As TV segment producer, had I not been clear? Apparently not. This segment of Mornings With Ladonna was about how “desk jockeys” in their cubicles could stay healthy. But seconds before airtime, when today’s guest slid breathlessly into his seat, he wore only Jockey® underwear.
He twisted open the top of his male-model branded water and slid the bottle across the coffee table. On auto-pilot I took the bottle, reached over and set it on the coaster next to Ladonna, cap off.
Immediately Ladonna’s face puckered, her hands went to her throat and she slumped down lifelessly. When the set’s first aid person reached her it was too late. Everyone looked daggers at me.
How could I prove I hadn’t killed Ladonna? I had only moments before the police and EMTs arrived on set. The male model took a sip from his own water. I gasped but nothing happened; his branded water was fine. Clearly there was nowhere he could hide poison. He nervously smoothed his underwear for the third or fourth time, and then I knew.
“Arrest him, and don’t touch his hands,” I called to police as they arrived, and they held the nearly-naked model gingerly by the arms, trying not to look at the rest of him.
“Stay away from Ladonna’s water bottle,” I shouted to the EMTs as they rushed to Ladonna. “Poison gas was injected.”
I swayed on my feet as the realization hit me: I’d been a breath away from dying, too.
