The black man looked at the Asian woman. The Asian woman looked at the white man. The white man looked at the black man.
Wendy spread her hands. “Do you guys rehearse this?”
They bent toward one another and whispered like senators during a hearing. Wendy waited. When they finished, the Asian woman opened another file and slid it across the glass surface.
“Perhaps you should read this.”
Wendy opened the file. It was a printout from a blog. Wendy felt her blood boil as she read:I work at NTC. I can’t say my real name because I’ll get fired. But Wendy Tynes is horrible. She is a no-talent prima donna who rose to the top the old-fashioned way: She slept her way there. Currently she is screwing our boss Vic Garrett. Because of that, she gets to do whatever she wants. She was, in fact, fired last week for incompetence, but got hired back because Vic is afraid of a harassment suit. Wendy has had tons of plastic surgery, including nose, eyes, and boobs . . .
On and on it went. Again Wendy remembered Phil’s warning. She remembered what these viral psychos had done to Farley Parks, to Steve Miciano—and now to her. The implications were beginning to sink in: her career, her livelihood, her ability to take care of her son. Rumors always hardened to facts. Accusations are convictions in the public mind. You are guilty until proven innocent.
Hadn’t Dan Mercer told her something like that?
Eventually the white man cleared his throat and said, “Well?”
With as much as bravado as she could muster, Wendy stuck out her chest. “They’re real. You can squeeze one if you want.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“And I’m not laughing. But I am offering you proof these are lies. Go ahead. Quick squeeze.”
The white man made a harrumph noise and gestured toward the file. “Maybe you should look at the comments. They’re on the second page.”
Wendy tried to keep up the confident façade, but she felt as though her world was starting to teeter. She turned the paper over and scanned down to the first comment.
Comment: I worked with her at her last job and I totally agree. Same thing happened there. Our married boss got canned and divorced. She’s trash.
Comment: She slept with at least two college professors, one when she was pregnant. Broke up his marriage.
Now Wendy felt her face burn. She had been married to John when she was at that job. He had, in fact, been killed during her last weeks working there. That lie, in particular, enraged her more than any others. It was so obscene, so unfair.
“Well?” the white man asked.
“These,” she said, through gritted teeth, “are total lies.”
“It’s all over the Web. Some of these blogs have been sent to our sponsors. They were threatening to pull their ads.”
“It’s all lies.”
“And furthermore we would like you to sign a release.”
“What kind of release?”
“Mr. Garrett is your superior. While I don’t think you have a case, you could sue for sexual harassment.”
“Are you kidding?” Wendy said.
He pointed toward the file. “One of those blogs mentioned that you once sued a superior for sexual harassment. Who’s to say you won’t do it again?”
Wendy actually saw red. She tightened her hands into fists and fought hard to keep her tone even. “Mr. . . . I’m sorry, I forgot your name . . .”
“Montague.”
“Mr. Montague.” Deep breath. “I want you to listen to me very closely. Try to pay attention here because I want to make sure you understand.” Wendy lifted the file in the air. “These are all lies. Do you get that? Fabrications. The part about me suing an old employer? That’s a lie. The accusation that I slept with a superior or a professor? More lies. The accusation that I slept with anyone other than my husband while I was pregnant? Or that I got plastic surgery, for that matter? They are all lies. Not exaggerations. Not distortions. Bald-faced lies. Do you understand?”
Montague cleared his throat. “We understand that’s your position.”
“Anyone can go online and say anything about anyone,” Wendy continued. “Don’t you get that? Someone is cyber-lying about me. Look at the date on the blog, for crying out loud. It was posted yesterday and already has all these comments. It’s all fake. Someone is intentionally trying to ruin me.”
“Be that as it may,” Montague began, a phrase that meant absolutely nothing but irritated Wendy like few others, “we feel it would be best if you take a temporary leave of absence while we investigate this charge.”
“I don’t think so,” Wendy said.
“Pardon me?”
“Because if you make me do that, I will make a stink that you’ll never get off your shiny suits. I will sue the network. I will sue the studio. I will sue each one of you personally. I will send our beloved sponsors blogs that claim that you two”—she pointed to the white man and the black man—“enjoy having monkey sex on the office furniture while she”—now she pointed to the Asian woman—“likes to watch and spank herself. Is it true? Well, it will be in a blog. Several blogs, in fact. Then I’ll go to other computers and add comments, stuff like Montague likes it rough or with toys or small farm animals. Get PETA on your ass. Then I’ll send those blogs to your families. Do you get my drift?”
No one spoke.
She rose. “I’m going back to work.”
“No, Ms. Tynes, I’m afraid you’re not.”
The door opened. Two uniformed security guards entered.
“We will have security escort you out. Please do not get in contact with anyone at this company until we have had a chance to look into the matter. Any attempt to communicate with anyone involved in this case will be viewed as possible tampering. Also, your threats directed at myself and my colleagues will be noted in the record. Thank you for your time.”
CHAPTER 31
WENDY CALLED VIC, but Mavis wouldn’t put her through. Fine. It would be like that. Princeton was about a ninety-minute ride. She spent the drive time both fuming and thinking about what this all meant. It was easy to scoff at ridiculous and unsubstantiated gossip, but she knew that, whatever happened now, these rumors would throw a dark and probably permanent shadow over her career. There had been whispered innuendos before—pretty much a given when even a semi-attractive female rose to prominence in this industry—but now, because some moron had posted them on a blog, they suddenly took on more credence. Welcome to the computer age.