Featured Excerpt: Off the Air by Christina Estes

Chapter 1

“I’d like a cheeseburger with extra guacamole and—”

“Extra guac is a dollar,” barks the man behind the counter.

“Sure, no problem.” I force a smile, recalling one of the most valuable lessons I picked up waiting tables in college: never piss off the people who handle your food.

But the effort is wasted. The namesake behind Ben’s Burgers never shifts his eyes from a grease-stained notepad.

“That all?” It’s more of a challenge than a question.

“Can I also get a large order of fries and a Pepsi?”

“No Pepsi. Coke.”

And still no eye contact. My voice says, “That’s fine,” while my mind says, “Why am I giving money to this jerk?”

When Nate asks to change his order, Ben’s gray hair shoots up like a pigeon. Eyes the color of mashed peas peer over clunky frames. He sighs so hard garlic smacks my face.

“You know what?” Nate says. “I’m good.”

I marvel at the line stretching out the door. When it opened two months ago, a reviewer for the Phoenix New Times gave Ben kudos for using Arizona beef. That was enough to attract the “Buy local, eat local” crowd. Then, Phoenix magazine seduced old schoolers yearning for simpler times and young creatives craving a taste of Seinfeld by highlighting the differences between Ben and his downtown neighbors. Nestled between a vegan restaurant where orders are placed via iPads and a craft brewery where beer flights are paid by phone, you’ll find Mr. Cash Only. No touchscreens, no sample-size drinks, and no gluten-free buns.

“Give it a chance,” Nate says while squirting ketchup into a cup. “Everyone in the newsroom raves about the burgers.”

“Can’t be the service.” I grab napkins and follow him to a crumb-coated table with wobbly legs and mismatched chairs. “Or the décor.”

White walls, as frosty as the owner, provide a backdrop for posters of Central Park, the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty. Across the menu board, a string of Yankees pennants hangs a safe distance from oil splatters. Maybe the New York vibe fills a void for some customers. Phoenix doesn’t get as many East Coast transplants as it does Midwesterners and Canadians. For decades, Major League Baseball fans from Illinois, Wisconsin, Ohio, and Missouri have cheered on their teams at spring training games in Arizona, while their northern neighbors hosted the Great Canadian Picnic during the winter at South Mountain Park.

With October approaching, Arizonans will observe the end of triple-digit temperatures in their own ways. Some will return to hiking trails, others will unpack patio furniture, and the fashion-conscious will debate when it’s acceptable to bring out boots. Everyone relishes the respite from air-conditioning bills. If you ever hear a Phoenician claim it’s only hot in July and August, know you’re dealing with someone who considers the teens hot—that’s teens, plus a hundred degrees. Despite diverse weather interpretations—and demographics and political opinions—there’s universal consensus this time of year that the worst is behind us.

Nate lines up his plastic utensils, napkins, and condiments as precisely as he does his tripod, lights, and camera. “What’s the plan?”

“We can hit strip malls and get video of cars with out-of- state license plates. Then, play it by ear.”

People who move to Arizona are often surprised by how much it costs to register their cars. Many states charge flat fees based on a vehicle’s size, so someone with a ten-year old Camry pays the same as someone with a new Camry. Arizona’s fee includes a tax based on a vehicle’s assessed value, easily several hundred dollars for newer cars.

“How many snowbirds you think we’ll find?” Nate asks.

“September’s kinda early to flock here. I don’t think it’s even snowed yet in Canada.”

“Isn’t it always snowing somewhere in Canada?”

“Now you sound like New Yorkers who think it’s always hot in Arizona.”

“I think snowbirds—whether they’re Canadians or Midwesterners— will be our best bet for the story.”

To get around paying high registration fees, people can use out-of- state addresses. It’s legal if they spend less than half the year in Arizona, but some scam the system. Nate Thompson and I are pursuing these “scofflaws,” as the managers at our TV station have dubbed them.

“How about this? If we see someone with an out-of- state license plate I’ll walk up, explain we’re doing a story about car registration costs, and ask if they’ll talk to us.”

Nate cocks his head. “You think someone who lives here but doesn’t register their car here and knowingly breaks the law will go on camera?”

“Come on, you know how it is. Everyone likes to complain about the government taking too much of their money. Get certain people talking and they don’t stop.”

I’m not ecstatic about the assignment, but it’s the first in my hybrid role, which does excite me. I spend half the week as a general assignment reporter—covering anything from a dust storm during monsoon season to a newborn giraffe at the zoo—and the rest of the week on special projects, stories that take more time to research and produce and that get more air time. The switch away from full-time GA reporting came after my investigation into dangerous working conditions for Phoenix park rangers. I interviewed a ranger who tried to break up a trash-talking match during an adult softball game and ended up with a bloody nose. Another ranger quit after being ordered not to call the police on people using drugs in parks.

“My supervisor said I could request they quit using and then I was supposed to leave,” he said. “I understand parks are public spaces, open to everyone, but children should be able to use the playground without stepping on needles. Sure, I can call the Human Services Department when there’s drug activity, but the reality is they’ll never respond the same day. The problem is too big and resources are too small.”

Another ranger left after someone rammed a needle in her arm. She took a job in a small suburb where rangers are encouraged to call the police for help. After six months on the job, she hasn’t had to. As a result of my story, Phoenix sent more behavioral health specialists offering services and treatment options to parks with the most complaints.

The story ignited intense comments from across the board: people appalled to learn about drug activity in parks to people concerned about criminalizing substance use disorders. After reading the emails and social media comments, my news director—who initially yawned when I pitched the story—perked up like someone had slipped him the winning lottery numbers. Attention is the drug of choice in local news.

A voice brimming with irritation erupts through an overhead speaker.

“Order forty-six, you’re up! Forty-six!”

“Don’t want to keep the king of customer service waiting.” I leap up, knock the table’s corner, and nearly topple our drinks. “Ope, sorry. Give me your receipt and I’ll get your order.”

I maneuver past a party of selfie photo takers and press through a pack of people circling the counter. A hefty heel smashes my foot and, for the thousandth time, I silently thank my grandma for passing along her sensible shoe trait. When I reach the front, Nate’s food is also ready and, to demonstrate I can play by his rules, I present both receipts to Ben. He ignores them, shoves two trays at me, turns his back, and grumbles a number into a microphone.

Calling on another food service skill, I heft the trays, peek over my shoulder, and bellow, “Coming through!”

People split into two camps: ones trying too hard to fake interest and others reacting with “oohs” you hear at a fireworks display.

Nate paws a burger. “I’m starving.”

But before we can take a bite, Alex Klotzman sends a text.

901-H. Need u 2 go.

Alex is our assignment editor and loves to talk and text in police code. I show Nate my phone. He nods and peels back foil, releasing a waft of bacon.

“A wise photographer once told me there’s always time to eat.” A toasted bun cradles his double patty showered in cheese. “A dead body’s not moving right away. We can take five minutes to recharge so we can do our jobs.”

My teeth scrape my lower lip.

“C’mon,” Nate says. “Remember the last time they interrupted our lunch? Had to rush to the neighborhood fire.”

It turned out to be kids lighting smoke bombs in an alley. I set the phone down and Nate tips his burger. “Bon appétit.”

As I cram three fries into my mouth, a new text appears.

At KFRK. No ID yet.

I pound the table, point to my phone, and cover my mouth to avoid spraying partially chewed potatoes. “We gotta go! It’s Larry Lemmon’s station!”

Depending on how Nielsen ratings are dissected—and whether you believe his station’s promotions—Larry Lemmon has the most popular radio show in the nation’s fifth-largest city.

Nate swallows, holds up a finger, and inhales another bite.

“C’mon! You can have mine on the way.”

I stack fries on my wrapped burger using condiment tubs as a buttress. Forgetting a key lesson from Restaurant 101, I whip around and slam into a guy slipping between tables. Ketchup splashes my favorite blue shirt.

Annoying. But that will soon be the least of my concerns.

Chapter 2

Nate and I cut through a clump of customers unaware of a potentially major story unfolding in their city.

Wiping ketchup off my shirt produces purple smears. “Can you work some photog magic on these stains?”

“No problem. I can make them disappear by framing your face extra close.”

“Very funny but not what I had in mind.”

We scramble out the door and what I see next stops me dead, every muscle freezing.

“It’s okay, Jolene.”

Nate’s words are barely audible over the hammering of my heart.

“He can’t touch you. He’s tied to the post.” Nate hooks an arm through mine and pulls me along. “Maybe you should talk to a professional. You really need to get over your fear.”

“It’s not all dogs.” A backward glance reveals a dark mask around its eyes, drool dripping from a tongue the size of my hand. “Just the big ones, the ones that can rip you in half.”

Now it’s Nate’s turn to brake. “Jolene, it’s a Saint Bernard. They’re known as gentle giants.”

“Key word is ‘giant.’ ”

At least we’re riding in Live Seven. Or Lucky Seven, as Nate calls it, since it survived last summer without overheating or flipping over. Unlike Live Six, which blew a tire and careened on Interstate 10, almost crashing into a cable barrier. Or Live Eight, which nearly sent a crew to the hospital with heat exhaustion after the air conditioner conked out during record heat. Our station uses numbers to identify trucks with editing equipment and a microwave. The microwave isn’t for popcorn—it’s to send a signal to the station to establish a live shot. While the scent of popcorn occasionally drifts through the truck, it more often reeks of a rotten banana, stale French fries, or rancid salad left in an open trash bin.

After Nate checks the side mirror and pulls away from the curb, I flip the radio to KFRK. It’s on the air but with no host and no commercials. Instead, the station is playing public service announcements. Stations run PSAs when they can’t sell the time to advertisers—mainly weekends, holidays, and late nights.

A light-rail train passes us, its center section advertising KFRK as “Real talk for real Americans.” As we head north on Central Avenue, I put Alex on speakerphone to fill us in.

“Initial scanner traffic referenced a 901-H at an office building. No mention of foul play, only someone collapsed and died. Then I hear, ‘PIO en route,’ so I check out the building. It houses KFRK.”

“But you don’t know if the body is at the station? It could be another business, right?”

“That’s why we’re sending you guys.”

Nate and I exchange a look over background babble. We know what’s coming before it’s out of Alex’s mouth.

“David says make sure you tweet.”

As the newsroom’s executive producer, David Matthew is responsible for content. He decides which stories will make air and which will not. Sometimes we call him “Sexy.” Not because he’s sexy, but because that’s his favorite word. David’s constantly asking if a story is sexy. He’s never truly defined it, but it’s guaranteed to make TMZ’s website over a city council agenda.

“Tell Sexy I’ll tweet as soon as I have information.”

“Have you logged your interview with Larry Lemmon?”

“Not yet. There was no rush because the managers wanted to hold it while they worked with promotions to schedule an air date.”

I interviewed the talk show host last week. He was the first in what the station plans to make an ongoing series called “Arizona Newsmakers.”

Alex says he’ll get someone to transcribe Larry’s interview and email the notes. “If this turns out to be Larry Lemmon, you’ll be the reporter who conducted his final interview.”

A butterfly takes flight in my stomach, its wings flapping frantically.

“Every media outlet in the country will want your interview.”

Calm down, butterfly. It could be anyone. But the butterfly’s not listening.

“What’s your ETA?” Alex asks. “About ten minutes away.”

Rubbing my stomach does nothing to quiet the butterfly as we head east on Camelback Road. It’s named after the mountain that resembles a camel lying down, but today all I can see is an Emmy statuette. If it turns out Larry is dead, it could finally be my time to revel in the phrase, “And the Emmy goes to Jolene Garcia.” Last year, I flinched hearing, “And the Emmy goes to Jessica ‘JJ’ Jackson.” I tried a poker face, but my colleague’s kick under the table indicated I had failed. My Emmy-nominated story featured neighbors showing up with balloons, party hats, and sparkling grape juice to commemorate the demolition of a former Omelet Manor. Four years earlier, the restaurant had closed, and when nothing replaced it, weeds grew, trash piled up, and people broke in. Someone set a fire in the dining area that destroyed half the building. After the owner snubbed notices to either clean up the property or tear it down, a judge gave the city approval to demolish it, and neighbors organized a watch party in the parking lot. The space is now home to a community garden and farmer’s market. JJ’s Emmy Award–winning story was about bubble wrap day at Chase Field, where the Arizona Diamondbacks play baseball. I’ll never pop bubble wrap again.

Nate taps my shoulder, a signal to quit biting my fingernails. The taps are lighter and less frequent than when he started. Back then he spent half the day slugging me. It worked though. Instead of ripping nails off daily, I only munch on a thumbnail when highly stressed.

“Did you know Larry Lemmon spoke at my church about a year ago?”

My thumb comes out and my eyebrows go up. When it comes to Christianity, Nate plays for the progressive team.

“It was dubbed a community conversation about immigration. My church invited representatives from different groups to take part in a panel discussion. Larry was pretty intense about increasing security.”

“When I interviewed him, he spoke fondly about starting the original ‘Build the Wall’ movement in southern Arizona. Even though there’s been metal fencing in some areas longer than you and I’ve been alive, Larry pushed for a solid wall to run the entire length of the border. His listeners there loved it.”

“Like they do here.” Nate points to a pickup truck the color of bones.

An American flag decal covers the cab window of a Ford F- 350. On the rear bumper, a sticker touts a lifelong National Rifle Association membership next to one that shouts, Let’s Go, Brandon. On the opposite side, a sticker proclaims, Freaks Love Larry.

The station’s call letters, KFRK, became an easy target for critics who labeled listeners “Freaks.” Larry jumped on it and claimed ownership. In a show of solidarity, he started calling his audience members freaks. It’s grown into a badge of honor for loyal listeners and a steady revenue stream of buttons, hats, and shirts for Larry’s station. As we pull into the parking lot at KFRK, we encounter another group of freaks: the media.

“Glad we’re not the last ones here,” Nate says.

Two English-language and two Spanish-language network affiliates beat us to the scene. That leaves one English TV station to show up. The thought of Jessica “JJ” Jackson forced to play catch-up makes me smile.

Nate cruises past a three-story building and eases into a spot next to Telemundo’s truck. Not so close to the action we’ll be asked to back up and not so far that we’ll miss something. I wave to Mirna Esteban, who’s sitting in the passenger seat of Telemundo’s truck. She hops out with the ease and confidence of a male TV reporter. Mirna is the Hillary Clinton and Kamala Harris of Phoenix reporters, a long-standing member of the Pantsuit Nation. With a dozen more years of experience than most reporters in the market, Mirna doesn’t feel the need to pose in trendy dresses on Instagram. But she admits a weakness for necklaces. They don’t have to be expensive, she says, just have estilo. Today’s centerpiece is a champagne bottle glistening with pink and gold beads.

“Hola,” Mirna says. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

“Bien. And you?”

“Muy bien. The public information officer isn’t here yet and no one’s talking, so we don’t know if it was Larry Lemmon.”

Nate grabs his camera and tripod and hands me the microphone, a trademark move that makes him a favorite among reporters. Not everyone understands audio can be as riveting as video—sometimes more. Paying attention to what’s happening outside the viewfinder could be the deciding factor between an Emmy-nominated and Emmy-winning story. I turn on the mic, Nate pushes an earbud in, and nods for me to begin.

“Test, one, two, three, four, five.”

“Sounds good,” he says and hustles off.

I count fifteen people scattered across the parking lot, along with two marked police cars, an ambulance, and one local reporting legend. It’s unusual for Scott Yang to respond to breaking news, but the never-ending flow of cutbacks keeps forcing reporters to take on extra assignments. Quantity, not quality, is the corporate mantra.

Scott is called the grandfather of Phoenix journalism. Some use it in a snarky way because he’s in his sixties, not that into social media, and takes notes using paper and pen—never a phone. Others refer to Scott as the grandfather because of his market knowledge. No reporter knows the political movers and shakers in Arizona better than Scott. No one even comes close. Occasionally, the twenty-nine- year-old me takes the snarky view, but mostly the reporter in me respects Scott and wishes the industry viewed his experience as an asset, not a liability. Some days I wonder if local news will exist when I’m his age.

“There goes abuelo,” Mirna says. “Will he be successful?”

We watch Scott approach two men who fit the radio mold. A middle-aged white guy wearing khakis who looks like he’s hiding a pumpkin under his shirt. He yanks at orange fabric but the polo falls back over his belly. Standing next to Khakis is a guy half his age. Could be his first professional radio job, though you can’t tell from the way he’s dressed. Blue jeans and a black T-shirt with a neon-green image that, from my vantage point, could pass for vomit. Flip-flops on his feet might be a sign he’s clinging to summer or believes casual Friday should be observed every day.

“It’s not looking good,” Mirna says.

Flip-Flops shakes his head when Scott tries to hand him a business card. Scott waves the card at Khakis, who then waves a finger in Scott’s face. It’s the index finger, but speaks like the middle finger. Scott’s arms flutter like a tennis player challenging a line umpire’s call before backing off in defeat.

When I started reporting in Phoenix, Nate offered priceless advice: “If you ever show up to a scene clueless or don’t know who to talk to, just follow Scott. Do what he does.” It’s advice Mirna and I practice by joining Scott when he arrives at our self-designated media section. He removes eyeglasses, blows on the lenses, and slips them back on, the wire frames blending into bushy brows.

“Those guys were talking to cops, but they didn’t want to talk to me. The PIO should be here anytime. You know what that means.”

“You really think it’s Larry Lemmon?” Mirna asks. “There must be a lot of people who work here.”

“Massage franchise is on the first floor,” Scott says. “Real estate agents on the second, and the radio station takes up the top floor. Actually, it houses three stations: what they call ‘oldies’—for my generation—a hip-hop station, and KFRK. Quite the assortment, I’d say.”

Mirna asks if anyone has seen a reporter from Larry’s station and I shake my head. “They eliminated the local news department. Penny-pinchers at corporate figured when something serious happens locally, the show hosts will take care of it.”

“But talk show hosts are paid to give their opinions,” she says. “News reporting is supposed to be objective.”

Scott makes a sound that’s a little laugh, a lot of scorn. “Listen, I know you guys are younger than me, but you can’t be that naïve. No one cares about covering issues that impact the community. It’s just a memory for us old-timers to cherish. Now, it’s all about posting cat videos or whatever the hell the digital department thinks will generate clicks.”

I steer Scott back on track before he dives too deep into his frequent dissertation on why newsrooms should be run as nonprofits and not part of a company’s profit-making portfolio.

“You talk to anyone who works at the station?”

“See the woman in all black?” He points to someone performing exuberant hand gestures. “Talking to the redhead and the man in the suit? They work at the station. At least the woman in black does, based on this.”

He draws a card from his back pocket. Shana Forrest, KFRK Program Director.

By far, she’s the most animated. Redhead stays silent while the man’s fingers graze her shoulder. Shana’s hands collapse and she turns to watch the men who shooed Scott away. They’re talking to an officer who’s scribbling on a clipboard.

“What’s the deal with the people Shana’s talking to?”

“Don’t know,” Scott says. “She’s the only one who opened her mouth. And that was just to tell me they’re not talking.”

Maybe they’re not talking but I can listen. As Scott and Mirna vent their frustrations, I move away, check to make sure the mic is on, hide it behind a notepad, and alert Nate.

“Can you hear me? I’m going to try to talk to the station’s program director.”

He spins around and gives a thumbs-up. “Thanks. Hold back unless it sounds like someone will do an interview.”

Not going too fast or too slow, I aim for curious bystander, not vulture. But halfway there, my eyes lock on promising prey. A knot of four people fills a carless parking space. I smile at a woman holding a Harlow’s Café bag.

“How was lunch?”

“Lunch was breakfast. Dinner will be too, courtesy of Eggs Maximilian.”

“Way better than the handful of fries I scarfed down.” I introduce myself and ask if they know what happened.

Egg woman says, “We came back from lunch and police asked us to wait outside. Said paramedics might have to bring someone out and they want to keep the route clear.”

“What floor do you work on?” “Second.”

“All of you?”

“Yeah. Sounds like someone on the third floor’s in bad shape. That’s all we know.”

I thank them and resume course, twisting my station badge to hide PRESS. With my phone clamped on an ear, I pretend to be engrossed in conversation, tilting the other ear toward Shana, who’s saying she needs to get a host on the air.

“We’re running a military tribute we’ve been saving for Veteran’s Day. There’s only twenty minutes left before we have dead air.”

Redhead whimpers and buries her face in the man’s chest.

“Ooh, sorry,” Shana says. “Poor word choice.”

The man wraps an arm around Redhead’s shoulders and says, “I’m willing to help any way I can.”

“Thank you, Darrell. I’ll need you to fill in more than you have been.”

My breath comes out in a thick whoosh. It must be Larry! This is going to be big. So big that I retreat and call the dreaded producer hotline. It’s supposed to be more efficient because everyone can get on the same line at the same time and get the same information. But often the more people involved, the more comments.

“Everyone’s here,” Alex announces. “Go ahead, Jolene.”

“Still waiting for the PIO to arrive, but I just overheard a conversation with the program director and sounds like it’s Larry Lemmon.”

“Then why haven’t I seen any social media posts?” David asks. “And we need details to write the breaking news story for the website.”

“You haven’t seen anything because I haven’t posted anything. We’re talking about someone who died.” “But you have a sexy scene, right? Confused people locked out of their offices as first responders descend on a building where one of the country’s most controversial talk show hosts has died—or may have died.”

“Getting it right is more important than getting it first.”

Shame sears my face as I repeat the admonition directed at me when I worked in Omaha. It was a horrible mistake. But it was avoidable. And it was all my fault. A dream job had opened in Minneapolis at a station that not only claimed to care about journalism but proved it with thoughtful reporting and resources. With an interview three days out, I was hyper-focused on setting myself apart from the other candidates. Showing up to a top-market newsroom and saying, “I just broke a major story,” would do it.

When my station learned a renowned chef had been critically hurt in a car crash, I was assigned a hospital live shot. Ten minutes before the final evening newscast, a spokesperson told us no information would be released until morning. As reporters commiserated, I sought comfort at a vending machine. Like a trusted friend, the Pepsi logo beckoned me. The bottle stepped forward and toppled three rows to my welcoming hand. The cap was tighter than normal, its rough ridges fought my fingers, and I wrapped my shirt around it.

“Need some help?”

The voice behind me belonged to a guy in his thirties wearing a flannel shirt and smelling of Marlboro cigarettes. Or what I imagined Marlboros smelled like.

A psst sound escaped from the cap. “Got it.”

“You’re a reporter, right? Covering the crash?”

“Yes.”

He introduced himself as the chef’s brother and told me the king of Omaha barbecue had never regained consciousness and died an hour earlier. The brother didn’t want to go on camera but accepted my card, said the family would talk the next day, and promised to be in touch. The Pepsi tasted extra sweet as I toasted my good fortune. Five minutes before the newscast, I tweeted the exclusive information and called the producer. He rewrote the script so the anchor announced the chef’s death and tossed to me by asking what the family had shared. I finished the live shot saying we expected to hear more from the chef’s brother soon.

I never heard from the chef’s brother. Because the chef had no brother. But he had two sisters. Both noted my error by calling the station and using words not allowed on the air. Turns out the chef had suffered a mild concussion, bruised ribs, and a broken arm and would be going home in the morning. My station apologized and ran corrections on the air and social media sites. I did the same on Twitter, which triggered an avalanche of outrage from anyone who’d ever watched a local newscast. To this day, my screwup post has achieved the most impressions on my account, while my apology has garnered the highest engagement rate—light on likes, heavy on criticism. I spent hours scrolling comments and checking profiles to find the guy who duped me. Never did.

Sometimes I think I should’ve brushed aside journalistic ethics and simply deleted the tweets. By keeping them public and acknowledging the mistake (I know “mistake” is a soft word but that’s what it was), the newsroom managers in Minneapolis were compelled to act. Which is what led the assistant news director to call and say they’d canceled my plane ticket and interview. She suggested I gain more experience before moving up. I will never repeat that blunder.

“David, I just called to give you guys a heads-up.”

“At the very least you should tweet what you’re seeing and post on Insta.”

“I’m not on Instagram. Listen, we’ve been here less than fifteen minutes, Nate’s shooting video, and I’m trying to talk to people, but we don’t have official word on anything at this point.”

“We can’t wait for the official word. Other reporters are posting what’s going on. Geez, do I have to send you step-by-step instructions?”

“Okay everyone, let’s calm down,” Alex says. “Jolene, we’ll watch for updates through your texts, calls, tweets, or whatever you can handle. If it turns out to be Larry, we’ll want you live in all the shows.”

“Got it. And gotta run. The PIO’s here.”

This is an excerpt of Off the Air by Christina Estes, available March 26 wherever books are sold. To learn more, visit https://christinaestes.com.