Marisol banged her fists on the front desk of Channel 64.
The front desk attendant, a young Caucasian male with unruly black hair, stared at her blankly.
The lobby’s fluorescent bulbs buzzed gently overhead.
“Listen to me,” she said in a half growl. “I know what I saw. I have been halfway across this city tonight and I am begging you to let me tell my story.”
“Like I said, miss, there’s no staff here tonight. At least not the ones you want to talk to.”
“Then call them!” Marisol said. A tear formed in her eye. “Isn’t that what reporters are supposed to do? Get the scoop? Why won’t you listen to me?”
listen“It’s nothing personal, ma’am,” the attendant said.
“You’re not a reporter,” Marisol said. “You don’t get to make that decision.”
The attendant rose. “Please leave, or I will call
