by Philip Bond
The news hounds have the exclusive complete with gruesome vision to pepper the hourly bulletins. Some see it as news and the public right to know, but none forget the ratings.
*
The adrenaline rush subsides. Although sleep deprived, the television crew return to the mundane, plodding work of building the story.
The clock hits 9 am as they arrive outside Champion’s apartment.
A knock on the door reveals the rotund and diminutive Glen Champion. “Youse be the TV people. Come in, sit where ya want.”
The apartment’s in three sections, lounge/dining/kitchenette, the largest, a bedroom with adjoining bath/toilet. In occupying the largest, the crew jockeys for positions. Harry in one chair, Champion the other. Geoff partly closes the blinds in setting the lighting, Rick mikes Champion. Idle chatter commences, fishing for the useful and interesting until Geoff and Rick signal readiness.
“Mister Champion, what are your prospects for a job?”
“Not good.”
“Why?”
“Look at me, just turn fifty and considered too old. Yeah, I get interviews okay, but you can see it in their eyes when they first meet you. They are taken aback, realising your age. No one admits but the letter comes saying thanks, however, we have short-listed others more closely meeting the selection criteria. What can you do?” His eyes betray a deeper story.
Harry’s first thought is, maybe tidy up, lose weight, instead deciding on… “You sound bitter?”
“Yeah, well maybe I’m crook on who did and who didn’t go.”
Sometimes, interviewing is like fly-fishing; you have to work to attract the fish you want. Harry casts… “Can you explain?”
“One who should’ve been in the first group to go’s protected; he’s dealin’ drugs.”
Interesting answer, however, not enough… “Protected by whom?”
“Dunno but it’s gotta be someone in authority, someone who makes decisions.”
Oh, come on open up… “Why do you say that?”
“I asked around, ‘cause a bloke named George Kuris came on before the drug dealer and is retrenched couple of days ago. This immigration program stinks. People are still comin’ in, while they retrench experienced people like me. Our local pollie has a lot to answer for.”
That’s more like it… “Serious stuff, Mister Champion?”
“Yeah, sure is!” Once started, nothing’ll stop him now… “I thought it crook, so I ask questions and got told to mind my own business, now here I am, out on my arse and the druggie has still got a job.”
Geoff notices shadowy movement outside.
Harry’s on a roll continuing the probing… “Who can support your allegations about the sale of drugs and the protection?”
Geoff returns to the viewer as the front door bursts open, filling the room with hooded men… “Police, do not move! We have a warrant!” War zone instincts prevail; he keeps rolling… “Police, don’t move, police, don’t move!”
The occupants are startled, to say the least, and gingerly complying.
This isn’t what the police officer expects.
“I’m Harry Reisner,” she’s bewildered as the police… “This is Rick Wingate and that’s Geoff Yoxall with the camera. We are interviewing this man Glen Champion.”
The officer immediately turns to the hapless individual… “Glen Champion?”
“Yes?”
“Glen Champion, I have a warrant for your arrest!”
The interview’s running hot until the spectacular police entry. Harry’s annoyed by the intrusion… “On what charge, officer?”
“Murder, and it’s sergeant,” returning indignantly.
“Murder,” her eyes light up, wow another scoop… “Whose murder?”
“The murder of Rosa Costello on or about 11:30 pm last night.” The policeman isn’t interested in further discourse. Again, turning to the hapless Champion… “You’re not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say or do may be used in evidence. Do you understand?”
Two police officers restrain Champion as a third applies handcuffs. Now Champion’s head spins… “What ’bout my door?”
“What do you care?” The SPG Sergeant sneers… “You won’t be back in this here for a long time, killer.”
Harry looks to Geoff. Geoff looks to Rick and Rick to Harry. The penny drops… “Oh hell, he murdered that woman. There’s the tag to last night’s story. We have to follow this!”
*
It’s been two hours and Harry’s front row in the police station media scrum. The senior investigating officer’s refusing repeated requests to complete her questioning. By chance, walking towards the scrum is Superintendent Peter Redman. Opportunity presents… “Hi, Peter. Thanks for the tip; I owe you.”
“We can fix it up now if you want.” He’s seized with anticipation… “I’m just about finished for the day. I know a quiet little place?”
“Ahh, Peter, that might be nice, however,” dodgeball time… “We were interviewing Champion in his apartment when the SPG crashed in and arrested our man. I need just two more questions.” There’s a dilemma here, one day the debt might need honouring… “Can you help?” Debt recovery doesn’t enter her mind… “It’s vital to the story.”
Redman sees the opportunity to increase the debit balance… “You won’t question him about the murder?”
“No way!”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Wait here.” Although optimistic about his chances with the journalist, unfortunately for Peter, he’s but one of many holding such markers, and Harry never pays.
*
The police holding cells look as if built early last century. The colour scheme is police blue, reaching half way up the wall before changing to white and although clean, an odour permeates everything. A uniform officer leads into the cells, finding Champion in a sombre mood, lying on a cot.
Always professional, Geoff and Rick jump on the set-up drill as Harry carries in a small seat. Time’s ticking by, forcing Rick into concessions… “Sound is terrible; I’ll live with it!”
Picking up where she left off… “Mister Champion,” she’s back in business… “Who can back up your allegations?”
The change of circumstances hasn’t altered Champion’s demeanour. The man will be the same no matter where he is… “Just ask anybody. They know. That’s why they hire the imports in the first place, to run the dope business.” Champion’s suffering a rush of blood to the head. With nothing to lose, he leverages his position… “I was once an organiser for the union. Part of my job was to meet weekly with the shop stewards. Like now, most are immigrants, and each would give me a package for me to take back to that university toff.”
Labels, Harry hates labels. There’s always someone at school who makes it his business to be an absolute prick. A kid named Gary Lau constantly taunts Harry to a lasting memory… “Oh, and which university toff is that?”
“Sorry,” a tactful retreat correcting his choice of nouns… “Graeme Neate. Anyways, I opened one once, about one thousand dollars, that’s what’s inside. I’d do that weekly for four shop stewards, nice money hey?”
A quick mathematical exercise… “Neate takes four thousand dollars each week?”
“Yeah, I could do with that now. Maybe you can talk to the cops for me. I’m prepared to give chapter and verse in exchange for somethin’ on this murder charge.”
The last thing she wants is to become his arbitrator… “You say the personnel manager is also implicated?”
“Seems like it. Some people say he’s workin’ with Neate.”
That’s not good enough… “I need substantiation; to whom can I speak?”
“Yeah,” this is his fifteen minutes of fame… “I can give you names in exchange for your help?”
“Mister Champion, Glen, I cannot guarantee the police will even listen to me, let alone make concessions.”
“But you can try, can’t you?” He’s plea
ding.
“Yes!” saying it with a straight face.
He recites names of people, retrenched over the last two months.
What a gift. Just what she needs to revitalise the story… “These people all seem experienced. You say those who kept their jobs were recent immigrants?”
“Yeah, bloody immigrants take our jobs. My job!”
Great information doesn’t make him less of a prick… “Mister Champion,” journalistic ethics demands… “I will have to verify this.”
“Yeah right, you verify this. Neate benefits from the immigration program and the cops do nothin’ to stop the drugs. So, who runs the immigration program?”
“It is a government program, Mister Champion, run by the department of immigration.” This is a man’s unsubstantiated allegation, maybe there’s more… “Are you suggesting a conspiracy?”
“Too damn right I am. Check it out, you’ll see I’m right.”
“I will.” Despite the fact that this man’s facing a murder charge, in Harry’s eyes, he’s still an arsehole. She ends the interview.
All are shown the door.
Geoff leads the departing conversation… “We should get this stuff back to Sydney for tonight’s edition.”
“No.” That doesn’t fit her plans. “Let’s go to the affiliate and edit what we have. I need further time in this town.”
“Maybe we should,” Geoff reveals his secret… “I have the SPG arrest on tape; Phillip will want to use in tonight’s bulletin.”
You shit… “That’s why you want to go back to Sydney.” Her fantastic report upstaged… “When were you going to tell us, or are you more interested in sucking up to Phillip.”
“Damn it, Harry, you have a thing happening. Why not either of us?”
Oh fuck, what thing… “What do you mean by that?”
“Christ, everyone knows he’s screwing you; you get the good assignments, so why can’t I get something happening for myself?”
As rumours regarding Harry and Phillip’s affair increase so, too, does the detail. Notorious for his philandering, his two previous marriages last less than five years each; his current is potholed and problematic and several times now, people have it on good authority Phillip’s about to leave his wife, moving in with Harry.
“There’s a difference, Geoff. I work as part of the team.” This is a case of do as I say not as I do… “This isn’t the Golan or Beirut. You are not back freelancing and competing with the networks in a war-zone. You are part of a team, this team. Get that through your head.” Then, semantics… “Geoff, just for the record, he’s not screwing me, I’m screwing him.”
Fireman Rick steps in, dousing the flames… “You’re both competitive. This confrontation isn’t productive and certainly doesn’t meet deadlines. Let’s just do our jobs, the Walkleys are a little way off yet.”
The final story might be a co-operative effort but still, Harry sets the priorities… “Let’s get to the affiliate, edit the story and pipe it down to Sydney. I want to see where this leads.”
The drive to the local television station’s a sober affair, with egos a little bruised and brooding.
*
Later, it’s a motel for dinner and an early night.
Negotiating the Newcastle evening traffic, Harry revises events… “Well, the story is as Champion tells it. Large-scale employment of migrants during a growth phase; selected migrants trained for positions of control. Later, when the recession bites, they retrench workers with experience. Migrant supervisors are threatened with deportation if they don’t distribute drugs. Drug-related crime over the last two years increases by five hundred percent. The federal parliamentarian is central to the immigration program, arranging sponsored employment program. The Human Relations Director orchestrates the placement of people in suitable positions of control. The union, up here its Graeme Neate, is mute on the subject of job losses and the local police make little impact on the drug business.”
Rick’s driving, Harry’s riding shotgun, Geoff huddles in the back sulking from the earlier altercation, it’s up to Rick to keep the conversation level up… “Neate’s central to everything. So, what’s next, Scoop?”
As far as Harry’s concerned, the exchange with Geoff is past tense… “We interview him at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. That’ll prove to be interesting.”
Geoff continues sulking, leaving only Rick interested… “Christ, let’s head back to Sydney straight after the interview. I’ll feel better once I’m south of Kingswood country.”
“No can do.” Harry’s rules—it’s finished when she says it is… “Will need to do a follow up with Champion for comment on Neate’s answers.”
Geoff decides to participate… “This is the year of living dangerously.”
Too Close for Comfort
The interview starts quietly enough, with Harry probing into the union’s regional activities and branch administration. An outright admission of involvement in crime would be too much to hope for, yet Harry senses Neate’s short fuse, theatre dictates its lighting hoping for spectacular vision with an appropriate voiceover… “I put it to you, Mister Neate, there are those whom suggest you are implicated in the distribution of drugs in the Hunter Region.”
“Miss Reisner,” in his office, sitting in his chair, behind his desk, Neate’s in control… “I suggest you get your facts correct before you make any allegations like that again. It could be costly.”
“Are you or have you been ever involved with the sale or distribution of illegal drugs?”
Sitting smugly with fingers clasped across his chest… “No!”
She throws out a baited hook… “I have an on-camera statement that you receive weekly payments totalling four thousand dollars, proceeds of the sale of drugs.”
“I say, Miss Reisner, that’s incorrect, there is no proof.”
“Mister Neate, three people corroborate these facts. What is your reaction?”
Neate’s ruffled… “Well, Miss Reisner, you know the ways of the world. People crave their fifteen minutes of fame after editing a five-second sound bite.” Shuffling papers to push back his chair… “Now, I’ve had enough of all this. It’s time for you, your camera and your tape recorder to fuck off, thank you very much.”
No further encouragement needed; Neate has an evil aura about him.
*
“Peter,” she’s working the phone again… “I need another favour, yes I know. I have a couple more questions for Champion, no, same as before, nothing about the murder, its comment about his allegation against Neate. Ten minutes, great we are on our way. Yes,” interest is added to her debt… “I know.”
*
All interviews are now in the can.
Driving from the police station, Harry telephones the news director… “I have the story, Phillip, and we’re on our way back now.”
“Back where?” he demands
“To Sydney, the story’s dynamite; I want time tonight for a special report.” Much to Phillip’s chagrin, she has the capacity to segment the emotional from vocational. However, she’s not averse to using seduction to achieve the desired.
“It always is, and you always do, so why now?” He finds it extraordinarily difficult to say no to her mostly offering pleasing concessions.
“We interviewed the union official,” adrenaline continues flowing… “I got him, it was beautiful, he all but threatens our interviewees and now, we have enough to go with,” and relates the events… “We did a follow up with Champion,” to finish… “It’s a great story.”
“Sounds intriguing.” He’s circumspect… “Here’s what I want. Go to the affiliate, do a header and pipe it down here with today’s stuff. I’ll start editing; place a teaser at the end of tonight’s bulletin about a major story on drugs and organised crime in Newcastle for tomorrow night’s edition. Then you three drive back; tomorrow morning, we’ll package a three-minute special for the six o’clock news.”
“That’ll be great, t
hanks Phillip.” It’s the usual game well played by both.
“Make the header good, Harry, we can’t forget the ratings, can we?”
*
Lights continue blazing on the news set; the first edition bulletin is coming to an end. The weather segment finishes, the camera cuts to the newsreader… “Thanks Suzie, still no rain. Tomorrow night, we bring you an alarming report by Harry Reisner on drugs and organised crime in Newcastle. Here is a preview.”
The director cues the tape, vision of Harry in a stand up to camera cuts in.
“The Police SPG unit crash in and arrest the man we are interviewing. Later, in another interview, the union official ends the interview.” The director cues a vision of Neate’s threatening facial expression.
The director keys the scene change back to the newsreader.
“Thanks Harry, something not to miss. So that is the news for today, the 20th of October, so from all of us here, good night.”
Credits roll.
Elsewhere, glaring at the television, Neate explodes… “That fucking bitch, that fucking bitch! They’re not going to screw me!” The raging inferno snaps up the telephone to organise the events.
*
Geoff’s at the wheel… “We’ll need petrol before the freeway.” The news crew are rolling back to Sydney… “Rick, you have the credit card?”
He’s dosing, waking with a start… “Yep,” rubbing his eyes… “Where are we?”
“Not sure, but the John Hunter Hospital’s down there.”
Geoff a country music fan, the FM announcer comes across… “That’s the title track from Losing Faith, Audrey Auld’s latest, and watch that climb. Oh, here is something the Prime Minister just announces, we go to the polls on Saturday, November 16. Isn’t that what we need, weeks of politicians crapping on to us about how good they are and all the while doing to us what they’ve done to the country? Anyhow, I couldn’t think of a more fitting number than another from Audrey called, Shove It.”
Rick’s first… “Well there you go, it’s political stories until the election.”
Always the cynic, Geoff declares… “I’ll bet there’s a bad current account figure due.” And pops… “Hey, there’s a petrol station.”
