Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  Externally, Bob Watson seemed an unlikely candidate for the meticulous, patient work his editing job required. He was chunky and simian, with stubby fingers. Though he shaved each morning, by mid-afternoon he looked as if he had a three day growth of beard. And he chain-smoked fat, pungent cigars which those obliged to work with him in his tiny cubicle repeatedly complained about. However, he told them, "If I can't smoke, I don't think so good, then you get a piss-poor piece.” Producers like Iris Everly suffered the smoke because of Watson's skill.

  The video and sound editing of TV news reports was done in network headquarters, distant bureaus around the world, or could even be on the spot near some breaking news scene. The news served up daily by the networks consisted of all three.

  The standard tools of a TV editor, which Watson faced with the petite, strong-willed Iris seated beside him, were two machines, each an elaborate video recorder with precise controls and meters. Linked to the recorders and displayed above them was an array of TV monitors and speakers. Alongside and behind the editor, racks contained dozens of tape cassettes received from network cameramen, the network's tape library or affiliate stations.

  The objective was to transfer to a master tape, inserted in the left recorder, snippets of scenes and sounds from a multitude of other tapes which were reviewed and rereviewed in the recorder on the right. Transferring a scene, seldom more than three seconds long, from a right-hand tape to the master required artistic and news judgment, infinite patience and a watchmaker's delicacy of touch. In the end, the contents of the master tape would be broadcast on air.

  Watson began putting together the opening sequence already agreed on—the burning cars and shattered building. With the speed of a mail sorter, he plucked cassettes from racks, inserted one into the right-hand video machine and, using fast forward, found the required scene. Dissatisfied, he fiddled with rewind, went back and forth, stopped at another shot, returned to the first.”No,” he said, "somewhere there's a wide shot from the opposite angle that's better.” He switched cassettes, viewed and discarded a second, then chose a third and found what he sought.”We should start with this, then go to the first for a closeup.”

  Iris agreed and Watson transferred images and sound to the master tape. Dissatisfied with his first and second tries, he wiped them out, then was happy with the third.

  Sometime later, Iris said, "Let's see that stock shot of a Nissan.” They viewed it for a second time; it showed a new and spotless Nissan passenger van moving in sunshine down a leafy country lane.”Idyllic,” she commented.”What do you think of using it, then cutting to what's left of the kidnap van after the explosion?”

  "It'll work.” After several experiments, Watson combined the two with maximum shock value.

  ”Beautiful!” Iris murmured.

  ”You ain't so dumb yourself, kid.” The tape editor picked up his cigar and emitted a cloud of smoke.

  Ideas and exchanges continued flowing back and forth. The working alliance of a line producer and tape editor had been described as a duet. It often was.

  Within the process, though, the possibilities for prejudice and distortion were infinite. Individuals could be shown doing things out of sequence. A political candidate, for example, might be seen laughing at the sight of homeless people when in reality he had wept, the laughter having occurred earlier and been directed at something else. Using a technique known as "slipping audio,” sound or speech could be transposed from one scene to another, with only an editor and producer knowing of the change. When such things were about to be done, a correspondent who happened to be in an editing room was asked to leave. The correspondent might guess what was intended but prefer not to know.

  Officially such practices were frowned on, though they happened at all networks.

  Iris had once asked Bob Watson if he ever let his political prejudices—known to be strongly socialist—influence his editing. He answered, "Sure, at election times if I think I can get away with it. It ain't hard to make someone look good, bad or downright ridiculous, providing the producer goes along.”

  "Don't ever try it with me,” Iris had said, "or you'll be in trouble.”

  Watson had touched his forehead in mock salute.

  Now, continuing with the White Plains report, Iris suggested, "Try that shot with the doughnut effect.”

  "It's better—Oh, goddamn that inconsiderate schmuck!” The head of a still photographer had popped up, ruining the video shot, a reminder of a perpetual war between press photographers and TV camera crews.

  At one point, pictures on the master tape didn't fit the sound track. Watson said, "We need Harry to change some words.”

  "He will. Let's finish our stuff first.”

  Watson chafed over limiting to three seconds the length of several shots.”In British TV news they let their shots run five; you can build a mood that way, use sound to help. Did you know the Brits have a longer attention span than we do?”

  "I've heard people say so.”

  "Over here, if you use five-second shots more than occasionally, twenty million assholes'll get bored and change channels.”

  When they took a few minutes' break for coffee and Watson had a fresh cigar going, Iris asked him, "How did you get into this?”

  He chuckled.”If I told you, you wouldn't believe.”

  "Try me."

  "I lived in Miami, was the night janitor for a local TV station. One of the young news guys who was on at night saw I was interested and showed me how the edit machines worked; that was back when they were using film, not tape. After that, I'd work like hell to get the cleaning work done fast, Come three or four in the morning, I'd be in an edit room splicing yesterday's outtakes they'd thrown away, putting stories together. After a while I guess I got good.”

  "So what happened.”

  "One time in Miami, while I was still a janitor, there was a race riot. It was at night. Everything was going wild, a lot of the black area, Liberty City, burning up. The TV station I worked for had called in all its people, but some had trouble getting through. They didn't have a film editor, needed one real bad.”

  Iris said, "So you volunteered.”

  "At first, nobody'd believe I could do it. Then they got desperate and let me try. Right away, my stuff was going on air. They sent some to the network. The network used it all next day. I stayed on the job ten hours. Then the station manager came in and fired me.”

  "Fired you!”

  "As a janitor. Said I was goofing off, didn't have my mind on my work.” Watson laughed.”Then he hired me as an editor. Haven't looked back since.”

  "That's a lovely story,” Iris said.”When I write my book someday, I'll use it.”

  Soon after, at Watson and Iris's suggestion, Partridge changed some words of commentary to match the editing and Watson slipped the rerecording in. Partridge also recorded a final standup for the piece, facing a camera on the street outside the CBA News building.

  Since returning from White Plains, Partridge had thought deeply, at moments agonized, about what he would say. If this had been a normal news story a summation would have been easy. What made this story different was Crawford Sloane's involvement. Some of the words he had considered using would, Partridge knew, bring anguish to Crawf. So should he soften them, waffle just a little, or be the hard-nosed newsman with a single standard—objectivity?

  In the end, the decision simply happened. Outside the CBA News building, with a camera crew waiting and curious pedestrians watching, Partridge scribbled the sense of what he would say, then, memorizing the notes, ad-libbed.

  "The events in White Plains today—a monstrous tragedy for that city's innocent victims—is also the worst of news for my friend and colleague, Crawford Sloane. It means, without doubt, that his wife, young son and father are in the hands of savage, merciless outlaws, their identities and origins unknown. The only thing clear is that whatever their motives, they will stop at nothing to achieve them.

  ”The nature and timing of the cri
me at White Plains also raise a question which many are now asking: Have the kidnap victims by this time been removed from the United States and conveyed to some distant place, wherever that may be?

  "Harry Partridge, CBA News, New York..”

  13

  Teddy Cooper was wrong. The kidnappers and their victims had not left the United States. However, according to present plans, a few more hours would see them gone.

  For the Medellin group still holed up at Hackensack on Saturday afternoon, tension was at a peak, nerves stretched to their limit. The immediate cause for concern was radio and TV reports about that morning's events at White Plains.

  Miguel, restless and anxious, snapped back answers to questions from the others, several times swearing at those who asked them. When Carlos, usually the mildest of the five Colombian men, suggested angrily that booby-trapping the Nissan van with explosives had been una idea, Miguel snatched up a knife. Then, gaining control of himself, he put it down.

  In truth, Miguel knew that booby-trapping the passenger van at White Plains had been a bad mistake. The intention was to provide a harsh warning about the kidnappers' seriousness, after they had gone.

  After was the operative word.

  Miguel had been confident that because of changes in the van's appearance made following the kidnap—eliminating the dark windows and switching from New Jersey to New York license plates—it would remain unnoticed in the White Plains parking garage for five or six days, perhaps much longer.

  Clearly, his judgment had been wrong. Worse, that morning's explosion and aftermath had refocused national attention on the Sloane family's kidnappers and raised police and public alertness to a peak, just when they were ready to steal quietly out of the country.

  Neither Miguel nor the others cared in the least about the deaths and general mayhem at White Plains. In other circumstances they would have been amused. They cared only to the extent that they themselves were now in greater peril and it need not have occurred.

  The conspirators at Hackensack batted questions back and forth: Would police roadblocks, which according to news reports had eased since Thursday, be reinstated? If so, would there be one or more between the hideaway and Teterboro Airport? And what about the airport? Would security be tighter because of the new alert? And even if the four who were going, plus captives, managed to leave Teterboro safely in the private Learjet, what of the stop at Florida's Opa Locka Airport? How great was the danger there?

  No one, including Miguel, had any answers. All they knew for sure was that they were committed to going; the machinery of their transfer was in motion and they must take their chances.

  Another reason for tension, perhaps inevitable, was the increasing disenchantment of the conspirators with one another. Having been in close confinement for more than a month with only the most limited outside contacts, some personal irritations became magnified into something close to hatred.

  Particularly obnoxious to the others was Rafael's habit of coughing up mucus, then spitting it out wherever he found himself, including at the meal table. At one mealtime Carlos was so offended that he called Rafael jun bruto odiosol, prompting Rafael to grab Carlos by the shoulders, throw him against a wall, then pummel him with hamlike fists. Only Miguel's intervention saved Carlos from injury. Since then, Rafael had not changed his habit though Carlos seethed.

  Luis and Julio had also become antagonists. The week before, Julio had accused Luis of cheating at cards. A fistfight ensued which neither won, but next day they had swollen faces and the two had scarcely spoken since.

  Now, Socorro was another source of friction. Despite her earlier rejection of sexual overtures, last night she had bedded with Carlos. The animal noises had aroused envy in the other men and intense jealousy in Rafael, who had wanted Socorro for himself and reminded her this morning. But, she told him in front of the others during breakfast, "You will have to change your filthy manners before you stick your Yerga in me.”

  That situation was complicated by Miguel's own strong desire for Socorro. But as the group's leader he continually reminded himself that he could not afford to join in the competition over her.

  His leadership role, he realized, had had other eflects as well. Looking in his shaving mirror recently, he realized he was shedding his unremarkable "everyman”appearance. Less and less did he resemble an innocuous clerk or minor manager, which had once been his natural camouflage. Age and responsibility were giving him the look of what he was—a seasoned, strong commander.

  Well, he thought today, all commanders made mistakes and White Plains clearly had been one of his.

  Thus, for everyone's varying reasons, it was a big relief as 7:40 P.m. neared and final pullout procedures got underway.

  * * *

  Julio would drive the hearse, Luis the "Serene Funeral Homes” truck. Both vehicles were loaded and ready.

  The hearse contained a single casket in which Jessica lay, under deep sedation. Angus and Nicholas, also unconscious and in closed caskets, were in the truck. On top of each casket Carlos had placed a garland of white chrysanthemums and pink carnations, the flowers he had obtained that morning.

  Strangely, the sight of the caskets and flowers subdued the conspirators, as if the roles they had rehearsed in their minds and were about to act out had somehow become easier to assume.

  Only Baudelio, fussing around the three caskets, taking lastminute readings with his external equipment, remained solely attuned to immediate concerns, this being one of several times during the next few hours when the success of the enterprise would depend totally on his prior judgments. If one of the captives should regain consciousness and struggle or cry out while the group was en route, especially while being questioned, all could be lost.

  Even a suspicion that the caskets were in any way unusual could result in their being opened and the entire plan foiled—as happened at Britain's Stansted Airport in 1984. On that occasion a Nigerian, Dr. Umaru Dikko, having been kidnapped and drugged, was about to be flown to Lagos in a sealed crate. Airport workers reported a strong "medicine-type smell”and British Customs officers insisted that the crate be opened. The victim was discovered, unconscious but alive.

  Miguel and Baudelio both knew of that 1984 incident and wanted no repetition.

  As the moment to leave for Teterboro approached, Socorro had appeared, strikingly seductive in a black linen dress with matching jacket trimmed with braid. Her hair was tucked under a black cloche and she wore gold earrings and a thin gold necklace. She was crying copiously, the result of Baudelio's prescription of a grain of pepper beneath each lower eyelid. She now gave the same treatment to Rafael; at first he had objected, but Miguel insisted and the big man gave in. Soon after Rafael adjusted to the mild discomfort, his tears rolled out too.

  Rafael, Miguel and Baudelio, each wearing their dark suits and ties, looked suitably cast as mourners. If questions were asked, Rafael and Socorro would pose as brother and sister of a dead Colombian woman, killed in a fiery auto accident while visiting the U.S., whose remains were being flown home for burial. And since the woman's young son—so the cover story went—was one of two others killed in the same accident, Rafael and Socorro would be Nicky's sorrowful uncle and aunt. The third "dead”person, Angus, would be described as an older distant relative who had been traveling with the other two.

  Baudelio would be a supportive member of the bereaved family, Miguel a close family friend.

  Elaborate documentation corroborated the cover story fake death certificates from Pennsylvania where the fatal accident supposedly occurred, graphic photos of a turnpike traffic disaster scene, and even press clippings purportedly from the Philadelphia Inquirer, but in fact printed on a private press. The documents had included new passports for Miguel, Rafael, Socorro and Baudelio and two spare death certificates, one of which had since been used for Angus. The document "package”had been obtained through another of Miguel's Little Colombia contacts and cost more than twenty thousand dollars.

>   Included in the cover story and false news reports was a critical feature: All three bodies were so badly mangled and burned that they were unrecognizable. Miguel counted on that to deter any opening of the caskets during their removal from the United States.

  The hearse and truck now had their engines running and behind them was the Plymouth Reliant, with Carlos in the driver's seat. He would follow the other vehicles at a distance, though ready to intervene in case of trouble. With the exception of Baudelio, they were all armed.

  The immediate plan was to proceed directly to the airport, which should take about ten minutes, fifteen at the most.

  In the courtyard of the Hackensack house, Miguel checked his watch. 7:35 P.m. He instructed the others, "Everyone aboard.”

  Alone he made a final inspection of the house and outbuildings, satisfying himself that no significant traces of their occupancy remained. Only one thing troubled him. The ground where the hole had been dug to bury the cellular phones and other equipment was uneven compared with the area surrounding it. Julio and Luis had done their best to level the earth and spread leaves, but signs of disturbance remained. Miguel supposed it didn't matter greatly and at this point nothing could be done.

  Returning to the hearse, he climbed into the front seat and told Julio tersely, "Go!”

  Dusk had settled in, with the last traces of sunset on their right as they headed for Teterboro.

  * * *

  Luis was first to see the flashing police lights ahead. He swore softly as he braked. From the passenger side of the hearse, Miguel saw the lights too, then craned to survey their own position in relation to other traffic. Socorro was in the middle, seated between the two men.

  They were on State Highway 17 headed south, with the elevated Passaic Expressway a mile behind. Traffic both ways on 17 was heavy. Between themselves and the flashing lights there was no turnoff to the right, and central dividers made a U-turn out of the question. Miguel, beginning to sweat, tightened his hold on himself and instructed Luis, "Keep going.” He checked to make sure the "Serene Funeral Homes” truck was immediately behind.