The Journalist (30 page)

“Well, I am right now.”

“I have a recording. I need you to air it
immediately.”

“Ho, ho, ho—and I’m Santa Claus and I need
another Rudolph.”

“This is not a joke. I need you to air a
recording.”

“Sir, I can’t just broadcast a recording.
We’re under a zillion restrictions right now from big D.C.
bother.”

“So who do I need to talk to?”

“Well, Doug Hoffman is the news director and
our dear loveable general manager is Ms. Lucy Lockman, but I
believe she is out of town for the weekend.”

“I need Hoffman’s number.”

“Can’t give that out.”

“Look, this is an emergency.”

“Sorry.”

“What about Lockman’s?”

“Can’t ever, ever, ever even think of doing
that.”

“Look, son, I won’t tell them where I got
it.”

“They find things out.”

“I will give you a job if you get fired,
okay? Free parking, everything.”

“How much you pay?”

“Competitive. Look, this is truly an
emergency. Just give me Hoffman’s number. I won’t tell him where I
got it, I swear.”

“Well

I
look, you didn’t get it from me.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“555-8340.”

“You’re a genius, thank you.” Zack pressed
enter and keyed Hoffman’s phone number. He watched the screen read
out

Douglas M. Hoffman,
555-8340.

He listened to a pleasant
recorded message: “This is the Hoffman household. Please leave your
name, phone number and a brief massage and we will return your
call.” He waited for the tone to end then spoke.

“This is Zackary Stearn, editor of
The
Boca

”

The voice of Hoffman interrupted. “Hello,
this is Doug Hoffman.”

“I was just leaving you a message.”

“I heard.”

“No video?”

“No. Who gave you this number?”

“Does it matter?”

“You’re damn right it does.”

“Mr. Hoffman, I run a newspaper

”

“I remember.”

“Do you think I don’t have a morgue of home
phone numbers, important people in this community and how to get in
touch with them when momentous things are occurring?”

“So?”

“You are a very important person and these
are momentous times.”

Long pause. “Oh, yeah, so why are you calling
me on a Sunday morning?”

“Have you been watching television?”

“Always have a set on.”

“Look, I have something of national
importance that I have to talk to you about.”

“Oh, wow, national importance.” Doug
chuckled.

“Please, this is no joke.”

“So talk.”

“I can’t on the phone.”

“So how do you propose to talk to me?”

“I need to meet with you, as soon as
possible.”

“You have to be kidding. It’s Sunday morning.
I do not meet on Sunday mornings.”

“In case you didn’t notice, there are a few
items of news going on in our big wonderful world that might
deserve your attention.”

“No shit, Dick Tracy.”

“How original.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, please, it’s a scoop, you can
have it.”

Loud laugh. “Sure, a newspaper guy is going
to give a TV guy a scoop.”

“That should convince you even more.”

“Get real.”

“Mr. Hoffman, this is beyond winning. It does
not matter to me.”

“It matters to me, pal, every day.”

“Look, this is going nowhere. I’ll call
another station.”

“Ah, wait a minute.”

Hoffman’s face appeared on the video phone
screen. Zack analyzed him—disheveled hair, wide-set eyes magnified
by thick, black-rimmed bebop glasses, chubby cheeks, nostrils
enlarged, little lips pursed.

Zack looked up.
I knew I wasn’t going to
like this guy. Don’t ask me why, I just knew it.

Hoffman adjusted his glasses and said, “So
tell me, what is this scoop you supposedly have?”

“It’s about the ‘exclusive’ video you
broadcast last Friday.”

“Hell of a story, huh? Talk about a
scoop.”

Zack burped up some apple. “Look, some of
this news stuff is not right. I can’t talk freely on the
phone.”

“Can’t talk about it on the phone? Why?”

“I have a recording. Can I meet you at your
station?”

“Can’t talk about it on the phone and you
have a recording?” Hoffman shook his head. “Are you for real?”

“Yes.” Zack paused. “Look, like I said, I’m
not wasting any more time. I’ll call another station.”

“Hold your horses, hoss

”

“Well, thank you very much. You say
when.”

“Shit.”

“It’s ten-forty now, how about an hour?” Zack
said.

“No way, make it one o’clock.”

“Okay, one.”

“Shit. This better be good. Meet me at the
station—you know where it is I assume?”

“I know where WSUN is.”

Chapter Forty Seven

12:55 p.m.
EST

His Subaru’s cool conditioned air siphoning
out the broken rear window, Zack sniffed his armpits. Not good. He
stopped at the closed gate to Channel 10’s parking lot and studied
the razor wire that topped a ten-foot chain link fence. Inside the
fence stood a two-story white brick building with tiny rectangular
windows. A ten-foot red-neon sign beckoned CHANNEL 10, THE SUN,
WSUN-TV.

Zack rolled his window down and looked at a
remote camera and speaker. In a few seconds a tenor voice asked,
“May I help you?”

“I’m Zackary Stearn, have an appointment with
Doug Hoffman.”

Small chuckle in the voice: “He’s not here on
Sundays.”

“He will be, I have a one o’clock appointment
with him.”

“Well, sir, I can tell you, he’s never here
on

one moment please.”

Zack tapped the steering wheel and whispered,
“Hoffman, if you don’t show up

”

The male voice came on again. “That was a
call from Mr. Hoffman. He’s on his way. Said he was expecting you.
I’ll open the gate. Proceed to the visitor spaces to your right,
park in one of the slots marked ‘visitor,’ turn your engine off,
proceed directly to the side entrance marked ‘Employees Only’ and
wait for Mr. Hoffman.”

“Forgot to tell me the speed limit,” Zack
mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

As directed, Zack pulled to a visitor’s space
and parked.
Are they keeping something out of this place or
holding something in?
he wondered.
The medium is the message
or is the message the medium?
He glanced in his rearview mirror
and watched a red Mercedes convertible pull through the entrance
gate. The driver wore an orange CHANNEL 10 baseball cap.
Wire-rimmed round sunglasses perched on his nose. He parked in a
reserved slot near the front door, got out and looked toward Zack’s
car.

Zack said to himself, “Gotta be, in person,
the lovable Mr. Hoffman,” and stepped out of his car.

Hoffman shouted, “Hey, you

You Zack Stearn?”

Zack called back, “Yes, yes, I am.”

“Over here.”

Zack walked toward him and noted NEWS
DIRECTOR in large white letters across the front of Hoffman’s green
T-shirt. Closer, he saw his own face reflected in Hoffman’s black
sunglasses. He smiled and said, “You in there?”

“You got it.”

Zack extended his right hand to shake.
Hoffman declined, scrutinized him head to toe then said, “You live
on the street?”

Zack, hit with Doug’s septic-tank morning
breath, stepped back. “No, do you?”

“You look like you slept in those
clothes.”

“Oh. No, I’ve been working all night.”

Doug raised an eyebrow, “Partner, you
stink.”

“Sorry,” Zack mumbled, “Thought is was your
breath.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Follow me.”

Hoffman unlocked the station door and, like a
bellhop stuck with a deadbeat guest, led the way through a maze of
hallways and past a newsroom that bustled with activity and not a
few gawking glances at seeing Hoffman in on a Sunday morning.

They reached a blue metal door that read, in
silver letters,
Douglas A. Hoffman, NEWS DIRECTOR
.

Doug unlocked the door and entered. Zack
followed. Doug sat behind his desk, propped his sandaled feet on
the cluttered top, glared at Zack, said, “This better be good,
Stearn.”

“It is.” Zack placed his CD player on
Hoffman’s desk and sniffed the air–peculiar odor, like something
burning.

Hoffman said, “Like I said, this better be
good.”

“I think it’s better than that. You’ll
recognize one of the voices, I’m sure.”

“Oh?”

“Dr. Barbara Lande, Armstrong’s media guru.
She’s the female, the others are Leo Novak, President’s E.I.C.
head, and General Mac MacCallister—you may know them as Cerebrum,
Cerebellum, and Medulla Oblongata.”

“Know ‘em all.” Hoffman nodded smugly.

“Mind if I sit?” Zack touched one of the
orange vinyl chairs in front of Hoffman’s desk.

“Suit yourself.”

“Thank you.” Zack glanced upward and
whispered under his breath, “He’s one of Yours.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Ready?”

“Anytime.”

“Oh, I must tell you, kind sir, there were
some technical glitches—microphone, some static—but the

you’ll get the drift.”

Smirking: “Uh-huh.”

Zack pressed the play button.

As the CD played, Hoffman studied his chewed
fingernails, munched his right thumbnail then his left thumbnail,
bent a paper clip, probed wax from his ears with the clip’s end,
smelled the brown extract, threw the clip in his wastebasket,
picked his nose with thumb and index finger so it looked like he
might be just scratching the inside of the nostril, adjusted his
sunglasses, took dental floss from his top desk drawer, flossed his
top and bottom front teeth, looked at the residue, sniffed it,
threw the floss in the wastebasket, twiddled his thumbs, listened,
yawned

and the CD ended.

He tilted his head back. “That’s it?”

“That’s it, yes. Pretty impressive, huh?”

“Are you shitting me? That’s what I drove
thirty miles on a Sunday afternoon to listen to? What is this
bullshit?”

“It is Barbara Lande, the President’s media
guru, Leo Novak, head of the E.I.C., and

”

“That’s who you allege it is, but what the
fuck is it?”

“discussing the production of the bogus
video that you broadcast last Friday, the

”

“Bogus

Bogus

My ass.”

“the video that started this current little
international mess that we seem to find ourselves in.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, Mr. Hoffman, not bullshit, true shit.
You have been had.”

Doug sat up. “Bullshit.”

“No, Doug, the video you broadcast last
Friday was a fake, staged, and your President Armstrong is at the
center of it. You been used, asshole.”

“What did you call me?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean

”

“That recording of yours is a fake.
Computer-cloned speech, static all over the fucking thing. What’d
you do, use a Pokemon recorder? Whose voices are those?”

“One is Lande. I’ve heard her a million times
on your television station. You have, too. Even a computer couldn’t
clone that lady’s accent.”

“Bullshit. This is preposterous bullshit.” He
adjusted his sunglasses.

“You say that one more

” Zack paused, checked his temper then went on. “Why
would someone impersonate Barbara Lande on a CD about something
like that? Makes no sense, does it?”

“Sure it does. Some jack-off TV station that
we scooped, some politician looking to discredit Armstrong, could
be a million reasons. Could be you, trying to embarrass
me

jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Ha.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re a jerk.” He started to get up.
“Why am I here?”

“There is a coup d'éta

”

“
Coup
d'état

You
goddamn fucking idiot
.
Let me tell you what you can do with that fucking recording. Stick
it up your stupid ass

Coup
d'état

Jesus Christ, get the fuck out of
here

”

Zack wiped his forehead. “You have to
broadcast this tape.”

“You’re crazy.” Hoffman rolled his eyes. “Get
out

”

“Look, I’m not good at begging, but I’d
really like you to go on the air with this recording. If you
broadcast it now, it will be all over the world in a half-hour, you
can say you did it. You’ll be a hero.”

Contemptuous: “Why don’t you print it, weenie
head?”

“I will. We’re working on a special edition
as we speak.”

“You newspaper elitists. We got you by the
balls when it comes to breaking stuff.”

“Look, that’s not important now. There are
more important things than keeping score.”

“You sound like some fucking Jesus
freak.”

“As we speak, the U.S. military is preparing
to unilaterally invade several sovereign nations.”

“You’re insane, crazy, you really are.”

“Okay, I’m crazy, but you have to go on the
air with this recording.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Credibility.”

Zack exploded, hitting the desk with his
fists. “What goddamned credibility?”

“Watch it, pal, watch it.”

Zack backed off. “Sorry.”

“Your recording is bogus.”

“How do you know that?”

“What is your source?”

“What was your source for the video you
broadcast?”