Prophet (78 page)

Oakley put his cup forward, and Lake refilled it.

Lake continued, “I picked all this up just keeping my eyes and ears open. They tried to keep me out of the loop, but I had my ways
of worming my way in. Anyway, when it came down to that tape and what to do with it . . .” Lake had to laugh. “Governor Slater handed it to Devin and told him to destroy it. Talk about putting the fox in charge of the chickens! I saw Devin put the tape in his desk drawer—that was back before he had that nice inner office he has now—and I knew we’d never see it again. But I also knew he had no intention of destroying it.

“Well, Devin and I weren’t getting along too well—you may have heard about that. So I decided a little insurance wouldn’t hurt. I happened by his desk one day when he wasn’t there, slid the drawer open, found the tape, and slipped it into my pocket. Either he never missed it or he was afraid to ask anyone about it. He was supposed to destroy it, remember, and he couldn’t let anyone know he’d failed to do his job.

“Then came the big blowup between me and Devin, and this time he had the upper hand. The governor had appointed him as chief of staff, and he made it his first task to fire me. So out I went, but I had that tape with me, and I intended to use it somehow.”

Henderson asked, “But why give it to John Barrett Sr.?”

Lake smiled. “Poetic justice, I suppose. Barrett was a thorn in the governor’s side. Slater couldn’t stand the guy. Everywhere he went, there was that old prophet, shouting and denouncing him and taking him to task, and I knew, I just knew, that giving John Barrett Sr. the governor’s most guarded secret would be the perfect stab. You know, besides being a right-wing fundamentalist kook, Barrett was also an active pro-lifer, and the fact that his son happens to be the number one news anchor in the city did not escape my notice either.

“I hired a young man to be a courier for me. He’d served papers before for some attorney friends of mine, so I knew he was trustworthy. I believe he even disguised himself as a salesman or something, but he delivered the tape, along with a copy of Hillary Slater’s death certificate, to John Barrett Sr. at Barrett’s plumbing supply warehouse on . . . I believe it was Monday, the 9th of September.

“I was accosted by hired thugs the very next day, just outside my home here, and they demanded the tape and threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t produce it.” Lake shook his head and laughed at himself. “You never know how you’ll react in such a situation. I did remember a crime prevention show I watched once where they said,
‘If someone tries to hold you up, don’t resist, just let him have your wallet. Your wallet isn’t worth your life.’ I guess I adapted that idea and quickly gave them the information they needed, figuring it wasn’t worth my life. I told them where they could find the tape, and they left me alone after only a few blows to the face.

“Anyway, gentlemen, I find no difficulty in deducing who sent the thugs. They came for the tape. Now who do you suppose would want it? Only Martin Devin.” Then he looked down at the table forlornly. “But I am truly sorry about John Barrett Sr. If he’d taken the course of action I chose and simply given them what they wanted . . .”

Henderson and Oakley had heard enough for now. They’d jotted it all down. They rose from the table.

“Thanks for the coffee,” said Henderson. “And, uh, you’ll be sticking around town, won’t you?”

“I’ll be here.”

UP IN THE
editing room, a tight, busy place that resembled a miniature Mission Control at Cape Canaveral, the editors were working intensely at their consoles and television monitors, putting together the stories for the evening newscasts, electronically selecting, cutting, pasting, and forming a quick, instant, encapsulated TV reality to be played during the forty-eight minutes of airtime for the Five O’clock and twenty-two minutes for the Seven O’clock. It was a marvel to watch, as images and sound bites were selected from the raw video and joined with the spoken copy to form an audiovisual package.

One editor was assembling a cops-and-speeder story, following the script given him by the reporter who’d covered it. The reporter had already recorded his narration in several different takes, and the editor had assembled the good takes into a smooth stream of narrative, recording it all on one track of the cassette that would be used that evening. Now he was adding the images to be matched to the narrative. The reporter had written into the script the exact images he’d selected from the raw tape to insert behind his words, along with the electronic time code imprinted on the tape by the camera’s recorder that would tell the editor exactly where on the tape to find the required footage.

“The red pickup led police on a high-speed chase up I-5 for three
miles . . .” came the reporter’s recorded voice-over, and the editor found video footage of the freeway taken from the moving news car and placed that behind the spoken phrase. “. . . until crashing through the guardrail, rolling several times, and coming to rest upside-down in the Zip’s Market parking lot . . .” In went shots of the broken guardrail, the big sign over the grocery store identifying it as Zip’s, and then the mangled remains of the pickup, several cops, some startled and shaken bystanders. As the story came together, pictures smoothly accompanied the spoken words of the reporter, and the TV viewer would have information both to hear and see, running at the same time.

The editors were good at it and worked fast, pressing buttons and whirling knobs, watching people and events scurry across the monitors in comical, rapid motion, forward, backward, still, then forward slowly, then backward slowly, then frozen, marked, recorded, and then rushed forward and backward again as the editors picked out the right images to go with the spoken copy.

When John came into the editing room with his pile of notes and raw video, he was hoping and praying there would be someone there willing to help him. He’d selected the sound bites from the tapes and scripted the story out in the computer, but the story was still too ponderous. The whole adventure, the experience, the turmoil, the issues, the fibers, threads, and ideas just weren’t falling easily into a two-minute package, and he was running out of time.

And now no one would look at him. Sure, they were busy at their work and watching the images fluttering and scurrying across their monitors, and yet . . . he’d come into this room many times before and always got a greeting from somebody, but not this time.

Where was Bill? They’d worked together before and gotten along great. Maybe Bill would be willing . . .

“Hi, John.”

“Oh, hi, Bill.”

Great. Bill didn’t seem any different—still the young, witty, bespectacled technician John was used to. Bill was already eyeing the pile of material John was holding.

“Bill, I’ve got a problem here . . .”

“Yeah, looks like it. And you’ve got to have it ready for the Five O’clock?”

“Afraid so.”

“Well, come on. I think Booth Two is open.”

John followed Bill down the narrow aisle toward one of three enclosed editing booths, normally used for assembling special projects, teasers, promos, and commercial spots. They squeezed their way into the small booth, and Bill closed the glass door.

Bill sat down at the editing console and began to sort through John’s script and videos.

John explained, “I’ve picked out the sound bites and scripted the thing, and I’ve cut and I’ve cut, but I still can’t get it into two minutes.”

Bill scanned the script. “Well, what are the essential points?”

“I had about a hundred, but I’ve cut it down to three: The governor knew at the time how his daughter died, he purposely covered it up, and now another girl has died in the same clinic.”

Bill cracked up as if he’d just gotten the punch line of a joke. “Ohhhh . . . yes, yes . . .
Now
I understand what’s going on around here.”

John figured he’d better give Bill a way out. “And of course it’s up to you whether you want to be involved in this . . .”

Bill was matter-of-fact. “Well, it’s news, isn’t it?” He set the script on the console ledge and took out his pen. “So let’s just do the best job we can.”

RACHEL FRANKLIN WAS
working the day shift at Hudson’s Restaurant and having a pretty good afternoon with nothing to be too anxious about—until Carl Barrett came in the door looking for her. She hardly recognized him with his hair cut and his jewelry gone, but there was no mistaking those intense, probing eyes.

She busied herself arranging water glasses and silverware as she greeted him. “Hi. How are you?”

“Better.”

“How’s your father?” This question carried a tone of distaste.

“About to go on the tube and talk about Annie Brewer.”

That got her attention. “When?”

“Tonight—hopefully on the Five and Seven O’clock newscasts. He’s going to try to cover the whole thing we’ve been working on—
the governor’s daughter, the clinic, Annie. The general manager said he could have two minutes.”

Her face fell a little when she heard that.

Carl understood immediately. “Yeah, two minutes—big deal. How do you say it all in two minutes?”

She sighed in a kind of defeat. “I guess I just don’t know who to blame. I get so mad about it all, and I think I’m entitled to be, but . . . I can’t blame you—or your father. I just don’t know . . .”

Carl looked around. He knew he shouldn’t keep her from her work. “Well anyway, I just wanted you to know that he’s trying. I don’t know how well he’ll succeed, but . . . he is trying to let people know.”

She allowed herself a smile. “Well, tell him I appreciate it.”

He touched her shoulder and turned to go.

JOHN FELT HE
was living out a whole new meaning to the phrase “In the few seconds we have left . . .” Soon he would have to get going on the rest of the script for the Five O’clock, but the script for his own two-minute story was becoming a lingering, insurmountable nightmare of a task.

He read aloud through the cut and slashed script one more time, even trying to read quickly, one eye on the script and one eye on the digital clock on the editing machine.

“After the death of Hillary Slater, the Women’s Medical Center continued business as usual. There was no inquiry, no investigation of—”

“Time,” said Bill.

John sank in his chair.

“We’ve got to cut more,” Bill said.

John lamented, “We’ve already cut half the heart and soul out of this thing.”

Bill whistled. “Sounds artistic!”

“Just human.”

“Well . . . okay, what about the governor’s opening sound bite?”

“Okay, we’ll start there.”

Bill rolled a cassette back to a brief excerpt from the governor’s speech to the Women’s Citizen League. There was the governor, frozen
in time on the monitor. Bill hit the Play button, and the governor came to life, speaking as Bill and John followed along, reading the script.

“. . . knowing the risks, but standing firm nevertheless on her right to choose for herself whether to embrace those risks, she willingly and gladly chose to terminate her pregnancy. She
chose
to control her own body, her own life, and carry on with her future.”