other one. Erica sits.

“As to your question: Both my kids are off in college and doing well. My husband is supportive. People across the country and across the political spectrum are urging me to get into the race. I have concrete, well-thought-out ideas that I believe can unite the country and move us all forward.” Barrish grows pensive; she looks around the room, gathers herself. “All that said, it's a
big
step and I have to be absolutely sure that I'm up for it and that it's the right move for my family. And I'm not quite there yet.” There's a pause; she locks eyes with Erica. “Off the record, if you buy that denial, I have a nice bridge you might be interested in.”

Erica sits there, stunned into momentary silence. Then Barrish lets out one of her warm, loud, down-to-earth laughs, calls Bob into the office, and sets up Erica's interview for the next day.

CHAPTER 18

ERICA TRIES TO CONTAIN HER
excitement as Kay walks her to the car and waves her off. As soon as she's past the gate, she takes out her phone and calls Greg.

“I got it.”

“You got it?”

“Yup.”

Greg lets out a holler, sounding like a Little Leaguer who just hit a game-winning home run. She smiles at his exuberance. “I am
so
proud of you, Erica.”

“We're not home yet, Greg, I still have the interview to get through.”

“Did she give you any hint of what her decision will be?”

“No comment.”

“That speaks volumes. Nylan is going to be over the moon. Where and when?”

“Tomorrow at her house.”

“That's fast. I've got to get to work putting together a promo. We'll broadcast it wall to wall on the network and all over social media. We'll drive the ratings through the roof:
Will she or won't she?
There's a lot to do on this end. I'll arrange for on-site hair and makeup, and I'll book
the best lighting guy in LA. This interview is going to take you to the next level, and I want you to look sensational.”

“We'll start with me outside the house. I'll establish the location, and the why and wherefore of the interview. Then Kay will show me around the grounds. We'll keep that segment light and family-centric. We can tape it in the afternoon. Then we'll shoot the actual interview live in her living room at eight eastern time,” Erica says.

“Peak viewership,” Greg says. “We're going to blow the other networks off the map.”

“Let's not count any chickens. I'm nervous enough as is.”

“You're going to be fantastic. I'll fly out tomorrow morning. Don't talk to anyone in the business until we've announced it. We don't want this leaked.”

“Tight lips on your end too, please. Especially with Claire.”

“No way she's stealing this story. Kay Barrish picked
you
.”

“She's a pretty terrific woman.”

Greg lowers his voice. “Look who's talking.”

“I couldn't have done it without your support.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Erica.”

There's a moment of silence between them. Erica feels something electric and anticipatory—a tingling in her short hairs—that has nothing to do with landing the Kay Barrish interview.

CHAPTER 19

WHEN SHE GETS BACK TO
her hotel, Erica calls Moira, tells her the news, and cancels their lunch. Of course Moira understands. Then Erica sits down at the desk and spends the afternoon writing and rewriting her introduction to the interview, her questions for the lightweight part of the segment as Kay shows her around the grounds, and then for the mother lode—the living-room exchange in which, Erica is fairly positive, Barrish will announce that she is running for president of the United States.

Erica is so absorbed in her work that she loses track of time. When she looks up, it's six o'clock and she realizes that she hasn't eaten since breakfast. Not that she's hungry, but she knows she needs to eat. She orders a tuna fish sandwich and a fruit salad from room service. While she's waiting for it to arrive, she does a half hour of Tae Kwon Do. The food is delivered, and she turns on GNN. Almost immediately a promo for her interview comes on. It features footage of Kay Barrish accepting her Oscar, addressing the California legislature as governor, and then visiting a clinic in rural Mexico funded by her foundation. The voice-over describes her many accomplishments and ends with a visual of the White House and: W
ILL SHE OR WON
'
T SHE
? F
IND OUT
TOMORROW AT EIGHT P.M. IN
E
RICA
S
PARKS
'
S EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH
K
AY
B
ARRISH
.

Erica clicks off the set, feeling a combination of excitement and almost overwhelming pressure. She retrieves her deck of cards, sits on the edge of the bed, and plays three hands of solitaire. Then she calls the front desk and asks for a printer to be sent up. When it arrives, she prints out the introduction and the questions she has written up. Then she starts to rehearse, walking around the room as if she were at Barrish's house. She goes over it again and again until she has it just about memorized. She wants to be prepared for any eventuality.

Before she knows it, it's almost ten o'clock. She takes a shower, slips into an oversize T-shirt, gets into bed, and turns out the lights. She lies there as her exhaustion battles her adrenaline. She
needs
to sleep. She closes her eyes and tries to clear her mind. Just as she's dozing off, her hotel phone rings.

“This is Erica.”

“Erica, it's Mark Benton.” His voice is charged and urgent. She sits up, throws off the covers, and swings her legs to the floor. “I've been working nonstop on our project. I was up all last night and called in sick to work today. I borrowed a page from the North Koreans and hacked into the computer of a midlevel manager at the NYC Department of Transportation. I took on his identity and then used it to maneuver through a maze of DOT systems. But I finally got into the ferry's system. Erica, the ferry's controls
were
hacked.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. The log files on the DOT router I used to get into the ferry system show invasive activity minutes before the crash.”

“Do you know by who?”

“No. Finding their identity is going to be a lot harder. I need an IP address or something else to go on, and these people are very good at covering their tracks. They use proxy servers to block or mask their IPs, and Tor, a freeware program that hides your identity online no matter what you're doing. It basically makes them invisible, or at least
indistinguishable from millions of other people online. It could be anyone anywhere. The ferry could have been hacked from Beijing, or it could have been done from Fourteenth Street.”

“But still, the crash was an act of cyberterrorism.”

“It certainly looks that way to me.”