Airframe (36 page)

“He’ll say, You’re a woman. Yes. You live in California. Yes. You have a good job. Yes. You enjoy life. Yes. So why did you steal the money? And you’ve been nodding along, and suddenly you’re flustered, you’re off-balance—and he’s got a reaction he can use.

“Remember, all he wants is that one-sentence reaction. If he doesn’t get it, he’ll double back, and ask the question another way. He may return to a subject again and again. If he keeps raising a particular topic, you’ll know he hasn’t gotten what he wants.”

“Okay.”

“Martin has another trick. He will make a provocative statement, and then pause, waiting for you to fill the vacuum. He’ll say, Casey, you make airplanes, so you must
know
the planes are unsafe … And wait for you to answer. But notice he hasn’t actually asked a question.”

Casey nodded.

“Or he will repeat what you say, in a tone of disbelief.”

“I understand,” Casey said.

“You
understand
?” Gershon said, surprised, raising her eyebrows. It was a pretty good imitation of Reardon. “You see what I mean. You will be goaded to defend yourself. But you
don’t have to. If Martin doesn’t ask a question, you needn’t say anything.”

Casey nodded. Not saying anything.

“Very good.” Gershon smiled. “You’ll do just fine. Just remember to take all the time you want. The interview is taped, so they’ll cut out any pauses. If you don’t understand a question, ask him to clarify it. Martin is extremely good at asking vague questions that provoke specific answers. Remember: he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about. He’s just here for the day.”

“I understand,” Casey said.

“Now. If you’re comfortable looking at him, do that. If you’re not, you might choose a point somewhere near his head, like the corner of a chair, or a picture on the wall behind him. And focus on that instead. The camera won’t be able to tell you’re not really looking at him. Just do whatever you need to do to keep your concentration.”

Casey tried it, looking just past Gershon’s ear.

“That’s good,” Gershon said. “You’ll do fine. There’s only one more thing I can tell you, Katherine. You work in a complex business. If you try to explain that complexity to Martin, you’ll be frustrated. You’ll feel he isn’t interested. He’ll probably cut you off. Because he
isn’t
interested. A lot of people complain that television lacks focus. But that’s the nature of the medium. Television’s not about information at all. Information is active, engaging. Television is passive. Information is disinterested, objective. Television is emotional. It’s entertainment. Whatever he says, however he acts, in truth Martin has absolutely no interest in you, or your company, or your airplanes. He’s paid to exercise his one reliable talent: provoking people, getting them to make an emotional outburst, to lose their temper, to say something outrageous. He doesn’t really want to know about airplanes. He wants a media
moment
. If you understand that, you can deal with him.”

And she smiled, her grandmotherly smile. “I know you’ll do just fine, Casey.”

Casey said, “Will you be there? At the interview?”

“Oh no,” Gershon said, smiling. “Martin and I have a long history. We don’t much care for each other. On the rare occasions we find ourselves in the same location, I’m afraid we tend to
spit
.”

John Marder was sitting at his desk, arranging the documents—props—for Casey to use in her interview. He wanted them complete, and he wanted them in order. First, the parts record for the counterfeit thruster cowl on the number-two engine. Finding that part had been a stroke of luck. Kenny Burne, for all his bluster, had done something right. A thruster cowl was a big-bone part, something everybody could relate to. And it was definitely counterfeit. Pratt and Whitney would scream when they saw it: the famous eagle on their logo had been printed backward. More important, the presence of a counterfeit part could throw the entire story in that direction, and it would take the heat off—

His private phone rang.

He picked it up. “Marder.”

He heard the hissing crackle of a satellite phone. Hal Edgarton, calling from the company jet on his way to Hong Kong. Edgarton said, “Has it happened yet?”

“Not yet, Hal. Another hour.”

“Call me, as soon as it’s over.”

“I will, Hal.”

“And it better be good news,” Edgarton said, and he hung up.

Jennifer was fretting. She had had to leave Marty alone for a while. And it was never a good idea to leave Marty alone during a shoot: he was a restless, high-energy guy, and he needed constant attention. Someone had to hold his hand and fuss over him. Marty was like all the on-camera talent at
Newsline
—they might once have been reporters, but now they were actors, and they had all the traits of actors. Self-centered, vain, demanding. They were a pain in the ass, is what they were.

She also knew that Marty, for all his bitching about the Norton story, was at bottom just worried about appearances. He knew the segment had been put together fast. He knew it was down and dirty. And he was afraid that when the segment was cut, he’d be fronting a lame story. He was afraid his friends would make snide comments about the story over lunch at the Four Seasons. He didn’t care about journalistic responsibility. He just cared about appearances.

And the proof, Jennifer knew, was in her hands. She had only been gone twenty minutes, but as her Town Car rolled up to the location, she saw Marty pacing, head down. Troubled and unhappy.

Typical Marty.

She got out of the car. He came right over to her, started to make his complaint, started to say he thought they should bail on the segment, call Dick, tell him it wasn’t working … She cut him off.

“Marty. Look at this.”

She took the videotape she was carrying, gave it to the cameraman, and told him to play it back. The cameraman popped it into the camera while she went over to the small playback monitor that sat on the grass.

“What is it?” Marty said, standing over the monitor.

“Watch.”

The tape began to play. It started with a baby on the mother’s lap. Goo-goo. Ga-ga. Baby sucking her toes.

Marty looked at Jennifer. His dark eyebrows went up.

She said nothing.

The tape continued.

With the glare of the sun on the monitor, it was hard to see in detail, but it was clear enough. Bodies suddenly tumbling through the air. Marty sucked in his breath as he watched, excited.

“Where did you get this?”

“Disgruntled employee.”

“An employee of?”

“A video shop that does work for Norton Aircraft. A solid citizen who thought it should be released. She called me.”

“This is a Norton tape?”

“They found it on the plane.”

“Unbelievable,” Marty said, watching the tape. “Unbelievable.” Bodies tumbling, the camera moving. “This is shocking.”

“Isn’t it fabulous?”

The tape continued. It was good. It was all good—even better than the CNN tape, more kinetic, more radical. Because the camera broke free and bounced around, this tape conveyed a better sense of what must have happened on the flight.

“Who else has this?” Marty said.

“Nobody.”

“But your disgruntled employee may …”

“No,” Jennifer said. “I promised we’d pay her legal bills, as long as she didn’t give it to anybody else. She’ll sit tight.”

“So this is our exclusive.”

“Right.”

“An
actual tape
from
inside
Norton Aircraft.”

“Right.”

“Then we’ve got a fabulous segment here,” Marty said.

Back from the dead! Jennifer thought, as she watched Marty go over to the fence, and start to prepare for his stand-up. The segment was saved!

She knew she could count on Marty to cut the crap. Because, of course, this new tape added nothing to the information already in the can. But Marty was a pro. He knew their segments lived and died on the visuals. If the visuals worked, nothing else mattered.

And this tape was a grabber.

So Marty was cheerful now, pacing back and forth, glancing at Norton Aircraft through the fence. The whole situation was perfect for Marty, a tape obtained from inside the company, with all the innuendo of stonewall and cover-up. Marty could milk that for all it was worth.

While the makeup girl retouched his neck, Marty said, “We should probably send that tape to Dick. So he can tease it.”

“Done,” Jennifer said, pointing to one of the cars heading down the road.

Dick would have it within an hour. And he would cream when he saw it.

Of course he would tease it. He’d use bits of it to promote Saturday’s show. “Shocking new film of the Norton disaster! Terrifying footage of death in the skies! Only on
Newsline
, Saturday at ten!”

They’d run that sucker every half hour until showtime. By Saturday night, the whole country would be watching.

Marty ad-libbed his stand-up, and he did it well. Now they were back in the car, heading toward the Norton gate. They were even a few minutes ahead of schedule.

“Who’s the company contact?” he said.

“Woman named Singleton.”

“A woman?” Dark eyebrows up again. “What’s the deal?”

“She’s a vice-president. Late thirties. And she’s on the investigation team.”

Marty held out his hand. “Give me the file and the notes.” He started to read through them, in the car. “Because you realize what we have to do now, don’t you, Jennifer? The segment’s all moved around. That tape runs maybe four, four-thirty. And you may show parts of it twice—I would. So you won’t have much time for Barker and the others. It’s going to be the tape, and the Norton spokesman. That’s the core of the piece. So there isn’t any choice. We have to nail this woman, cold.”

Jennifer said nothing. She waited, while Marty thumbed through the file.

“Wait just a minute here,” Marty said. He was staring at the file. “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Jennifer said.

“This is dynamite,” Reardon said. “Where’d you get it?”

“Norton sent it to me in a background package, three days ago, by accident.”

“Bad accident,” Marty said. “Especially for Ms. Singleton.”

Casey was crossing the plant, heading over to IAA, when her cell phone rang. It was Steve Nieto, the Fizer in Vancouver.

“Bad news,” Nieto said. “I went to the hospital yesterday. He’s dead. Cerebral edema. Mike Lee wasn’t around, so they asked me if I could identify the body, and—”

“Steve,” she said. “Not on a cell phone. Send me a telex.”

“Okay.”

“But don’t send it here. Send it to FT in Yuma.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

She hung up and entered Hangar 4, where the tape strips were laid out on the floor. She wanted to talk to Ringer about the pilot’s hat they’d found. That hat was critical to the story, as it was now becoming clear to Casey.

She had a sudden thought, and called Norma. “Listen, I think I know where that fax came from about the in-flight magazine.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. Call Centinela Hospital at the airport. Ask for a stewardess named Kay Liang. And this is what I want you to ask her. Better write it down.”

She spoke to Norma for several minutes, then hung up. Immediately, her cell phone rang again.

“Casey Singleton.”

Marder screamed, “Where are you, for Chrissakes?”

“Hangar Four,” she said, “I’m trying to—”

“You’re supposed to be
here
,” Marder screamed. “For the interview.”

“The interview’s four o’clock.”

“They moved it up. They’re here
now
.”

“Now?”

“Yes, they’re all here, the crew, everybody, they’re setting up. They’re all waiting for you. It’s
now
, Casey.”

Which was how she found herself in the War Room, sitting in a chair, with a makeup woman daubing at her face. The War Room was full of people, there were guys setting up big lights on stands, and taping sheets of cardboard to the ceiling. Other men were taping microphones to the table, and to the walls. There were two camera crews setting up, each with two cameras—four cameras in all, pointing in opposite directions. Two chairs had been arranged at opposite sides of the table, one for her, one for the interviewer.

She thought it was inappropriate that they were taping in the War Room; she didn’t know why Marder had agreed to it. She thought it was disrespectful that this room, where they worked and argued and struggled to understand what happened to planes in flight, had been turned into a prop for a television show. And she didn’t like it.

Casey was off-balance; everything was happening too fast. The makeup woman kept asking her to keep her head still, to close her eyes, then open them. Eileen, Marder’s secretary, came over and thrust a manila folder in her hands. “John wanted to make sure you had this,” she said.

Casey tried to look at the folder.

“Please,” the makeup woman said, “I need you to look up for a minute. Just a minute, then you can go.”

Jennifer Malone, the producer, came over with a cheerful smile. “How’s everything today, Ms. Singleton?”

“Fine, thanks,” Casey said. Still looking up for makeup.

“Barbara,” Malone said, to the makeup woman. “Make sure
you get the, uh …” And she waved her hand toward Casey, a vague gesture.

“I will,” the makeup woman said.

“Get the what?” Casey said.

“A touchup,” the makeup woman said. “Nothing.”

Malone said, “I’ll give you a minute to finish here, and then Marty should be in to meet you, and we’ll go over the general areas we’re covering, before we start.”

“Okay.”

Malone went away. The makeup woman, Barbara, continued to daub at Casey’s face. “I’m going to give you a little under the eyes,” she said. “So you don’t look so tired.”

“Ms. Singleton?”

Casey recognized the voice at once, a voice she’d heard for years. The makeup woman jumped back, and Casey saw Marty Reardon standing in front of her. Reardon was in shirtsleeves and a tie. He had Kleenex around his collar. He held out his hand. “Marty Reardon. Nice to meet you.”