Airframe (27 page)

“Got it that time,” the cameraman said.

Barker continued. “The slats are only deployed for takeoff and landing. During flight, they are tucked back in the wing. But on the Norton N-22, the slats have been known to extend by themselves during flight. It’s a design error.” Another pause. “I’m going to demonstrate what happens now, so you may want to be wide enough to see the whole plane.”

“Widening,” the cameraman said.

Barker waited patiently for a moment, then said, “The consequence of this design error is that when the slats extend, the airplane noses upward, like this, threatening to stall.” He tilted the model up slightly. “At this point, it is almost impossible to control. If the pilot tries to restore the plane to level flight, the plane overcompensates, and goes into a dive. Again, the pilot corrects, to come out of the dive. The plane climbs. Then dives. Then climbs again. That is what happened to Flight 545. That is why people died.”

Barker paused.

“Now we’re through with the model,” he said. “So I’m going to put it down.”

“Okay,” Jennifer said. She had been watching Barker on the monitor on the floor, and now she was thinking that she might have difficulty cutting from the wider shot to a shot of putting the model down. What she really needed was a repetition of—

Barker said, “The plane dives. Then climbs. Then dives again. That is what happened to Flight 545. That is why people died.” With a regretful look, he put the model down. Although he did it gently, his very gesture seemed to suggest a crash.

Jennifer had no illusions about what she was watching. This wasn’t an interview; it was a performance. But a skilled approach was not rare these days. More and more interview
subjects seemed to understand camera angles and editing sequences. She had seen executives show up in full makeup for an interview. At first, television people had been alarmed by this new sophistication. But lately, they’d become used to it. There was never enough time; they were always rushing from one location to the next. A prepared subject made their work so much easier.

But just because Barker was smooth and camera savvy, she wasn’t going to let him get away without a little probing. The final part of her job today was to cover the basic questions, in case Marty ran out of time, or forgot to ask them.

She said, “Mr. Barker?”

“Yes?” He turned toward her.

“Check the look,” she said to the cameraman.

“His look is wide. Move a little closer to camera.”

Jennifer slid her chair over so she was right beside the lens. Barker turned slightly to face her, at her new position.

“His look is fine, now.”

“Mr. Barker,” Jennifer said, “you are a former FAA employee …”

“I used to work for the FAA,” Barker said, “but I left the agency because I disagreed with their hands-off attitude toward manufacturers. The Norton plane is a result of those lax policies.”

Barker was again demonstrating his skill: his answer was a complete statement. He knew that he was more likely to get his comments on camera if they were not responses to a question.

Jennifer said, “There is some controversy surrounding your departure.”

“I am familiar with some of the allegations about why I left the FAA,” Barker said, again making a statement. “But the fact is my departure was an embarrassment to the agency. I criticized the way they worked, and when they refused to respond, I left. So I’m not surprised they are still trying to discredit me.”

She said, “The FAA claims you leaked materials to the press. They say they fired you for that.”

“There’s never been any proof of the allegations the FAA has made about me. I have never seen any FAA official produce one shred of evidence to back their criticisms of me.”

“You work for Bradley King, the attorney?”

“I have served as an expert aviation witness on a number of legal cases. I think it’s important that somebody with knowledge speak out.”

“You are paid by Bradley King?”

“Any expert witness is reimbursed for time and expenses. That’s standard procedure.”

“Isn’t it true that you’re a full-time employee of Bradley King? That your office, everything in this room, everything we see here, is paid for by King?”

“I am funded by the non-profit Institute for Aviation Research in Washington. My job is to promote safety in civil aviation. I do whatever I can to make the skies safe for travelers.”

“Mr. Barker, come on: Aren’t you an expert for hire?”

“I certainly have strong opinions about air safety. It’s only natural that I would be hired by employers who share my concerns.”

“What is your opinion of the FAA?”

“The FAA is well intentioned, but it has a dual mandate, both to regulate air travel and to promote it. The agency needs complete reform. It is much too cozy with the manufacturers.”

“Can you give me an example?” It was a feed; she knew from previous conversations what he would say.

Again, Barker made a statement. “One good example of this cozy relationship is the way the FAA treats certification. The documents required to certify a new airplane are not maintained by the FAA, but by the manufacturers themselves. This hardly seems proper. The fox is guarding the chicken coop.”

“Is the FAA doing a good job?”

“I’m afraid the FAA is doing a very poor job. American lives are needlessly put at risk. Frankly it’s time for a thorough overhaul. Otherwise I am afraid passengers will continue to die, as they did on this Norton aircraft.” He gestured—slowly, so the camera could follow—to the model on his desk. “In my opinion,” he said, “what happened on that airplane … is a disgrace.”

The interview ended. While her crew was packing up, Barker came over to her. “Who else are you seeing?”

“Jack Rogers is next.”

“He’s a good man.”

“And someone from Norton.” She consulted her notes. “A John Marder.”

“Ah.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, Marder is a fast-talker. He’ll give you a lot of double-talk about Airworthiness Directives. A lot of FAA jargon. But the fact is that he was the program manager on the N-22. He supervised the development of that aircraft. He knows there’s a problem—he’s part of it.”

After the practiced smoothness of Barker, the reporter, Jack Rogers, was a bit of a shock. He showed up wearing a lime-green sport coat that screamed Orange County, and his check-patterned tie jumped on the monitor. He looked like a golf pro, spruced up for a job interview.

Jennifer said nothing at first; she just thanked the reporter for coming, and positioned him in front of the chain-link fence, with Norton Aircraft in the background. She went over her questions with him; he gave tentative little answers, excited, eager to please.

“Gee, it’s hot,” she said. She turned to the cameraman. “How we coming, George?”

“Almost there.”

She turned back to Rogers. The sound guy unbuttoned Rogers’s shirt, threaded the microphone up to his collar. As preparations continued, Rogers began to sweat. Jennifer called for the makeup girl to wipe him down. He seemed relieved. Then, pleading the heat, she convinced Rogers to remove his sport coat and sling it over his shoulder. She said it would give him a working-journalist look. He gratefully agreed. She suggested he loosen his tie, which he did.

She went back to the cameraman. “How is it?”

“Better without the jacket. But that tie is a nightmare.”

She returned to Rogers, smiled. “This is working so well,” she said. “How would it be if you take off the tie, and roll up your sleeves?”

“Oh, I never do that,” Rogers said. “I never roll up my sleeves.”

“It would give you that strong but casual look. You know, rolled-up shirtsleeves, ready to fight. Hard-hitting journalist. That idea.”

“I never roll up my sleeves.”

She frowned. “Never?”

“No. I never do.”

“Well, it’s just a look we’re talking about here. You’d come off stronger on camera. More emphatic, more forceful.”

“I’m sorry.”

She thought: What is this? Most people would do anything to get on
Newsline
. They’d do the interview in their underwear, if she asked them to. Several had. And here was this fucking print journalist, what did he make, anyway? Thirty grand a year? Less than Jennifer’s monthly expense account.

“I, uh, can’t,” Rogers said, “because, uh, I have psoriasis.”

“No problem.
Makeup!
”

Standing with his jacket slung over his shoulder, his tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up, Jack Rogers answered her questions. He rambled, speaking thirty, forty seconds at a time. If she asked him the same question twice, hoping for a shorter answer, he just started to sweat, and gave a longer answer.

They had to keep breaking for makeup to wipe him down. She had to reassure him again and again that he was doing great, just
great
. That he was giving her really good stuff.

And he was, but he couldn’t punch it. He didn’t seem to understand she was making an assembled piece, that the average shot would be less than three seconds, and they would cut to him for a sentence, or a fragment of a sentence, before they cut to something else. Rogers was earnest, trying to be helpful, but he was burying her in detail she couldn’t use, and background she didn’t care about.

Finally she began to worry that she couldn’t use any of the
interview, that she was wasting her time with this guy. So she followed her usual procedure in a situation like this.

“That’s all perfect,” she said. “Now we’re coming to the conclusion of the piece. We need something punchy”—she made a fist—“to close. So I’ll ask you a series of questions, and you answer them with one punchy sentence.”

“Okay,” Rogers said.

“Mr. Rogers, could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?”

“Given the frequency of incidents involving—”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just need a simple sentence. Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?”

“Yes, it certainly could.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Jack, I need a sentence like, ‘The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale.’ ”

“Oh. Okay.” He swallowed.

“Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I have to say that it might cost the China sale.”

Jesus
, she thought.

“Jack, I need you to say ‘Norton’ in the sentence. Otherwise we won’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Oh.”

“Go ahead.”

“The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale, in my opinion.”

She sighed. It was dry. No emotional force. He might as well be talking about his phone bill. But she was running out of time. “Excellent,” Jennifer said. “Very good. Let’s go on. Tell me: Is Norton a troubled company?”

“Absolutely,” he said, nodding and swallowing.

She sighed. “Jack.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He took a breath. Then, standing there, he said, “I think that—”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Put your weight on your forward foot. So you’re leaning in toward camera.”

“Like this?” He shifted his body weight, turned slightly.

“Yeah, that’s it. Perfect. Now go ahead.”

Standing there, in front of the fence outside Norton Aircraft, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, reporter Jack Rogers said, “I think there’s no doubt that Norton Aircraft is a company in serious trouble.”

Then he paused. He looked at her.

Jennifer smiled. “Thank you very much,” she said. “You were great.”

Casey came into John Marder’s office a few minutes before noon, and found him smoothing his tie, shooting his cuffs. “I thought we would sit here,” he said, pointing to a coffee table with chairs in the corner of his office. “You all set for this?”

“I think so,” Casey said.

“Just let me take it, at the beginning,” Marder said. “I’ll turn to you for assistance if I need it.”

“Okay.”

Marder continued to pace. “Security says there was a film crew out by the south fence,” he said. “They were doing an interview with Jack Rogers.”

“Uh-huh,” Casey said.

“That idiot. Christ. I can imagine what
he
had to say.”

“Did you ever talk to Rogers?” Casey said.

The intercom buzzed. Eileen said, “Ms. Malone is here, Mr. Marder.”

“Send her in,” Marder said.

And he strode to the door, to greet her.

Casey was shocked by the woman who walked in. Jennifer Malone was a
kid
, hardly older than Richman. She couldn’t be more than twenty-eight or -nine, Casey thought. Malone was blond, and quite pretty—in an uptight, New York sort of way. She had short bobbed hair that downplayed her sexuality, and she was dressed very casually: jeans and a white T-shirt, and a blue blazer with a weird collar. The trendy Hollywood look.

Casey felt uncomfortable, just looking at her. But now
Marder had turned, and was saying, “Ms. Malone, I’d like to introduce Casey Singleton, our Quality Assurance specialist on the Incident Review Team.”

The blond kid smirked.

Casey shook her hand.

You got to be kidding, Jennifer Malone thought. This is a captain of industry? This jumpy guy with slicked back hair and a bad suit? And who was this woman out of a Talbots catalog? Singleton was taller than Jennifer—which Jennifer resented—and good-looking in a wholesome, midwestern way. She looked like an athlete, and she seemed to be in pretty good shape—although she was long past the age where she could get by with the minimal makeup she wore. And her features were strained, tense. Under pressure.

Jennifer felt disappointed. She had been preparing for this meeting all day, honing her arguments. But she had imagined a much more commanding adversary. Instead, she was back in high school—with the assistant principal and the timid librarian. Little people with no style.

And this office! Small, with gray walls and cheap, utilitarian furniture. It had no character. It was just as well she wasn’t filming here, because this room wouldn’t photograph. Did the president’s office look like this, too? If so, they would have to tape his interview somewhere else. Outside, or on the assembly line. Because these shabby little offices just didn’t work for the show. Airplanes were big and powerful. The audience wouldn’t believe that they were made by crummy little people in drab offices.