A few minutes later, the gaggle ends. The rest of the members of the press start the slow shuffle out of the room, but I stay in my seat, recorder still running, pen still in hand, face still burning from getting publicly swatted down in a room full of colleagues.
The NBC guy nudges me on his way past. “Swing and a miss, eh there, Lois Lane?”
“Helpful as always, Ed,” I snap at him.
He smirks shamelessly and keeps walking. Behind him, an older woman I vaguely recognize from one of the health trade pubs pauses at my shoulder and lowers her voice. “Word of advice, honey? Don’t poke the Lazarevs. They have long memories and longer reach. I’ve been covering philanthropy in this city for twenty years, and I’ll tell you this: The reporters who go after that family tend to find themselves cover
