“Television?”
The doctor looked at his patient. “This guy is big news. As soon as they find out what has happened the hospital will be crawling with news crews.”
“If he wakes up, he’ll be angry about that.”
The doctor slowly shook his head. “That’s the least of his worries. Some of these people never wake up.”
* * *
“Boss wants to see you.” The news assistant’s manner grew more insolent the longer he stayed on the newspaper. He was consumed by envy of those staff members who did the actual writing. He desperately wanted to be a reporter so he endured the daily humiliations suffered at the hands of staffers, who took great relish in responding to his arrogant attitude.
Abbot Simmons looked up from his computer and smiled. “Which boss? Practically everybody here is my boss.”
“The head asshole himself. You must’a really fucked up.”
Simmons leaned back and studied the messenger. “How the hell old are you now, Eddie? Thirty-two, maybe thirty-four?”
“I’m twenty-three!”
The tall reporter slowly stood up, the same whimsical smile on his horselike features. “When I was twenty-three I was the night city editor on the Jacksonville paper.”
The news clerk’s face reddened. “Fuck you,” he snapped as he strode away.
Abbot Simmons fished through his coat pocket to get his cigarettes. He had no heart for torturing the news assistant, but it had become a habit. Eddie was too easy. Not only did he have an unpleasant personality, he lacked simple common sense. Abbot Simmons lit a cigarette. “With those qualities he should be an editor,” he said aloud and to no one as he walked down the row of desks toward the office door of the managing editor.
He knocked. Simmons always knocked ever since the night he caught the old man humping Kay Cochran, the feature editor. That night he had just walked in without warning. It had been embarrassing. He knew and liked Kay’s husband, and he knew and liked the managing editor’s wife. That night no one moved, they had all just stared at each other until Simmons frowned at the lady and said, “Does this mean we’re through, Kay?”
He thought it was a funny exit line, but later Harry Phillips, the managing editor, had a talk with him consisting of half bluster and half wet-eyed pleading. No one had a sense of humor anymore.
“Come in,” Phillips called.
Simmons walked into the cluttered office. “What’s up?”
“I liked that story you wrote about the 14th Street Bridge.”
The reporter sat down in a worn easy chair. “Yeah, it practically wrote itself. That whole fucking thing is going to fall right into the water one of these days.”
“I agree, but I can’t run the story.”
Simmons blinked. “Why not?”
Phillips pushed his eyeglasses to the top of his head. He had seen the gesture in a movie once and liked it. It made his glasses greasy but he thought it gave him a touch of glamour. “It’s that new law,” he said.
“Harry, there isn’t even a hint of libel in that story. Everything is perfectly true. I got a written affidavit from the city inspector. Hell, I don’t accuse anybody of being crooked. I don’t even blame anybody. Somebody just fucked up in building the thing, that’s all. I just truthfully reported the situation.”
“I’m not talking about libel law.” Phillips, a rotund man, leaned back and put one thick leg up on his desk. “It’s that other law, the written negligence thing.”
“You mean like in the Booker case?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a bunch of crap, Harry. My story doesn’t even come close. No mob is going to drag somebody out of jail and hang him over a lousy bridge.”
“Maybe not, but our new state statute makes a newspaper liable for reckless or negligent reporting.”
“Harry, my article isn’t reckless or negligent. It just reports the facts about a badly built bridge.”
The managing editor shrugged. “It’s a toll bridge, and thousands use it every day, Abby.” Everyone called Abbot Simmons “Abby,” and he had to endure the “Dear Abby” needle daily from most of his co-workers.
“If thousands use it, Harry, that’s all the more reason why we should run the story. There’s a real possibility the thing may crumble. That’s not too probable, I admit, but it is still possible, at least according to the city inspector. The people have a right to know.”
Phillips grunted. “Look, it’s a toll bridge. People pay money to cross it. Let’s say we run the story and half the people stop using the bridge. Abby, that’s thousands of dollars per day. If someday a judge or jury decided we were reckless in printing the story, we’d get stuck for those losses.”
“No court would ever do that. We have the facts right.”
“That didn’t make any difference with the Booker paper and their story about the killings in Marysville. They had everything right, too. But after the paper hit the stands the mob formed at the jail and lynched the defendant, right?”
“The paper didn’t editorialize, it just reported the facts, nothing more. They weren’t responsible for what that mob did,” Simmons protested.
“But they were sued under the new state statute and got hit for four million bucks.”
“It’s on appeal. The Booker newspaper chain is taking it right up to the Supreme Court. That law is unconstitutional, it violates the First Amendment.”
The managing editor leaned back in his chair. “The reason it’s going to the Supreme Court is because the newspaper has lost in every court so far, both trial and appellate. Have you read the decisions?”
Abby Simmons crushed his cigarette and absently lit another. “I read about them, the feature pieces and so on, but I never actually read the decisions.”
“I have.” Harry Phillips picked up a dead cigar butt from an ashtray and knocked off the cold ash. He relit the cigar, puffing up a cloud of acid smoke. “The courts say it doesn’t violate the First Amendment because the newspaper can still print what it likes. No one can get an injunction to stop an article. They say it’s just like the law of libel. If you injure someone with a story, you have to pay. They say that’s perfectly constitutional. According to the courts, printing a news story is like driving a car or using a hunting gun; you can do it but you have to be damn careful you don’t hurt anyone. So, if you aren’t careful, you pay. I don’t know what the Supreme Court is going to do, but I personally don’t think Booker has much of a chance. Especially since half of those old bastards on the Court are looking for a chance to stick it to the media.”
“It still doesn’t apply to my story. We have a duty to inform, that’s basic. That damn bridge is dangerous. And that’s just not conjecture, that’s based on expert opinion. Even if there is a risk, we have a duty to take it.”
Harry Phillips snorted. “So suddenly journalism is a noble profession with you?”
“It’s just a job, Harry, you know that. But what the hell, it’s unlikely we’d get sued, and even if we were, they’d never collect. That story should run. It’s no big deal, it’s not Iran-Contra or a White House sex scandal. It’s just a routine thing, it’s just part of the job.”
Phillips shook his head. “You know what kind of profits this rag is making?”
“I get my paycheck. That’s all I really care about.”
“Well, sport, our beloved publisher is losing money on this little hobby of his. He makes a buck with the family’s chemical company, but this is a losing venture. He eats the losses. It helps some with his taxes, and he likes playing the part of the wise and powerful publisher. But this hobby is getting a little steep, even for him.”
“So?”
Phillips chewed on the cigar as he talked. “Daily newspapers are dying all over the country. I don’t know about you, Abby, but I’m not a wealthy man and I still have to work for a living. And I like newspapering. So, for that selfish reason alone, I want to see this crappy little sheet live on. Get me?”
�
�Shit, you think my little story about a bridge is going to sink the ship? You can’t be serious?”
Phillips shrugged. “Well, if we get sued, the publisher will have to spend money for lawyers. They don’t work cheap. Win or lose, he won’t like doing that. The newspaper negligence law has complicated my life. I have to go through this paper with an eye to everything now. If it looks like it could draw a lawsuit under the new statute, I kill it. That’s what happened to your story.”
“You know what the lawyers call that?”
Phillips shook his head.
“Chilling effect. That’s exactly what they mean when they say a ‘chilling effect.’ Look, you’re scared that we might get sued under some cockamamy state law, so you kill a harmless little story. Killed and chilled are the same thing. That damned statute has had a chilling effect upon the First Amendment right to a free press.”
“It sounds like you read the decisions. Hell, you’re using the same language. They discussed that point. The only problem is that the newspaper lost.”
Abby Simmons inhaled deeply on the cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. “Harry, if this is happening here, with a little story about a half-assed bridge, it must be happening all over the country.”
“Nope, just our little state. No other state legislature has had the guts to pass such a law.”
“And if the Supreme Court upholds it?”
Phillips shrugged. “Similar laws will pop up all over the nation. There’s a lot of people pissed off at newspapers.”
“And when that happens, a newspaper will be just a bunch of advertising held together with recipes, sports, and comics.”
“That’s overstating it, Abby, but you can bet your ass editors will be damn careful what they run.”
The reporter stood up. “Well, that bridge story wasn’t exactly the culmination of my life’s work anyway. As long as I still get my salary, as they say, that’s what’s important. Still, all this might work out as a pretty good feature piece.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Something on the court. You know, Harry, if the Supreme Court votes to uphold that law they’ll change the nature of news reporting completely. It could end the whole concept of a free press.”
The editor nodded. “And probably by one vote. Everything has been five to four with them lately. Did you see where that new guy, Howell, ended up in the hospital?”
“No.”
“Just saw it on the wire. Family spokesman says it’s an undisclosed illness. He’s in intensive care according to the hospital. Probably had a heart attack.”
“Sounds that way,” Simmons agreed. “You know, that court feature might be a good idea. How it affects local issues.”
“We’ve got guys in Washington to cover the court.”
Simmons shook his head. “You know, the whole world sucks.”
The editor grinned. “Yeah, that’s why the universe is a vacuum.”
* * *
Amos Deering was “assistant” White House Press Secretary. Almost all the new faces in the rabbit warren of offices and cubicles in the White House were “assistants.” The transition following the death of the elected president was designed to be smooth. The former vice president, now chief executive, had made a great effort to show a continuity of leadership. However, he disliked and distrusted most of his predecessor’s confidants. But with election only a year away he was reluctant to put the boot to the politically powerful members of the late leader’s staff. They continued to hold their former titles with the understanding that they would actively seek other employment. The real work fell to the “assistants,” the staffers who were part of the new administration.
“Hey, Deering,” Harold Baker called as Deering passed his office door. Baker was still the official press secretary. He had lost the job and the power, although he retained the title.
Deering liked Baker. They were both professional politicos with similar backgrounds and understood each other, although Baker was a cool, relaxed Californian and Deering was a hard-driving product of Boston’s Back Bay.
“How’d he take it?” Baker asked.
“He was upset.”
“Coffee?”
Deering nodded.
Baker took the glass pot from the burner behind his desk and poured the steaming liquid into two paper cups. “It’s decaf.”
“Just so long as it’s hot.” Deering sipped the aromatic brew.
“Tell me what you can. I’m nosy.” Baker grinned.
“You know him. He hardly ever swears, but he was cursing like a dock hand when I told him Howell had a stroke last night.”
“Can’t blame him. It certainly screws things up. The Court has a lot of big things coming up.”
“Like the Electoral College issue,” Deering said.
“Especially the Electoral College.” Baker took a sip of his coffee. “If the Court says the amendment is valid, the popular vote will decide the next election.”
“And my man will lose.”
“Our man,” Baker corrected him. “I’m still a member of the party.”
Deering laughed. “Yes. I sometimes forget that you California people are friendlies.”
Baker smiled. “And some of us are loyal. Not all, but some.” His expression became serious. “Do you want my appraisal of the situation?” He was older, more experienced and Deering had come to rely on his advice. Baker had graciously gone from boss to advisor and he was careful never to recross that line.
Deering nodded. “I’d appreciate hearing your thoughts.”
Baker leaned back in his chair. “He’ll have to move fast if Howell dies. That electoral question can decide whether he wins or loses, according to the polls, and it’s coming up for decision in the Supreme Court. The Democrats on the Judiciary Committee know that if they can block the President’s nominee, the vacancy won’t be filled in time. There’ll be another four-to-four deadlock and the lower court’s decision will stand, which means goodbye Electoral College system and goodbye Mr. President. He’ll have to come up with someone very fast, and that person will have to stand up to a hostile committee. I’d suggest an archangel, but they’re rather hard to find.”
Deering felt the coffee burn his stomach. The doctor had said it was an incipient ulcer, but Deering had too much to do to worry about such things as ulcers. “They destroyed Shiller and Mosgrove. They tore them apart.” He spoke reflectively, as if almost to himself. “Christ, Brian Howell was the answer to a maiden’s prayer. He was as pure as snow, and even then the Judiciary Committee crapped all over him. But he got through. God, I know the President would hate to have to go through all that again if Howell dies.”
“Death changes a lot of things,” Baker said quietly. The irony wasn’t lost on Deering. The death of the former president had drastically changed both their lives.
“How’s the job hunting coming along?” Deering asked, to change the subject.
Baker shrugged. “Not bad. Oh, there’s plenty of opportunity to become a vice-president of this and that p.r. firm, but I’m shooting for something a bit more permanent, maybe television. I’m talking to two of the networks and CNN.”
“As you know, anything I can do to help.…”
Baker grinned. “Getting a bit tired of doing all the work and having only the ‘assistant’ tag?”
“Maybe a little,” Deering said, smiling. “You know how this town is, it’s the title that counts. But don’t worry about it. Anyway, I like you. You’re one Californian whose brains haven’t been addled by too much sun, surf, and funny cigarettes. You’re close, you understand, but I think you still possess some basic human qualities.”
“That’s a qualified endorsement, but I still appreciate it,” Baker grinned. He offered more coffee but Deering shook his head.
“Tell me the details,” Baker asked. “I’m no longer close to power, but I still like to hear about it. What exactly was his reaction when you told him that Justice Howell was at death’s door?”
Deering smirked. “Pissed,” he said. “That’s the only way to describe it. There was no pretense of sorrow or any of that crap. It was as if Howell had turned traitor and voted with the opposition. The President was damn angry about him and his inconsiderate stroke.”
Baker nodded. “All politicians think of themselves first, at least if they’re successful. That’s how they get to the top. It’s instinctive.”
“He took it very personally. But it was a short explosion. You know how he is, he never lets his emotions show. Everything is ‘just swell’ and everybody is ‘just grand.’”
“Yes. That disgusts me, but that’s his training. He’s strictly an Eastern ‘swell.’”
Deering laughed. “Cheap shot.”
Baker smiled. “But true. Old school tie and all that. Tennis anyone? Shit, at least my man had a bit of starch in his boxers.
Deering grew serious. “Starch or no starch, we’ll have to go like hell to find someone to replace Howell if he croaks. And it’ll have to be someone who can get by the knives of the Judiciary Committee.”
“How about a fellow senator? They usually afford a free pass no one of their own.”
“We thought about the last time. But the word was passed that the chairman wouldn’t bless anyone, not even a fellow member of the Senate club. He’s jealous and he doesn’t want anyone who might obviously tilt the court to the right.”
“Well, that tends to narrow the choices.”
Deering nodded. “I’ll say. Of course, if they had nailed Howell, we did have a couple of hot prospects waiting in the wings last time. And that hasn’t been so long ago.”
“Who?”
Deering hesitated. “A couple of good people. The President said if Howell dies and we have to move fast, he’ll probably pick one or the other quickly.”
Baker sipped his coffee. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Amos? I’m not going to leak anything. As a matter of fact, I may even be in a position to help. Who are these two paragons of virtue?”
Deering thought a moment before replying. “It’s not a state secret, I suppose. The President is considering Judge O’Malley of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals and Roy Pentecost.”
The Court Page 3
