Chapter 23: Ask the Kids

Preston reached Row F before the ushers did.

He grabbed his wife's wrist and wrenched at the phone, and she held on with both hands.

"Let go of me," she said, clearly, into the microphone she had not put down.

Every person in the studio heard it.

Keith was already in the aisle.

He didn't hit anyone.

He put one hand on Preston's chest and the other over the wife's hands.

"Chef," he said, in the voice he used for frightened children. "The cameras are on."

Preston looked up.

On the overhead monitor he saw himself in full color, red-faced, hanging on to a woman's arm.

His fingers opened.

The silence that followed was the longest I have ever listened to.

Then a door at the side of the stage swung open, and the producer in the gray blazer walked out.

She did not hurry.

She crossed the set, past the copper pans and the wooden table, and she took the microphone out of the host's hand.

"This is the network," she said, in an even voice that went out over every television in the country. "We're ending tonight's broadcast."

"Wait," Preston said. "This is a stunt. It's an ambush."

"Chef Dade." The producer didn't raise her voice.

"The network's relationship with you is over, effective now. Your counsel will hear from ours in the morning."

"You can't."

"We've listened to the recording. All of it."

She looked down the aisle at me, and she gave me one short nod.

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