About

Fedora – a Los Angeles-based media company is led by executive producer Ben Cozzo. Before joining Fedora, Mr. Cozzo spent years as a hired gun. When the pieces didn’t fit, the cases too complex, the ‘trees eclipsed the forest’ – as they say – it was Ben they called.

He freely admitted it all started with his odd fascination for paper. “If there’s paper, there’s a trail” he’d say. They all wondered how he’d survived the digital revolution.

“Quite well” he quipped. Sam was startled; was he reading her mind? “A little less of this, more of that. Besides” he continued “paper was the half of it. You had to be able to read.”

“Read?” She sat amused and confused.

“Yep!” he replied. “the depths of reservation and restraint are only uncovered with discreet and prudent vigilance.”

“Okay” she responded quizzically, studying his face.

He worked morning and night you know…on the cases, always on the cases. He came and went as he pleased of course, he’s the boss, but the running joke in the office was ‘nobody’s actually ever seen him leave.’ She knew what they meant.

They’d worked together for two years now at Fedora, yet she felt she hardly knew the man. It was only a professional relationship, she knew, telling herself…

But here they were. The phone rarely stopped ringing. He timed every release for midnight, usually Fridays. Was he Catholic? Maybe he had to attend mass on Saturday or something. Regardless, the lead-up was always hectic. It was all the back-and-forth, the editing. There’s just no way to do it fast and well. The staff meetings, which were usually cordial at the beginning of the week, progressed with a sense of foreboding as midnight ‘drew nigh’. She felt the air in the office grow tense and thick. The walls seemed to close in while she longed to throw open a window and let the cool breeze in; she muttered and cursed modern commercial architecture; her desk-fan would have to do. The pitch of the voices heard from the conference rooms would eventually get higher as the deadlines closed in.

He was a perfectionist, not like in a ‘know-it-all” way, but just on whatever he happened to be working on, fixated on rather, at the moment. It was obvious what drove him, you know, but what really drove him was a mystery. For someone who liked to read, save for a few introductory chapters, he wasn’t an open book. She’d learned to live with that, I guess.

What’s more to say?