‘‘I’m not kidding, damn it!’’
‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ the floor director called out. ‘‘Two minutes.’’
Stevie dismissed the person with a brutal wave. She looked at Melissa and saw trouble. ‘‘You’ve got something going, don’t you? I know that look.’’
Melissa shook her head.
‘‘What were you saying about the car wash?’’ Stevie asked.
‘‘Nothing but a hunch. A picture’s worth a thousand words, and I’ve got some good pictures. You’ll see.’’
‘‘When?’’ she persisted.
‘‘At the pay phone, Ioverheard him mention the graveyard,’’ Melissa whispered. Stevie suffered a bout of chills. ‘‘Who him? What graveyard?’’
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‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ the floor director called out.
‘‘I’m coming!’’ Stevie snapped. When she turned around, Melissa was already leaving the studio. Stevie knew that the thing to do was to go after her, to stop her. Melissa suffered from professional tunnel vision. ‘‘Wait!’’ she called out.
‘‘Sixty seconds!’’ the floor director announced.
‘‘I’ll call you tonight,’’ Melissa mouthed silently, holding her hand to her ear as to a telephone.
‘‘You call me!’’ Stevie demanded, still tempted to abandon the anchor desk and stop her Little Sister. ‘‘I’m going to wait up for that call!’’
An intern held the double doors open for Melissa, who looked back one final time and smiled at Stevie. Again she held her hand to her ear: She would call.
‘‘Thirty seconds! Places, please.’’
Stevie moved reluctantly toward the anchor desk, the pit in her stomach growing ever deeper. If she hadn’t had the interview with the head of the INS lined up, she might have bailed. As it was, she climbed into her anchor chair and reviewed the script while the soundman wired her. She had a sinking feeling about Melissa that she couldn’t shake: It felt more like a farewell than a good-bye. t
The temperature of the studio hovered in the mid-fifties, a concession to the computerized electronics. The floor director reading the shooting script was dressed in a cotton cardigan. Behind the anchor desk things were a little hotter because an intern had delivered Stevie’s latte
´ with a teaspoon of real sugar instead of sugar substitute. Stevie slid the mug aside combatively and studied her own script one last time. No matter how many times this team prepared for a broadcast, nerves were always taut. News Four at Five’s continuing efforts to keep the number one Nielsen rating in the race for local news viewers had a way of turning up the heat.
Stevie’s male co-anchor, William Cutler, was more intent on his appearance in the monitor than on the script. Billy-Bob, as Stevie
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referred to him, spent his time at ribbon-cutting ceremonies and lunchtime speaker appearances—appreciating the fees for these extracurricular activities quite a bit more than the news. She checked herself one last time in the monitor. At thirty-seven, she knew the camera still flattered her. Her hair was highlighted and cut shoulder length, her camisole cut a little low, a little bare, a little tasteless, but just right for the producers and their precious ratings. Those ratings justified a contract that included a Town Car and driver to shuttle her to and from her all-expenses-paid five-bedroom co-op apartment. A promotional arrangement with Nordstrom provided her with a wardrobe, all for a five-second credit in the closing scroll. The creamy pale skin of her surgically enhanced cleavage and the ease with which she carried herself had won her a description of ‘‘overtly sexual,’’ by Newsweek in an article about the decline of standards in local news broadcasts. Whatever the criticism, the ratings remained superb. Only Billy-Bob’s libido threatened to bring them down. There were rumors of high school girls, drugs and all-night parties. If BillyBob didn’t keep it zipped, N4@ 5 was in trouble.
‘‘Fifteen seconds,’’ announced the floor director standing between the two robotic cameras, headphone wires trailing. She held a handscrawled notice to remind both anchors of an insert—‘‘page B-36’’—
that was not part of their preprinted scripts.
‘‘Hair!’’ William Cutler shouted as he preened. The studio coiffeuse bounded up on stage as the floor director continued the count. ‘‘Ten seconds!’’ The hairdresser, who carried a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip, dragged a brush carefully across Cutler’s lacquered coif and toyed with an escaped lock.
‘‘You idiot! What are you, a dog groomer? Give me that!’’ Cutler stole the brush away from her and laid the lock down.
‘‘Nine . . . clear the set . . . eight . . .’’ the floor director droned, not the slightest hint of concern in her voice. Pros, every one of them. The hairdresser stepped off camera as a snarling Cutler inspected himself in the monitor once again. He threw the brush off set at the young hairdresser.
‘‘Four . . . three . . . two . . .’’
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Stevie’s face lit up as she faced the camera. She typically lived for this moment: Hundreds of thousands of viewers hanging on her every word, but Melissa’s earlier zealousness negated the usual thrill. The prerecorded voice said into her ear, ‘‘And now, Seattle’s most watched news team, Stevie McNeal and William Cutler and News Four at Five. ’’
Stevie read from the scrolling text, her smile picture perfect, her tone slightly hoarse and sensual, her eyes soft and locked onto camera two. Sadly, the news was ‘‘there to fill the time between the ads.’’ A mentor had explained that to her when she had been coming up in New York, hoping to make the jump from on-camera reporter to anchor. Sources close to the illegal alien investigation resulting from a shipping container being fished from Puget Sound say that detectives from the homicide squad of the Seattle Police Depart- ment have now questioned at least one of the detainees who survived the passage. The interrogation is said to have revolved around a failed attempt at a plea bargain agreement, that left police with few, if any leads.
File footage rolled of the container’s recovery and the blanketed women being led to emergency vehicles.
In related news, the preliminary autopsy of the first of three women who died in the crossing is said to suggest that the victim died of natural causes, namely malnutrition and dehy- dration, though it appears uncertain these conditions were any- thing but the result of negligence on the part of the ship’s captain. Identifying the ship involved in the transport of that container and the ship’s captain are believed to now be the target of the ongoing investigation. News Four at Five will carry a live interview with Adam Tal- madge, regional director of the Immigration and Naturaliza- tion Service, later in this broadcast.
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t
William Cutler and his brazen voice took over, reporting a homicide in Madrona that afternoon. Some poor kid’s lights had been dimmed over a parking space dispute. They alternated the anchor work on the more gruesome and hopeless stories. She tried to leave the out-andout bleeders for Billy-Bob. But when the illegals had washed ashore in a sewage-encrusted container, abandoned there by some greedy son-of-a-bitch, she held on to it. All the stations, radio and TV, were still leading with it. The nationals were interested, spurred on by the feed of Stevie’s first reporting of the story. It was hot. She was hot because of it. And when something started burning hot, you fed the fire with any fuel available. If not exact
ly in execution, she and Melissa agreed in concept: This was one story that had to be told. And it had to be kept alive to be told. Pending a coup by the city’s prosecuting attorney, who hoped to hold the detainees as material witnesses to a homicide, the illegals were rumored to be scheduled for deportation, to return to whatever lives they’d fled. Out of sight was out of mind. Stevie considered it her job to keep the story current and in front of viewers while Melissa sought out the possible connections to the people responsible. In the business of reporting corruption, disease and death, the opportunity to investigate and expose a criminal ring that exploited human beings was a rare opportunity. For once her work could count for something more than filling time between ads. But for that to happen she had to keep the public’s attention riveted to this story. She embraced this as a personal challenge. Following a lead by Billy-Bob, Stevie read six more lines from the TelePrompTer—a crack house catching fire—and then settled back into her swivel chair as a taped report took over. The floor director signaled camera three, lifting a hand like a race car flagman. That hand dropped and Stevie recited from the scrolling script.
Stay with News Four at Five for an exclusive interview with Adam Talmadge, Northwest regional director of the INS, based here in Seattle, as we continue our investigation into the trade
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in illegal immigrants in High Seas, High Stakes. Back after this break.
The TV screen went to ads. Third-quarter revenues were up 31 percent. Stevie knew the numbers.
‘‘Clear!’’ shouted the floor director. ‘‘Stevie, living room! William, camera two in sixty.’’
t
Adam Talmadge wore a dark suit, a white button-down shirt and a blue tie bearing red eagle heads. His wingtips were resoled but well shined. He had most of his hair, a light gray curly nap cut close to his scalp, dramatic black eyebrows and clear blue irises like fresh ice or taxidermy glass. His face filled with a reserved but friendly caution as he shook hands with Stevie. His eyes did not stray to her anatomy for even an instant, as some men’s did, and she ascertained immediately that he was well versed in media performance. She had little doubt that by agreeing to the interview, Talmadge brought his own agenda. She had, in fact, requested that this interview be with Coughlie, who presently occupied a formed-fiberglass seat off-camera, but Talmadge had accepted for himself.
‘‘All set?’’ Stevie asked her guest.
‘‘My pleasure,’’ he said.
The floor director’s arm prepared to flag her, and chopped with authority.
‘‘ News Four at Five is pleased to welcome Adam Talmadge, Northwest regional director of the Immigration and Naturalization Service based here in Seattle. Welcome.’’
‘‘Good to be here, Stevie.’’
‘‘The INS is the gateway through which every legal immigrant must enter this country,’’ she said. ‘‘It also maintains its own, independent federal police force at our borders and ports of entry. You detain how many individuals a year here in the Seattle area?’’
Talmadge’s tan spoke of a low golf handicap. He said, ‘‘We detained approximately twenty-two hundred individuals in the last calendar year—but let me just say—’’
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‘‘That says plenty,’’ Stevie interrupted, setting the tone for the interview. She would resist allowing Talmadge to stray and change the topic the way the media coaches taught. ‘‘And of those, approximately how many arrive by container or ship?’’
‘‘A third to one-half, perhaps.’’ He glanced imperceptibly off camera toward Brian Coughlie. She stated, ‘‘So, of those detained, seven hundred to one thousand illegal immigrants—political refugees—enter this city as stowaways or human cargo or slaves.’’
‘‘Political refugees account for only about ten percent of all illegal entries,’’ he corrected.
‘‘And what percentage of all illegal entries are in fact detained by your service?’’
‘‘We have no way to measure that.’’
‘‘An estimate?’’ she asked.
‘‘If we were fifty percent successful we’d be pleased.’’
‘‘Less than ten percent of drugs coming into this country are seized,’’ she challenged, reading from her notes. ‘‘Why would your results be significantly higher?’’
‘‘Drugs can be hidden in a ski pole, can be left on the bottom of the ocean for a month, air-dropped into national forest. We’re dealing with human beings,’’ he reminded.
‘‘So if your twenty-two hundred is fifty percent, there are roughly five thousand illegals entering via the Northwest each year. And yet the national number is more like three hundred thousand, isn’t it?’’
‘‘The majority of which—some eighty percent—come across our southern border.’’
‘‘Mexico.’’
‘‘From Mexico, yes.’’
‘‘And here, Asians account for most of the illegal immigration, do they not?’’
‘‘That’s correct.’’
‘‘Chinese?’’
‘‘A large percentage are from mainland China. Yes. Vietnam. Indonesia.’’
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‘‘Political refugees,’’ she said, returning to her earlier point. Talmadge pursed his lips and cocked his head. ‘‘We screen carefully for those individuals with legitimate claims to political persecution.’’
‘‘And yet a recent ruling by Congress allows detained illegals only nine days to confirm their status as political refugees, isn’t that right?’’
‘‘Six working days,’’ he corrected.
She attempted to contain the gleam in her eyes from having purposely overstated the waiting period, luring him into the correction.
‘‘After which they are deported and returned to their country of origin—whatever their fate there.’’
‘‘That is generally the procedure, yes.’’
‘‘And to qualify as a political refugee these individuals, these refugees, have to be able to prove they have been tortured.’’
‘‘Tortured is a strong word. Either physically or mentally abused,’’
he corrected. ‘‘Or at substantial physical risk if they remained incountry.’’
‘‘As Iunderstand it,’’ she went on, ‘‘select INS agents are receiving special training that has itself come under fire from both Capitol Hill and the psychiatric community. Your department employs how many such specially trained interviewers?’’ she asked.
‘‘Three,’’ Talmadge replied with another glance to Coughlie.
‘‘Only a small percentage—ten percent perhaps—of all illegals claim political refugee status.’’
‘‘Then you support the new policies?’’ she tested. Talmadge returned quickly, ‘‘Congress has enacted one of the most far-reaching, sweeping overhauls to the Immigration Act this century, making our borders more welcoming than they have been in over seventy years, while reducing paperwork and increasing efficiency on the part of this agency. As to those people out there perpetrating these crimes against their fellow human beings, all Ican say is that such behavior will not be condoned by this administration, nor by the Immigration and Naturalization Service. We will ferret out those responsible, and we will see them in prison for their actions. Ishould add that the Seattle police are currently conducting an active homi.......................... 7400$$
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cide investigation into the three deaths aboard that recent container.
Let this serve as notice: The black market in human cargo is over. Immunity will be offered to the first few willing to expose this trade. The rest are going to prison.’’
Stevie then understood Talmadge’s agenda. He had used the broadcast to soapbox for informants.
The floor director signaled Stevie, who wrapped the interview quickly.
‘‘Clear!’’ the floor director shouted. ‘‘William, camera two, two minutes.’’
Talmadge stood and unclipped his mike. He brushed himself off as if he’d eaten a meal.
Brian Coughlie stepped up to Stevie. ‘‘Good questions.’’
‘‘Vague answers,’’ she replied.
Talmadge winced a smile and headed for the exit; he clearly expected Coughlie at his side.
‘‘Dinner?’’ Coughlie asked her.
‘‘No thank you,’’ she answered.
‘‘An off-camera interview? ‘Source close to the investigation’?’’
‘‘You’re getting warmer,’’ she said.
‘‘Ican provide more specific stats,’’ he offered. Stevie told him, ‘‘I’ll call you.’’
‘‘Good,’’ he said.
He reached out and they shook hands. Coughlie kept hold of hers a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t like the feeling. She wouldn’t flirt to get a story. She turned and walked toward the anchor desk, confident that Brian Coughlie was watching.
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C H A P T E R 9
Seven years had passed since Boldt had consulted Dr. Byron Rutledge at the University of Washington’s—‘‘the U-Dub’s’’—School of Oceanography. Rutledge, a physical oceanographer who had a long history in the department, was a leading authority on the tidal currents of Puget Sound and had once assisted Boldt with a homicide investigation involving a body washed ashore by those currents. As North America’s largest estuary, Puget Sound experiences unusual but highly predictable tides and currents, including some of the fastest surface currents in the western United States. Rutledge was of medium build and height. With his carefully trimmed Abraham Lincoln beard, his ice blue eyes and his smoker’s pipe, he looked the part of salty dog. The office was cluttered with paperwork: graphs, charts and reports occupying most horizontal surfaces. Its walls were adorned with engravings of square-riggers, brigs and whalers, as well as a chalkboard and a rack of maps that retracted like window shades.
The First Victim Page 6
