The journalist's name was Karen Solis.
She was forty, compact, with dark hair pulled back and the kind of direct eye contact that told you she had spent years asking people difficult questions and had learned that looking away first was a disadvantage she couldn't afford. She met Francis in the lobby at one-thirty with a handshake that was brief and firm and no small talk.
Her crew was two people. A camera operator named Derek who said nothing and moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had set up in difficult locations before and found hotel conference rooms straightforward by comparison. A sound technician named Prita who clipped a microphone to Francis's collar and checked the levels twice and told him in a low voice that the lapel unit was sensitive and he didn't need to proje
