Misadventures in Reporting

#3 - Teleman's Mark

"I don't even know where to begin with you."

Melinda gulped under the scrutiny of Mr. Sullivan. Boy, was she in so much trouble. But nobody told her doing the right thing would be cheap. The reporter took a deep breath, weighing her options. Apologize? Defend herself? Wait for the boss to say his piece? Perhaps the third option. She was in enough trouble as it was.

"How many times have I told you not to push the deadline?" Mr. Sullivan hissed, almost barring his yellowish teeth.

Wait, am I supposed to answer that?

"A million times I've told you," he continued. With every word he spoke, the desk between them felt smaller and smaller. Had he always looked so large behind it? "And yet, you give me one of the most important reports, if not the most important report in months with and hour to spare for printing. We had to cut the last two paragraphs because we didn't have time to look through the whole thing!"

The woman winced. She had hoped only one paragraph would have to be cut. But alas, most of it got through without major changes.

"And now," Mr. Sullivan raised his voice, "now we got a Porsche in the redaction floor, thanks to your little stunt. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Melinda's mouth opened, but it suddenly went dry, so she closed it back up. Was she willing to put next month's rent at risk just for 'doing the right thing'? Was it worth sacrificing several months of electricity or water for being right? Was she right?

"I didn't think he'd take it so bad," she managed to say at last.

"The guy held up a damn crane with his mind," the aging man deadpanned. "What did you think he was going to do? Throw confetti?"

The woman's gaze darted to the surface of the desk. It wasn't until that moment that shame started to invade her. How could she be so thoughtless? Over three-hundred people worked in this newspaper. Her article would reflect on the company, and thus, her coworkers. Someone could have gotten hurt.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sullivan," she said quietly. "It won't happen again."

The man snarled a sound of disgust, giving her an exasperated look.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't fire you right now," he hissed.

A loud thudding resounded from Melinda's insides. Her heart was drumming hard against her chest. She could feel a drop of sweat trickling down the side of her face, despite the cold air conditioning.

The article broke my career, she concluded.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Tsk." Mr. Sullivan shook his head. "You really are dense."

Well that's uncalled for, Melinda thought, rising her gaze to his once again. His expression still seemed exasperated, but now he was looking outside his office.

"Mr. Sullivan, I—"

"You can't get fired because you proved your point," he interrupted. Melinda frowned. "Three years here, and you still can't put your deduction skills to use under pressure. So, let's try this again: give me one good reason I shouldn't fire you this instant."

It was like a light flicked on in Melinda's brain. He wasn't firing her, he was testing her. Why does he have to be so mean about it, though?

"Because," she started, still hesitant to respond back, but determined to keep her job. "Because if our—my­—allegations were false, the proper response would've been to call a press conference denying the claims. Throwing a car through our building dampers his own reputation, and it's an attempt against freedom of press. It's a threat against not only us, but anyone who dares talk ill of him." The woman smirked. "Not very superheroic, if you ask me."