“Nichelle,” said Bernie, not for the first time.
She looked up at him across the conference table. A dozen producers and reporters were looking back at her. “What?”
“The interview. Will you do the Harrison Phillips interview?”
“What? No.” She felt nauseated.
“You’ve been after–”
“–because I thought he was dirty! Not because I thought he–” She threw up.
After a moment, she stalked out unsteadily.
Bernie caught her just before she reached the parking garage elevator. “I need you on this.”
“Why? None of it fucking matters!”
“Yes, it does,” said Bernie. “It matters right up until the end.”
I.E. 
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