Gina
The best editors are made of granite.
Friendship | Media || Reflection
She drove to Portland on a December Friday to have dinner with Gina Park, which they had been meaning to do for three years and had managed only twice in that time because one or both of them was always in the middle of something that felt too urgent to pause. Gina had chosen a restaurant with cloth napkins and a wine list, which was her way of announcing that tonight was a celebration whether Elena liked it or not. Elena liked it. They ordered the good wine and ate slowly and talked about everything except the story for the first forty minutes, which was itself a kind of luxury.
Then Gina said: “The Peabody committee wants to speak with us in February.” Elena looked up from her pasta. “What?” “I’ve also had calls from two book publishers, a documentary production company, and a podcast network. The podcast network specifically wants you, not us, and they want to frame it as—” “Gina.” “—a narrative series following the original investigation, with—” “Gina.” She stopped. Looked at Elena. “I don’t want to do the documentary or the podcast,” Elena said. Gina considered this. “Because—” “Because Patricia Soo is dead and James Merritt is dead and Gerald Wren is a very old man in Astoria with a cat, and I don’t want to make a product out of that. I want to write the follow-up reporting on the prosecution. That’s the story that’s still moving. The rest is—” She gestured vaguely. “Performance?” “History,” she said. “Someone else can have history. I’ll take what’s happening now.” Gina was quiet for a moment. Then she refilled their glasses. “God, you’re annoying,” she said, with the precise warmth of someone who doesn’t mean it at all.