Airframe (36 page)

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."

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"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!"

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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."

WAR ROOM

2:15P.M.

Casey was crossing the plant, heading over to IAA, when her cell phone rang. It was Steve Nieto, the Fixer 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 204

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.

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"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."

"Hi," she said.

"Thanks for your help with this," Reardon said. "We'll try to make it as painless as possible."

"Okay..."

"You know of course we're on tape," Reardon said. "So if you have a bobble or something, don't worry; we'll just cut it. If at any time you want to restate an answer, go ahead and do that.

You can say exactly what you want to say."

"Okay."

"Primarily we'll be talking about the Transpacific flight. But I'm going to have to touch on some other matters as well. Somewhere along the line, I'll ask about the China sale. And there'll probably be some questions about the union response, if we have time. But I don't really want to get into those other issues. I want to stay with Transpacific. You're a member of the investigation team?"

"Yes."

"All right, fine. I have a tendency to jump around in my questions. Don't let that bother you.

We're really here to understand the situation as best we can."

"Okay."

"I'll see you later, then," Reardon said. He smiled, and turned away.

The makeup woman moved back in front of her again. "Look up," she said. Casey stared at the ceiling. "He's very nice," the makeup woman said. "A sweet man, underneath it all. Dotes on his children."

She heard Malone call out, "How much more time, guys?"

Someone said, "Five minutes."

"Sound?"

"We're ready. Just give us the bodies."

The makeup woman began to powder Casey's neck. Casey winced, feeling twinges of pain.

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"You know," the woman said, "I have a number you can call."

"For what?"

"It's a very good organization, very good people. Psychologists mostly. And extremely discreet. They can help you."

"With what?"

"Look left, please. He must have hit you pretty hard."

Casey said, "I fell."

"Sure, I understand. I'll leave my card, in case you change your mind," the makeup woman said, using the powder puff. "Hmm. I better get some base on that, to take the blue out." She turned back to her box, got a piece of sponge with makeup on it. She began to daub it onto Casey's neck. "I can't tell you how much I see, in my line of work, and the woman always denies it. But domestic violence has to be stopped."

Casey said, "I live alone."

"I know, I know," the makeup woman said. "Men count on your silence. My own husband, Jeez, he wouldn't go into counseling. I finally left with the kids."

Casey said, "You don't understand."

"I understand that when this violence is going on, you think there's nothing you can do. That's part of the depression, the hopelessness," the makeup woman said. "But sooner or later, we all face the truth."

Malone came over. "Did Marty tell you? We're mostly doing the accident, and he'll probably start with that. But he may mention the China sale, and the unions. Just take your time. And don't worry if he jumps around from one thing to another. He does that."

"Look right," the makeup woman said, doing the other side of her neck. Casey turned to the right. A man came over and said, "Ma'am? Can I give you this?" and he thrust a plastic box into her hands, with a dangling wire.

"What is it?" Casey said.

"Look right, please," the makeup woman said. "It's the radio mike. I'll help you with it in a minute."

Her cell phone rang, in her purse on the floor beside her chair.

'Turn that off!" someone shouted.

Casey reached for it, flipped it open. "It's mine."

"Oh, sorry."

She brought the phone to her ear. John Marder said, "Did you get the folder from Eileen?"

"Yes."

"Did you look at it?"

"Not yet," she said.

"Just lift your chin a little," the makeup woman said.

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On the telephone, Marder said, "The folder documents everything we talked about Parts report on the reverser cowl, everything. It's all there."

"Uh-huh ... Okay ..."

"Just wanted to make sure you're all set."

"I'm all set," she said.

"Good, we're counting on you."

She clicked the phone off, turning the power switch off.

"Chin up," the makeup woman said. 'That's a girl."

When makeup was finished, Casey stood, and the woman brushed her shoulders with a little brush, and put hair spray in her hair. Then she took Casey into the bathroom, and showed her how to thread the mike wire up under her blouse, through her bra, and clip it to her lapel. The wire ran back down inside her skirt, then back up to the radio box. The woman hooked the box to the waistband of Casey's skirt, and turned the power on.