The Journalist (12 page)

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Goddamn it, Hoffman, you don’t get the big
picture, do you?”

Hoffman was used to her bursts of temper; and
with her in a foul mood when he came in, he for sure didn’t want
her sidetracked on Parker’s child support problems. He looked at
her, smiled, waited ten seconds then went on. “Let’s break it now.
I’ll get Steve on the news set, we’ll interrupt—”

“
Lost In Life

You know how many people watch that soap? They don’t care if you
got video of the President balling Queen Jillian. You interrupt
their soap, and I get nine thousand phone calls and a zillion
letters.” She put her cigarette out. “Shit.” She looked at Hoffman.
“Can’t it go on the six o’clock news? Promo it all afternoon, like
a sneak preview.”

“Lucy, it’s too big. I got that redneck’s
word it’s ours exclusively, but you never know with those hicks—he
could be across the street right now.”

“Thought you said this was the original, no
copies.”

“That’s what he told me, but how do you know,
like I said

”

“Shit.”

Hoffman knew Lucy’s decision-making style so
he didn’t push too hard. Just let her decree, he thought. After a
few seconds, he added a kicker.

“
Lost In Life
is the highest-rated
show we have on the air. Think of that audience sampling of our
news product. Couldn’t be better.” He tilted his head and grinned.
“Besides, this is kind of soapy stuff anyway.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” She lit another cigarette,
spewed a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and talked to herself.
Oh, Lucy, dear, you always were a lucky bitch. She hit her desk
with her fist. “Shit, do it.”

“Allll right

”
Hoffman flashed a high five over his head, but Lucy declined the
invitation.

“Listen to me, Hoffman. If you fuck this up,
I’ll personally cut your balls off. Do not mess this up. I’m
leaving for Labor Day weekend, going to L.A. That source better be
verifiable.”

“We will, we will, it is. Besides, this is a
public service. Who’s going to watchdog the cop bullies if we
don’t? It’s a duty to the community.”

“Fuck you

You need
six rating points or your ass is history and you know it.”

She looked to her outer office and called her
secretary.

“Tommy, get your ass in here.” She looked at
Hoffman. Her competitive juices had begun to flow. She stuck words
in Hoffman’s face. “Get promotion to work on a spot right away. Get
a press release out. We had it first. We own it. Keep our logo on
every piece of video that goes on the air. And call that dick head
Miami Herald
newspaper critic. Maybe he can write something
good about us for a change.”

Tommy entered and Lucy shot him words: “Give
Hoffman my itinerary—phone numbers, all that. The Bonaventure, LA,
where I’ll be this weekend.”

“Yes, Lucy.” Tommy made notes on his yellow
pad.

Lucy studied Hoffman and began to weave a
win-win scenario for herself. If this blows up, I didn’t know
anything about it. Dick head news director did it. If it works, it
could be a start to building some news ratings at this rathole TV
station. Then I’m a hero, outa here, LA, here I come.

Finished taking his notes, Tommy smiled at
her.

“What the fuck are you smiling about?” Lucy
said.

“Nothing. Is that all?”

“Is that

? Get the
fuck out of here.” She turned to Hoffman. “Well, Douger, what are
you waiting for, huh, huh? Take your video and get your little dick
down to the control room and put on a spectacular show. The whole
world will be watching.”

“Buckle your seatbelt, Miami, here we come.”
Hoffman, SD card clutched in hand, rushed out the door.

Lucy crushed her cigarette out and glanced at
the Nielsen rating’s chart on the wall. The graph line showed WSUN
in last place. A thought dropped her chin. She turned and screamed
toward the open door. “Hoffman

Make a
backup copy of that fucking video

”

Chapter Fourteen

3:30 p.m.
EST

After he left Doug Hoffman’s office, from the
same North River Road pay phone he had used earlier, Russ Parker
checked in with his point person. He reported the agreed-upon words
for success: “Sucker took it, hook, line, and sinker.”
Congratulated, he was invited to go for a cruise on the private
yacht,
End Zone
. The seven-day excursion would depart
tonight for the Bahamas. His skinny acting partner on the video
would also be going, along with thirteen members of the Dolphins’
cheerleader squad—snorkeling, champagne, lobster dinners and
cheerleader au jus.

Parker declined. He didn’t like the flavor of
females, cheerleader or not. Shellfish gave him hives, he didn’t
swim and he got seasick in a bathtub, nobody was getting him out on
a deep-water cruise tonight or any time.

Chapter Fifteen

4:15 p.m.
EST

The Labor Day edition of
The Boca
downloaded to RIGHT THIS SECOND printer service, Zack figured he
was ahead of schedule. Dressed in his normal dress-down
outfit—black T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, brown deck shoes—he looked
forward to a long weekend out on the water with
Veracity_
boating, just fishing. He poured a cup of coffee,
sat at his desk and recalling the previous evening, said, “I knew
that ‘just one drink’ idea with O’Brien would never work.”

He ran his left hand over his head and
remembered Mary’s parting words as they left the Pulp Fiction
around after midnight: “You’re going to marry me, Boca. It’s not a
question of if, it’s just when. You have to make a decision, Boca.
Better be soon, or we’ll be doing it in your wheelchair.”

He slipped off his shoes, turned, propped his
bare feet on the window sill and studied a line of purplish cumulus
clouds pushing in from the Atlantic. He heard someone enter his
office, smelled the exotic cologne, and immediately knew who it
was.

“Zackary, I think you should turn your TV
on.”

Zack, confirming his nose smelling detection,
recognized the mellow voice of
The Boca
’s ace reporter, Jim
Roberts.

“You hear me, Bwana?”

“I heard you, massa.” Zack turned to his desk
and looked at Jim. The University of Miami
summa cum laude
journalism graduate stood six feet even, a capital I, straight and
lean. His face glowed like an open-all-night neon sign on a
deserted roadside café. A meticulous dresser, today he wore a tan
Baroni suit, royal blue shirt, mauve tie and cordovan Johnson &
Murphy loafers. No rings—ears, hands or otherwise. He was proud of
his black African ancestry.

Zack said, “How much is that stuff?”

“What?”

“Cologne.”

“Fifty an ounce, Versace.”

“Nice suit.”

“Baroni.” Used to the paternal reviews, Jim
stepped to the television set and picked up the remote control.
“Wait till you see what our friends in TV land are offering up to
begin this nice Labor Day weekend.”

Looking him over, Zack said, “No wonder
you’re always asking for a raise—you need to lighten up on the
accessories.”

“I drive a Chevy.” Jim turned on the TV.

“Corvette, ain’t bad.”

Zack leaned back and watched the TV come to
life. “You know, massa, even when you were an intern you always had
much latitude in this office, but you have just committed a
cardinal sin.”

“What’d I do? Wake you up?”

“Worse, you’re threatening me with TV.”

Jim pointed the remote control toward the
set. “Wait till you see this. This just broke on Channel 10 twenty
minutes ago.”

The set on CSPAN, he pressed one then zero
and Channel 10 came on.

“I guess you’re going to do it anyway.” Zack
lit a MORE and noticed small beads of perspiration on Jim’s
forehead.

Jim said, “Get prepared for a dose of
reality.”

Zack said, “Must be something special if the
unflappable Mr. Roberts is sweating.”

“I think so.”

“Why don’t you take that suit coat off?”

“I’m fine.” Jim turned the volume up and
tossed the control to Zack. “You are not going to believe this,
Bwana.”

He sat on the sofa.

“Not much on television that I do believe,”
Zack said as they watched Steve Eaton, a familiar local
newscaster—slick brown hair, square jaw, blue suit, red
necktie—exuded dynamic presence in a medium close-up, talking:
“

as we piece this incredible story
together, this is all we know as of this minute. To recap, as you
no doubt are aware from earlier reports, a brutal homicide occurred
last night—the execution-style murder of an African-American woman
on Key Largo.

“Channel 10 has obtained exclusive video just
a few hours ago showing what appears to be a directly related
incident. The video, from a confidential source, has horrific
implications for the Miami Police Department. Our attempts to get a
response from Miami Police Chief Manny have gone unanswered. We
will keep trying. Meanwhile, let me recap, and, ah, roll the video
again, guys.”

The video switched to a wider shot of Eaton
with a TV monitor beside him.

Eaton: “Forgive us, folks, this whole thing
just came in and we’re making it up as we go.”

“This is not news,” Zack said.

News video began to play on the monitor.

Eaton: “Folks, this is awesome video.”

The video is of a familiar white-and-blue
Miami squad car, lights flashing, behind a white car.

Eaton: “Ladies and gentlemen, if there are
children present, you may want to use parental discretion. As you
will see, this is extremely explicit video.” He pressed a hand to
his earphone. “Wait, hold that video, guys, we have a live report
from Genie Collins on the scene in Freedom City. Switch to Genie,
we’ll go with the video later.”

The view on the monitor switched to a shot of
a perky brunette wearing a Channel 10 baseball cap.

Eaton: “Genie, can you hear me?”

Genie: “Yes, Steve.”

Eaton: “Just where are you now?”

Genie: “I’m at the corner of 21st and Seventh
Avenue.”

Eaton: “Tell us about it, Genie.”

The video switched to a full screen of
Genie.

Genie: “The atmosphere down here is very
quiet right now, almost eerie. Nobody around. It’s like everybody
is watching this story somewhere on a TV

oh, here is somebody. Excuse me, sir, have you seen
the video of the incident last night on Key Largo with the Miami
police?”

The video zoomed out to include a middle-aged
African-American male.

Male: “Screw the cops.”

Genie: “Sir, we’re on live TV.”

Male: “Fuck TV.”

The video switched to a close up of Eaton.
“Okay, Genie, we’ll get back to you later. Sorry about that, folks.
Live TV is risky, but it’s worth it, isn’t it? Well, anyway, where
do we go from here?(looks off camera) Okay, let’s take a break,
then we’ll show the video again. Don’t go away, we’ll be right
back.”

Zack muted the volume. “Jimbo, is this some
kind of slightly late April Fool joke?” He clicked his fingers.
“Wait, I know, it’s a new TV reality news show,
An Obsolete
Affair
, starring your own local man in the SUN, Steve
Eaton.”

Jim pursed his lips. “Zackary, this is no
joke.”

Sensing Jim’s concern, Zack tilted his head.
“Am I missing something here?”

“You have to see the full video. They’ll show
it again.”

“I can’t wait.”

“This is one for the record books, Bwana.
Dynamite news story.”

“What news story?”

“That murder out on Key Largo last
night—sheriff found the body this morning

”

“I saw that. Sheriff said it was
drug

”

“Maybe not, Bwana. This video Channel 10’s
got is gonna blow your socks off.” He looked at the television set.
“There, look at this, this is unbelievable.”

“Everything on TV is unbelievable.” Zack
pressed the sound up.

Eaton: “

so, now
we’re going to take another look at that videotape. There’s no
sound so I’ll try to fill you in as we

”

“Please, don’t fill me in.” Zack muted the TV
and studied the dim video of the two cops standing beside a white
car parked on a deserted beach road.

“That large fellow could lend his skinny
partner about fifty pounds,” Zack said.

“Wait till you see what the fat guy
does

look at that.” Jim glanced at Zack
with raised eyebrows. “Hell-o.”

Watching the cop yank the woman out of her
car, Zack tipped his head. “Goodbye is more like it.”

“Look at this.”

The female, unsteady, extended her arms to
her sides then staggered.

Zack massaged the top of his head. “Looks
like she’s inebriated.”

“Watch this,” Jim said.

Zack said, “Did anchorman Steve mention where
his TV station got this bit of socially engineered
cinematography?”

“No, I don’t know

confidential source is what Eaton just said. From the
looks of it, amateur

look at that.”

The video blurred then cleared as the fat
officer drew a line in the sand and began a body search. The skinny
cop joined in.

Zack shook his head. “What is this?”

“What does it look like?” Jim pointed. “Look
at that.”

Zack watched then turned to Jim. “This is an
old Steven Seagal movie, right?”

“I wish. Look at this.”

They watched the oral sex.

Stoically, Zack sat back. “Where did Channel
10 get this?”