“I’m just about finished, Rand. Wait ’till you hear this one.”
“Patrick Downey’s obituary?” asked Randi Klein. Downey was an older correspondent based in Chicago. GNN was not going to renew his contract even though he had worked for the organization for more than twenty years. Downey was fifty-five years old and making $250,000 a year. Too much in GNN’s opinion. He was expendable.
“Yeah. Here it is, see if you like it. ‘Dear Mr. Downey,’ I can’t use Patrick, it’s too informal. ‘The executives of The Global News Network have decided not to renew your contract, which expires on the first of next year. As you know, times are tough, and there are cutbacks in every department. I am writing to you personally instead of going through your agent because it is the proper thing to do. GNN appreciates the loyal service you have rendered and will, of course, continue to pay you until the end of your contract. We would, however, appreciate it if you would clean out your office as soon as possible. We will be doing renovations in the Chicago Bureau. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me.’ ”
“Wow, that is cold, Hillary.”
“The moron deserves it. Do you realize we’ve been carrying this guy for years? He’s lucky if he gets on the morning news once a month. When was the last time you saw him on Lyle’s broadcast? Lyle hates the guy.”
Randi Klein giggled. She was a short woman with large brown eyes and a mole above the right side of her lip. “If we fired everybody Lyle hates, we’d be awful lonesome.”
“Well, he loves us. I know that for sure,” Hillary Ross replied. “And that’s what matters these days. So what do you think, Rand? Should I fax this to Downey so the whole bureau can see it, or should I FedEx it?”
“Give him a break, Hil. FedEx it.”
“That’ll cost the company more money. No, I think I’ll fax it. By the way, are we still on for dinner tonight?”
“That’s what I came to tell you. My husband is sick. I’ve got to go home early.”
“Rand, when are you going to get rid of him?”
Randi Klein laughed and walked out.
Hillary Ross began finishing up her paperwork. She was a neat freak, her desk uncluttered and organized. She buzzed her secretary and handed her the fax for Patrick Downey. The secretary, who knew better than to glance at it in Hillary’s presence, quickly left the room. Hillary Ross proceeded to watch that evening’s newscast, and to make a few phone calls. At seven p.m., The News Tonight wrapped up its second feed, the satellite transmission sent to its affiliated stations. Lyle Fleming and William Foster usually left for the day by 7:30. Hillary wanted to be available if either of them needed her, so she always stayed late, and left about 7:45.
The evening was chilly when Hillary stepped onto Sixth Avenue. Though her fax to Patrick Downey would have a profoundly negative effect on the man’s life, she had not given the matter another thought. He was out now, officially a non-person in her mind. End of story.
Hillary buttoned up her black leather coat and hailed a cab, giving the Pakistani driver her address at 88th and Central Park West. The cabbie had trouble understanding English, and Hillary became annoyed when asked to repeat it. Sulking in the backseat, she was unaware of the black car that had pulled out from an illegal parking space and was now following close behind.
The car’s driver had not seen Hillary Ross in years, but spotted her immediately. Not too many 6910, homely women come out of the GNN building. The man followed Hillary’s cab into Columbus Circle, up Central Park West, adjacent to the Park itself, and northward, passing the Tavern on the Green restaurant, and the Dakota apartment building where John Lennon was shot to death. Finally, her cab stopped in front of an elegant high rise.
Hillary Ross paid the cabbie but did not tip him. He said something unintelligible as she closed the back door. Screw you, Hillary thought. Learn the language. A doorman opened the door for her and Hillary walked through the building’s rather bland lobby toward the elevator.
Outside, the man driving the black car double-parked, peering into the lobby of Hillary Ross’s building. He was not pleased. This is going to be tough, he thought.
Expensive New York City apartments almost always have sophisticated, around-the-clock security. The man who was following Hillary Ross knew that two doormen would always be on duty in her building, that there would be cameras in the elevators, that each tenant would have a button in the apartment to push for emergencies.
Besides that, the building itself was huge and he had no idea what apartment or even what floor Hillary Ross called home.
But Hillary Ross’s stalker had a good idea of GNN’s inner workings, and that provided him an advantage. He knew, for example, that all the networks had drastically cut manpower on the overnight shifts. Both the foreign and domestic news desks were now run by just one person.
Helping the overnight news manager was a bunch of young, unpaid interns from local colleges who answered the phones, checked the news wires, and got sandwiches and coffee for the boss of the graveyard shift. Sitting in his car, the stalker mulled over various strategies that might help him exploit these naive kids to get the information he needed. After about ten minutes, a plan crystallized. He quickly drove to a public phone on Columbus Avenue.
“GNN foreign desk, Melissa speaking.” The young woman who answered the phone spoke with a Valley girl accent, overemphasizing the letters A and R, and ending declarative sentences on an up note as if they were questions.
“Melissa, this is Trevor Langley, your stringer in Beijing.” The man spoke with a British accent. Melissa was impressed by a call from China. She vaguely remembered being told that stringers were freelance producers, and that she should accept their collect calls. Only this guy wasn’t calling collect.
“How can I help you, Trevor?”
“Well, Melissa, I’ve got a big problem. I promised Hillary Ross that I would send her a Chinese vase in time for her mother’s birthday. It seems I have her home address, but I don’t have her apartment number. And overnight delivery won’t take it out of here without the complete address. So could you punch up her address in the computer and give me the apartment number?”
“You could just send it here, Trevor.”
“Melissa, can I tell you something in the strictest confidence?”
Melissa felt a tingle of excitement. “Sure.”
“The company disapproves of us sending personal things like this. I’m doing Hillary a discreet favor by sending it to her home. I’m sure she’d appreciate the fact that you are helping in this.”
Melissa had heard only bad things about Hillary Ross, and didn’t want to run afoul of her. She gave Trevor Langley the information.
“And one more thing, Melissa. Don’t tell anybody about this, okay? I don’t want to get Hillary in trouble, and I sure don’t want to get me in trouble. So be a love, will you?”
“Okay, Trevor. By the way, what’s the weather like in China?”
The man calling himself Trevor Langley looked down Columbus Avenue, put his finger into the air and said, “A little windy, Melissa, a little windy.”
* * *
8
MANHATTAN
JULY 1982
The early eighties were a great time to be young and single in New York City. The disco era was still alive, the nightclubs of Manhattan throbbed with energy, excitement, and daring, no one had heard of AIDS and, apparently, few had heard of sexual restraint. Not since the late twenties had young men and women been so available to each other. In such a period, a young, affluent, handsome TV guy like Shannon Michaels might have been a prince of the city. He could have partied as hard as he wanted.
But Shannon was miserable. Three days after the blowup in Argentina, he had been recalled to New York for “consultations.” GNN provided him with a temporary office, booked him into the Warwick Hotel, and told him to “sit tight.” After ten full days of sitting around doing absolutely nothing, he was finally summoned to a meeting with anchorma
n Lyle Fleming and then-News President Darren Darwin. He knew his career was on the line.
During the meeting, Shannon got his chance to explain what had happened in Buenos Aires. He spoke passionately about nearly being killed, about bigfooting, about journalistic ethics. Fleming and Darwin appeared to listen, although Darwin kept glancing at a clock on his desk. After hearing Shannon out, both promised to appoint someone to investigate the matter. It turned out to be a bright young woman just hired by GNN from Barry Goldwater’s senatorial staff—a woman named Hillary Ross.
Shannon left the meeting feeling somewhat better but, as the days went by, reality once again slapped him in the face. No one at GNN would talk to him. When he walked the company corridors, his coworkers avoided his eyes, mumbling “how ya doin” and little more. He received no assignments, and couldn’t even eat lunch in the company cafeteria because no one would sit with him. I’m a leper, Shannon thought. I should carry around a little bell warning people to stay away.
Finally, feeling he had nowhere else to turn, Shannon picked up the phone, punching in David Wayne’s extension. His office was right across the hall, and Wayne had just returned from Argentina.
“Jesus, Michaels, I can’t believe you’re calling me.”
“I need some help, David.”
“The understatement of the millennium.”
“David, I’d like to know what’s really going on. You gave me solid advice in Argentina. I’ve got no one else to go to now.”
“Look, Michaels, I can’t talk here. The walls have ears in this place. If they find out I’m talking to you, they’ll figure out some way to punish me.” Wayne paused. Shannon thought he could almost hear him thinking.
“There’s a bar, a dive, on the corner of First and 58th. Near the bridge. No one at GNN would be caught dead there. I’ll stop in about eight tonight. If you’re there, you’re there. See you.”
It was a hot, humid evening in Manhattan, the kind of night when the heat hits with double intensity: dank, murky air from above; scalding asphalt from the street below. A New York City night in midsummer heat is a dream of which only Dante would approve.
Shannon Michaels was extremely depressed as he walked east on 57th Street toward his rendezvous. He had been through tough times before, working his way up to the network by reporting in places like Scranton, Pittsburgh, and Detroit. Moving to a strange city every year or so was a lonely way to live, and the competition in each workplace was stiff. But Shannon’s aggressive reporting style had made him valuable. Finally, his dream was realized when GNN hired him as a network correspondent, a very prestigious job for someone only twenty-eight years old.
But the dream was evaporating and he knew it. Getting fired from a network post six months after being hired was a career killer. For one of the few times in his life, Shannon simply didn’t know what to do. He felt powerless, the same way he had felt as a child when his father came home drunk and out of control. He hated that feeling more than anything on earth.
Shannon rounded the corner onto First Avenue. The 59th Street Bridge loomed high in front of him. It was falling apart. Shannon felt like he was, too.
David Wayne already had a beer and a shot in front of him when Shannon sat down at the table. The bar was Irish, with paper Shamrocks on the wall flanked by Aer Lingus travel posters. A song by The Chieftains played on the jukebox. The air conditioning was on full blast and there was condensation on the inside of the front bay window.
“David, thanks for meeting me. I really appreciate it.” David Wayne rose to shake Shannon’s hand. He didn’t smile.
“I really must be nuts to talk to you, Michaels,” David Wayne said. “You really fucked up. Costello is on a relentless campaign to ruin you. Solo and just about everybody else in B.A. is backing him up. You’re outnumbered, and help is definitely not on the way.”
Shannon actually appreciated the candor. He looked at Wayne sadly. “I had a meeting this morning with Fleming and Darwin.”
“Oh, and let me guess. They told you they would look into the matter. And they appointed Hillary Ross to investigate.”
“How did you know?” Shannon said, his voice laced with surprise.
“Because Ross is going around telling everyone you are history. She and her little girls’ club had a big laugh about it at lunch today. There are no secrets at GNN, Michaels. Everybody knows everything.”
Shannon Michaels clenched his jaw. Wayne’s knowledge of his “private meeting” stung him badly. He stopped feeling sorry for himself, and began feeling angry. “So what’s going to happen, David?”
David Wayne did not answer. Instead he drained his beer, knocked back the shot, and signaled the waitress for another round. Shannon ordered a Coke.
“That’s your problem right there, Michaels. You don’t drink. You need to drink in this business. A lot. Everybody does.”
The drinks appeared with impressive speed. As the young, heavyset waitress laid them down, David Wayne looked at Shannon Michaels. He felt sorry for him. He knew Shannon was about to be taken down by a bunch of bastards. The kid just wouldn’t play the game.
“Here’s the way it is, Michaels. Hillary Ross will issue a report that says you are not ready to be a correspondent for GNN, or some bullshit like that. The report will cite your immaturity, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line: you’re gone.
“Now, they probably won’t fire you outright because then you could file a grievance with AFTRA” [the American Federation of Radio and Television Artists] “and they don’t want to deal with union bullshit. That could get ’em bad publicity, and they might be forced into embarrassing testimony in court. So they’ll suggest that you resign. In return, you’ll get some money and a letter of recommendation. If you don’t resign, they’ll bad-mouth you so much not even Fargo, North Dakota, will hire you, and you’ll sit on your ass on the overnight shift until your contract runs out.”
Shannon stared hard at the veteran correspondent. “Is there any chance this Hillary Ross will talk to Francisco and Juan? Those guys were on the streets with me. They know what really happened down there.”
“None. Hillary Ross was hired by GNN to be a hatchet person. And she had a great teacher. Did you know she was Goldwater’s top staff person in his Arizona office? And Barry loves her. She beat the hell out of the press, threatening and blackmailing reporters so that nothing bad about her boss got into print or on the tube. Ross has no respect for journalists at all. We’re all scum to her. She couldn’t care less about ‘journalistic ethics’ because to her it’s an oxymoron. Her entire career has been based on using and abusing the press, and to her you’re just another rag reporter on his way out.”
David Wayne paused for another swallow. His face was red and his eyes bloodshot. Suddenly, he became agitated. It was as if something had caused him unexpected physical pain. “I hate that Ross bitch,” said Wayne, spittle actually flying from his mouth. “She’s a fucking Nazi. No feeling for anyone but herself. People like us, people with skills, with a profession, have to fear her ’cause she can kill our careers. Taking someone’s job in this business is like taking someone’s life. That woman never once covered a news story, yet she’s a GNN vice president. What the fuck is that? I despise her in a major fucking way.”
Wayne’s vehement outburst surprised Shannon Michaels. He watched the older correspondent closely. Both men were silent for a time and then Shannon began to massage his temples with the palms of both hands. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He was being set up. The meeting with Fleming and Darwin had been a complete farce. Hillary Ross was his executioner. His foot began tapping on the floor. Nervous energy flowed through him like water from an open hydrant, but he had no outlet for it. “So Hillary Ross is going to bring me down.” Shannon said it as a statement, not a question.
“Yeah, she will,” Wayne said, calmer now. “And here’s why. Ross knows that Ron Costello and Lyle Fleming are buddies. She also knows that Darwin doesn’t give a damn about anyone, or anyth
ing. You’re an annoyance to him, nothing more. He doesn’t give a shit about what happened in Argentina. He cares about his GNN stock options, his bonus payments, his golden parachute. Your life means nothing to him. Add it all up and there’s no reason for the bitch to help you.”
“So it’s hopeless,” said Shannon, looking down at the table, his rage barely under control. He was clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Look, Michaels, here’s what I would do. Take their shitty deal. Get six months pay and a letter. Then tell your agent to get you a local anchor job. You’ve got the stuff for that. Successful local anchors make big money and have power. In this business, you need power to do good work and to get it on the air. I know it stinks, but that’s what I would do.”
Shannon looked at Wayne and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m going down for this. I can’t believe it.”
David Wayne lit a cigarette and blew the smoke straight into the air. “It isn’t only you who’s getting screwed. Most of us eventually get it. Just a matter of time. But things have a tendency to even out. What goes around can definitely come around.” Wayne leaned back in his wooden chair and looked slyly at Shannon Michaels. Enough said, the veteran correspondent thought, enough said.
The two newsmen talked casually for a few minutes longer, but nothing meaningful was said. Shannon then picked up the tab and walked out into the humid night. He thought about Wayne’s advice, but it did not comfort him. For one of the rare times in his life, Shannon Michaels knew he was defeated.
Two weeks after his bar conversation with David Wayne, Shannon’s agent negotiated his resignation. Hillary Ross’s report had come back saying that Shannon had endangered the lives of two GNN crew members, had been responsible for the destruction of a $25,000 camera, and had committed an assault on Ron Costello, which could be construed as criminal behavior. Everything Wayne predicted had become reality.
Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Page 7