Charlie jerked his right hand up as quickly as a snake striking and pointed his finger sternly at Maggie. “If you say anything about tonight to anyone, even the police, Maggie, you’ll wind up just like Phillip Elliot,” Charlie warned. “They wasted Phil and he was a big name in the media. You think they’ll hesitate to make a third-string reporter or an Internet blogger disappear?”
“No offense,” he added, patting Maggie on her leg.
“None taken,” she replied, crossing her arms and looking out the window into the dark.
We should go by my office,” Maggie said suddenly looking at Charlie. “Maybe someone there has more information on what’s happening.”
For a moment Charlie drove without speaking. A large white fire truck, lights flashing and siren wailing, passed them going the other direction. “Good idea, Maggie,” he said, flashing a subdued smile.
As Charlie steered his car toward the office of the Washington Post, Maggie suddenly remembered the booklet that Press Secretary Donna Koontz had ordered them to take and read. She reached into the back seat and retrieved one, looking at the front cover title for the first time.
PRESS PROTOCOL AND PROCEDURES
Maggie went directly to the table of contents and began to read.
1. Prohibited and Illegal Media Reporting Acts
2. News Story Structure and Guidelines
3. Live Television and Field Reporting Directions and Regulations
4. Interview Questions and Techniques
5. Violations, Penalties and Punishments
6. Banned Content
“We’re almost to your office,” Charlie said, bringing Maggie’s attention back to the present.
Maggie tossed the publication into the back seat as if it were an old catalog. “There’s some really scary stuff in there, Charlie,” she said quietly, “and I’m just talking about the table of contents.”
“You think that’s scary, Maggie,” Charlie said, nodding out the front window, “look up ahead.”
Maggie turned to face forward and felt her heart flutter. The multi-floor office of the Washington Post was as dark as night. The normally busy and bustling 24/7 news building was black and empty. The only lights she could see inside were red EXIT signs.
Even worse, there were huge concrete blocks set up on the sidewalk, like the ones used on highway construction projects, that formed a barricade around the building. Bright lights, usually seen at an emergency or accident scene, lit up the street. Maggie counted at least twenty heavily armed soldiers, their rifles held at the ready, standing around the building. They looked serious and eyed Charlie’s car suspiciously as he drove by.
“Stop staring, Maggie,” Charlie ordered, focusing his attention out the front window.
Maggie suddenly felt a knot building in her stomach.
“Does this mean I’m out of a job, Charlie?” Maggie asked, turning to look out the rear window.
“It might,” he replied, glancing quickly at Maggie. “I’m purely speculating, but after what we’ve seen tonight I’ll bet money that when President Barakat addresses the nation tomorrow, he’s going to impose martial law. Why else would half the US military be out in the streets?”
“He can’t do that, can he?” Maggie asked, fishing in her purse for a hair tie. She began to put her long red hair into a ponytail. “Doesn’t he have to get approval from the Senate or Congress or friggin’ someone?” she asked, looking at Charlie for answers.
“Maggie, the only thing that stands between a free country and a dictatorship is a leader with a conscious. We both know President Barakat has been under attack from the Democrats and the GOP for a long time. And lately, it seems he hasn’t been afraid to show his anger when questioned about his failure in his domestic and foreign policies.”
Charlie pulled the car to a halt.
As Maggie looked up, she saw they were parked outside their favorite neighborhood bar. “Oh good, you must have read my mind. I really need a drink,” said Maggie. Charlie and Maggie had been frequent customers of Brothers, an Irish-themed pub, for about four years. It was the perfect little place, surrounded by step-up apartment buildings, and was home to some of Washington’s professional elite. Charlie helped Maggie out of the car and they began walking down the tree-lined sidewalk toward the entrance.
Near the door, Charlie pulled Maggie into the shadow of the building and whispered quietly to her. “Don’t mention anything about what happened tonight, Maggie,” he said. “Now is the time to be cool and calm and simply keep our ears open. Understand?” Charlie asked in a deadly serious tone. She nodded silently.
Outside the entrance, two men in suits stared at their smart phones, grumbling loudly to one another. “They should find these hackers and cut their nuts off,” said one, a short, chubby man with a terrible comb-over. His friend grunted in approval, held his cell phone over his head and began turning in a wobbling circle, seeking better reception.
Maggie could smell an attorney a mile away, and both these guys reeked of legal briefs and out-of-court settlements.
As was usual for a Friday evening, the pub was noisy and full of customers. The clinking of glasses and silverware added to the drone of voices and conversation. A young waitress with a long black ponytail draped over one shoulder immediately recognized them. Smiling and waving a pair of menus over her head, she motioned them to follow. They navigated through the front area of the restaurant, eventually passing pool tables and people playing darts.
Two drunks at the bar were causing a scene. One hefty man wearing a hockey jersey was berating a short, stocky waitress who stood, arms crossed, staring at him with a look of disdain on her face.
“This isn’t tonight’s game,” he slurred, pointing a buffalo wing at the big screen televisions mounted on the wall behind the bar. “I’m telling you, that’s last week’s game.”
Puffing out her chest, the waitress stepped closer until she was nose-to-nose with the drunk. “I know it’s not tonight’s fucking game,” she half screamed. “I heard you the first fifty times. There’s something screwed up with the satellite signal and WE. . . CAN’T . . . FIX . . . IT.” She turned on one heel and, with a huff, stormed away.
The drunk watched her walk away with glassy eyes. “It’s not tonight’s game,” he mumbled at her retiring figure, pointing his beer bottle toward the television as if it were a remote control.
Charlie and Maggie were led to a booth in a dark corner of the restaurant where the walls were adorned with sports memorabilia. Sliding into the booth, Maggie realized everyone seemed relaxed and normal. People laughed and drank. A younger man pointed a french fry at his giggling date, emphasizing something important and witty.
“What’s going on, Sally?” Charlie asked the waitress as she flipped open her ticket book and poised her pen. “My phone and TV are both acting weird,” Charlie lied, fishing for information. “Don’t think I’m behind on a bill or anything.”
“Don’t have a clue,” Sally replied. “About an hour ago, the Lakers game is on, then the satellite just goes off. When it comes back on, last week’s game is playing.”
“What about the other channels?” Maggie interrupted, purposely fishing for more information.
“What other channels?” Sally replied with an innocent giggle. “Most of the channels are off the air. I’ll bring you some water. Do you guys need some more time to decide?”
“Yeah, Sally, give us a few more minutes.” As the waitress turned and headed toward another table, a customer at a neighboring table leaned