PDX Portland 2022 Winter: Newsroom PDX Omnibus, #6

By L.J. Breedlove

People over Politics?

The job of a newspaper is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable — Finley Peter Dunne.

 

It feels like Portland staggers from crisis to crisis, and the Eyewitness News staggers along with the city — trying to cover the challenges the city faces, while dealing with their own personal crises too. It's not easy — just ask Blair Williams. She's been hiding her brains behind a flippy, cheerleader persona. But now, EWN needs her to step up and become the cutthroat reporter she really is. But deep inside, Blair knows that nobody likes a smart girl.

 

Will being the smart woman be any different? She's about to find out.

 

This is the sixth omnibus in Newsroom PDX, a pollical suspense series about a college newsroom in downtown Portland during some of the most tumultuous times the city has ever faced.

Foul language. Some sex. Lots of politics. Rather like the city itself.

This omnibus includes Smart Girl, Hero, and A Story Well Told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.J. Breedlove
• Release date: Feb 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224933228

L.J. Breedlove

L.J. Breedlove writes suspense novels of all kinds, police procedurals, historical mysteries, romantic suspense and political thrillers. And now a paranormal suspense series — Wolf Harbor. She's been a journalist, a professor, and now a fiction writer. (And a ranch hand, oceanography lab assistant, librarian assistant, cider factory line worker, and a typesetter. Oh, and worked in the laundry of an old folks home, something that inspired her to become an over-educated adult who would never be that desperate for a paycheck again.) She covered politics, among other things, taught media and politics, among other things, and writes political novels. You've been warned.

Book preview

Smart Girl

Book 16 in Newsroom PDX

Nobody Likes a Smart Girl

The college newsroom in downtown Portland is home to an eclectic group of students who wrote, filmed, edited and produced the news for a television show, a newspaper, and a website. And oh, the radio station, and the literary magazine. And not just the news, but sports and entertainment too. Blair Williams, the news editor, got tired just thinking of all the spinning plates that made up Eyewitness News. And she was responsible for keeping a lot of those plates spinning.

She loved it. For the first time she felt like she belonged, and she didn't have to hide her intelligence. People at EWN respected her. Her boyfriend, Will Bristol, said he admired it — and since he was her boss at EWN as well? That mattered. A lot.

Well he said he admired her intelligence until he got a traumatic brain injury from being hit over the head with a protest sign, then kicked in the head and things started leaking out. Disturbing things. Words that hurt. Behavior that scared her and even scared him.

And EWN was under attack — again. Over 100 students were in danger. And Will, their editor-in-chief, was suddenly unreliable, leaving Blair effectively in charge. OK, she could deal, she had before, after all.

She was less certain she could deal with Will when they went home.

Foul language, some sex, a lot of politics. It's Portland, right? Dystopian fiction from today's headlines. 

Prologue

2:30 p.m., Wednesday, Sept. 4, 2013, Medford, Oregon — Blair Williams was sitting in a chair in a small room too big to be called a closet, too small to be a conference room. Her feet didn’t quite reach the floor, so she was swinging them back and forth. She sat straight, her back almost rigid with anger. She was so very angry.

She had been sitting here for over an hour. Nothing to do but to sit and think, the angry teacher had said when he escorted her here. You need a time out, Mr. Nelson said. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you will figure it out.

She had it figured out, all right, she thought angrily. She folded her arms across her chest. A chest that was starting to have breasts. Her mother was making her wear a training bra, and she hated it. It rubbed under her arms, and the band was tight. She heaved a big sigh.

School this year sucked. She was 13 years old, and this was the second day of the eighth grade. The teacher, Mr. Nelson, had chastised her for answering a question when she hadn’t been called on. Well, it was the fifth period, and he hadn’t called on her yet. Not for any question. Not even in math, which was not her best subject.

So it was history, and she really liked history. She’d been silent all day. All day! So when he asked who the first settlers in Oregon were and she had just read a book about that, she blurted out, Mexicans.

There had been silence. That’s not the correct answer, Blair, he said condescendingly. And she hated that tone of voice. She did. You should wait until you’re called on in this class. And you should be sure you know the answer before you raise your hand.

She had been incredulous. Ignoring the rest of the instructions, she said, But they were! Mexicans explored this region long before the settlers came from the East Coast to this area. Of course, Native American tribes were here first. Did you know there are 13 tribes in Oregon alone? But you said settlers, and the first ones to this area came here from Mexico!

That’s enough, Blair! he snapped. I will not tolerate your disrespect in this classroom, no matter who your father is. Wait in the hall. I will be out shortly.

Blair glared at him. There was some laughter as she stomped out of the room.

The first pioneers to reach Oregon were missionaries sent west in the 1830s, Mr. Nelson was saying as she opened the door. She turned and glared at him.

Spaniards from Mexico founded San Francisco in the 1780s, she informed him. And they explored further north up into this area, 50 years — years! — before the missionaries.

She slammed the door. She’d learned from her father how to get the last word in. And a slammed door always worked. She was so angry she was pacing. Stupid teacher. She was going to have a stupid teacher all year. Again.

Mr. Nelson came out of the classroom and grabbed her by the arm. Let’s get something straight right now, Blair Williams, he said firmly. You will not argue with me in front of other students. You need to learn to show respect. And you will learn to act like a young lady in my classroom. Do you hear me?

She didn’t say anything. She wasn’t allowed to use foul language, and right now that was all she could think of. Mr. Nelson was a ratfink bastard.

I asked if you heard me, he ordered.

She glared at him.

Fine, he said. He kept a hold of her arm, and given that he was probably a foot taller, it pulled her up and it hurt. He marched her toward the principal’s office. He went into the office, and told the secretary, Call her father. He can deal with her.

And then he stuck her in this room.

He acted satisfied. As if he had scored a point. She rolled her eyes. So here she sat. If they’d called her father, he wouldn’t be here for a while.

So she practiced her meditation. Her mother had taken her to a counselor to help her deal with her anger issues. The therapist was actually nice, Mrs. Jorgensen. She’d taught her some things to do when she was angry. Deep breathing meditation. Going for a walk. Smiling.

It was hard to stay angry if you are smiling, Mrs. Jorgensen had said. So Blair smiled at the blank wall in front of her. And then she took some deep breaths. And Mrs. Jorgensen was right, she was calmer.

But then she started thinking about how stupid Mr. Nelson was. Everyone knew the missionaries and the fur trappers were not the first settlers to invade Native lands in the West. And he wasn’t even that old! He should know better.

That got her hyperventilating again with anger, and so now she was meditating.

Breathe in, two, three, hold, two, three, breathe out two, three, pause, two, three.

She settled into the rhythm. She liked meditation.

She was still meditating when the door open, and her father entered.

Her father was tall — a good-looking man, people said. He had blonde hair like she did, a little browner. She was very blonde. He was wearing a suit, a gray one that had a faint crosshatched pattern to it, and a white shirt, with navy-blue tie. Her mother bought his clothes, and she let Blair pick out ties to go with them. That was fun.

You’re grounded for two weeks, he said.

But he was wrong! she protested.

That is not your call, Blair, he said quietly. You know how to behave in a classroom. Interrupting a teacher? Arguing with him? That is no way for a young woman to behave.

She folder her arms across her chest again and scowled at the floor.

Come on, he said. It’s time to go home.

Good night, sir, the office secretary said to him as they left.

Good night, Margaret, he answered. Blair walked along beside him. She was careful not to stomp. Her father didn’t like it when she stomped.

Your mother and I have been talking, he said. We think being in the public school district where I am the superintendent is too difficult. Difficult for you, difficult for your teachers. I have found a private school that I think will be better for you. It emphasizes some important lessons you need to learn. It’s an all girl’s school. You’ll start there on Monday. If we see improvement in your attitude and behavior, you can return to Medford High School for your freshman year.

She said nothing. It didn’t matter what school she went to, as long as it had a library.

You’re smart, Blair, scary smart. But you have to learn to fit in, or your life will be miserable, and you will make everyone around you miserable, he said. He beeped open the car doors. So I’m forbidding you library privileges for the rest of the month. You need to learn other things besides books. Today is a prime example.

You haven’t even asked me my side of things, she said quietly.

I don’t need to, he said. He drove smoothly and at the speed limit. She liked to watch him drive. Mr. Nelson was very clear about what happened. You were rude. It doesn’t matter whether you were right or wrong. You were rude.

She sat silently, looking out the window. A month without books? She would go crazy. She would have to think about how to get around that.

God gave you a brain, her father said. And that’s a mixed blessing. You must use it to figure out how to fit in, not stand out. No one likes a smart girl, Blair. No one.

Blair felt tears at that last statement. She blinked them back. She wasn’t sure why she had tears now. She hadn’t felt any desire to cry before then. She silently followed her father into the house.

Now she’d get the mother-daughter talk. She grimaced. Really, it might be easier to fake it, she thought. She would still know about Mexican explorers and Native tribes. She could learn to smile and stay silent.

She was pretty sure her mother was every bit as smart as her father. She was an attorney after all. But she never argued with him. Never talked about her work at home. Which was too bad, Blair thought, because she’d been reading the newspaper this last year. And her mother’s name was in some of the articles. Her mother was pretty and she smiled a lot. And her father loved her: I adore your mother, he would say.

Blair was the youngest of four children. The other three were much older than she was — a menopause surprise baby, she’d heard her mother tell her friends once. Really, you learned a lot if you stayed quiet and listened.

You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out, echoed in her head.

No one likes a smart girl, her father had said.

She frowned. She had a year to figure it out, she decided. And then? When she went to high school, no one was going to know she was a smart girl.

Chapter 1

4 p.m., Tuesday, Jan. 11, 2022, Portland State University EWN Building — Blair Williams thought the newsroom staff might be having a collective meltdown complete with flashbacks, crying jags, and nervous breakdowns. She wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were hiding under desks. She’d escaped to the ‘smoker’s porch’ — the second-floor fire escape. She could watch what was happening from there.

She only wished she was exaggerating about her staff’s reaction.

She wondered if she should alert Cage to be ready to haul people up to OHSU’s adolescent psychiatric ward. Dr. Clarke? She thought that was the psychiatrist he took people to. She might need that name before the night was over.

Picketers were shouting outside the Eyewitness News building again. Not Blue Lives Matter this time, although Blair was pretty sure the same people were organizing it. She saw a ‘Rittenhouse is Our Hero’ picket sign. She shuddered. Kyle Rittenhouse had killed protesters and walked free. She clenched her teeth at the outrage.

She peered out, and looked across the street to the parking lot, and recognized faces. She started jotting down some names. She could see 20 protesters across the street; she didn’t know how many were at the base of the building below.

Today was the first day of the Critical Race Theory for the Storytellers conference. It had started off smoothly enough this morning. Blair had been excited — Dr. Kimberle Crenshaw was the keynote speaker. The woman had been one of the founders of Critical Race Theory back in the 80s. And then she’d coined the word intersectionality to explain that institutionalized racism applied to other systems besides the criminal justice system, and to others besides Black people. Discrimination against groups of people was imbedded in all the institutions and systems, and it intersected. To be Black meant discrimination, but so did being female. And so a Black woman would face even more barriers or sometimes different barriers.

Blair had assigned herself Dr. Crenshaw’s speech. After all, she was the news editor. That was her job, to assign stories, right? And if she couldn’t pick a highly coveted one for herself — what good was the position, anyway?

The editors had spent all weekend working out the plans for coverage: the opening session, the breakout sessions Tuesday focusing on Historians as Storytellers, the keynote speech by Dr. Crenshaw on Tuesday night. More breakout sessions focusing on the Educators as Storytellers on Wednesday. Wednesday night, law professors from Lewis and Clark were talking about CRT as a lens to understand racism in Oregon. And the final breakout sessions focusing on the Media as Storytellers on Thursday. Ryan Matthews was running a panel on their Death of a Downtown series on Thursday. And Dr. Crenshaw was doing a wrap-up session Thursday night at Reed College.

PSU was the primary host, with Reed College and Lewis and Clark Law School as co-hosts. Portland School District was using the sessions as in-service training for its teachers. A lot of Wednesday’s sessions focused on how teachers could use CRT to better understand their students, and their subjects.

It made Blair grin. It was so Ryan Matthews. He’d decided last fall that if the far-right politicians thought CRT was being used to teach history and race in the schools, maybe they should! So the Teach-In Project had teamed up with the Center for Experimental Journalism to sponsor workshops on just that: CRT and the Storytellers in History, Education and the Media.

And then it snowballed.

Because of course it did. Just like the first Teach-In Project had when a year ago President McShane suggested Eyewitness News sponsor a teach-in about Oregon’s racist history. Eventually, 12,000 PSU students and 5,000 eighth graders participated.

When Tabitha Lake, a former middle school teacher EWN had found and drafted last year, went around to talk to Portland schools about this year’s TIP, she found they were worried about opening themselves up to complaints that they were teaching CRT.

Never play poker with Ryan Matthews, she thought. He matched their bid and raised them Dr. Crenshaw. And EWN backed TIP and the Center.

And they would always back their faculty advisor, Ryan Matthews, because they knew he had their backs.

Blair grinned. This might be setting a new record for things getting out of control, however. Some 25,000 students attended PSU. Add in the other two universities at 5,000 each, and 3,000 teachers for the Wednesday workshops?

There were a whole lot of people on campus.

And just yesterday it looked like it was going to be a quiet, successful event.

Then this morning during drive-time, Larson Jones, Portland’s Rush Limbaugh wanna-be, had devoted a whole hour of his radio show to CRT and Portland State’s decision to ‘indoctrinate’ teachers so that they would take CRT into the classroom.

By 10 a.m. the first protesters had shown up.

J.J. Jacobs had called to tell her that the protesters were on Broadway, the main thoroughfare through downtown Portland that ran up through the university. He filmed them for a while, and then came into the newsroom, swapped cameras so that footage could be downloaded and went back out to get more.

Will Bristol had gone with him. He might be the editor-in-chief, but he was a reporter at heart, and the story was out there, not in the newsroom. And they’d have words about it too,  when they got home tonight. Leaving her to run the newsroom while he was having fun covering the story? He’d better get back here in time for her to go cover Dr. Crenshaw or she would never forgive him.

Well, OK, she probably would. But she’d make him grovel first.

J.J. had called in at 2 p.m. to tell her more protesters were in the Park Blocks in front of Lincoln Hall where the keynote speech was to be held at 7 p.m. and he said these were older — Lord knew what J.J. meant by older, because he was only 19 — and angrier.

Angrier than what? Blair wondered. Well, J.J. had been covering the Black Lives Matter protests for a year. He hung out with the independent journalists at the protests. Sometimes he hung out with the Blue Lives Matter crowd, because they thought he was one of them. Blue Lives knew his father was a cop; they didn’t know he was an EWN videographer. Or maybe they did. Blair had no clue what J.J. was doing most of the time. She just hoped Miguel Garcia, the chief videographer, had a close watch on that boy.

And she’d been getting more messages from staff. Campus security had been called to one workshop because someone stood up in the audience and started screaming the N word and wouldn’t stop.

She dispatched Ren Meyer to campus security to shadow Police Chief Ramirez and keep her alerted to the calls they got. Then she started calling her reporters and assigning them locations, tasks, questions.

EWN was complex. Some 70 reporters answered to her directly. There were additional sports reporters, videographers, and photographers who all produced content. And then there were the editors and station managers who made up the management team. Copy editors, and God, she wished she had more of them. The television anchors. The computer geeks and television techs. The radio station volunteers. The literary magazine. More than 100 students worked at Eyewitness News, some paid, some for credit, some volunteers.

And most of them orbited around her and her desk. She sighed. She could do a lot from her phone sitting out here and watching, but she needed to get back to that desk if she was truly going to get the coverage done.

It was almost time for the 4 p.m. Zoom editor’s meeting anyway. She went inside, making sure the door locked behind her. It would open from inside — EWN staff had disabled the fire alarm years ago so smokers didn’t have to go down the stairs and out the front door to smoke, but it was still a fire door — she just didn’t want any of the protesters finding their way inside by coming up the stairs.

The EWN building was a converted warehouse. The outside was white-painted brick, the inside was mostly the natural red brick. The ground floor was home to three shops, one now closed permanently so that EWN could expand, and the main entrance to EWN. Most of what was there were advertising and business offices. The Teach-In Project, TIP, was there too. TIP was the primary sponsor of the symposium the rabid right was protesting.

The newsroom and television studio took up the entire second floor. The third floor had the radio station, the literary magazine, some storage, and the latest addition, the Center for Experimental Journalism, home to three graduate students.

Well, not quite the latest addition, TIP had joined the building last fall too. Blair frowned. She wasn’t sure anyone was there — surely Tabitha was wherever Dr. Crenshaw was? She should probably check. And see to getting the ad staff out if they hadn’t left already. Harmony Jones, their administrative assistant, had headed home — she’d come up the stairs at noon to tell them she was gone. Harmony had taken one look at the activity in the newsroom and fled. Well, not really. Blair didn’t think that woman flinched at anything.

She took a deep breath and marched into the newsroom. It was a madhouse. She grinned. She loved the place. The energy of being on deadline and the bright creative people she worked with. The sheer pleasure in knowing stuff. But now she mustered a stern expression and shook her head.

Listen up! she ordered, and everyone quieted and looked at her.

We’re going to Zoom shortly for the editors’ meeting, she said. If you are here for that? Find something to do for 10 minutes. If you’re waiting for a story assignment? See me up here. If you’re here because it’s the best place to get gossip? Leave!

There was some laughter at the last, and she grinned at them. She’d learned in the last year the power of humor. They’d been through some hard times, some really grim, hard times, but if you could laugh? You could breathe. And if you could breathe? You could get the news out.

She’d come aboard during the Covid spike that had decimated the newsroom just like it had the city. They’d lost three people. But they’d continued to broadcast and publish because the city needed information, even though at the last there had been only a dozen left who weren’t sick.

And then there had been the Blue Lives Matter protests, the white supremacists, the bombs in the newsroom. She’d gotten promoted to news editor then. Going on a year now.

And she’d learned there was always a crisis.

She handed out assignments to those who were looking for something to cover. She corralled the gossipers who moved too slowly to leave and made them senior writers. Send your stuff to him, she told a few people. You two send your stuff to her, she told others.

How do we get out of here? one of the newer reporters asked. They’ve got the front door blocked.

Illegally blocked, Blair thought, but the chances of getting them cleared away anytime soon was minimal. She looked around. Bianca? she called. I need some station techs to do escort duty out the back door.

Bianca Parks, her best friend and assistant manager for the television station, stuck her head out of the studio offices. On it, she said.

A couple of vaguely familiar guys wandered out. Take them up to the Crow’s Nest and out the back, she ordered. You remember how to get out?

They nodded.

Good, Blair said. You’re on door duty until Ben needs you.

The Crow’s Nest was a secret space on the third floor on the back side of the building where Facilities still stored things. They thought their boxes went all the way to the back. They didn’t. It had a long history as an EWN hideout; right now it was a small version. Still, reporters could go through the back door of the elevator on the third floor, around the fake wall of boxes and be in the Crow’s Nest. And then, there was a way down the stairs to the ground floor on that side, and out the back door to the alley. Which reminded her, she sent out a text to all the people who did need to be in the newsroom to come in the back door. Ring the buzzer, she told them.

Most of them knew.

Corey Washington came running down the stairs from the third floor, his red-tipped braids bouncing. He must have come in through the back. Sorry, he called as he headed to the Geek Cave. Wasn’t expecting this.

She just nodded. She looked around the newsroom, taking inventory. It was emptier, now that people realized she would put them to work if they chose to stick around.

She sat down at her workstation. It was right in front of the entryway to the newsroom, which made her part boss, part gatekeeper, and part receptionist. Seemed like there would be a better way to get things done as news editor. But this was where Emily Andersen had sat as news editor before her. And probably whoever was news editor before that. She frowned. Oh. Ryan Matthews, before he became editor-in-chief.

News editor as the hub, both figuratively, literally and spatially.

Miguel Garcia usually sat at the film editing workstation across from her in this computer pod. He wasn’t there. Well, he was probably shooting something somewhere. He’d join for the meeting by Zoom. Joe Castro had one of the other computers nailed down. He was on deadline for Folio, the weekly print edition. He looked disgruntled. He’d rather be out shooting this as a photographer. There’s always tomorrow, she said to him. He snorted.

The fourth computer was for the copy editors, positioned where they could bitch at her about how bad the news copy was. Given that most news stories were 500 words, you’d think the number of mistakes even the newest of reporters could make would be limited.

Alas. That wasn’t necessarily so. There’s been a printout floating around for a while of a story that had 30 errors marked in red ink. And then someone had reread it, found a purple pen and added another 20 or so, some of the marks fixed the red corrections, actually. She’d seen it and rolled her eyes. A green pen had found six more.

Will had confiscated it at that point. She didn’t think the poor writer ever returned. No great loss, really. Will now used a clean version of the story as a test for copy editor applicants. So far? She thought the best score was 106 mistakes. In 500 words?

She sighed. As Emily had said before her, ‘it’s a mystery.’

Corey was giving her the high sign. She raised her eyebrows at him. He shrugged. No Will?

She opened up all the windows on her screen, and he made her the facilitator.

OK, she said. We’re live. First? Will? Are you on?

There was no answer. Damn him!

She sighed theatrically, and people grinned. Ryan? No?

I sense a pattern, she muttered. Cage? Turk? Doris? she called out the names of their three graduate TAs.

I’m here, Doris Torres said. Not sure what good that is, but I’m here.

Might need you down here editing copy, Blair said. We’re going to have a lot of really rough stuff coming in tonight.

Doris nodded.

Section editors? How are we doing? Sports?

No problem, Carrie said cheerfully. Although, the photo editor seems to think shooting protests is more fun than women’s volleyball. So, if anyone sees her, tell her to get her butt over to the gym. We’re going to need those tonight.

Miguel?

Miguel had apparently found a quiet corner somewhere in the student union to call in. None of the videographers have been arrested or sent to the emergency room, so we’re good, he said.

She rolled her eyes. Just fantastic, she said. See if you can find Will, OK? I’m supposed to cover Dr. Crenshaw tonight. And you tell him if I don’t get to do that, he’s sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future.

I’ll tell him, Miguel promised, suppressed laughter in his eyes.

OK, that wasn’t the most professional thing to say. But then she was sleeping with her boss. So professional already had a different look at EWN than it would downtown.

They tossed around ideas and talked about coverage. Ben Waters handled a lot of the discussion because he was television station manager and he’d be assembling the newscast on the fly tonight.

Oh, by the way, Blair remembered to tell those not in the newsroom. Come in the back door. We’ve got protesters here too.

There was silence. And that’s when she remembered that too many of her people had PTSD and maybe she should have eased that into the conversation a bit better. Or sooner.

What? she demanded. You didn’t know?

Ben hadn’t apparently. He’d been in his offices most of the afternoon working on a class project. And his focus was legendary. He’d gotten a television newscast out while bomb experts defused a bomb in the studio room next to him. Bianca looked startled too. Sam, the radio station manager, looked grim. He was upstairs running a talk show poking fun at Larson Jones, among other things. Robert Smithson, editor of the Portland Review, was home in NW Portland and hadn’t come onto campus at all today. Carrie was home too.

Miguel had paled. Is everyone OK? he asked, biting his lip.

We’re fine, Blair said. I didn’t realize people didn’t know. So maybe someone should let Chief Ramirez know? And find Will? I’m not sure if they’re here because of EWN or if they know TIP is in this building. But it’s mostly college students. I see some of the same faces from last year.

Fuck, Miguel muttered, and no one called him on it.

And then she heard the sound of breaking glass. She gulped. Maybe make finding Will and Chief Ramirez a priority? They just broke the outside door downstairs.

Corey said, Doris? Call the elevator to the third floor and lock it there. Open the back and front doors both, that should do it.

Becca? Is your staff downstairs, or are they home? Blair asked.

She looked pale. We left at noon today, when the protests started in the Park Blocks. But there’s equipment and petty cash down there.

Understood, Blair said. But we need our people safe first. Was there anyone in TIP when you left?

She shook her head.

Shut down the Zoom meeting, she ordered Corey.

Ben came out of his office and gestured to Corey. Help me with this, he said, gesturing to the counter that formed a quasi-divider in the entryway to the newsroom. Joe Castro joined them, and they slowly slid the thing across the floor to block the stairs down to the first floor.

Ben studied it, shook his head. We need a couch on top of it, he said. But we aren’t going to let them up on this floor, is that understood? Or upstairs for that matter. People’s safety first. But second? We protect our equipment. We aren’t going off the air. They didn’t make it happen last year, and they aren’t going to this year. You all got that?

Joe and Corey lifted a couch on top of the counter. The second couch was leaned vertically against the barricade.

Joe looked around. Find a videocamera, Ben, he said. You’re going live. Right now. Call public access and get us on the air.

Who’s in front of the camera? Ben asked as he headed back to his office.

Bianca sighed. You’re going to make me do this, aren’t you, Joe? With no makeup and in my sweats?

Blair grinned at her. And you’re still the prettiest anchor in town.

Sweet words, girlfriend, Bianca said. Start writing me some copy.

Chapter 2

5 p.m., Tuesday, Jan. 11, 2022, Portland State University — Miguel Garcia was shaking. He needed to find Will, Ryan, Cage and Chief Ramirez. In any order. He had been in a cubbyhole in the student union for the Zoom meeting, and now he peered outside to the Park Blocks. It was getting dark, and the Park Blocks looked full of people. He considered the challenge. He went up to the third floor, over the bridge to the student services building, down the southern flight of stairs, and out that door. That put him on the small patio to the Campus Security building. He walked rapidly across it and ducked inside. It was a madhouse too. He spotted Ren, which was good.

Where’s the Chief? he asked the gangly young reporter. Ren made J.J. look mature. Damn the staff was young. Ren gestured toward the back offices. I’ve been listening to the radio, Ren said. It’s getting worse out there.

Miguel nodded. Send Blair whatever you know through text.

He pushed toward the desk, and a dispatcher he knew spotted him. Delores, he said quietly, I need the Chief. Now.

She didn’t ask questions, bless her heart, just buzzed open the gate and let him through. He knew where Ramirez’s office was, although the building wasn’t large enough to miss it even if he hadn’t. A ramshackle building amongst towering new academic buildings — he wondered when it would get a remodel? He shunted that thought aside and knocked on Ramirez’s door.

We’ve got a problem, he said, when Ramirez looked up. Protesters just threw a brick through the exterior glass door at EWN.

Ramirez got up, shrugged into a harness that held his weapon and then added a jacket. It said police on it. Let’s go, he said. Did they call it in?

Miguel shrugged. Don’t know. They said find you, I found you.

Ramirez paused at the front desk where Delores was holding down the fort. Call PPB for reinforcements, he said quietly. We’re going to need them in the Park Blocks. And I need some backup at the EWN building.

She nodded.

And if you could put out a word to your officers to watch for Will Bristol, Ryan Matthews or Cage Washington? Miguel asked. That would be good.

Who’s at EWN then? Ramirez asked. He looked at the mass of people in the Park Blocks and turned south instead of north. Miguel just followed him.

Blair, Miguel said. Ben and Corey. Joe maybe? Most people are out here covering something or had the sense to stay home.

Try your phone, send out texts to those missing three. Tell them to report in to you, Ramirez ordered. Miguel had already sent them texts, but he didn’t argue. He did it again.

It was damp out and getting colder. Sunset this week was at 5 p.m. so it was dark already. Miguel swallowed hard. It was hard to fight against flashbacks to last year’s Blue Lives Matter protests that had built a scaffold and hung a noose outside the EWN offices inspired by the January 6 insurrection at the U.S. Capitol. He took a deep breath and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his REI-reject jacket with all of its pockets. He would wear it until it fell off him in tatters. There was no better jacket for a photographer or videographer. He had his videocamera around his neck, and they were moving fast enough that it bounced against his chest. He normally moved slower, trained by the camera for the optimal speed. But Ramirez was moving rapidly, although he didn’t look like he was hurrying. Quite the trick. Don’t spark panic or even notice but cover ground. Miguel just worked to keep apace. And he kept his cell in his hand, so he could watch to see if he got a return text.

Nada.

He swallowed. It was unlike the three of them to not be in contact. He thought Ryan had the phone surgically attached to his body. He had never sent a message before that didn’t come back with what’d you need? He could see Cage having his camera up and filming — for Oregon Public Broadcasting tonight, he thought — and not hearing the text come in.

Will? The last time Will went dark, someone had kidnapped him.

Come to think about it, the last time Ryan went dark, he’d been rescuing Will.

That didn’t help. Miguel controlled his breathing. He’d be hyperventilating soon and be of no help to anyone if he wasn’t careful. Worse, he’d slow Ramirez down. Wherever Ramirez was going. Miguel narrowed his eyes and squinted through the misty dark. Oh. He was taking the walking path around to the parking structures down by 13th Street. They’d be able to cut between a couple of buildings and end up at the alley door without being seen. Smart. He wondered how many hours Ramirez had walked the campus during the last year to know it this well.

Then Ramirez detoured, and it turned out that wasn’t where he was going at all.

I want you to go to the alley door, and get everyone down, Ramirez said in a low voice.

Chief, they won’t leave, Miguel told him. They’ll block the stairs and stay no matter what. Stay on the air. Stay to protect the equipment. There’s a million dollars of equipment in that building. We would be off the air all term replacing it. They won’t leave. Trust me.

Miguel had heard Ramirez swear, and his swearing abilities were much admired among EWN staff, but he’d never heard him switch to Spanish before.

It’s not worth their lives, Ramirez said furiously.

Here’s the plan us editors devised last summer, Miguel said rapidly, and I suspect they’re following it now. Everyone non-essential has already left. Either out the alley, or down the fire escape. Sam will stay on the air up in the radio station. He’s last out, and only if there’s actual fire, because he is on the third floor. Ben makes the call on what happens because he’s always there. He’ll try to convince the women to leave, and Blair and Bianca will laugh in his face. By now there’s Joe — I think — Ben, Corey, Bianca and Blair left in the newsroom. Maybe a couple of other stragglers. That’s it. But as long as they are there? We’re live and the bad guys can’t win.

Miguel tapped his phone and called up the channel where EWN would broadcast later tonight. See? Ben’s already secured airtime, and they’re live now. Miguel kept the sound muted. Ramirez glanced at his phone and muttered more Spanish. Miguel laughed. Power words, his uncle called them.

Fine, Ramirez said resignedly. Stay across the street, OK?

Miguel raised an eyebrow in question, but he did as he was told. He glanced at his phone for texts. Nothing. He stood across Mill Street, blending into the bushes along the buildings there — another reason he liked the REI olive drab jacket — and he raised his videocamera up to watch Ramirez through it. He set it to livestream and watched as the police chief stopped in the center of the street.

All right, Ramirez said. Back away from the building. Hands where I can see them.

There was some muttering. A few people complied.

This is PSU Police Chief Ramirez, he continued, and repeated his instructions. I need you to back away from the building, hands where I can see them. Sit down on the curb, please.

Miguel was impressed; some of them, maybe even most, were complying. He hoped his mic was picking it all up. He wanted to move closer, but he was afraid movement would distract from Ramirez’s control of the situation.

He saw two men moving swiftly toward the EWN building from campus. He swung his camera in their direction, recognized Lt. Young and swung back toward the chief. Ramirez had backup coming.

But not fast enough. Miguel saw the guy who was standing to the north of the building lean back as if he was going to throw something. Incoming! Miguel shouted. Ramirez pulled his service weapon. A Molotov cocktail went up in flames as it shattered against the bricks of the EWN building. The protesters shouted and scattered. Ramirez dropped to a crouch. He grabbed his radio, said something into it. Miguel was running toward him, his camera in the air so Young and the other officer would recognize him.

He heard a fire siren in the distance. And then Miguel couldn’t hear anything else above the beating of his own heart as he ran for the door. He pulled Ramirez to his feet as he went by, thrusting his camera into Ramirez’s arms.

Miguel pulled off his jacket and beat at the flames that were finding purchase at the shattered door. He paused, punched the button to be let inside, glanced at the camera so they could see who it was. Then when he heard the door buzzer, he jerked the door open, and smothered the remaining flames with his jacket. He saw the line of unlit gasoline as it spread out from the bottle across the entrance floor. No fire followed. He swallowed, his eyes closing in relief. That had been all too close.

Damn fool, growled someone as they pulled him back out of the entrance to the building.

Miguel shivered as the adrenaline left as quickly as it arrived. He wrapped his arms around himself, as he watched the officers make sure the fire was out.

Damn it, he thought. Another REI jacket bites the dust.

Chapter 3

5 p.m., Tuesday, Jan. 11, 2022, Portland State University — Ryan Matthews was at a reception in the president’s dining room at the top of the administration building. He sighed. He was a part-time, still interim, non-tenure-track faculty advisor. And he was 20 years younger than anyone else in the room. He looked around the room with narrowed eyes.

Thirty years younger than most of them.

Not even Tabitha Lake was here. And this was her baby. She should have been here, he thought. He made a mental note to add that to his debriefing session with Jacob Lewis, interim vice president for University Advancement.

Well, truth was he wasn’t here as the EWN faculty advisor, nor as a part of TIP or the Center for that matter. He was here because he was the heir to one of the larger fortunes PSU had counted on in the past for donations. Now it was his. He’d donated quite a bit to the university and its projects — including the Center for Experimental Journalism, although only two people knew about that rather large donation. At least there had better be only two people. But there were other donations, including one for this event. And this was a reception for donors. Ryan Matthews, God help him, was a donor.

Still, the catering was good, they had decent sparkling non-alcoholic wine for people like him, and the music provided by the jazz students was outstanding.

And he’d gotten to meet Dr. Crenshaw. They’d chatted briefly, then he introduced her to some others he thought she’d actually enjoy meeting — as opposed to all the elderly donors whose hands she’d been shaking. Actually, she clasped their hand in between hers. Smart, he decided. Less likely to get a bruising grip from someone who didn’t know how strong their grip was — or from someone who did. He filed that strategy away, although he suspected it worked better for a woman than it would for a man.

He was wearing a black suit, white shirt and a gray tie with maroon stripe. He’d adamantly refused Jacob Lewis’s suggestion of a tie in PSU school colors. Green? Not a chance. Not even for the interim vice president for University Advancement who he liked a lot.

So, he ate some of the canapes dining services had provided, sipped his drink and watched. He liked to people watch. Mostly though, he kept an eye on Dr. Crenshaw, and when she got a trapped expression on her face, he smoothly inserted himself into the conversation, flashed a bit of charm at the overly-talkative donor, and whisked her away to someone else she needed to meet. You understand, Mr. Anderson, don’t you? Mr. Anderson, flattered that he knew his name, agreed that he did understand.

You do that very well, Kimberle Crenshaw murmured.

Ryan smiled at her, a more genuine smile, although also practiced. I’d happily monopolize your time myself, he said, but that’s not how things are supposed to work. Have you met the vice president for Student Affairs, yet? He’s at least pretty to look at.

She laughed and let him escort her over to Steve Planck. He is indeed, she said under her breath, as she held out her hand to Dr. Planck. Ryan grinned at her. Steve Planck was a broad-shouldered Black man in his early 40s, and he was easy on the eyes. He could also carry on a conversation about critical race theory. Ryan rather thought that the elderly Mr. Anderson had CRT mixed up with CPR from the little bit he’d overheard.

Ryan drifted around the room, greeting the people he knew, getting introductions to those he didn’t know. Working the crowd. He’d been raised to it. And if his memories were still fragmented, this was apparently muscle memory. He had a brief flash, of how his grandparents had trained this and other things into said muscle memory, and he stopped until it passed.

The flashes were fewer and shorter. That was the good news. The nightmares had been gone for a week, a new record. Even better news.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, chasing away the last of it. He looked around and frowned. There was a campus security officer at the door talking to President McShane. He drifted that direction.

McShane glanced at him and then refocused on the officer. Ryan took that as an invitation to listen in.

The Portland Police Bureau is recommending that the evening keynote speech be cancelled, he was saying.

Whoa, Ryan thought. What the hell?

Where’s Ramirez? McShane growled and the officer flinched.

He... an EWN videographer came in, and they left together, the officer stammered. Lt. Young went after him. There’s a problem at the EWN building, Lt. Young said. And then the Portland Police Bureau called. They said the protest is too great in the Park Blocks, and they’re pulling back. That’s their new policy, you know. Do not engage.

Interesting how that only seems to apply when the protesters are from the far right, isn’t it? Ryan asked rhetorically, and then added with more urgency, What problem at EWN?

The officer shook his head. Ryan reached for his phone, silenced for a gathering like this, and saw the dozen messages. He clamped down before any profanity escaped.

I’ve got to go, Ryan said to the president. But we can’t cancel the speech. We cannot give in to these people, sir.

He’s right, Dr. Crenshaw said from behind him. I will deliver my speech as scheduled. How do we make that happen?

McShane frowned. He glanced at the older Black woman standing there as if taking her measure, and he didn’t argue with her. One of two ways, he said at last. We can take you through the sky tunnels from here and down into Lincoln Hall. That’s how we would have gone anyway because it’s dark and damp out there.

Or? she prompted with a half-smile as if she knew what he would propose.

Or we walk right through the picketers, down the center of Broadway, and up the front steps to Lincoln Hall, McShane said bluntly. Your call.

She laughed. Broadway, of course.

Ryan hesitated, torn. He sent a message to his editors: Is it under control?

He got a thumbs up from Blair. Good enough. And then he sent out a message to Bianca Parks who was wired into every student group on campus, and to Cinder, who was president of the Student Senate. He added Professor Roger Bellamy, presiding officer of the Faculty Senate, and J.J. Jacobs, because he had faith that young man would manage to get there to film it — somehow, someway.

It said: We’re walking down Broadway, escorting Dr. Crenshaw from the administration building to Lincoln Hall in 30 minutes. Join us? Pass the word.

McShane looked at him and sighed. Do I want to know what you just did?

Ryan grinned at Dr. Crenshaw. What would a march be without supporters?

She laughed. "Do you suppose they will know the words to We Shall Overcome?"

Maybe, Ryan said, looking at the jazz ensemble. "But I bet they at least know When the Saints Come Marching In, however. He smiled at their guest speaker. I’m known for a match/raise response to any challenge, so stop me if I start to make you uncomfortable."

He must really like you, Planck said dryly. The rest of us have never gotten a choice in the matter.

Kimberle Crenshaw laughed. "You want them to lead the procession playing When the Saints Come Marching In, don’t you? She considered it for a moment and shrugged. How can a person turn down the chance to walk Broadway with a band leading the way — even if it’s in Portland and not New York?"

Planck groaned.

Ryan went to ask the student ensemble what they thought. They were excited about it, of course, he thought with amusement. People after his own heart. Go ahead and go down. Wait for us in the entry. Don’t go outside until we’re there, too.

They nodded. Ryan looked around and found Jacob Lewis since he was the host of this shindig after all. He briefed him on the plans. Most of these donors probably should not go down Broadway, however, Ryan said. So, you get to escort them through the buildings, is that OK?

You asking me or telling me? Jacob said. He sounded amused, Ryan thought. He hoped.

Asking?

Jacob laughed. You owe me. Because I really would rather be marching arm-in-arm with her.

That is a very good visual, Ryan said, pleased, and went back to his co-conspirators. McShane had his poker-face on as he talked to Dr. Crenshaw. Planck was listening. Yes, those were the three who needed to lead the walk.

He watched his time, and 30 minutes later, he escorted the three down to the ground floor.

And where will you be? McShane growled at him.

I think I’ve got staff down there, Ryan said quietly. But in case I don’t? I’m going to grab a few photos on my phone. Jacob will never forgive me if we don’t have a record of this. And my staff? I don’t even want to think what they would do to me. So, I’ll be out in front, going down the street backwards. He grinned.

His phone buzzed and he stepped away to take the call. Blair. Will hasn’t come back, she said anxiously. Have you seen him?

No, Ryan said.

I’m supposed to cover the speech, she said worriedly. But I don’t know if I can leave without him here.

Is Bianca there? Delegate coordination to her. Delegate copyediting to Joe and to whoever is there from upstairs. Doris? Ryan suggested. He knew Blair really wanted to be at the speech. And I’ll see if I can find Will. He dropped the call and called Corey.

You still have that find me app? he asked. Where is Will’s phone?

Corey swore. I should have thought of that hours ago, he muttered. There was a pause. You’re not going to like this, but he’s at the Health Center.

Ryan grimaced. Where’s Cage?

Another pause. His phone is at the Health Center too.

OK. Ryan thought through the logistics. He was obligated to do the march down Broadway since it was his idea. Then he’d go after those two. Is the newsroom functioning OK? I got a flurry of texts, but I haven’t been in a place where I could take them.

There was a pause, and then Corey laughed. Do whatever you’re doing, then go after those two. We’ll hold down the fort here. But, you may want to come in the back way.

Ryan was next into the elevator and lost the call. He started to call Corey back when they hit the ground floor but decided it would have to wait. He had a parade to organize.

And it was a glorious parade. Bianca and Cinder had come through as he knew they would. A hundred students were waiting for them, they cheered when McShane and Planck escorted Kimberle Crenshaw out of the building and into the street. The ensemble took their places, and Ryan glanced around. East side of the street looked clearer. He positioned himself to take the photos and bumped into J.J. in the same spot. I’ve got it, the young videographer said.

Ryan grinned. Be prepared.

And the familiar notes of When the Saints Come Marching In started. People laughed and cheered. And the procession started down the street. Ryan snapped a couple of photos and followed J.J.

Ramirez materialized out of nowhere. Very nice, he said dryly. I see your fingerprints all over this.

Ryan laughed. You know anything about what went down at EWN?

You don’t know? Ramirez said. Where have you been?

Meet and greet for donors, Ryan said. You think I dress like this for work? What happened?

Ramirez started laughing. You owe Miguel a new jacket, he said. The rest you can learn when you get there.

Ryan grimaced. I’ve got to go to the Health Center next. Cage and Will are MIA, and Corey says that’s where their phones are. I’m going to miss the speech that I paid for!

You mean student fees and the Center paid for, don’t you? Ramirez said. He looked like he’d just heard something interesting.

Yeah, that’s the long form, Ryan muttered. Oops. Want to walk over to the Health Center?

Why were you at a donors’ reception anyway? Ramirez said falling into step with him as they finished the walk to Lincoln Hall. There were protests, but the jazz ensemble was drowning them out. And now some of the students were dancing to the music. Ryan’s mouth fell open when Steve Planck and Kimberle Crenshaw did a brief two-step to everyone’s applause before they headed into the building.

Ryan laughed. Talk about a kindred spirit. The Reed professor who had set this up said they were. He’d have to tell Dr. Bates he was right.

This way, Ramirez said quietly. The protesters are getting restless.

PPB pulled back and recommended we cancel, Ryan replied. One of your officers came up to tell us. That’s when we crafted this. McShane gave her the option of canceling, going through the buildings or marching down Broadway, by the way.

McShane did? Ramirez was incredulous.

I may have embellished on the original idea, Ryan admitted. They had circled around to the south and were now headed toward the Health Center.

I’m sure you did, Ramirez said.

Ryan grinned. They went into the Health Center, which was another madhouse of people who had mostly minor injuries. He saw Cage first. Well, it was hard to miss his friend: He was 6-foot-2, broad-shouldered — a Black man who was dressed in black. And he wasn’t happy. Ryan made his way toward him.

Will here, too? Ryan asked.

Yeah, he’s in with the doctor— finally. Someone clobbered him over the head with a protest sign and it had a nail sticking out. I saw him go down and pulled him out. The protester was kicking him when I got there, but he ran. Will was bleeding pretty badly. Scalp wounds do, but I made him come here. He may have hit his head on the curb when he went down too. And that was a fucking hour ago.

Cage glared toward the receptionist desk. Now that you’re here, I need to go shoot some footage. OPB wants it.

Ryan winced. "You just missed the parade down Broadway with the jazz ensemble playing When the Saints Go Marching In —Plank and McShane in the lead escorting Dr. Crenshaw to Lincoln Hall for her speech."

Damn it, he said. Tell me we had someone there.

Oh, we’ve got video, Ryan said. J.J. was there. Cage grinned at that. J.J. had made that line famous.

I’ll get some from him then and credit him for OPB, Cage said. I’m headed back to the newsroom.

Use the back door, Ramirez said.

Cage raised his eyebrows. I miss out on something there too?

We both have, and he’s not talking, Ryan said, with a nod toward the police chief.

Will came out of the back office with a bandage on his head, clutching a strip of pills. Pain killer, Ryan guessed. He winced. There’s our guy, Ryan said. He took a look around the waiting room and shook his head. Let’s get out of here. And it looks like another ‘Health Center in disarray’ story is in our future.

The four of them walked toward EWN. Ryan looked at Ramirez. Chief? You’re coming with us? he asked. The problem must have been more significant than he thought.

Ramirez nodded. He was looking a bit stressed, Ryan realized. A fit man approaching 40 and an Army veteran, he usually looked put together and a bit sardonic. Probably why he was well-liked in the newsroom — the fact that he came when they called him also helped. Ryan could count on one hand the times he’d seen the man stressed about something. And given the events of the last year, that was amazing. Ryan figured he showed more stress than that in any given week —during the course of a day in some cases.

What happened? he asked quietly. He glanced at Will, who was looking a bit glassy eyed, and Cage who was getting even grimmer as they approached the building.

There were protesters with pickets, Ramirez said. He sounded tired. Miguel got the SOS and came for me. They threw a brick through the door. Your staff sent out most everyone through the backdoor and then barricaded the stairs. Miguel and I got there in time to see a protester throw a Molotov cocktail at the building. It bounced and went into the entryway through the broken door.

He swallowed hard. Miguel shoved his camera at me, he paused and shook his head. Tore off his coat and tossed it onto that thing. He pressed the buzzer, they buzzed him in and he smothered the flames before it could get going. Fool kid and a hero. He saved the building, Ryan.

Ramirez took a deep breath as they neared the building. Ryan could see the broken door. They went around the back and buzzed to be let in. Someone opened the door immediately for them. But we’ve got to talk. Did you know there was actually a triage plan in place for this kind of thing?

Ryan nodded. Of course, he knew. He’d been part of the discussion.

Students can’t martyr themselves for equipment, Ramirez said, and he was getting heated about it. They can’t risk their lives for a computer!

Chief, they aren’t talking about a computer. They aren’t even talking about the millions of dollars in equipment it takes to run a television station and radio station, Cage said. His rumbly bass voice was always compelling, and Ramirez was listening. It’s about the right to publish, to speak truth, to be on the air. We will not let them silence EWN. And yes, when it became obvious that last winter wasn’t a one-time thing, that EWN was a target, thanks to Larson Jones and people like him, we developed a strategy for how we would handle incursions. And it sounds like that preparedness paid off.

That and the heroism of Miguel Garcia, Ryan said. When he envisioned what Miguel had done, he broke out in a cold sweat. If he’d been a second too late he would have gone up in flames with the entryway. The building was brick, but the interior of the first floor was wood. Wood floors, wood paneling on the walls. The counter to the advertising space. He swallowed.

He could have died, Ramirez said in a harsh whisper. "I stood there, holding my weapon on the picketers and his damn videocamera, while he risked his life. I thought I was going to