As the credits rolled at a recent screening of Bombshell, out today, several of us former Fox News Channel staffers were left reeling. Watching ___John Lithgow’__s spot-on performance as Roger Ailes, the Fox chairman and CEO who was ousted amid a sexual harassment investigation, had a PTSD-inducing effect, transporting us back to the years we spent under the control of the all-powerful leader. Even the audience members who had never set foot inside Fox seemed shaken by the scenes of what some women endured in Roger’s office. I know that office. I was summoned there many times. And I can attest to the bizarre, parallel-universe experience of being alone with Roger Ailes. (Full disclosure: I spoke briefly to Bombshell’s director and writer about my time at Fox during their scripting process.)

But what the movie mostly brought back for me was that Roger’s sexual harassment was only the beginning of his manipulation and mind games. Roger Ailes always reminded me of a different omnipotent, fear-inducing wizard, one who maintained control over a kingdom of nervous minions through smoke, mirrors, endless corridors, and devastating demands. I was so struck by Roger’s warped behavior that I began taking contemporaneous notes, as close to verbatim as I could recall, immediately after some of my visits to his inner sanctum. I had planned to turn these notes into a novel, but the following passages never made it into the manuscript. They’ve sat in a notebook, collecting dust in my closet, until now.

I started working at Fox in 1998 as a national correspondent based in Boston. For a couple of years, my job was similar to other reporting jobs I’d had, covering a mix of breaking news, weather events, and human interest stories. In 2000, I wanted a shot at the next step: I wanted to be a news anchor. So I made a pilgrimage to see the one man with the power to answer my plea.

Getting an audience with Roger wasn’t easy. First, I had to run a gauntlet of gatekeepers, starting with a burly guard, who sat watch at a desk across from the elevator bank, behind a set of locked glass doors. I approached and offered a meek wave, hoping I was in the right place. The guard nodded, pressed a button, sounded a buzzer, and voilà, the doors unlocked.

Behind him, another locked glass door, through which sat a long row of offices with nameplates engraved in gold—Roger’s army of lieutenants. To the right, another door, bigger than the rest, no nameplate, and solid wood. It stretched from floor to ceiling. Inside, a young woman leaped up from a computer, blocking me from advancing. “Please wait here.”

I rehearsed my lines: I’d like more opportunity, perhaps a chance to fill in on the anchor desk. I’ve broken stories, gotten exclusives, received awards. I deserve a shot.

“He’s ready for you,” she said. I rose and walked down the corridor, pushing through the final facade to Roger’s big corner office. On one wall, a half dozen TV monitors played cable news stations. Above them, a small monitor projected grainy black and white images—closed-circuit surveillance of the route I’d just traveled.

“Don’t be shy. Step right in,” he instructed. Then he stood up and I blinked. This was not the mighty man depicted on magazine covers. Roger was short, roughly my height in heels. His gait was heavy, unsteady. His power, it became clear, was that of the mental variety. He projected omniscience. He sat down, put his feet on the coffee table, and got straight to reading my mind.

“Look, I’ve had my eye on you,” he said. “You’d like a shot at anchoring, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I—”

“I thought so,” he interrupted, narrowing his eyes and nodding. He raised a forefinger, circling it at me, drawing a bullseye on my chest. “I think you might just have what it takes. I actually think your personality might work well on our morning show. That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is!” This was uncanny!

Roger gave me a penetrating stare, then grinned. “I like this little number you’re wearing,” he said, pausing to let his words hang. “Stand up,” he commanded. “Give me a spin. Let me look at you.”

Surprised, I obeyed.

“You need some bronzer on your legs,” he said, sizing me up. “They’re too white.”

Sometimes it was hard to tell if Roger was joking.

“And, your skirt should be a little shorter.”

At that, I cocked my head. This would not be the only time in Roger’s office when I would have to suppress my fight or flight reflex.

“Listen,” he said, his eyes softening, “we’ve got research showing ratings go up two-tenths of a point for every two inches higher the skirt. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to program TV. If you’re going to be successful and get what you want, you’ll have to trust me. Can you do that?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “Let's see if you have what it takes to be a star.” He stood up. “Come back next time and we’ll get to work.”

I was excited to prove I was ready, though I hadn’t realized how much of that proof would have nothing to do with journalism. As I’ve previously reported, the next time I asked for a shot on the anchor desk, Roger replied that we’d have to get to know each other better, to work more closely together, one-on-one. In order to do that, and to avoid arousing jealousy among other anchors, it might be best to meet somewhere off-site, like, say, a hotel. “Do you know what I’m saying?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered. “I think I do know what you’re saying.” In that out-of-body moment, I knew I would never go to that hotel room, and I assumed that meant my dream of becoming an anchor, as well as my reporting job and possibly my career, were over. I retreated to Boston and prayed the call wouldn’t come. I’ve since learned other women did not get away so easily.

By late 2004, Roger had allowed me to fill in on the anchor desk during holidays and for vacation relief, but I wanted something more permanent. Roger told me I’d have to move to New York City. By then I was married and pregnant with twins, which seemed to quell his overt sexual quid pro quos but not his other demands. Over the next few years, Roger began a campaign of mind control, repeatedly telling me that before he’d give me more opportunity, I would have to start thinking the way he wanted.

“You don’t like Sarah Palin,” he told me. “I can tell. When you were talking about her, it was like your entire body was Botoxed.”

“My body?”

“Yeah, it’s like you were frozen.”

“It is freezing in that studio,” I told him.

“Nope. That wasn’t it,” he retorted. “You don’t like her. And the problem is you can’t let the audience know that.”

“It’s not my job to like her or not like her,” I said. “I only have to report on her fairly.”

“I know she’s shrill and says some crazy things, but the viewers like her and they need to think you do too,” he said. “See, you could be an icon for conservative women if you could just understand how they think. Stars aren’t born, they’re made,” he said, shifting toward me and lowering his voice. “And no one knows how to make a star better than me. You would need the right time slot, with the right lead-in, you would need to make appearances on other shows—we would set that up for you. You would need magazine spreads, the right stories planted, I mean placed. You WANT to be a big star and I WANT to turn you into one. But,” he went on, pointing at my chest, “first, you have to do these things I say. You’re not there yet. Come back some other time.”

During some of my visits to his office, Roger’s dialogue seemed cribbed directly from some MGM screenplay, circa 1939. “You ever watch Roy Rogers movies?” he asked once. “No, of course not. You’re too young. Back where I come from, we used to watch them all the time. There was always a cattle stampede. The cattle would be heading toward a cliff. And it was always the job of one poor sonuvabitch to gallop out there and turn the herd just before they went over it.”

Roger chuckled at the memory, then looked out the window over the skyscrapers. “See, I’m the guy trying to turn the herd. I see the direction the country is heading in, and trust me, it ain’t going to be a happy ending. Sure, it would be easier for me to just throw in the towel. I have enough money to last several lifetimes. And some days I want to let ‘em all go off the cliff. I’m too old for this shit. I hear what people say about me. They say I’m dividing the country. But I’m saving the country. I’ve been fighting this battle for a long time.”

Roger stopped, and I could have sworn his voice caught. “This is how I serve my country. I know this sounds melodramatic, but you don’t leave your battle station in the middle of the fight. And I love this country too much to give up on her. Because if we don’t win and they win, that’s the end of life as we know it.”

By then, I’d lost track of who “they” were. The Democrats? Bank robbers? CNN?

“I’m afraid this country’s best days are over,” he said. “And I guess it makes me sad.” The muffled sound of Midtown traffic seeped into the air. As I headed for the door, Roger called after me. “Let’s get to your request next time. I like talking to you. It gets lonely in here.”

I felt compassion for Melancholy Roger, but he was mercurial. I never knew which Roger to expect. And the election of Barack Obama seemed to send his outrage into overdrive.

“I can’t have you blow this!” he barked one afternoon as I crossed his threshold.

“What?” I asked, startled.

“You think rich people are bad.”

“I don’t think rich people are bad,” I said quickly, trying to appease him.

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “I saw your interview yesterday about Obama’s plan to raise taxes. You looked like you agreed with him!” By then I’d learned that Roger often watched Fox with the sound down. He shook his head at me. “You know what poor people really need?”

Government training programs, I thought, then realized that couldn't be the right answer.

“Do you know what poor people need the most?” he asked, even sharper.

“Jobs!” I answered, punching the air to show my conviction.

“No!” he bellowed, bringing his own fist down on his armchair. “They need rich people! Rich people pay the taxes for schools and roads. Rich people create jobs. Rich people give to charity.”

“You know Roger, you don’t have to be rich to be compassionate. Even poor people—”

“Raising taxes doesn’t solve anything!" he interrupted. "Can you ever remember a time, EVER, when the government actually FIXED a problem? They just charge higher and higher taxes and come up with more and more problems. You’re too young, but I remember when this country was great, when earning an honest buck meant something. Come back after you make some of these points on air.”

I was a resistant student and Roger was a conflicted teacher, frustrated at my lack of compliance but impressed with my knack for live television. So he gave me a slot on his morning show franchise, Fox & Friends—“the coveted 6 a.m. Saturday and Sunday slot,” as one of my colleagues joked. Weekend mornings, it turned out, were Roger’s favorite viewing times, and when he didn’t like what he saw, we got an earful—not exactly the “fair and balanced” reporting viewers may have expected. On the weekend when the debate over Obama’s proposed rollbacks of the Bush tax cuts reached a boil, the producers booked five political guests to discuss it, every single one adamantly opposed to Obama’s plan. All agreed that raising taxes would destroy the economy. On air I asked them for evidence, considering history and statistics often proved otherwise. Roger called the control room to chew out the producers. “Roger says you need to make the case for keeping taxes lower,” they told me frantically through my earpiece.

“Why is that my job?” I asked. “If Republican senators can’t make the case, isn’t that their problem?”

“He says you need to say that donations to charity will drop if Obama raises taxes!” Roger terrified his minions.

“I’m happy to say that,” I told them, “if it’s true. Can you bring me some evidence?”

“Stand by! We’re coming back from commercial in 60 seconds!” they said. “Roger needs you to say it right when we come back on the air.”

“Not until you bring me the stats to prove it.”

This sent them scrambling to search the internet for something, anything, that proved Roger’s viewpoint as he called the control room repeatedly. At one point an intern ran into the studio with an 110-page study that found tax cuts did not increase charitable giving. “This is the opposite of what he wants me to say,” I informed the producers. “These facts disprove Roger’s position.”

“We need different facts!” the a producer yelled.

Yes—the birth of Alternative Facts. This was far from the only time I’d watch that dynamic play out.

So, why didn’t I leave? Move on to a job somewhere saner? I tried. I excitedly pursued offers when they came up, only to have Roger squash each one. Once, when he learned that a syndicated show had offered me a hosting slot, he called its executives and threatened to sue them for “stealing his talent.” Once, after Roger found out that a news director at a Fox local station had expressed interest in me, he went ballistic and had him fired. I took to meeting with other network executives outside their offices, sometimes on park benches or street corners. One Saturday I stealthily arrived at an unmarked door in Midtown to audition for a network morning show. The sparse camera crew was sworn to secrecy. That Monday morning, my phone rang. It was Roger. “How did your audition go?” he asked. Message received: Roger had eyes everywhere. At that point, my agent told me not to expect more offers. “Word on the street is that you’re radioactive. No one wants to cross Roger.”

I was trapped, even as Roger’s comments took on more disturbing qualities. I never knew what would set him off on a racist or homophobic rant. “You still think the skinny black guy is cute,” he said one afternoon.

Skinny black guy? I wracked my brain. Then it hit me.

“We have a president who only supports Muslims,” Roger went on. “He hates Jews.” I’d learned by then it was pointless to try to reason with Roger, but I still routinely fell into his trap.

“What do you mean?” I said. “Rahm Emanuel is his chief of staff.”

“Rahm is gay, ok?”

“Where are you getting your information?”

“At best the black guy is a metrosexual. That’s all I’m saying. They have a special bond. He’s not having sex with that amazon.”

I felt a pang of nausea. “You mean the first lady?”

“Yeah, that amazon. They’re not having sex. I can tell you, he won’t visit Israel. Because he can’t stand Jews. He says it in his books, which by the way were written by two different people. He says he hates Jews in there. And he’s not crazy about white people either. When people are protesting in the streets of Iran, he doesn’t support them, he supports Ahmadinejad.”

I wanted to scream but stood there, disassociating, waiting for it to end.

“He said it himself!” he went on. “He doesn’t believe in American exceptionalism. I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t just me being crazy old Roger.”

Bingo. I guess this guy really did read minds.

Roger’s final demand took a darker twist. He’d come up with a new assignment I would have to complete before he could finally grant my wish. “Do you know the key to success?” he asked me one day.

“Hard work,” I guessed.

“No!” he shouted. “The secret to success is having the killer instinct! Do you have the killer instinct?” He leaned across his desk, waiting for a response.

“I guess so.”

“I mean, are you willing to kill for a story?”

“Uh, figuratively speaking, right?”

“The problem is,” Roger started, reclining in his chair and drumming his fingers on the armrest, “what to do with Gretchen. To put you in, we’d have to somehow get rid of Gretchen.”

Gretchen Carlson had become a thorn in his side. He said she was cold as a witch’s tit. Had zero sex appeal. He found her on-air friendliness faux. He likened her laugh to a cackle. He suspected she was litigious. For some reason, he feared she would sue him. I hated when Roger bad-mouthed other anchors, but like so much that made me sick, I learned to stomach it.

“Gretchen has a vacation coming up,” Roger said. “I’d like to put you in for her. See how you do in the ratings. If you beat her, I’ll tear up your contract and pay you five times what you’re making. Would you like that?”

“Sure,” I said. But I was lying. By then, I was plotting my escape.

“I thought so,” he nodded. “Now, all you have to do is kill Gretchen.”

I paused. “In the ratings, right?”

“Let’s start by killing her in the ratings. Then we’ll see what happens.”

It’s interesting; from the outside, the people we believe to be omnipotent seem invincible. But having met a few of them up close, I’ve learned that maintaining their masquerade requires a huge suspension of disbelief from those around them. There’s nothing quite like a finale with a big reveal. Roger always appreciated that TV trope—and he got one. It was Gretchen Carlson, then Megyn Kelly, and many other women harnessing their own power who ultimately pulled back the curtain and brought him down. Once the spell is broken and the truth revealed, wizards can fall surprisingly fast.

Alisyn Camerota is a CNN anchor and author of the 2017 novel Amanda Wakes Up.

— Wildly incriminating emails show the White House knew Trump was extorting Ukraine
— Is Rudy Giuliani truly in trouble?
— The secret life and strange death of Quadriga cofounder, Gerald Cotten
— The hunt for Jeffrey Epstein’s alleged enabler Ghislaine Maxwell
— New polling suggests Democrats’ impeachment push could alienate key voters
— From the Archive: Inside Jeffrey Wigand’s epic multibillion-dollar struggle

Looking for more? Sign up for our daily Hive newsletter and never miss a story.