Hard News (4 page)

Maisel continued. “Look, I interviewed Boggs myself. He’s a drifter. He’s never had a decent job in his life. Everybody agrees with the jury that he did it. If you’re right and he’s innocent you’re going to be pretty unpopular around here. And you aren’t going to win any awards from the judge and prosecutor either. And if you’re wrong you’ll still be pretty unpopular but not around here because you won’t be
working
here anymore. See the significance?” “But what difference does popularity make? If he’s innocent he’s innocent.” “Are you as naive as you seem to be?”
“Peter Pan’s
my favorite play.” Maisel smiled. “Maybe it
is
better to have balls than brains.” Rune smelled sweet

sour whisky on his breath. Yes, Maisel certainly fit the mold of an old-time journalist. “Why don’t you find a
nice
criminal who’s been wrongly imprisoned and get him out

of jail. Why do you have to crusade for an asshole?” Rune said, “Innocent assholes shouldn’t be in jail any more than innocent saints.” Which earned an outright laugh. Rune could tell he didn’t want to smile but he did. He looked at her for a minute. “Piper called me and said there was a, well, an eager young thing from the local station who-“ Rune asked, “Is that how she described me? Eager?” Maisel dug into his pipe with a silver tool that looked like a large flattened nail. “Not exactly. But let’s let it go at that. And when she told me, I thought, Oh, boy, another one. Eager, obnoxious, ambitious. But she won’t have grit.” “I have grit.” Maisel said, “I think you may. And I have to tell you - even though I think he’s

guilty the Boggs case went a little too smoothly. Too fast.” “Did the media hang him out to dry before the trial?” Rune asked. Maisel leaned back. “The media hangs
all
defendants out to dry before the trial.

That’s a constant. I’m just speaking of the cops and the court system . . . I think this may be
may
be

a story worth telling. If you do it right.” “I can do it. I really can.” “Piper said you’re a cameraman. You have any other experience?” “I did a documentary. It was on PBS.” “Public Broadcasting?” he asked derisively. “Well,
Current Events
is a hell of a lot different from PBS. It costs over a half-million dollars a week to produce. We don’t get grants; we survive because of advertising revenue geared to our Nielsen and Arbitron. We earn our way. Last week we had ten-point-seven rating points. You know what a point represents? “Not exactly.” “Each point means that nine hundred and twenty-one thousand homes are watching

us.” “Awesome,” Rune said, losing the math, but thinking that a lot of people were going

to see her program. “We’re fighting against some of the biggest-drawing shows in the history of

television. This season we’re up against
Next Door Neighbors
and
Border Patrol.”
Rune nodded, looking impressed, even though she’d only seen one episode
of Neighbors
- the season’s big hit sitcom - and thought it was the stupidest thing on TV, full of wisecracking and mugging for the camera and idiotic one-liners.
Border Patrol
had great visuals and a super sound track, though all that ever happened was the cute young agent and the older, wiser agent argued about departmental procedures, then saved each other’s ass on alternate weeks while administering large doses of political correctness to the audience.
Current Events,
on the other hand, she watched all the time. Maisel continued. “We’ve got four twelve-minute segments each week, surrounded by millions of dollars of commercials. You don’t have time to be leisurely. You don’t have time to develop subjects and give the audience mood shots. You’ll shoot ten thousand feet of tape and use five hundred. We’re classy. We’ve got computer graphics coming out of our ears. We paid ninety thousand dollars for synthesized theme music by this hotshot New Age musician. This is the big time. Our stories aren’t about sex-change operations, dolphins saving fishermen’s lives, three-year-old crack dealers. We report
news.
It’s a magazine, the way the old
Life
or
Look
were magazines. Remember that.”

Rune nodded. “Magazine,” Maisel continued, “as in pictures. I’ll want lots of visuals - tape of the

original crime scene, old footage, new interviews.” Rune sat forward. “Oh, yeah, and how about claustrophobic prison scenes? You know, small green rooms and bars? Maybe the rooms where they hose down prisoners? Before-and-after pictures of Boggs - to see how thin and pale he’s gotten.”

“Good. I like that.” Maisel looked at a slip of paper. “Piper said you’re with the local station. I’ll have you assigned to me.” “You mean I’ll be on staff? Of
Current Events?
Her pulse picked up exponentially. “Temporarily.” “That’s fantastic.” “Maybe. And maybe not,” Maisel said. “Let’s see how you feel about it after you’ve

interviewed a hundred people and been up all night-“ “I stay up late all the time.” “Editing tape?” Rune conceded, “Dancing usually.” Maisel said, “Dancing.” He seemed amused. He said, “Okay, here’s the situation. Normally we assign a staff producer but, for some reason, Piper wants you to work directly with me. Nobody else. I don’t have anybody to spare for camera work so you’re on your ownthere. But you know how the hardware works-“ “I’m saving up to buy my own Betacam.” “Wonderful,” he said with a bored sigh, then selected a pipe and took a leather pouch

of tobacco from his desk. A secretary’s spun-haired head appeared. She said that Maisel’s eleven o’clock

appointment had arrived. His phone started ringing. His attention was elsewhere now. “One thing,” he said to

Rune. “What?” “I’ll support you a hundred percent if you stick to the rules, wherever the story takes you. But you fuck with the facts, you try to
create
a story when there isn’t one there, you speculate, you lie to me, Piper or the audience, and I’ll cut you loose in a second and you’ll never work in journalism in this city again. Got that?” “Yessir.” . . “So. Get to work.” Rune blinked. “That’s it? I thought you were going to, like, tell me what to do or

something.” As he turned to the phone Maisel said abruptly, “Okay, I’ll tell you what to do: You

think there’s a story out there? Well, go get it.” “This ain’ you.” “Sure it is. Only what I did with my hair was I used henna and this kind of purple

stuff then I’d use mousse to get it spiky . . .” The security guard at the New York State Department of Correctional Services’ Manhattan office looked at Rune’s laminated press pass from the Network, dangling a chrome chain tail. It showed a picture of her with a wood-peckery, glossy hairdo and wearing round, tinted John Lennon glasses. “This ain’ you.” “No, really.” She dug the glasses out of her purse and put them on then grabbed her

hair and pulled it straight up. “See?” The guard looked back and forth for a moment from the ID to the person, then nodded and handed the pass back to her. “You want my opinion, keep that stuff outta yo hair. That ain’ healthy for nobody.”

Rune put the chain necklace over her head. She walked into the main office, looking at the bulletin boards, the government-issue desks, the battered water fountains. It seemed like a place where people in charge of prisons should work: claustrophobic, colorless, quiet. She thought about poor Randy Boggs, serving three years in his tiny cell.
The first thing you think is Hell, I’m still here . . .
A tall man in a rumpled cream-colored suit walked past her, glancing down at her

pass. He paused. “You’re press?” Rune didn’t understand him at first. “Oh, press. Yeah. I’m a reporter.
Current

Events.
You know, the news-“ He laughed. “Everybody knows
Current Events.”
He stuck his hand out. “I’m Bill

Swenson. Head of press relations here.” She shook his hand and introduced herself. Then she said, “I guess I’m looking for

you. I have to talk to somebody about interviewing a prisoner.” “Is this for a story?” Rune said, “Uh-huh.” “Not a problem. But you don’t have to go through us. You can contact the warden’s office directly for permission and then the prisoner himself to arrange a time to meet if the warden agrees.” “That’s all?” “Yes,” Swenson said. “What facility?” “Harrison.” “Doing hard time, huh?” “Yeah, I guess it would be.” “Who’s the prisoner?” She was hesitating. “Well . . .” Swenson said, “We’ve got to know. Don’t worry - I won’t leak it. I didn’t get where

I am by screwing journalists.” She said, “Okay, it’s Randy Boggs. He was convicted of killing Lance Hopper?” Swenson nodded. “Oh, sure, I remember that case. Three years ago. Hopper worked

for your company, right? Wait, he was
head
of the Network.” “That’s right. Only the thing is, I think Boggs is innocent.” “Innocent, really?” Rune nodded. “And I’m going to try to get the case reopened and get him released.

Or a new trial.” “That’s going to make one hell of a story.” Swenson glanced up and down the halls.

“Off the record?” “Sure.” Rune felt a chill of excitement. Here was her first confidential source. “Every year there’re dozens of people wrongly convicted in New York. Sometimes

they get out, sometimes they don’t. It’s a scary thing to think it could happen.” “I think it’ll make a good story.” Swenson started down the hall back toward the exit. Rune followed him. He said, “They’ll give you the phone number of the warden in Harrison at the main desk.” He escorted her through the security gate and to the door. She said, “I’m glad I ran into you.” “Good luck,” he said. “I’ll look for the show.”

5 When Rune climbed up the gangway onto her houseboat, which was rocking gently in the Hudson River off the western part of Greenwich Village, she heard crying inside. A child’s crying. Her hand hesitated at the deadbolt then she unlocked the door and walked inside. “Claire,” Rune said uncertainly. Then, because she couldn’t think of anything else to

say, she added, “You’re still here.” In the middle of the living room the young woman was on her knees, comforting three-year-old Courtney. Claire nodded at Rune and gave her a sullen smile, then turned back to the little girl. “It’s okay, honey.” “What happened?” “She just fell. She’s okay.”

Claire was a few years older than Rune. They looked a lot alike, except that Claire was into a beatnik phase, while Rune shunned the antique look for New Wave. Claire dyed her hair black and pulled it straight back in a severe pony tail. She often wore pedal pushers and black-and-white-striped pullovers. Her face was deathly white and on her lips was the loudest crimson lipstick Max Factor dared sell. Her only advantage in her rooming here - since she’d stopped paying rent - was that her fashion statement added to the houseboat’s decor, which was Eisenhowererce suburban.

After Claire had lost her job at Celestial Crystals on Broadway and been evicted from her fifth-floor East Village walk-up she’d begged Rune to take her and her daughter in. Claire had said, “Come on. Just a day or two. It’ll be fun. Like a pajama party.”

That had been six weeks ago - and what had followed had been like no pajama party Rune had ever been to.

That morning, before Rune went to work, Claire had told her that she’d gotten a new job and promised that she and Courtney would be gone by dinnertime.

Now, Claire stood up and shook her head in disgust. “What it is, that guy, he backed out. Some people, some effing people.”

Rune didn’t exactly remember who “that guy” was or what he was backing out of. But Rune was now even madder at him than Claire was. She’s gotta go ... Talk now or later? Now, she decided. But her courage broke. Shit. She dropped her leopard-skin bag on the purple shag kidney-shaped scrap of carpet that she’d found on the street then bent down and kissed the three-year-old’s forehead.

Courtney stopped crying. “Rune,” she said. “Story. Read me a story?” She was dressed in blue jeans and a dirty yellow pullover.

“Later, honey, it’s time for dinner,” Rune said, crouching down and smoothing the girl’s curly dark hair. “This hair is like totally audacious.” She stood up and walked into the galley of the houseboat. As she poured Grape-Nuts into a large bowl and added chocolate chips and cashews she shouted to Claire, “Her hair, I was saying. What it is is all that garbage we use. We dye it and we mousse it and we perm it. I’ll bet if you never touch yourhair it’d be as nice as that forever.” Claire said sourly, “Well, sure, but that would like be so boring.” Rune came back into the living room, eating the cereal and drinking a Molson

Golden. “You eaten?” “We ate Chinese.” “Courtney too? Is that good for her?” Claire said, “Are you kidding? There are a billion people in China and whatta you

think they grew up on?” “I don’t know-“
“You’re
eating that crap?” Claire glanced at the cereal. “I’m not a three-year-old. Don’t you watch commercials? She’s supposed to be

eating that gross stuff that comes in jars. You know, like pureed carrots and spinach.” “Rune,” Claire said, “she’s not an infant. She’s got teeth.” “I like spinch,” Courtney said. Rune said, “I was you, I’d get that book. Spock.” “The guy on the old
Star Trek?’
Claire asked. “Different Spock.”

Claire said, “The Vulcan nerve pinch. That’s what I’d like to learn. Put ‘em right to

sleep.” “What’s a Vulcan?” Courtney asked. Then she disappeared into the bedroom without waiting for an’ answer. She returned a few minutes later, pulling a stuffed dragon by the tail.

Rune made the dragon dance, then hug Courtney. She asked the little girl, “What’s her name? Do you remember?” “Persephy.” “Very good. Persephone. And who was Persephone?” Courtney held up the dragon. “No, I mean in real life?” Claire said, “Real life?” “She was a goddess,” Courtney answered. “She was Zeus’s little girl.” Claire said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea you’re teaching her that stuff like it’s

true.” “What isn’t true about it?” “About the gods and goddesses and fairies and all that shit.” “Shit,” said Courtney. Rune said to Claire, “You’re saying it’s not true?” “You believe in Roman goddesses?” “Persephone was Greek. I’m not saying I believe and I’mnot saying I don’t.” “I want her to grow up to be a highly grounded person,” Claire said. “Oh, get real,” Rune said. “Your goal in life is to get to every club in downtown