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view to ground level. Brown was standing on the sidewalk, just outside the perimeter of panic and confusion.
    “Faith, there is no official word yet from the Department of Corrections, but we have accounts from eyewitnesses who have stated in no uncertain terms that Sydney Bennett is somewhere in the middle of all this. We are trying to bring one of those eyewitnesses over here now to talk with us on camera.” Brown adjusted her earpiece, listening to her producer, then spoke with greater urgency. “Faith, I am told we do have someone with us now,” she said.
    “Mic her up so I can talk to her,” said Corso.
    “She’s right here. I can ask her directly.”
    “Heather, this will work so much better for everyone if you just hand over your earpiece and microphone and let me speak to her.”
    The “my show” attitude was what Corso’s fans loved about her. Even Jack was starting to find her schtick engrossing in its own way. As the reporter on the scene complied, Corso set the dramatic stage for her own breaking-news moment.
    “Once again, friends, you are watching Breaking News Network, live from the women’s detention center, where we are just moments away from bringing you an exclusive eyewitness account of this very dangerous situation that Shot Mom and her lawyers have created.”
    “That her lawyers created?” said Jack. It was involuntary, and the corrections officer next to him ignored the fact that Jack was talking to a TV.
    “Hello, this is Jenna Smith.”
    The voice from the television was weak and shaky. Alone and on camera was a frightened young woman clutching a BNN microphone. The crowd in the background flashed from red to orange to yellow, as a full complement of swirling lights from emergency vehicles bathed the parking lot.
    “Jenna, this is Faith Corso with Breaking News Network. Thank you for joining me. I understand that you were right in the thick of this terrible, terrible mess. Can you tell us what happened?”
    The young woman gnawed her lip, timid in her response. “Uhm, we were, like, it was Celeste and me, and we were just . . . oh, I don’t think I can do this.”
    “Take a deep breath,” said Corso, using the voice of a skilled prosecutor who had comforted countless victims in court. “Who is Celeste?”
    “Celeste. My BFF. We’re roommates at the U. We wanted to go to Club Vertigo. They had this party.”
    “Where is this Club Vertigo?”
    “South Beach. Tonight it was, like, you drink free if you come dressed up. Celeste was so perfect.”
    “Wait a second,” said Corso, her tone no longer so soothing. “You’re saying that a South Beach bar was giving away drinks if you got dressed up?”
    “Right.”
    “Dressed up how ?”
    “They had this Sydney Bennett look-alike contest, and—”
    “A look-alike contest?”
    “Mmm-hmm. Celeste should have won first prize, but it was like so rigged, the bouncers wouldn’t even let us in. So we, uhm, decided to come here. We thought it would be funny, you know? And like, all of a sudden, people were screaming, ‘There she is, there’s Sydney!’ It was like people went crazy or something. I got knocked down by some jerk, and then . . . I don’t know. A group of women were screaming about bloody money, and when I tried to get up, somebody bashed me in the arm with a pipe. Maybe a baseball bat—I don’t know what it was. My elbow feels like it might be broken.”
    “Where is your friend Celeste now?” asked Corso.
    “I don’t know,” Smith said, her voice quaking. “I got whacked in the arm, and then I saw Celeste go down.”
    “She got hit?”
    “I’m not sure, I—”
    “Coming through!” a paramedic shouted. A member of BNN’s sound crew pulled the girl aside, and the camera captured a team of paramedics racing past with a woman on a gurney.
    “Celeste!” the woman shouted. “Oh, my God, that’s Celeste!”
    The BNN reporter grabbed the microphone and earpiece, and the young woman chased after the