Misadventures in Reporting

#1 - Working the Deadline

The typing was slowly dying away. One by one, the journalist's coworkers were leaving the office, finished with that day's work. She still struggled with hers, though. It had been two hours already, revising, making sure she got the right tone for it. Trying hard to not sound accusatory, but denouncing a wrong done by a beloved celebrity.

What was worse is that it wasn't just any celebrity: it was the city's beloved superhero. She tapped her pen against the desk at the reminder. The journalist never thought she'd end up calling out someone with superpowers. But he had crossed the line, and she couldn't stay quiet.

With a sigh, the woman with dark hair passed the page from her pad and stared at the last of her notes. It was a quote from the interviewed victim: "Just because he saved my life, it doesn't give him any right over my body."

It was the best quote she had gotten in a long time. Even better than that time she caught a senator saying: "Why should we give money to spics?" Oh, the newspaper had had a field day with that one, and it looked even juicier with Melinda Martínez in the byline.

But this was different. Nobody liked senator Ross, but everybody loved Teleman. And Teleman was the one under fire this time. And Melinda Martínez would not look so good this time.

Tsk, double standard, she thought bitterly. The woman absentmindedly reached for her coffee cup and lifted it to her lips, only to feel tiny crumbs of coffee ground on her tongue.

With a grimace, Melinda stood up. She headed to the small kitchen, past the desks. Slowly, and with a deep breath, she poured the remaining black liquid into the cup. When was the last time she had worked this late? Oh yeah, last week, after the fire Teleman helped put out. Well, that wasn't comforting.

Melinda started back to her desk, in the hopes of revising only one more time, before turning it in to her editor. It would already be her fifth time, but it was such a touchy subject, she had to make sure it was just right.

She sat down once again and drank one third of the coffee she had just poured. Setting it down, she placed one fist under her chin and the other grabbed her pen. For the sixth time that night, she reread her article. Every now and then, she stopped to change a word here and there, but not as much as the other five times she revised.

By the end of the reading, she was tapping her pen against the notepad, deciding whether to send it or not. At this point, any additional change would merely be stalling for the inevitable.

This was it.

With a deep breath, she set down her pen and grabbed the computer mouse instead. With only a few clicks, a copy of the article was printed and another copy was sent to her editor's email, Mr. Sullivan.

Melinda downed the last of her coffee and worked as quickly as she could to grab all her stuff, including tablet, cellphone, notepad, pen and jacket. After putting everything except the jacket in a messenger bag, she grabbed the article from the printer, heading to her editor's office.

When she reached the door, she lightly knocked on the door frame to announce her appearance. A man in his early fifties looked up from his computer screen, from the space over his glasses. Melinda exhaled loudly.

"I sent you the article to your email, plus I printed it out," she quietly said, handing the paper to the man. "I also sent you the recordings and my sources, just in case."

"Fine, I'll read it in a minute," he commented, turning his attention back to the screen.

"'Night Mr. Sullivan," she waved.