“Okay.”
Tina and Rush watched the live camera monitor as Mel zoomed in on the police grabbing the old man and his black friend and muscling them out of the crowd. The old man’s feet weren’t even touching the ground.
THE OLD MAN was scolding his friend even as the police dragged them along. “Max, you shouldn’t have done that!”
Max was fuming, sweating, too angry to speak. He could only curse the old man, curse the crowd, struggle against the four cops it took to contain him.
“All right, take it easy,” said a cop, brandishing his nightstick.
The old man chided his friend. “Max, now you cooperate! You can’t afford to make things worse!”
Max came to his senses and calmed down with unnatural quickness. “Sorry, officer. Didn’t mean no trouble.”
“You’re gonna clear out of here now or we’ll haul you in, got it?”
“Oh, we’ll leave, right away,” said the old man.
“Yeah, we outa here.”
On the outskirts of the plaza the police let them go, and they hurried away, thankful for freedom.
As for the two strangers who’d thrown those first punches, they were nowhere to be seen.
MARTIN DEVIN WAS all smiles when he reported back to the governor. “You should have seen it!”
“Did it get on the air?”
“We’ll know in a minute. But that cameraman was really scrambling to cover it.”
“Okay, we’ll play on that.”
THE STUDIO CAMERAS were off, the show was over. Ali and John removed their earpieces and lapel mikes. The news set was cut off from the outside now, a small, empty, plywood box of a place.
“Poor Leslie,” said Ali. “That was supposed to be an easy assignment.”
John didn’t even hear her as he grabbed the desk phone. “Rush? Rush? Could you get me Rush please?” He slammed the phone down. Apparently Rush wasn’t available.
Ali looked him over for just a moment. “What’s the matter?”
John glared at her, not meaning to. But right now glaring was all he could do. “Aw . . . that . . . stupid story . . .” He grabbed his script and left the desk, muttering to himself more than answering her question. “Of all the things we could’ve put on the air we had to put that on . . . and now we’re gonna see it over and over ’til they wear it out . . .”
John circled behind the stud-and-plywood backdrop of the news set and immediately into the newsroom, a large, gray-carpeted, open floor partitioned into small cubicles, each with a desk, a telephone, and a computer monitor, where reporters, producers, editors, and anchors worked at gathering, sifting, condensing, cutting, and pasting together each day’s news.
So where was Rush? Where was anybody responsible for this?
The room was relatively quiet at just a little after 6 o’clock. The Five Thirty was finished, and half the personnel had gone home. The Seven O’clock producer, Pete Woodman, had already chosen the material that would run, and now his five people, sitting here and there around the room, were putting the finishing touches on the show, updating the script, tailoring the videos, reslotting and prioritizing the stories.
Oh, there was Rush, at his desk in the corner, having a hurried, impromptu script conference with Pete Woodman. It had to be about this latest development. Brother. This thing had so much momentum it was going to be unstoppable.
“Leslie’s there right now,” Rush was saying, “and Mel got footage of the scuffle if you want it. It’s great stuff . . . looks really good.”
Pete was perusing his script for the Seven O’clock, scanning it with the point of his pen. “Now I take it she’s getting the governor’s speech. I’ve got that slotted near the top.”
Rush checked his watch. “He was scheduled to start about a quarter after. He wanted to get on the Seven O’clock, I know that.” He looked up. “Hi, John. Good show.”
“Hello . . .”
Rush went right back to his discussion with Pete. “So Leslie ought to be feeding that in any minute.”
“Good. Bill’s expecting it.” So the Seven O’clock would feature highlights from the governor’s speech. No doubt Leslie and Mel were feeding it back via microwave to Bill in the editing room. Bill, the fastest editor around, was recording it on tape this very moment and would then work with one of the newswriters to find the most poignant eye- and ear-catching clips to paste together for a feature on the Seven O’clock. And if he really wanted to catch the eyes and ears of the viewers, what better footage than—
“So let Bill have that scuffle footage,” Pete said. “That would really give a sense of the . . .”
“Yeah,” Rush completed the thought, “the heat of the issues, the feistiness of the campaign. That’ll fit right in with the governor’s kickoff.”
“And that’s what I’d like to talk to you about,” John cut in.
“Yeah?”
“That footage, Rush. I . . . I just don’t know about that.”
Rush, not much more than a kid with a floppy blond forelock, had great strengths as a producer. He could put together a tight, gripping newscast, he could draw a story out of a vacuum, he could inventively defy time in making deadlines. But one thing he could not do was fathom, much less endure, the petty misgivings and foot-draggings of the station’s “talent.”
“What’s the problem with it?” Rush was being polite, not interested.
John stumbled trying to come up with an answer. “Well . . . it’s violent, it’s . . . well, I think it’s tasteless.”
“I think it happened,” Rush answered curtly. “It happened, and we were there, and that makes it news. You tell me any other station in this market that had an opportunity like that fall right into its lap.”
Okay, John thought. My spine’s as stiff as the next guy’s. “I would say the brawl was an opportunity, yes. But that religious nut in the background, you went after him, didn’t you? You wanted him in the background.”
Rush threw up his barrier right then and there, his hands raised. “Okay, okay . . . Discussion ended . . . No comment. If you have a problem with it, talk to Tina. I took my orders from her. I liked the whole idea, I still do, and I’d do it again, but for this one, talk to Tina. Your problem’s with her.”
And with that, Rush went back to consulting with Pete as if John weren’t even standing there.
TINA LEWIS, A sharply dressed professional, removed her designer glasses as her gold bracelets jingled, then gawked at John with incredulous eyes. “John, come on, we’ve got forty minutes until the Seven O’clock and you’re telling me you want the lead story changed?”
“Well . . .” John was frustrated and angry. Time, only a few minutes, had degraded his original concerns from possibly legitimate to silly and outlandish. “I had no idea what Leslie was going to be shooting. Had I known I would have said something earlier, and now . . . of course, it’s too late and my concerns no longer have merit and . . .” He threw up his hands in surrender and turned to leave her office. “I’ve got a promo to do.”
“John . . .” She sank into her chair and leaned her elbows on her desk. “I’m sorry if the situation is awkward for you. But when news happens, it’s our job to report it. You know that.”
John turned toward her and took a purposeful breath to control himself. He spoke slowly and carefully. “Tina, I have worked in the news business for twenty-four years. Please don’t use that line with me. I’ve used it all too often myself. I know that line.”
Now came the contest to see which of them could remain a collected and controlled professional the longest.
Lewis spoke slowly, in carefully measured tones. “I wouldn’t think of using a line with you, Mr. Barrett. And I’m a little disappointed that someone with twenty-four years experience still can’t separate his profession from his personal concerns.”
“You chose to put him in the background,” John said flatly. “You could have shot the platform, the banners, the flags on the plaza, any number of background
s, but you chose to show him. Isn’t that right?”
She grimaced and wagged her head as if she’d never before encountered such idiocy. “John, I wasn’t there, and as far as I’m aware, he never called us and said, ‘Hey, I’m going to be preaching to the crowds over by the 4th Street entrance, come and get me on television!’”
John pointed his finger at her, a sign he was losing his temper. “You were in the control room. You were calling the shots. You made the decision.”
She let out a disgusted sigh and said, “Okay. You’re embarrassed. Is that my problem? Is that even any concern of the business we’re in?”
John saw the clock on the wall. Time, the boss of all bosses, was ordering him out of the room. “I’ve got to do that promo.”
The last word was hers. “I’m sorry we can’t resolve this for you. But really, it’s your problem, you’re the only one in a position to do something about it, and if I were you I would.”
He just turned his back on her and walked out.
HE WENT INTO the makeup room to check his face in the big, illuminated mirror. The makeup was still good from the Five Thirty. It was the expression on his face that needed some work. Come on, guy, loosen up. Nobody wants to look at that.
Back in the newsroom he took off his suit jacket and hung it on a hook just as Pete Woodman handed him the script for the promo. He glanced over it as he sat in the stool in front of the flashcam, a small television camera set up just behind the rear wall of the news set. This was where all the live-from-the-newsroom shots were done. It was a handy arrangement, almost a one-man television studio: a remote-controlled camera, some lights, a remote-controlled teleprompter.
John checked the monitor and tilted the camera up slightly with the remote control. Now he was centered in the screen. The teleprompter in front of the camera was cued and ready. He planted the flashcam earpiece in his ear so he could hear his cue from the control room.
Okay. An on-the-air monitor showed the CBS Evening News just ending. Then two CBS news promos.
“Five seconds,” came Pete Woodman’s voice.
Network identification: “This is CBS.”
“Two, one . . .” Theme music.
John appeared on The City’s television screens in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, looking like he’d been hard at work in the newsroom visible behind him. Title across the bottom of the screen: John Barrett, NewsSix.
John went right into it, his eyes smoothly scanning the teleprompter script. “This is John Barrett. Coming up in a half hour on NewsSix at Seven, Governor Slater’s campaign kickoff rally . . .”
Video rolled. A jerky, groping camera scene of grappling bodies. The old man fighting off his assailants and then being yanked off the planter and into the crowd.
“The governor came out fighting, and some fights broke out. We’ll have a live update at 7.”
John on the screen again. “We’ll also have more on those two high schoolers lost in the mountains. They’ve been missing for twenty-four hours now, they were not dressed for weather, and in the mountains there is weather. Those stories and an update on the rest of the day’s news ahead on NewsSix at Seven tonight.”
Commercial.
Well, that was that. Twenty-five seconds. Now to proofread the script for the Seven O’clock and hope the governor had something interesting to say, something that would draw attention back to him and his campaign.
“‘The governor came out fighting . . . and some fights broke out,’” John repeated mockingly, settling at his desk and calling up the script on the computer. “I’m gonna kill him!”
CHAPTER 3
THE RALLY WAS over. The plaza was now empty except for small clusters of party boosters who still wanted to talk politics with their fellow diehards. Clean-up crews worked around them, sweeping up the paper cups, candy wrappers, and fallen placards. The big blue platform was coming down piece by piece, and the chrysanthemums had been adopted by whoever grabbed them first.
The governor had left the moment the rally ended, rushing away in his limousine and heading back to his mansion. He’d left everything in good hands.
Martin Devin’s hands. Chief of staff Martin Devin. Yes, the governor had finally made up his mind which man would get that distinguished job description, and Devin was floating, buoyant with joy, satisfaction, and in a way vindication. So the gov finally saw the light! Yeah, results, the kind Devin could provide, were effective persuaders.
The rally could have gone well, but it went great. The news coverage could have been matter-of-fact and routine, but now it was sensational; it got noticed. The governor could have just spoken on the issues from his prepared speech, but instead, spurred on by . . . certain unexpected conditions, he verbally fought, clawed, and snapped for his views on the issues to a crowd fired, inspired, and ready. Devin had to laugh in delight. By the time that crowd went home, they would have thought it was the end of the world if Hiram Slater failed to be reelected.
Devin made the rounds quickly, slapping backs, congratulating the hardworking volunteers and the once harried, now relieved Wilma Benthoff, still carrying that clipboard. Special thanks from the governor went through him to all of them.
There was one item left on his list, and then he’d be out of there as well: Ed Lake. Now where was he?
Ah, there he was, walking across the almost-empty plaza, carrying four helium-filled Hi-yo, Hiram! balloons and looking like a convalescent celebrating his ninetieth birthday. Well, looking at his rival, Devin had to admit to himself that the governor’s choice had been all too easy to make.
“Ed!”
The old man looked his way and smiled broadly, quickening his step.
How old was he really? Sixty-something at least. Old enough, Devin thought.
“Quite a rally, eh?” said Lake.
Devin smiled and laughed. He was laughing at how stupid Lake looked carrying those balloons, but he didn’t say so. “Great rally, Ed. The governor was quite pleased.”
Lake shook his white head. “Well, I’m glad we managed to survive despite the disturbances.”
Devin put his arm around Lake’s shoulders and gave him a brotherly, wrestling squeeze.
Lake hated that kind of thing. That’s why Devin did it.
“Oh, we did more than survive, Ed. We capitalized on the disturbances. We were prepared.”
“It’s getting to be a dirty world.”
“Well, one man’s dirt is another man’s capital. If it’s there, you find a way to use it. That’s how you survive.”
Lake looked toward the concrete planter where the old man in the blue coveralls had stood. “That old prophet fellow gives me the willies.”
“He gives us free publicity, that’s what. Our side gets noticed, the other side looks . . . like him: stupid, backward . . .”
“Oh, don’t be too sure about that. I understand he’s a respected businessman, and isn’t his son—”
“He’s nothing but a blue-collar kook,” Devin said with a smirk. “He belongs on First Avenue carrying a sign and passing a hat.”
Lake scowled in harsh disagreement. “But he was here, wasn’t he? And at the opening of the hospital, and then at the state teachers’ convention. And each time the message was the same.” He paused to reflect on it. “To hear what he had to say—and then know how the governor—and his staff—have been conducting themselves, I would not be shocked to someday find out he was right all along.”
“That’s the problem with you, Ed. Guys like that can get to you.”
Lake scowled at him. “So what’s wrong with having a conscience?”
Devin laughed heartily and deliberately at the question. “He did get to you!”
Lake was annoyed. “Oh, come on . . .”
“Well, hopefully he got some sense knocked into him. I don’t think he’ll be back.”
Lake only looked glumly at Devin. “It was a disgusting show, Martin. Deplorable behavior on everyone’s part. Even the governor. I hope I never see i
t again.”
Devin nodded knowingly. “Well, Ed, maybe you won’t.” Dramatic pause. “I was going to wait until tomorrow, but tonight’s as good a time as any, I suppose. The governor’s appointing me chief of staff.”
Lake froze. He stared blankly at Devin as if hearing of his own death.
Devin just kept cutting into him. “The gov will tell you all this tomorrow, of course. I imagine he’ll tell you how valuable you’ve been to his administration and how your knowledge and experience will always be appreciated, but . . . I think you and I both know that when it comes down to job descriptions, what the governor needs right now is fresh blood, people with the guts to go after and get whatever the governor needs, no holds barred. You’re a good man, Ed, maybe a little too good. You’re too timid at the wrong times.”
Lake answered in a mutter that was barely audible, “I thought we had a good combination, Martin . . . your aggressiveness and my experience . . .”
Devin shook his head. “We just don’t have room for two heads at this level, Ed. The gov says we have to cut back, so that’s where it stands.”
“So you’re in . . .”
Devin looked straight at Lake. He wanted the blow to be direct, not glancing. “And you’re out.”
Lake was resisting believing all this. “Out?”
“You’re retiring, if that’s what you’d like to call it.”
Lake struggled. “But . . . by whose order? Whose decision? The governor didn’t say—”
“My decision. I’m chief of staff now. The gov says to trim back, and quite frankly I can’t think of any job description on the staff that would fit your qualifications.”
Lake had to take time to let it all sink in.
Devin continued, “You can come in and clean out your desk tomorrow. Hey, look at it this way—you can start a new life now, get out of the rat race—”
“As if I don’t know exactly what you’re doing!” Lake snapped. “You’ve wanted this job all along, and you’ve never missed an opportunity to try to muscle me out!”
Devin didn’t deny it. He just nodded and replied, “You prepare, you make your move, you survive.”
Prophet Page 3
