Part I: The Journalist.

Chapter 1: The Journalist.

Wednesday, November 5.  

It was 7 am, even though it still appeared dark outside through the apartment’s bedroom window. Her body felt heavy, slow; 7 am was better than the 2:30 am wake up call from the day before. Even with the extra hours of sleep, she still felt like she needed more, like she couldn’t be fully restored even if she slept twelve more hours. 

Jolene took stock of the somewhat unfamiliar room, assessing her next steps as she readied herself for the day. Connecting together the events of the day before, she saw her jeans on the floor, her bra. She remembered when that came off the night before. In her mind, a flash of her and Toni passionately embracing after months of their resumed “situationship.” She swore she wasn’t going to do this, she wasn’t going to fall back into old habits. She would just drive up to Chicago from Carbondale. She was just going to stay on Toni’s couch, since it was either that or staying with her mother. Even though she and Toni had a complicated relationship and history, they could maintain the boundaries. She was grown now, essentially running the few remaining threads of free press in southern Illinois, all by herself. Fuck, if she could do that, then she could stay on her ex-girlfriend’s couch for an evening and be mature about it. At least that was the conversation she had with herself when she texted Toni a few days ago, and told her about the story happening in the federal courthouse she had to cover. She had to get downtown, and as Toni would understand, it was either this favor or dealing with Jolene’s mother. Toni would understand - she would understand, they could be friends and move on with their lives. It would be fine. 

As Jolene stared at her ratty bra on the floor, she realized that maybe it was a sign that she had to talk herself up so much. That pre-dialogue was probably a sign that the risk of relapse was quite high. She noticed Toni’s Northwestern t-shirt hanging on the dresser in the corner and Jo remembered taking that off the night before without a second’s hesitation. She remembered it all feeling so natural, falling back into old romantic habits. For a moment, she allowed herself to smirk at the memory and the comforting feeling of being with Toni - with being with someone - again. 

She heard Toni exhale behind her, and the sounds of her body scooting across the mountain of comforter and sheets, working her way closer to Jo. “Well, that was fun. Almost more fun than I had remembered it,” Toni whispered. Jo felt Toni’s cold hands slide their way across her hip, wrapping around to her lower stomach. Jo immediately flinched, and gently removed Toni’s hand as she pushed herself out of the bed. 

“Yeah, it’s funny how memory works like that,” Jo huffed as she pushed herself to her feet. Awkwardly standing in front of Toni, undressed, she covered her chest with arms, hugging herself with nervousness and chill. “Is it cool if I jump in the shower? The hearing starts in a little over an hour, and I am hoping to catch the L here in just a little bit.” 

Toni looked at Jo, confused and shocked. Toni was taken aback at the lack of recognition or engagement from Jo about the night they shared. Unable to muster much else, she nodded and watched as Jo turned on her heel and made her way to the small bathroom in Toni’s apartment. 

“Great, thanks for understanding,” Jo muttered as she turned away. She heard Toni huff with disappointment and disgust. 

*****

Monday, November 3. 

Jolene Pratch - Jo - sat at the small desk that honestly felt too large for the closet she worked in at the public radio station headquartered out of Southern Illinois University. In true Jo fashion, it contained a stack of news articles and wire print outs, a jumble of cables that connected her laptop to the broadcast system, and her Northwestern journalism degree hung on the wall with scotch tape. It was 4 am and she was already overwhelmed. She needed to fire on the basic tech, read the headlines and the wires, and curate the news headlines for the next few hours. She also needed to take out the trash from the day before and make sure the college interns hadn’t screwed up any of the settings from the night before when they ran their student station. She needed to submit her time sheet to headquarters in Chicago, and she needed to feed the squirrel who lived outback of the station. She needed to do all of this, because she was literally the only person left at the Weezuu - WSIU Broadcast network. 

Jo sat, parsing through the morning’s order of events, living another day as “not a starving artist, but a starving journalist in a medium that is DYING” - the exact works of her mother every time they discussed Jo’s life choices. The last telephone conversation she had with her mother (who lived back in Chicago) involved the sentiment that maybe being a starving artist would be more forgivable in Mrs. Pratch’s eyes. At least in that respect, there was some recognition that her daughter wasn’t the smart one in the bunch. But she went to a good school, a top school of journalism even, and she turned down the major corporate opportunities to live in the middle of nowhere, and to struggle. 

But the struggle, the fight, that was part of what Jo signed up for, a journalist living in this era in American politics. Where those in power blamed everything on the free media (now known as the fake media - fake news) Jo knew that now, more than ever, democracy was going to depend on reckless young adults like her. It didn’t matter that she had over a hundred thousand dollars in debt from her college education. At some point, she’d really grow up and figure out what the fuck to do with that financial mess. Right now, it didn’t matter that she barely made enough to cover the one bedroom she rented in someone else’s apartment in rural-ish midwest America. The fact that she hadn’t had a physical or seen a dentist in two years - those were issues for like real people who actually had health issues. Jo still survived on grilled cheese, sometimes a salad, and cheap, cold beer. Jo didn’t need all that shit. All she needed was this - this mess of a career, just starting out. Jo needed to fight for the free press; the First Amendment was somehow written into Jo’s genetic coding and she was sure of it. 

Sorting through the mess of the college interns from the night before (Stupid kids, she thought, though she was only 22 herself), Jo began dumping printed articles and scribbled notes on yellow legal paper into the one trash can. She grumbled as she threw away a scribbled note - you sound like you sucked dick last night - obviously a nice parting message between interns as they went on air last night doing whatever the hell they did after 11 pm. The abysmal pay she could live with; the sophomoric students she shared her professional space with was something else entirely. She complained to headquarters; they kindly reminded her she was a recent college graduate with a station gig all to herself. She was lucky to have a job in the first place - the kind, corporate translation for her mother’s favorite expression: suck it up, buttercup. 

Jo was about to throw away the second dick-related reference scribbled on paper, when she saw a news print out tucked behind it. The headline caught her attention: “Vice Admiral of the Navy on the Outs In More Ways than One.” Below, a picture of a white woman with a short, blonde bob haircut wearing a military uniform adorned with honors and achievements.  The caption below her photo: Vice Admiral Maxene French, First Female and Openly Lesbian Vice Admiral, Dismissed from Position by New Presidency. “Fucking fuck that,” Jo said quietly to herself, standing there holding the article in her hands. From the time stamp on the printout, it looked like one of the dipshit interns found the story from the night before. 

Jo sat down in her basic office chair, reading the article further. A decorated officer in the navy, Maxene French had given nearly forty years of her life to service. It wasn’t until the recent presidency that the modern idea of a woman in leadership was challenged so openly; she couldn’t have earned it, she’s just a woman. It was a sentiment many Americans, including Jo, were hearing more and more in the media. The article from the New York Times stated the basis for her dismissal noted that she was incorrectly promoted in rank as an “inappropriate DEI hire” within the military. Therefore, she had to go. “I’ve never met so men with such tiny, tiny fucking dicks.” Jo slammed the article down on the desk, heaving with anger as she stared at the taped diploma on the wall. 

She turned back to the article. She skimmed the rest of the background and history of the Vice Admiral, and found a concluding paragraph about what was next for French. Jo was pleased to read that French wasn’t accepting her fate; she was taking it to court. Although Jo didn’t have much faith in the judicial system, she at least thought it was worth it to make them work for the termination, instead of just accepting it. Then Jo remembered that for a woman of French’s stature, she probably had to fight for everything she had, tooth and nail. Taking her termination to court was probably just another dot on the timeline of her life, career, and her service. Jo read that the lawsuit was filed in the Northern District of Illinois - Chicago - in the jurisdiction of her last station at the Great Lakes Naval Base. 

It was something about French’s story that Jo couldn’t shake. She set down the article on the side of her desk, thinking she would curate the information for the morning’s headlines when she jumped on the mic for her first hourly broadcast of the day. But as she continued through her morning chores of the station as it’s one full-time employee, she couldn’t let go of the story. She couldn’t let go of another woman getting fucked by American society, by the fucking men of the fucking patriarchy. 

But deep down, she couldn’t get over the headline either - On the Outs In More Ways Than One. Jo remembered in one of her undergrad classes learning about the Defense of Marriage Act, and the decision of Windsor v. United States (2013), and also the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. Jo didn’t hide her identity as a queer woman, but she also didn’t openly market that information either. As a college student, her mother wrote it off as one of those “liberal phases” her daughter was going through. “You’ll straighten it all out,” her mother said, one Christmas eve dinner, in front of her dad and her brother. Her brother, more supportive than most other members of her upper class family, gave Jo a look at the seemingly unintended, yet entirely pointed, pun of their mother’s delivery. 

Those things stayed with her. She was living through a time, and had been for a while, where it felt like these rights were normal, accepted. It wasn’t some hard fought battle. Legalization of same-sex marriage was ten years prior when Jo was just twelve. At that time, Jo didn’t know what the hell she felt, except for the fact that she was way more into Jennifer Lawrence than the love triangle aspect of the Hunger Games. She just couldn’t name it at that time. From there, when she realized it was more about Jennfier Lawrence than anything else, same-sex relationships were more mainstream. Coming out to her family wasn’t some big thing; one day she told her mom she was taking Emily to the prom and her mom nearly choked on her coffee. That was pretty much the beginning (and what she hoped would be the end) of her “coming out” story in her family. 

So, to sit in a college seminar and realize that the normalcy of her life wasn’t so cemented, not so always matter of fact, it had a lasting impression upon her. She remembered asking a few follow up questions during lecture in her American politics course and some frat guys muttering “dyke” under their breath. When the professor asked if they wanted to say that “a little louder, for everyone in the class to hear” they quieted down. The professor gave Jo a nod, and continued to lecture on the modern history of queer law in the United States. 

So sure, her journey to her identity wasn’t riddled with trauma or some grandiose story that merited retelling. It was pretty common, pretty average - pretty normal for something that should have been normalized a hell of a long time ago. But that didn’t mean that the moments, like the image of her mother choking on her coffee, replaying the Christmas eve dinner table, the sheer look of horror when the professor called out the asshats in her lecture - that didn’t mean those moments didn’t add up. If those memories lived rent free in Jo’s head, what kind of memories haunted the halls of a Vice Admiral of the military? What kind of shit had she seen? What story needed to be told there?

What story needed to be told there - the question rattled around Jo’s mind as she read through the headlines of the day. She even asked the question to the station’s pet squirrel; he just did the head tilt of an adorable woodland creature wondering what the hell the lady with the bird feed was actually saying to him. And better yet, the head tilt of a creature who just wanted her to hand over his daily scoop of the bird feed. It rattled around like subtext as Jo recklessly texted the college interns and asked them if they wanted “their shot at the big time” - if they wanted to run the daily news desk for a couple of days while she pursued a story. She sent that text around 10 am; she knew they wouldn’t even awake until 1 pm. It was risky, but the question animated the choices, the decisions she made over the next few hours. 

Those decisions, including the text messages she sent to one woman - one Antoinette (Toni) Price. Jo hit “draft” in her text message inbox, starting a brand new thread with the woman she broke up with before she left for southern Illinois. It felt strange - she normally only did this when she was a little drunk and a little lonely, only to engage in a twisted journey of Jo in Wonderland, wandering down memory lane. It was usually followed with a looming sense of regret the next day; Jo would ignore the sobered messages that came from Toni the next day as a coping mechanism for her feelings of regret. Jo was surprised that Toni would always seemingly reply, even though Toni wasn’t dumb. Between the time stamps of 9 pm and onward, and the pattern of behavior following, she had to know what Jo was doing. During their last midnight message exchange, Toni told Jo, “Because I’ll always love you.” Jo ended the conversation right there; Jo never forgot those words either. 

But there she was, in the transparent light of day, hitting “draft” on her text messages and typing T-O-N-I into the “to” field. Toni Price <3 populated from her contacts; she inhaled, deeply exhaled like a novice in a yoga class, and began to type: 

Jo sat, staring at the conversation unfolding. It was her turn to reply, and all she could do was stare at the blinking cursor, waiting for her to type the next witty reply in the conversation. She didn’t know what to say; fair and also fair that I broke your heart because I suck and I continue to suck, but also hey girl, can I have a favor? It was accurate, but also Jo had a little bit more respect for Toni than that. She adored Toni still, even if she couldn’t really show it. They couldn’t be together, because Jo was just a mess of workaholic and scared. It didn’t mean that she didn’t love and respect Toni as much as the first day she met her in downtown Chicago with a bunch of friends at the Billy Goat Tavern.

“So Toni,” Jo muttered to herself. Toni didn’t really beat around things - she pushed the issue. It was one of those love/hate qualities of hers. Jo loved that the woman had balls; she just fucking went for it. She knew exactly what she wanted and she was laser focused. But it also meant there wasn’t room to just bullshit - to ruminate aimlessly and figure it out. Everything was intentional, and even though Jo was similarly ambitious, she was a little more Jo in Wonderland. She’d figure it out after a few trippy dalliances were had along the way.

And at 11:11 am, Jo Pratch made a ridiculous wish that this plan was going to work out. She couldn’t remember the last time she did something this childish; eleven, eleven, make a wish! But for some reason, this story and this feeling in her bones and this need to not rely on her stupid mom, it felt like something she needed a little extra magical juju to actually manifest. 

She spelt it out for Toni. She explained that there was this story, and she couldn’t really articulate why this mattered to her so much, but if she could swing it, she would need a couch to crash on for a night, maybe a couple depending on how the hearing went. She would pick up dinner at the hole-in-the-wall Thai spot down the street that they used to love; she’d even splurge and get an extra order of Mee Krob (Toni’s culinary kryptonite).

Jo wasn’t actually sure if she couldn’t afford it. But she had the “in case of emergencies” credit card linked with the family account. If it came to that, she would suck it up and have lunch with her mother to explain the charges later down the road. She would figure it out, when she was forced to do so.

Fucking Eleanor Roosevelt; the cat that seemed to defy animal physics with her age and anger. Toni had Eleanor since college, and even before then. Eleanor, the meanest cat known to man, only liked Toni. It wasn’t surprising; Toni was a deeply loyal person. Eleanor probably sensed she could get away with murder (in cat form, biting people’s ankles and toes) and Toni would still love that stupid cat. Eleanor and Jo tolerated each other for three years of college - Eleanor bit the shit out of her toes and Jo “accidentally” washed Eleanor’s favorite dirty socks in retaliation. “The Cold Wash War,” Toni called it as she tried to negotiate a peace settlement between her two favorite women.

After she added the “heart” image to Toni’s last text message, Jo sat at her desk and fist bumped the air. She looked at her degree, taped to the wall. She thought about how Toni’s finance degree was probably framed nicely, hung and levelled on the wall of her corporate, downtown office. They were so different, that was obvious. 

But Jo knew that this story would mean something. It would mean something to Jo, to Toni, to Maxine French. Jo had a feeling in her bones that this story would mean something even to fucking Eleanor Roosevelt, the meanest cat that ever lived. 

*****

Wednesday, November 5.  

Of course, Eleanor took one final swipe at Jo’s ankles as she put on her loafers, trying to look somewhat court-appropriate for the hearing that morning. “Fuck you, cat,” she muttered. Eleanor hissed and ran back into the bedroom. Toni was still in the bed; she hadn’t gotten up since Jo abruptly left the sheets and got ready for the hearing. 

Jo grabbed her messenger bag and headed towa

rd the front door. She stopped, looking back at Toni’s bedroom door. She didn’t really know what to say. She couldn’t confront the complexity of what she had done, let alone the topic of “might be back later, depending on how the hearing unfolds today.” She started, and stopped, and started again some form of a sentence; she didn’t have the words. As Eleanor wandered into the bedroom door frame, glaring back at her, Jo decided to take it as an omen to leave quietly, and try this conversation again later. 

The devilish eyes of Eleanor Roosevelt the cat haunted Jo as she rode the L train, standing against the door frame in the classic triangle of the everyday trainsurfer. While the tourists held the rails, Jo manspread with the best of them, bracing herself against the tugging of stopping and going, stopping and going, while she reviewed the notes and research she collected for the hearing. She read through the articles reporting on the initial termination of Maxine French; she skimmed through her notes on her early years, the hallmarks of her years of service in the U.S. Navy. The part human, part automated voice of the Chicago transit system called out “BLUE LINE STOP - JACKSON” and Jo collected her research, her thoughts, and the ruminating fears of the look of that damn cat, and exited the train. 

As Jo navigated the brief city walk and the not-so-brief line of questioning with courthouse security, she thought about the need to report on this story and the lingering sense of guilt she had about Toni. She wondered if Toni was still in bed; maybe she decided to take a mental health day (although that was highly unlike Toni; this was the kid who refused

to ask for an extension on a final finance exam with a 102 degree fever during their senior year of college). 

As Jo opened the doors to Department 1122, she couldn’t help but think, this story is for us, Toni. Even Eleanor.

Next Chapter: The Jurists.

r, too.