CC: WBS Executives
Subject: Clinton White Coverage
Hi Team,
Reminder that Dr. Clinton White (aka Dr. Love) will be in court in Stamford tomorrow. He will appear in Judge O’Toole’s courtroom (Courtroom 1) at 9:00 a.m. Local news station Channel 4 will be pool camera. WBS will plug in, and feed footage live back to the studio. White will be permitted to dress in civilian clothes for this appearance but will be shackled at the hands and feet. We expect that White will be taken in the back entrance of the courthouse, so we’ll have a crew staking-out that door to try and catch video of him coming and going.
This is a status hearing and won’t last long—ten minutes tops. The biggest news we are hoping for is that a trial date will be set.
I’ll be in the courtroom and plan to overnight in CT. Please reach out to me with any editorial questions and DO NOT reach out directly to anyone in the White family. They are tired of the media, and we do not want to burn any bridges.
Side note: O’Toole is a real character on the stand. Made for TV, a sound bite machine.
FOR GUIDANCE ONLY: I am meeting with White’s attorneys (Luke and Lonnie Locke) tomorrow evening. WBS is in position to get White’s one and only sit-down (fingers crossed!!). Remember, the judge has issued a gag order so the interview will happen post-verdict. If White’s convicted, the interview will happen in a room at the courthouse before he is hauled back to prison (no cameras are allowed in Connecticut prisons). If he’s acquitted, the interview will take place at his home.
Thanks!
Kenny
She hitSendand pulled out her daily planner and pad of neon pink Post-it notes to begin her ever-growing daily to-do list. She realized she was behind the times by not relying on one of her many electronic devices to keep life on track, but she was old school that way. She liked to physically write things on paper, read things from a hard copy book or newspaper, and felt immense satisfaction when crossing tasks off her lists.
Every Black Friday, Kenny ordered the following year’s case-bound daily planner from Papyrus. This year’s version was black with pink flowers and the wordsWildest Dreamsscrawled across the front in gold. Each day of the year a half page was allotted in the journal, and that’s where she would stick her daily Post-it note.
To-Do Wednesday, August 30
Book travel for CT trip—rental car and hotel (National @ Columbus Circle + Courtyard Marriott on Summer St.)
Make a reservation for dinner with White’s attorneys (Bartaco Tapas or Capital Grille)
Raid supply closet at the office (Post-its, pens, notebooks, highlighters)
Connect with crew to discuss meet-up plans for courthouse (Jim, camera operator + Sam, audio)
Journal today’s tasks for therapist
Research illustrators forArmchair Detective
Kenny ripped the square pink paper off the pad and stuck it over the box labeled with the corresponding date, grabbed her gym bag and yoga mat, and bounced out the door, down the steps of herprewarbrownstone.
Three
Kennytriedto be present during the walk down Amsterdam Avenue to her Vinyasa class. Her head was usually buried in a phone or notebook. She made it exactly two blocks before getting distracted by September’s Feature Author poster in the window of Amsterdam Books, the quaint family-owned bookstore that had been a staple of the neighborhood for decades. The small shop was known around the city for their popular book clubs, story times, and author signing events. Being selected as a month’s feature author was a one-way ticket to the top of The New York Times Best Sellers List.
Kenny desperately wanted to see her name and the cover of her book on the poster in the display window. That desire becoming reality was so close, she could envision it if she shut her eyes. She had recently submitted the manuscript of her first novel,ArmchairDetective, to a publishing house for consideration. The novel was a compilation of unsolved criminal investigations that had gone cold and was narrated by the prosecutors, detectives, as well as local, state, and federal law enforcement officials who resurrected the cases and pulled out all the stops trying to crack them. The story offered firsthand accounts from victims’ families and highlighted the work of genealogists, hypnotists, psychics, therapists, and bounty hunters who threw their hats in the ring using their respective areas of unconventional expertise to solve the crimes that baffled more traditional investigation techniques.
With the world’s obsession around true crime and real-life murder mysteries, everyone in Kenny’s sphere told herArmchair Detectivewas going to be an instant hit. She agreed. At the very least, it would be talked about on the countless crime podcasts that spread like wildfire afterSerialtapped into the untouched market in 2014. There was an excellent chance it would be picked up by the Friday night newsmagazines20/20andDateline,and maybe it would even catch the eye of filmmaker Joe Berlinger. He was so riveted by a Ted Bundy novel that he directed a multi-part series for Netflixanda major motion picture starring Zac Efron and Lilly Collins. The possibilities were endless.
After peering into the window of the bookstore for too long, Kenny reeled in her wandering mind. She wasn’t scheduled to hear back from the publishing house about the edit and publication process until next week, and she still needed to find an illustrator to design a catchy cover.
Kenny noticed the city was happy this morning, people were smiling. The workers rotating the bouquets of flowers in the tubs outside of the corner bodega; the bussers spraying down the sidewalks and facades of restaurants, bars, and cafés; the dog walkers herding gaggles of canines; the public works crew emptying the always-overflowing garbage cans in front of Grey’s Papaya. Even the commuters who rushed to catch the downtown 2 train that rumbled below ground somewhere between Seventy-Second and Seventy-Third Streets seemed to be less aggressive than usual.
Maybe Kenny wasn’t the only one seeing yellow. Or maybe these people were always this pleasant and she was too distracted, every day the last ten years of her life, to notice or pay them any attention.
Steam Hot Yoga Studio was on the third floor of a dingy building in the middle of Seventy-Second Street, sandwiched between bustling Broadway and a more peaceful Columbus Avenue. A walk across the lengthy Seventy-Second Street was like a journey from one world to another. Broadway was commercial and chaotic with Duane Reed, Trader Joes, and four major banks in a one block radius. Columbus was comfortable and familiar, lined with coffee shops, wine bars, boutiques, and family-owned pizza joints that served up slices for generations.
Kenny pushed through the revolving door of the nondescript building and instantly sensed the serenity. The first floor was occupied by a physical therapy practice and the second floor was a photography studio, but the scent of sandalwood and eucalyptus that emanated from Steam Hot Yoga wafted through the entire building. She climbed the six flights of steep, narrow, brown steps that desperately needed to be swept and mopped, readjusting her unfolding mat at each landing. The ungraceful ascent was a reminder she needed to invest in one of those fancy bags that keeps the unruly six-footcut of textured rubber securely in place.
The door to the studio was propped open, and Kenny quietly entered. She liked to be the first one in the hot room so she could get her favored spot in the back corner and avoid unwanted chit-chat with other yogis. The space was also known to be the hottest, most challenging. The sweatier, the better. Kenny was out of breath after scaling the steep steps for the first time in weeks, twelve extra pounds in tow; she didn’t want anyone to see her huffing and puffing.
