Prophet (16 page)

“George, this is my son Carl.” They shook hands.

“Erica, this is my son Carl. I’m showing him where his old man works.” They shook hands.

“Hi, Rush. I’d like you to meet my son Carl. He’ll be watching us do the show today.” They shook hands.

Rush said, “John, the cassette on the curfew story’s no good. We’re going to have you read it instead.”

As Carl watched, they conferred—reading, pointing, nodding their heads.

“Right . . . got it,” said John. Then to Carl, “Okay, come on and I’ll get you situated.”

They went past all the desks, past the young Asian gal talking on the phone and the grim-faced guy with the horn-rimmed glasses typing at his computer and the black man tapping his pen on his writing pad, waiting for inspiration. They reached a crude-looking plywood wall braced with two-by-fours, painted to match the rest of the room but looking very much like plywood and two-by-fours anyway. A long computer-printed streamer proclaiming “WE’RE NUMBER ONE” covered up some of it, and various tack-ups decorated the rest, at least as far off the floor as human arms could reach—complete game schedules for football, basketball, and baseball, and adjacent to that, a sign-up sheet for the football pool, almost filled. Some news clippings about the station had been there a while, and the tape was getting yellow, but some of the news-related gag cartoons were new, such as the picture of the two men in an office setting, one with his hindquarters chewed off and the other asking, “Well, what did (“the boss” was scratched out, and “Mr. Oliver” was penciled above it) have to say?”

They turned right and went down to the end of the plywood wall, where a small camera perched on a stand looked down at them like a curious, one-eyed crow.

“This is the flashcam,” said John. “You’ll see how we go to reporters in the newsroom for their stories and how they use this camera.”

John kept going, around the plywood wall, and Carl followed.

Now they entered another world, and Carl felt he’d just plunged into a big, brightly lit aquarium, full of human fish but no water. Lights
bore down on them from above and from the walls, washing out the shadows, putting every detail of their clothing, their faces, their movements, on display. The back wall, the one made of the plywood and two-by-fours, looked impressive, even intimidating, from this side. On the left was the city skyline, painted on a mural behind a false window. In the center was an array of false TV screens showing photographs of events, news frozen in time. On the left was a waving, blue-green-gray-purple pattern.

In the center of the room, decked out in mahogany, chrome-edge trim, and black Formica, was the news desk, a podium for four, with swiveling leather upholstered chairs at four stations, the one on the left for the sportscaster, the one on the right for the weatherman, and the two in the middle for the anchors, each with its own television monitor tucked into the surface of the desk, hidden from the cameras’ view.

The cameras. Yes, if this was an aquarium, the three cameras were the fish watchers. They stood there looking like just-landed alien probes, all staring one-eyed at the news desk, each bearing its own name like some kind of livestock ear tag: One, Two, and Three.

Across the top of the backdrop were television monitors, even now flashing forth images. The one on the left showed the controversial talk show still in progress, the sound off, the mouths flapping without meaning. Then came three monitors showing the world as seen through the eyes of Cameras One, Two, and Three. Camera One was looking at a black leather chair with no one in it, Camera Two was looking at a crisscross test pattern on a stand right in front of it, and Camera Three was looking . . . well, at them, just behind the news desk, looking up at the monitor.

John showed Carl to a chair situated to the right of the news desk, back behind Camera One. “Have a seat right here. You can watch part of the show from here, and when we have a commercial break somebody will take you upstairs so you can see the control room.”

With that, John ducked out of the room for a moment. Carl, fascinated and bewildered by it all, took his seat in the chair and just watched without a word.

The floor director, a pretty black woman, came onto the set, headset in place, script in hand. Two men and one woman took their places behind the cameras. It was almost 5:30.

In came an attractive, dark-complexioned lady in a gray suit jacket and black skirt, a black scarf perfectly arranged over a white blouse, her hair a complex, ebony sculpture. This was, of course, Ali Downs, his father’s co-anchor, looking just like her big picture out in the lobby. She took her place in the second of the center chairs, picked up an earpiece from the news desk, and carefully installed it in her ear, then clipped a tiny microphone to her jacket. It virtually disappeared against the black scarf. Then she reached into a slot in the news desk and picked up a round mirror, checking her appearance, arranging her hair just so.

Anchorman John Barrett returned, a little rushed. His face looked different; perhaps he’d touched it up a bit. His hair was perfect, though. He probably used hair spray. He took the first of the center chairs and then went through the same quick preparations, installing his earpiece and lapel mike and taking a quick look in a mirror of his own.

“Thirty seconds,” said the floor director. The news team of Barrett and Downs was ready. In the monitor atop the backdrop the controversial talk show was over, and now commercials were racing one after the other across the screen.

“Ten seconds.” Then the floor director’s hand went up with five fingers extended. Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

Point.

JOHN BARRETT LOOKED
at Camera Two and spoke in a resonant voice. “Tonight on NewsSix at Five Thirty, Candidate-for-governor Bob Wilson has his say at his own campaign kickoff rally.”

Ali picked up where John left off. “And Governor Slater says he’s ready for Wilson’s challenge anytime, anywhere.”

“There’s a lot of finger-pointing going on over what caused the crash of that airliner in Manila. Is the airline to blame, or is Benson Dynamics covering up?”

“And this weekend’s tragic fire at the Summerville Speedway has raised some hot questions on who will eventually pay to have the grandstand rebuilt.”

“Next, on NewsSix at Five Thirty.”

Music.

Carl watched the monitor right next to him. The pictures galloped
out of the screen and right into his lap.

Moving aerial shot of The City. Traffic rushing back and forth, ferries pulling out from the dock.

Voice: “This is Channel 6, The City’s Premier News and Information Station, your number one source for up-to-the-minute news.”

Pictures, fast pictures: a cameraman aims his camera toward the screen, a female reporter runs up some stairs, a chopper with a big 6 on the side lands with a bump, a team of reporters sets up an interview, some guy in a white shirt hands papers off screen . . .

Voice still going: “And now, from the NewsSix newsroom, NewsSix at Five Thirty, with John Barrett . . .”

John Barrett, in a portrait that moves, flashes a knowing smile at the camera.

“. . . and Ali Downs . . .” She grins pleasantly, as if meeting a friend.

“Bing Dingham with sports . . .” He looks at the camera and cracks up.

“And Hal Rosen, weather . . .” He looks at the camera and winks.

“The NewsSix News team. NewsSix at Five Thirty!”

Music resolves.

Carl saw a wide shot of his father and Ali Downs seated behind the news desk. He watched his father’s lips move but heard his father’s voice from within the room.

“Candidate-for-governor Bob Wilson began his campaign today and wasted no time in addressing the assault launched against him by Governor Hiram Slater last week.”

Close-up of Ali Downs. “Wilson was ready with an assault of his own as he addressed his own kickoff rally at the Memorial Stadium this afternoon.”

Video: The Memorial Stadium. Crowds, balloons, WE BACK BOB posters. Ali’s voice over the pictures: “Wilson says he’s ready and willing to take on the issues and considers Hiram Slater’s opening salvo nothing more than a cheap shot.”

Video and sound: Bob Wilson, a nice-looking guy, dark hair, Kirk Douglas chin, stern expression, addressing the crowd. “The governor has set the tone for his campaign, and it looks muddy brown. (Cheers) But this campaign is going to be built on the issues, and I’m not afraid to say the words: Abortion. Back-to-basics education. Balanced budget.
Family. Tax cuts.” Cheers start.

Cut. Close-up of Ali Downs. “More rallies are planned for the coming month.”

Close-up of John Barrett. “There are allegations tonight . . .”

The camera panned a little to the right and a small picture appeared over Barrett’s left shoulder: an airliner broken in two and burning.

“. . . that the Philippine government is interfering with the investigation of the crash that killed more than two hundred people. Meanwhile, the owner of the airline thinks
he
knows what caused it all: faulty thrust reversers. Wendell Southcott, our aviation specialist, has more on that.”

Shots of planes landing at the airport. Wendell Southcott’s voice starts explaining how thrust reversers work.

In the studio John Barrett grabbed a sip of water, and Ali Downs primped, looking into the little round mirror.

More stories, one after the other.

Carl had trouble remembering what he’d just seen before he was seeing something else. A fire at a grandstand, a woman’s body found in Dillon Park, three kids trying to kill their parents.

Cut to commercials.

WHILE A LADY
on the screen tried to get the last precious drops of dish soap out of the bottle, John took another sip of water and looked at Carl, sitting in the dark behind Camera One. “Holding up okay?”

Carl shrugged, then nodded. The monitors in the news desk were suddenly filled with a blood-red sunrise as the audio carried a deep, rumbling voice. “A new day, a new dawning, broke upon our state four years ago . . .” Oh, so this was Governor Hiram Slater!

The ad was captivating from the very start, and Carl found himself mesmerized by the colors and the quick-cutting, rapid-fire shots of Hiram Slater, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his brow furrowed as he shuffled papers, consulted with VIPs, talked on the phone.

Voice: “A growing economy and new jobs. A bold new approach to education for the twentieth century. Environmental awareness. These are the Slater legacy.”

Then came the shot of the state capitol dome silhouetted against a massive rising sun, the whole picture rippling with heat waves.

Voice: “The new dawn lives on.” And there was Hiram Slater, his huge face appearing to the left of the capitol dome in stark relief against the sun.

Voice: “Governor Hiram Slater—for Governor!”

Wow!

“OKAY,” CAME RUSH’S
voice through John’s earpiece, “gay protest, Leslie Albright on DVE Box, to your right.”

John checked his script. This would be the follow-up story on Sunday’s gay protest at the Catholic cathedral.

Countdown from Mardell the floor director. Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .