Page 23 of Making It Live!

"I know who you are," he said.His voice was even.Almost calm.But I could hear it — the faintest tremor underneath, the seismic activity below the surface — and I knew he could hear it too.

"I'm sure you do."I let the words sit a beat.The overnight producers were staring at their screens with the desperate concentration of people trying to be invisible."I understand you've been hired as executive producer of my show."

"Your show."

"My show.Is that going to be a problem?"

Something flashed in his eyes.There it was — the Jimmy I remembered.The one who never backed down, who argued about everything.The man who'd once told me with a straight face that PBS was where real journalists worked.

"No," he said."It's not going to be a problem."

"Good."I tapped the folder once."Because I've read your file.Impressive résumé.Extraordinary field work.No live broadcast producing experience of any kind."

"I ran a documentary unit for three years."

"Documentary is not live television, Mr.Goodman.Documentary is controlled.Edited.You shoot, you cut, you polish.Live television is uncontrolled.It breaks, and often it surprises you.Unlike documentaries, it doesn't wait for you to find the perfect frame."I paused."Tonight's broadcast was competent.The C-block restructure was—"

I stopped.I wasn't going to say good, because there was no way in hell I was giving him that.Not here, with witnesses.

"—adequate," I finished."Adequate is not the standard of this broadcast.This show has won eleven Emmys and holds the highest primetime ratings in cable news.I will not see it diminished because Bruce Coleman decided to hire someone without consulting the person who sits behind that desk every night."

Jimmy's jaw set, and he sat straighter in the chair — which I recognized as Jimmy's combat posture, the physical equivalent of planting a flag.

"The C-block was more than adequate," he said.His voice was steady now.The tremor was gone, replaced by something harder."The rescue-dog segment was filler, and you know it.I turned it into something watchable in under a minute.Your audience noticed.Your crew noticed."He glanced at Ray's empty chair, then back at me."I think you noticed too."

The room held its breath.

I stared at him.He looked at me.And for one terrible, suspended moment the thirteen years between us collapsed entirely, and we were twenty-two again — standing in our tiny kitchen, arguing about what mattered and what didn't, neither of us willing to give an inch.

I blinked first.I hated that I blinked first.

"Tomorrow's editorial meeting is at four p.m.," I said."I expect a complete lineup by three.No filler.No dead weight.If you're going to produce this show, you're going to produce it at the level this show demands."

"Understood."

"Goodnight, Mr.Goodman."

"Goodnight, Mr.Mackenzie."

I turned and walked out of the control room.Across the newsroom, down the hallway, past the darkened studio where the anchor desk sat empty under switched-off lights.My footsteps were the only sound.

I didn't stop until I was in my dressing room with the door locked and my back against it.

My hands were shaking.

Not visibly.But I felt it — a fine, deep tremor running from my wrists through my fingers, the kind of shaking that happens when the adrenaline has nowhere left to go.

Jimmy pushed back.Of course he pushed back.It was the thing I'd loved most about him and the thing that had destroyed us.He was still doing it, thirteen years later, sitting in a chair in my control room with his new hair and his old eyes.

I think he noticed it too.

When he restructured the C-block, I'd noticed the precision of his editorial calls, the sharpness of his instincts.I'd noticed, and I'd said adequate, because the truth — which was brilliant — was not something I was capable of giving Jimmy Goodman.Not tonight.Not yet.Maybe not ever.

I pressed my palms against the door and leaned my head back until it touched the wood.

Tomorrow Jimmy would be here again.His sharp voice would be in my earpiece, and his face would be behind the glass wall, and we'd do this again — the professionalism, the subtext, the careful dance of two men who knew each other's bodies and voices and weaknesses and were pretending they didn't.

What happens when he speaks in my ear tomorrow?