Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is reading over his earlier notes when the jury is brought back into the courtroom. At the bailiff’s direction, they all rise. He’d written most of his script anyway, gotten it approved, and has left only a few blanks for the details. Judge Garrison was a pretty understanding judge, which helped, since that meant Shane could bring his laptop into the courtroom (after obtaining written permission) and had been coordinating with his news director with case updates over Teams the whole time. He shudders, inadvertently thinking back to the case he covered under Judge Lyons, where he had only a handwritten scribbled mess to translate into a minute and thirty package as fast as he could before show time.
He fires off a quick note to his news director, Rose Landry: ****VERDICT TK. jury’s in. Keep an eye on the shared doc for the updates
Rose gives it a thumbs up. Go get em tiger
Now, he waits. The case, to him, seemed pretty cut and dry; a homicide in the dead of the night after a drug deal gone wrong. ALPR cams caught the plates of the getaway car, and the defendant, Peter Fontana, had all kinds of priors (albeit, nothing like a murder charge). The DA got his cell phone data, too, placing Fontana in the car at the time. The only thing that had caught the public’s attention, however, was Fontana’s testimony. He swore he had no idea someone would end up dead at the end of the entire thing. He swore he didn’t touch the murder weapon, a 9mm Colt pistol. He said he never met Eddie Winter, the guy who was killed, who also happened to be the son of a big-name real estate agent in town. And, strangest of all, he said they weren’t doing a drug deal that night. He pleaded the Fifth when the prosecutor asked him what it was they were doing instead.
Shane’s just coming back into the present, staring at the keys on his keyboard, when he hears Judge Garrison deliver the jury’s verdict: not guilty.
His head snaps up, eyes on the back of Fontana’s balding head. Not guilty? The courtroom erupts in a cacophony of murmurs, but Shane’s two steps ahead, feeling the adrenaline begin to course through his veins. He watches Fontana’s shoulders slump, like he’s just wrought out a month’s worth of tension that comes from being charged with murder, his lawyer gripping his shoulder tightly. There’s some more words being said from Garrison, but Shane doesn’t need any of that anymore. A massive sigh of relief from Peter Fontana, a jury acquitting him of the murder of Eddie Winter today. But the court, and by extension, the rest of Boston, are left wondering who, then, might’ve done it.
This, Shane thinks, tapping out the words on his Google document to fill out the rest of the blanks, is what he’s made for. He’s always been able to remain calm under pressure, think quick on his feet, and make it all look easy. This is what makes him such a leader in the newsroom, their go-to guy to cover the big stories, the guy to bring honor and esteem to the rest of WTBR, The Boston Report, and to deliver for the community. This is… this is breaking news.
He sees Rose has given him another thumbs up after letting her know the script is done, which means it’s time to get out of this courtroom and to the street, quickly, for his live hit. JJ, his executive producer, has weighed in, too, advising him that his hit time is going to be eight minutes from now. His photog, Hayden, should be waiting outside — no cameras allowed in the courtroom for this one — so he rushes out with the throng of people exiting the room and taps out a text to him to get the shot up. Hayden replies, you got it bud! Shane loved working with Hayden; he was up for anything, and loved the crazy stories just as much as the little ones. It’s something they both share, which makes them pretty good partners, and pretty decent friends, Shane would say.
Shane runs a hand through his dark hair and straightens his tie as he bounds down the stairs, artfully dodging slower pedestrians, cops with handcuffs clinking from their belts, and attorneys with their self-important stares. He feels like he’s in his element. His is the big story of the day — well, of the past few days, really, since this was Day 4 of the Fontana trial — but this development feels really big, so he hopes JJ might let him have a little extra time. Before he leaves, he might try to see if Fontana’s lawyer, Kendall DiPietro, is willing to talk, since he seems to be rather interested in being a TV lawyer. Shane is muttering “a massive sigh of relief from Peter Fontana” over and over to himself as he bursts into the Boston sunshine, spotting Hayden waiting for him at the base of the steps, Shane’s IFB already in one hand.
But Shane spots something else that nearly makes him trip over his own feet.
The WBNN van is across the street, with its flashy “COVERAGE THAT COUNTS” slogan in black and gold painted across the side. He thinks back; he hadn’t seen any WBNN reporters even in the room. Were they on the Fontana trial, too? Well, their camera is up with lights, which means someone’s about to break the news before him. Fuck.
A guy he’s never seen before rounds around the van, holding a mic with a WBNN flag, and Shane’s heart falls through his chest. Who the hell is this? Shane knows he would remember this guy if he’d seen him before now, tall and strong-looking with blond, curly hair and sparkling green eyes. He’s met plenty of his rival station’s reporters on other stories; most of them are fine, though there’s a select few Shane would like to spill coffee on, or pay an Etsy witch to curse their internet connections forever. Such is the nature of local TV news; always in competition with one another. But, even though Shane will grumble about it, he can’t deny the competition makes the final product all the better. Plus, it’s been WBNN, or “Boston News Now,” and WTBR, or “The Boston Report,” in competition with one another for decades. Each side has rightfully earned their respect. In a way, each side pushes the other to be better.
The guy positions himself in front of the camera — oh, fuck him, of course he’s MMJing it — then nods, clearing his throat.
“You’re hearing it here first,” he says, and Shane can’t move, can’t even swallow properly. He’s got an interesting accent that Shane is sure he would’ve remembered hearing before. “Peter Fontana has been declared not guilty in the murder case of Eddie Winter.”
“Earth to Hollander!” Hayden calls, and Shane snaps out of it. “We’re live in three minutes, get your IFB on! JJ is pitching a fit over here.”
The wind has been knocked out of Shane’s sails, but he moves on autopilot, rushing over and dialing in, stepping in front of the light as Hayden focuses the shot. JJ asks for a mic check from his ear, sounding a bit more harried than usual, and Shane counts down from 10, per routine. His mind is entirely elsewhere. When did WBNN hire a new guy? Where’d he come from? Why does he look like a model? How did he get the story first?
JJ cues him in, and Shane delivers the story just as rehearsed. If he’s honest, reporting in front of the camera is his least favorite part of the whole ordeal. Sometimes, there’s an adrenaline rush, particularly when you’re doing something cool, like the time he got to ride out on a boat with a lobster fishermen crew at night, or when you’re talking to someone interesting, like the Artemis II astronauts when they stopped in Boston for a talk at the Museum of Science. Most of the time, you’re just standing there like a cardboard cutout, though, like a cliche.
“Live for The Boston Report, I’m Shane Hollander,” Shane declares, like he’s declared a thousand times. After JJ cues him out, he gives Hayden a nod, who flips the light off. And as his eyes adjust, it’s then that he sees someone leaning against the WTBR truck.
“Shane Hollander,” the WBNN guy says with a wolfish smile, appraising Shane like a steer up for auction. “It is good to meet you.”
Shane swallows. He can’t quite get an immediate read on this guy. Some of the WBNN reporters are friendlier than others. However, Shane is nothing if not well-mannered, so he extends a hand for a shake.
“Oh, well, I’m glad to meet you…?”
“Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov,” the other reporter says, taking Shane’s hand. A thousand sparks shoot up Shane’s arm, but he ignores it. That’s been happening a lot lately. Just something else to ignore. “I just came up from Providence. Looks like we’re going to be seeing each other lots.”
“Cool, cool, well, Boston’s a great city, welcome,” Shane says. So he’s new to WBNN. “Um, this is my photog, Hayden —”
“Oh, I have met,” Ilya says, waving his hand dismissively. “We got to talking once I got set up here. Let’s say, no handshakes for him. Very annoying.”
Hayden rolls his eyes. “If I’m so annoying, I don’t know why you stuck around, then.”
Ilya shrugs, clearly not perturbed by Hayden’s snippy tone. “I wanted to meet Hollander.”
Shane is at a loss, evidently no longer two steps ahead, and evidently not for the first time today. “...Why did you want to meet me?” he asks weakly.
“Ah, well, when I knew I was making the move to Boston, I wanted to know the competition, yes? So I’ve been watching and reading The Boston Report for a while now,” Ilya explains. “And all the best stories were you.”
“Oh,” Shane says, suddenly flattered. “Well, that’s really nice, thank y–”
“And since I’ll be having all the best stories at Boston News Now,” Ilya is saying, “I wanted to know who I would have to beat to the punch, so they say. Like I just did.”
The kind words die on Shane’s tongue.
Ilya grins, sticking a pencil he got from who knows where behind his ear.
Maybe if it had just been the comment, Shane would’ve let it slide. But it wasn’t just the comment. It was the rudeness toward his good friend. It was the fact that, still, somehow, Ilya had gotten that story out first, and Shane still didn’t know how he did it. But the worst of it all was that stupid, silly grin, like this was a game or something, like this was trivial and juvenile and effortless for him.
“You know,” Shane says evenly, his brow furrowed, “you’re being kind of an asshole. I don’t appreciate it.”
Ilya laughs. It sounds real. “Hollander, you are funny. I think this is going to be lots of fun, yes?”
He pats Shane on the cheek – pats him on the cheek – before strolling away back toward the WBNN truck. “Do svidaniya!” he calls over his shoulder.
Shane’s jaw ticks. He’s going to be seeing that grin in his nightmares tonight.