Try Try Again (19 page)

The show’s first season was scheduled for Wednesday evenings
at eight on the AmeriNet channel. Five weekly shows aired, one for each day of
the real-life trial. During trial breaks and after the end of each day, a funny
and biting but very light commentary was offered by JTJ, who went from unknown
to star in one day, superstar in two, sex goddess in three, and then had no
more worlds to conquer. One of the networks asked her if she’d like to appear at
NFL games and offer incisive commentary. She put them off.

The show gained viewer share and advertiser success.

Sybille Haskin had intently watched episode four. She was
watching to see how Charley Dukes’ “startle” would look on webV, if it were
more or less obvious than it had seemed at the trial itself, if JTJ would
comment on it. The event passed, seemingly without notice – and commentators
the next day didn’t mention it.

What to do? Well, it was too late to undo what was done. But
if no damage had been done in season one, in case no one had wondered at
Charley’s expression and figured out Charley had just heard something he hadn’t
expected to hear - someone might watch this part of the trial in season two, to
be aired in a few months.

She would have to make sure Charley’s surprised glance never
made it to the season two broadcast, and just hope that would solve her
problem. How could she make that happen? Any attempt to get season two modified
would run her an additional risk of being exposed. She would have to think of
something.

Perhaps she should look up the producer. Who was it? A
minute on the Web and she found the name: Frank (Frankie) Dickstein, Bigstone
Productions, Hollywood (actually Culver City, a fact usually found in small
print only).

As the episode-five credits began to roll, Frankie Dickstein
knew, for sure now, he had a major hit on his hands, even better than he had
hoped just four weeks before. Millions of sets had been tuned in, hundreds of
thousands of agonists had played. More importantly, the number of agonists had
grown dramatically as the weeks progressed. The real-show-time registration
software had worked, and everyone at WizWhiz had felt great relief and had
several drinks.

Before the end of the first five-week cycle, “Try Try Again”
was the hottest thing on webV. Frankie’s wish was fulfilled that viewers would
get ‘hooked’ on being, say, Brent Nielsen, and will want to get better and
better at it during each five-week cycle, in order to win prizes ranging from
one dollar to – in theory, unlimited, but WizWhiz had told Frankie no one would
ever win more than a million bucks, max.

The real principals in the trial were deluged by columnists
and critics, beginning even before episode one aired. Except Charley Dukes.

The morning after trial-day five was shown, Frankie’s people
organized a well-publicized season-one awards ceremony and invited the Wizguys
from WizWhiz, Hub and his team, JTJ, some webV execs, every journalist south of
Bakersfield, and the big winners from each episode. At Hub’s instigation,
Frankie invited Liv Saunders, Brent Nielsen, and also Judge Harriet DuCasse, who
sent a concise one-word negative reply.

Jill had briefly hoped to attend the ceremony, but it soon
became clear winning a thousand dollars was far beneath the cutoff point to be
considered a “real” winner. Watching those “real” winners take gracious bows
and receive oversized replicas of bank checks on the webV, she inhaled hard,
held her breath for a few seconds, and silently swore she would be on that
podium after season two. She would read the how-to books that were sure to be
published; study up; take courses; download trial tapes; pay for tutoring if
she had to; and practice, practice.

Toward the end of the ceremony, Brent Nielson and Olivia Saunders
were introduced to the in-person and webV audience and asked to say a few
words.

Brent did an excellent job, Jill thought, of looking
personable, bright, dignified, and well suited to the political position it was
rumored he craved. He made two modest self-deprecating jokes and thanked Frankie
and Hub and the network for bringing the trial (and not incidentally Brent
Neilson) to the attention of the great and wonderful people of our great nation,
love you all, God bless America. In closing, he thanked his mother. For exactly
what, he didn’t say.

Back in Pimmit Hills, Virginia, Jill sat through Brent’s
talk impatiently, because she was eager to see how Liv Saunders spoke, moved,
and gestured when she wasn’t in the formal environment of a trial.

It was something of a shock to Jill, then, when Liv finally
appeared and spoke her nervously rehearsed words, to find her as stiff and
reserved as ever. Jill felt, again, she herself was the perfect Liv Saunders
because she could be – might be – Liv Saunders herself if she didn’t watch out.

The awards ceremony was a hit with its schmoozing, or
shucking and jiving, depending on which minority you were partial to.

For the next five months, the nation braced for season two
of “Try Try Again.”  Most of those who’d won a dollar or more in season one –
and WizWhiz tech staff had arranged things so even a minimally dedicated agonist
could win the stray buck or two – were fanatically prepping for season two.
Many who’d ignored season one had also been swept up in the craze and were
prepping, and taking perhaps unwanted advice from the proud one- and two-buck
winners.

Private “Try Try Again” training courses were hurriedly
organized and hawked. Organizers made a great deal of money. Those who actually
taught the courses – not so much.

Downloads of season one were accessed more than a million
times by contestant wannabes. Many agonists spent hours practicing on these downloads.
Frankie wisely, but against his firmest moral principles, made them available
at no charge. Use of the downloads was not monitored or graded, and so no one
doing this ‘practice’ had any idea if his or her performance was good, poor, or
indifferent. This did not deter those practicing; not for a T-slice.

WizWhiz asked Frankie Dickstein if he wanted them to make any
changes to the show for season two. That got him thinking.

Why not, he thought, cut a few seconds here and there to
make room for longer commercials? Yes! He discussed this change with Hub
Landon, who said don’t mess with success, to which Frankie answered
, it’s my
show, I’m the fucking producer, why did I call you in here in the first place
,
to which Hub shut up.

Frankie did, however give way on one point: no actual
speech, no spoken words, would be cut. So where would the cuts be made? He said
he’d leave that up to WizWhiz, subject to his final approval.

In a week, the Wizguys had identified a number of potential cuts
and also had proposals for improving the agonists’ experience, providing more
precise scoring, and enhancing competition by reducing the scores of those
habitual agonists who had won “too much,” thus giving newbies a chance. And,
scenes too many agonists “got” in season one, were subject to tougher scoring
in season two, and those few agonists “got” would be scored more leniently.

Frankie studied the proposed cuts perfunctorily and informed
Bigstone Productions’ sales staff of the new timings. Let’s see, now, how
advertisers would respond. One more bottle of beer on the wall, one more cruise
around the track, one more cup of that wonderful coffee just smell the ah-roma.

Neither Frankie nor his people paid much attention to one of
the cuts WizWhiz had recommended, and then made: Charley Dukes startling,
beginning to rise, staring at Liv Saunders who motions him to sit down.

The inter-season downloads still reflected season one as it had
been shown; WizWhiz did not retrofit the brief cuts they’d been working on. The
show’s announcements mentioned there would be some very small timing changes in
season two, and agonists would have to pick up on them, instantly, in order to
win. This produced a higher level of interest in the show among the agonists, not
just providing Bigstone Productions additional advertising revenue.

As much as she disliked doing anything that might seem
suspicious to anyone, Sybille Haskin felt she had to get that gesture of
Charley’s she’d noticed at the trial, that epiphanal expression, deleted from
season two. The shot had of course aired in season one, but fortunately, no one
else seemed to have picked up on what it could mean.

She didn’t have to do much Wikipedia research on Frankie
Dickstein to develop a winning strategy; and so she called him, giving her name
as Stephanie Bloomberg (no relation, but she didn’t quite say that). Mentioning
she’d like to invest some money in Bigstone Productions’ next film, her call
was immediately put through, and she had an appointment with Frankie arranged
for two days later. Haskin scheduled a non-stop in first class.

The editing of season one to increase time for commercials had
been no secret. Even the trade press mentioned it in passing as a
long-established trend. As the fan-base became more committed to the drama of a
show, the commercial breaks got longer and the drama shorter.

Sybille Haskin (Stephanie Bloomberg) was shown into Frankie
Dickstein’s very large office. At the moment, Frankie was on two of his three
phones, talking to first one person and then another. Finally, he shoved the
phones together on his desk and shouted “Fix this God damn fuckbutt problem
between you today or you’re both fired!”

Turning to Haskin, he apologized to her for the impolite
language.

She smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it; I’ve heard a lot
worse.”

After some preliminary chit-chat, Haskin mentioned, in a
casual way, making a few cuts to season two to increase ad income. Frankie said
he’d thought of that and cuts were already being made by his tech people.

Haskin expressed interest in seeing how the selection of
material to be cut was done, offered perhaps to make a few suggestions. This
would be in preparation for her own future work with Bigstone, of course.

Normally, Frankie’s face would have reddened at such
intrusion on his turf, and his oleaginous voice would have turned harsh and he
would have uttered imprecations in two languages. But not this time; not with
several million dollars in new production money at stake.

“Of course,” said Frankie, controlling his face and voice as
much as possible, “I’ll give WizWhiz a call and tell them you’re coming by.”

“That would be just wonderful of you,” Haskin said. “I’ll
meet with them in a day or two and then get right back to you. I’m really
excited about financing a new film from The Famous Frank Dickstein.” She
smiled, an unaccustomed effort.

The following day, Haskin took a cab to Frankie’s production
crew at WizWhiz. The Wizguys reviewed for her the proposed deletions of a few
seconds here and there from the five episodes of season two.

Of course she didn’t care about anything in episodes one,
two, three, or five; that was a smokescreen. She reviewed their proposed cuts,
noticed Charley’s ‘startle’ in episode four had already been marked for
deletion. Excellent, she thought; now she didn’t need to persuade them, or
Frankie, to make that cut. Even better, there would be no record or
recollection she had anything to do with that particular cut. She made a few
suggestions she knew would be ignored, and left.

The next morning she called Frankie and asked him to send a
few pitches her way to see if she’d like to fund them.

Frankie, however, was in a bind: he already had funding more
or less nailed down for his best scripts. For the rest, well perhaps they
shouldn’t be produced at all. He picked three scripts that triangulated boffo
and bomb, and sent them to her hotel.

In midair, Stephanie Bloomberg again became Sybille Haskin.
The three scripts were left, as if by accident, in the first-class magazine
rack. Later, she thought, a flight attendant might find one or two of them
amusing.

Haskin relaxed as much as she could. She had done what she
needed to in preparation for season two. It was still possible someone in
criminal justice had noticed Charley’s odd startle-moment in season one; but no
one had brought that moment to public attention. And now that moment would
never again be seen by anyone.

That July, Senator Thomas James Conning was nominated by his
party for the Presidency. He had not been viewed, earlier in the year, as a
front-runner for the nomination, but previous visits from Sybille Haskin,
followed by a substantial increase in campaign contributions, had improved his
chances considerably.

The evening after his nomination victory speech, Conning had
an unwelcome visitor. “What the hell,” Conning said to Haskin, “every damn newsy
in the country is here in Kansas City now. They’re sure to spot you. Just get
the hell out of here and tell them you were lost or just looking for the cow convention
or something.”

“Just your friend from ConDyne,” she said soothingly, “doing
a little lobbying. I’m sure you’d grant time to Boeing, McDonnell-Douglas, and
those other firms, wouldn’t you? And perhaps you should, now. Invite them by.
Just to look even-handed.”

“Well, maybe. But what do you want? You said you’d leave me
alone until I was in the oval office.”

“Just making sure you get there, Senator. You’re going to
make a major campaign speech saying you’re the only candidate whose foreign
policy experience and knowledge is up to the job of President.”

“Well, yes.” Conning puffed himself up slightly. “I
certainly agree with that assessment.”

“But others may not. Look: in that speech, you’re going to
predict a major terrorist offensive that will take over the government of a
small Gulf state, while the current President, your competition for that job, was
as we say asleep at the switch, ready to be railroaded. This offensive will
take place seven days after your speech and it will be successful, at least in
the short term. After that, your point will have been made and you will be
elected.”

“Well! Thank you for that information, Ms. Haskin. I can
really get ahead of the competition here. Ah – when should I make this speech?”

“Up to you, Senator, but the campaign dynamics would make it
advisable for you to move within the next two weeks.”

“But that ‘seven days after my speech?’ I need to know when
that will be, or I’ll screw up the timing.”

“No you won’t; we’re ready now; we’ll wait for you to make
that speech and then count off seven days. Actually we’ll make it six days, so
it won’t look like you had inside information, just the wisdom of your vast
experience.”

Conning frowned. Then his eyes widened and he started to
rise from his chair.

“Don’t worry, Senator. No Americans are nearby except a few
tourists, and we’ll be sure to keep them unharmed until you can bargain
successfully for their release and be a hero.” With a faint smile, she left.

The Senator sat down. He was deep in shit now, and could
never escape. Out of control. This situation was completely out of control.
Resign? Kill himself? But he’d be exposed as a coward, as well as a traitor.
Might be anyway, whatever he did. But somewhere down the road there could be a
chance of some kind. Yes, he thought. He’d been entirely too passive. Had to
get out in front. Had to find a way to pretend he was playing along at great
personal sacrifice just to save America.

Yes. He knew his resolve was greater than his abilities, but
what other course was there?

Three weeks later, Presidential nominee Thomas Conning,
(“Tom” but not quite “Tommy” on the campaign trail) was being congratulated by
Ned Carter, his campaign chief. “Gosh,” said Carter because he was from the
Midwest, “I thought you’d really … well, …”

“Screwed it up? Don’t be shy, Ned. Tell me that’s what you
were thinking.”

“Ah –”

“That’s OK, Ned, I’m feeling expansive now, and if I’d been
you, I’d probably have had the same thought. But I called it, didn’t I? Those
Al-whatever towel-heads invaded Ras al-Khaimah and took it over in twenty-four
hours.”

“A fishing village with fifty-five hundred people and a
lotta desert and no oil?”

“But location, Ned; Strait of Hormuz, near Dubai, borders
Oman where a different bunch of towel-heads is causing us even more trouble. It
didn’t matter that UAE government forces, which weren’t very much to begin
with, pushed the terrorists out in three or four days, shot most of ‘em. I
called it. That’s what counted.”

“The administration didn’t like what I did,” Conning
continued, “called it a ‘leak of highly classified, top secret, SCI defense
information.’ I guess that point made some headway with voters, but most of ‘em
didn’t believe the government knew about the invasion in advance at all. ‘Highly
secret,’ I heard one commentator say, ‘their asses.’”

Conning followed up that victory with a vigorous campaign
swing through the Eastern states, giving a new variation on his stump speech: how
the administration was willfully refusing to act on the clear and present
danger of a terrorist takeover of additional key locations in the Middle East.
Yes, he said, he’d alerted the President as soon as he knew about it, although
not soon enough to stop the initial takeover of Ras al-Khaimah. You know, he
confided to Ned Carter and several million other people, he didn’t think that
DOD or CIA or NCIS or CSI [got a little carried away, there, but he quickly
recovered] or NSA, he meant, even knew about this threat. Although this one was
minor, and over in a few days, what is it they don’t know about a big one
coming up?

Conning, when challenged, acknowledged he had no knowledge
of any specific additional terrorist invasions of friendly countries, “but he
was sure he’d be the first to know.”

Thomas Conning was now 12.3 percentage points ahead of the
other party’s candidate, Barbara Dean Nicholson. His backers slept better than
they had a few weeks before.

Sybille Haskin, pleased with events, sent Conning a basket
of flowers with a card reading “from all your many friends at ConDyne.” She met
again with her real employers, who expressed satisfaction with her efforts and
presented her with another secret Swiss account, this one with a balance of ten
million Swiss francs. It is of no matter, they said, that several hundred of
their insurgents had to be sacrificed in battle. They implied subtly, however,
if Conning were not actually elected President for any reason, then Haskin and
all her friends, lovers, partners, associates, assistants, and mere
acquaintances would be fed to large dogs bred for that purpose and kept hungry.