Scoop (6 page)

Trying to force out of his head the thought of how cold he was, Ray read his notes over and over. That was one talent he’d perfected early in his career. He could rattle off an entire litany without ever glancing down, even amid distraction. A kid once pelted him with pebbles during a live shot, yet he managed to get through it without even a hint of hesitation. The delivery was all about concentration and focus. The story was about research and investigation.

Ray was disappointed they weren’t going to be first up. He didn’t like the location from which they were shooting, and he would be glad to get out of there. Beaker stood by his mounted camera and signaled that the newscast was about to begin.

Ray kept looking over his notes, hoping to bring out the real human story behind what, at the end of the day, was really a sideshow. It’s what people wanted to see. They loved a good conflict, especially with people like Elva Jones and Petey Green…people who didn’t understand in the
least that they were being exploited for what was essentially entertainment. Sure, the pig law had news value, but without Ray’s help, it would have very little. People wanted to see what a woman living with a pigsty might look like and the mans reaction to it next door.

Ray couldn’t stop feeling a little disgusted. Ben James, a reporter who had been with the station twenty years before retiring, once told him that eventually he would get over it. “You think you’re going to change the world,” Ben had said. “But the world always changes you, Ray. After a few years, I realized that this business was always going to be what it was. So I took the sensationalism and everything that came with it, I accepted it, and I did the best reporting I could. And you know, over the years, I think there were a few stories that at least made a small difference. I really believe that. And the rest? Well, you gotta do something to bring home a paycheck.” Ray had spent a sleepless night pondering Ben’s words…and the news story that they were covering at the time. A child had disappeared from a playground, and the probable outcome was looking more and more grim. Ray felt sick to his stomach every time they relentlessly used the story to hook the viewer.

“News Channel 7 has uncovered shocking new details in the disappearance of David Blare.”

“New at ten, learn what police are saying about a man who was seen near the park.”

“After the break, learn why David’s parents are taking their anger out on police.”

He hated every moment of it. He’d felt so ashamed when he arrived at the prayer vigil, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment for David’s friends and family. His producer had wanted quotes. How could you grab a sound bite from a person’s living nightmare?

Ray and Beaker had wandered around looking for anyone who seemed willing to talk about it. The willing people had only known David distantly.

Afterward, as Ray and Beaker were loading their equipment into the truck, he felt someone touch his shoulder. It was David Blares mother. Ray wasn’t sure whether to grab his microphone or embrace the woman and tell her how sorry he was for what she was going through.

She had a stern look on her face, so he stared at the ground. “Mrs. Blare, I’m sorry, we’re just trying to cover this story. I tried to stay out of the way and—”

She held up her hand. Then she placed it on his arm. “I want to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“For keeping this story out in front of the public. It’s our best shot at getting David back.” Tears welled in her eyes, then she patted him on the arm and walked away. Ray felt the shame melt away, and he realized he was doing something important, even if he hadn’t known it or felt it at the time.

He’d covered the story with all his energy for the next four days, working closely with the police and eyewitnesses to uncover clues while keeping the public alert for any signs of the boy.

Then, one afternoon, Hugo had decided they wouldn’t cover it that day. Ray couldn’t believe it.

“Mr. Talley, every day that we keep this in front of viewers may be the day someone comes forward with a clue or spots the car.”

“I wish we could, Ray,” Hugo had said, “but we’ve got a packed lineup today. There’s just too much to cover. We might be able to squeeze it into the six o’clock, but there’s no room in the ten o’clock.”

“But sir, I just think—”

Chad Arbus swiveled his chair toward Ray. “It’s a dying story, Ray. Pure and simple. The public has lost interest. We move on. Period.”

Ray’s hands were tied. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d personally let down Mrs. Blare.

“Three minutes,” Beaker said, and Ray snapped back into the reality of the cold night and his upcoming pigsty segment.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something. He glanced up to see a man standing about twenty-five feet away, his face darkened by the shadow of a tree. He stood perfectly still, his arms crossed, his feet spread apart like he was ready for something to happen.

Ray was used to people stopping to watch, but this was a dark, quiet street, and nobody was out watching anything.

Except this man.

Beaker noticed too. “Is that Mr. Green?” he whispered.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. We’ve been knocking on his door all day and evening. Nobody was home.” Ray tried not to let the man distract him, but something about his body language was making him nervous.

“Are you Mr. Green?” Ray called.

The man didn’t answer, so Ray decided to take that as a yes.

“We’ve been trying to contact you, sir. We wanted to get your side of the story on the pig incident with your neighbor. Would you like to comment on camera?” Ray asked, unsure if this man was “live interview” material.

The man still didn’t answer.

Ray glanced at Beaker, who looked like a ball of nerves.

Ray concentrated on his notes again. Or tried to. It would’ve been easier had a crowd been staring at him. There was something disconcerting about just one man standing there in the dark.

Beaker walked to the other side of his tripod-mounted camera and whispered, “I told you Roarke was right about this street.”

“News Channel 7, working around the clock to bring you the news.” The show opening rolled, and the familiar ten o’clock music filled the control room. Hugo stepped back to watch. The director of the ten
o’clock show, Willis Hill, called out his directions with precision and calmness. Everything looked to be on track. The only thing making Hugo nervous was Gilda. It was subtle, but he could tell something was not right about her. She kept doing a really odd little number with her finger. She would place it above her eyebrow and lift. And then she’d move it over to her temple and pull. Tate had the tics, not Gilda. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing, but he just prayed her wandering fingers would find their way to the news desk and stay put.

“And…camera two,” Willis said.

On the monitor, Hugo watched Gilda carefully. Thankfully, she turned it on at the last second. “Good evening,” she said in her authoritative voice, her fingers laced together on top of the desk. “I’m Gilda Braun.”

“And I’m Tate Franklin,” Tate added.

“We have breaking news tonight,” Gilda said. “Word of a tanker-truck explosion on 1-35, just south of Clayeton. Ed Klawski is there with Chopper 7 covering it. Ed, some amazing pictures you’re capturing.”

“Go to video,” Willis said.

A ball of fire exploded onto the screen, lighting up the night sky. It was quite a picture. A small box in the upper-right-hand corner showed a still shot of Ed’s face, and Ed started shouting out his report.

“That’s right, Gilda! We’re flying right above the scene! I’ve never seen anything like this! People are scrambling everywhere! We’re hearing that the trucker may still be trapped in the cab, but we cannot confirm that at this time!”

“Lower his audio,” Willis instructed.

“Police tell us that the highway is closed both north and south at this time! Take an alternate route! As soon as we get word on the trucker, we will get back to you!”

The camera cut to Gilda’s grim expression. “Ed, that is a horrible scene. Any word on what caused the accident?”

“Eyewitnesses say they believe the trucker fell asleep at the wheel, but that has not been confirmed!”

“All right,” Gilda said solemnly. “Thank you, Ed. We know you’ll keep us updated. What an amazing view from Chopper 7 and Ed Klawski. And I’ll tell you one thing, Ed sure doesn’t look sixty-seven, does he?”

Tate’s smirk couldn’t cover his surprise at the comment, but he said, “We appreciate the amazing job he does.” Then Tate turned to camera one. “Good news tonight from Yates, where a blind man’s Seeing Eye dog has been returned…”

“Mr. Talley,” Hayden said from the back of the control room, holding a phone up. “It’s Beaker.”

“Beaker? What does he want?”

“I’m not sure. He sounds panicked and wants to talk to you.”

Willis glanced up worriedly at Hugo, who rushed to the phone. “Beaker, what is it?”

“There’s a man standing here, staring at us. Mr. Green.”

“Who is Mr. Green?”

“The man who has been complaining about the pigs.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I think he’s dangerous.”

Hugo sighed. Loudly. He’d never seen a cameraman more scared of the dark. If Beaker weren’t his best cameraman, Hugo would switch him to the afternoon. But he’d probably get sued.

“Beaker, unless he’s aiming a gun at you, I don’t have time for this. And if he is aiming a gun at you, get it on video, for crying out loud.”

He could hear Ray’s whisper-like voice in the background. “Beaker, it’s fine. C’mon. You’re totally freaking on me.”

“Yeah, you’re totally freaking.” Hugo rolled his eyes. He was way too old to use the word
freaking.
“You have a job to do, so do it.”

He could hear Beaker grumbling something about life insurance and
meeting his Maker, but he finally hung up. Hugo stepped back beside Willis, who said, “Are we still on for Ray’s segment?”

“Yes, we’re good.”

Hugo focused on the monitor, where Tate was finishing his Seeing Eye dog story and pitching it back to Gilda. “Now let’s go live to the prison, where Jill Clark is standing by with a report on the controversial death-row case of Frederick Bills.”

“That’s right, Gilda. Twenty-eight-year-old Bills is scheduled to die tonight by lethal injection…”

As Jill gave her report, Hugo leaned forward and watched Gilda in the monitor. She looked like she was watching pigeons at the park. Willis was too busy to notice, and Tate was looking over his notes for his next segment. “Willis, ask Gilda if she’s okay.”

Willis looked at her on the monitor. “Why? Is she having technical problems? Roll footage.”

As the footage rolled for Jill’s segment, Hugo said, “No, but just make sure she’s all right.”

Willis spoke to her through her IFB, which fit snugly inside her ear. “Gilda?”

Gilda didn’t even blink.

Willis tried again. “Gilda? Can you hear me?” Willis looked at his audio director. “We’ve got audio problems with Gilda’s IFB. Tate, can you hear me?”

Tate looked up and nodded.

“That’s strange,” Willis said.

Hugo stepped forward. “There’s nothing wrong with the audio. Gilda’s fazing out.”

“What?” The entire control room stared at Gilda as Jill finished up her report.

“Officials here at the prison aren’t commenting on this particular
case, but they said they intend to follow usual protocol. Gilda, back to you.”

Heads turned from Jill on the monitor to Gilda, who sat staring just to the left of the camera she was supposed to be looking at.

The two-box, which showed their pictures side by side with Jill’s picture on the left and Gilda’s on the right, framed an awkward moment as Jill stared forward, waiting for a response as Gilda simply stared forward.

Jill put her finger to her ear and said again, “Gilda, back to you.”

Willis grabbed his mike, hit a button, and said, “Tate, take this!” Off mike he said, “Camera three!”

The two-box shifted pictures, now displaying Jill and Tate. Tate looked disoriented but tried to recover. “Uh…yes, thank you, Jill. We appreciate that report.” He then turned to the TelePrompTer, but the next story was Gilda’s. Tate’s eyes widened.

“Everything’s falling apart!” Hugo cried. Willis scrambled, trying to choose between two anchors who looked like deer in somebody’s headlights. “Should we cut to commercial?”

Hugo was about to say yes when Gilda suddenly snapped back to reality, sitting up straight and transforming right in front of them. Willis went to camera two, and now Gilda and Jill both shared the screen.

“Jill,” Gilda said, “have Mr. Bills’s parents been vocal about their son’s imminent execution?”

Jill recovered quickly and professionally. “They haven’t commented at all to the press, though a neighbor tells us that they’re devastated that it comes to an end tonight. Back to you.”

“Thank you,” Gilda said. “That was Jill Clark reporting from outside the prison this evening. Thank you, Jill. And might I say what a flattering suit you’re wearing. You look radiant.”

Jill’s eyes popped wide and her mouth opened a little. Willis switched to camera one, displaying both Tate and Gilda.