But in New York, because of its large Jewish population, it was a huge story. New York’s Jews not only comprise a significant part of the city’s television news audience, they follow current events—especially in the Middle East—quite closely. Shannon, after personally covering stories in Israel, had stayed very well-informed on Middle Eastern affairs. Now, Israel and the PLO had mutually recognized one another’s existence, and Shannon decided he should travel to Israel and file reports from there throughout the following week.
On the opposite side of the newsroom, Lance Worthington was in his office interviewing a very pretty young girl. When his telephone buzzed, Worthington became visibly annoyed. When his secretary told him Shannon was on the line, he seemed even more irritated.
“See what he wants, Betty.” Worthington was never anxious to speak with Shannon Michaels.
“He wants to talk to you about a breaking story.”
Damn, Lance Worthington thought. He was enjoying talking to the girl, and she was behaving as if she were impressed with him. Worthington was married, but he still carried on a very active social life.
“Tell him I’ll see him in ten minutes.”
Exactly ten minutes later, Shannon Michaels walked into Lance Worthington’s office. As usual, Worthington was on the phone. Motioned to take a seat, Shannon noticed that the news director’s sandy blond hair was thinning a bit, and that he had cut himself shaving recently. Worthington’s skin was so light it was almost translucent. He was slim and well dressed, favoring buttondown collars on his starched shirts. Like most of the managers at Newscenter Six, he wore suspenders.
Worthington hung up the phone and looked at Shannon coldly. This was a departure, Shannon thought. Usually the news director displayed no emotion—until you got him riled up, which Shannon often did. Shannon noted the slight scowl from Worthington, but did not react.
“Lance, I think we should go to Israel over the weekend. I can report from Jerusalem all next week on the agreement.”
“I don’t think so, Shannon.”
“Don’t you even want to hear my reasoning?”
“Not particularly.”
The curt comment cut into Shannon and triggered his temper. When he could, he avoided talking with Lance Worthington because of the negative vibes between them. But he was not about to let this pissant disrespect him.
“Well, you’re gonna hear it anyway, Lance.” Shannon drew out the man’s name to emphasize the sarcasm. “In case you haven’t noticed, we are slipping in the ratings. The numbers have been soft since last spring. Meantime, Channel Eight is gaining. I believe we can re-energize the newscast by doing some hard-hitting reporting on the road. Our ratings went through the roof when I covered the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the LA riots, and the San Francisco earthquake. The PLO thing is big in New York with our Jewish audience.”
“I know who the audience is, Shannon.” Lance Worthington’s voice was harsh, condescending. Shannon was surprised. Worthington wasn’t usually this aggressive with him. “The network can cover Israel. We don’t need to spend all that money sending you over there. I don’t believe having you in the Middle East will help our numbers. Besides, I may have something else for you to do.”
Shannon looked at the news director and asked, “Such as?”
“We may be getting an exclusive with Joey Buttafuoco’s best friend.”
Shannon Michaels laughed out loud, deeply offending Lance Worthington. “This is a joke, right, Lance?”
“No joke. Everybody is all over this story. You know that.”
“Fine, and we’ve been reporting the whole, disgusting mess for more than a year. Great. We have plenty of reporters who can talk to these revolting people. I’m not going to do it.”
“You’ll do it if I say so,” Lance Worthington said.
Shannon Michaels should have known from those words that danger was present in the room. Instead, he ran right into the trap. “Look, Lance, we’ve had this discussion before. I’m not going to do the tabloid stuff. The audience respects me as a serious journalist and if I start chasing the sleaze stories, my credibility will be damaged. We’ve been doing the Amy Fisher story to death on the broadcast. If that’s what you want, so be it. But it ain’t brain surgery. The younger reporters can handle it. I don’t want to be involved.”
“Well, then, maybe we’ll have to get somebody who will be involved.”
“Is that a threat, Lance?”
Rubbing the small brown scab under his chin, the one caused by his shaving mishap, Worthington told Michaels in what seemed an overly calm voice, “I think you should have your agent call Mitchell Ryder.”
For the first time, the seriousness of the situation struck Shannon. Mitchell Ryder was the General Manager of Channel Six. His nickname was the “Velvet Shiv.” One didn’t want to meet with Mitchell Ryder unless it was absolutely essential.
Lance Worthington tapped his Waterman pen against his desk. He knew he had stunned Shannon Michaels and was enjoying the anchorman’s discomfort. He had waited a long time for this moment and now it was happening. Martin Moore had come through with the research just the way he said he would. Worthington now had a loaded cannon aimed directly at Shannon Michaels. The fuse was about to be lit.
For one of the few times in his life, Shannon Michaels did not know what to say. He knew he was in a precarious position. A sleazy weakling like Worthington would never suggest a meeting with Ryder unless something was going on. But what could it be? Shannon had no idea, but sensed that whatever it was, it was bad.
“What’s this all about, Lance?” Shannon’s voice was soft. His eyes stared intensely at the news director.
“I can’t get into it now. Better let your agent handle it with Mitchell.” And Lance Worthington smiled a smile that made his face resemble a skull—a smile that made Shannon Michaels want to strangle Worthington with extreme prejudice.
Shannon Michaels got up from his chair and strode from the room. He never spoke with Lance Worthington again at Channel Six.
The “Velvet Shiv” lived up to his nickname. In a twenty-minute meeting with Shannon Michaels and his agent, Aaron Aber, Mitchell Ryder said that he regretted doing so, but he was relieving Shannon of his anchor position immediately. Ryder went on to say that while the station appreciated the fact that Shannon had worked hard to improve the fortunes of Newscenter Six, the new research was damning. Shannon’s popularity was slipping among younger viewers. Those between eighteen and forty-nine were showing a preference for Channel Eight’s news. What could he, Ryder, do? “You can’t argue with the research,” he said.
There was also a problem with Shannon’s attitude toward Lance Worthington, Ryder continued. The news director was the news anchor’s boss—something Shannon apparently did not want to acknowledge. Channel Six and Ryder himself had full confidence in Lance Worthington. He had cut costs and introduced innovative technical procedures. “We believe he is the future,” Mitchell Ryder said.
Shannon listened to all of this silently, which wasn’t his style, but he knew a done deal when he saw one. Aaron Aber drew up a settlement with Channel Six that called for Shannon to be paid his salary for nine months, until his contract was up. Channel Six was legally obligated to honor the contract in that fashion, but the “Velvet Shiv” made a big show publicly of the station’s “generosity” toward Shannon. Ryder told all the newspaper reporters exactly how much Shannon was making, off the record of course, and how Channel Six was “taking care of him.” In addition, the reporters were fed information that indicated Shannon’s viewer appeal was dropping among New Yorkers and that he was “a major pain in the ass” to deal with at the station. “You know those anchor egos,” the reporters were told off the record.
The next day, all the New York papers scorched Shannon Michaels, except the Times, which ignored the story completely. In general, print journalists resent broadcast journalists, mainly because the TV reporters make so much more money. To their less well-paid bret
hren, the demise of a major TV anchorman is always hot copy. And in Shannon’s case, the headlines were almost gleeful, all of them echoing each other: “Anchor away: Michaels thrown overboard.”
When the newspaper reporters called Shannon for a comment, he declined to speak. That angered and frustrated the newspaper people, and further tilted their stories against him. Shannon anticipated the reaction but realized that anything he said would sound bitter, and that wouldn’t help much. So he shut up and absorbed the most public humiliation of his life. Shannon thought he was tough enough to endure it, that his life after the brief ordeal would somehow improve. He was wrong.
* * *
23
ATHENS, GREECE
NOVEMBER 1993
Shannon Michaels sat at an outdoor table in one of the most elegant tavernas the Plaka neighborhood had to offer. He was closely watching a strange, demented-looking dog, zigzagging up Mnissikleous Street and heading toward the Acropolis. The dog was a mixed breed—totally white except for the top half of its tail, which was black. The moment the dog’s nose touched the stucco wall on one side of the narrow street, he would immediately turn tail and head for the other side. Back and forth he bounded, looking like a pinball with a protruding tongue. Must have drunk a bowl full of ouzo, Shannon thought.
Athens was the second stop on Shannon’s desperate trip of escape. Back in New York, he could no longer stand the constant questions about his dismissal from Newscenter Six. He could no longer face people who regarded him as a failure. So, he had flown to London and checked into the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane. Seeking some company, he called an old friend named Liam Mooney.
In 1990, Mooney had helped Shannon with a series of reports on the Irish Republican Army. Although not officially part of the IRA, Mooney did a fair amount of business with the group and had been able to put Shannon in touch with high-ranking members of the outlawed organization. It took Shannon months of negotiation, but he finally convinced the IRA leadership that he would treat them fairly.
The result was Shannon Michaels’ Emmy Award–winning series of reports for Newscenter Six on the inner workings of the terrorist group, including how donated American dollars were used for IRA medical treatment and travel expenses. Shannon feared that the IRA would be angry because his reports were precise, and balanced. To his surprise, word got back to him through Sinn Fein, the political arm of the IRA, that the commanders thought his reporting was fair and somewhat flattering.
Now, in November 1993, Liam Mooney’s wife took Shannon’s call from London. Her husband, she said, had traveled to Athens the day before, and would be in the Greek capital for about a week. She then gave Shannon a number where he could be reached. Shannon knew that Athens was a major meeting spot for Middle Eastern arms dealers and Western moneymen who wished to acquire deadly hardware for their clients. Although Liam would never say, Shannon immediately suspected that guns were the reason the Irishman had traveled to Greece.
It took three days of calling, but Shannon finally reached Liam Mooney. The Irishman sounded happy to hear his voice and, on the spot, invited him to meet him right away in Athens. Faced with torrential rain in England, Shannon quickly opted for the balmy climate of Greece. He booked a flight the next day on British Airways.
Liam Mooney was already twenty-five minutes late for their meeting, but for Shannon, it was not a problem. He was sipping a Coke and watching the tourists chug up the steep streets of the Plaka, the ancient neighborhood directly below the Acropolis. After years of neglect, it had been commercialized, and now featured the finest in overpriced Greek souvenirs and cuisine. The sun was out, but a cool breeze warned that winter was quickly descending from Northern Europe. Soon Athens would be cold, but on this day the temperature was pleasant and Shannon was enjoying the warm sun.
Shannon plucked another ripe olive from the ceramic dish in front of him. It was delicious. Greece had the best olives on earth. He stretched out his long legs and sat back on the small wooden chair. The taverna was quaint. Long wooden tables were covered with checkered cloths, a stone floor looked like it dated back to St. Paul, and wooden beams crossed the ceiling. It was a relaxing place and one well suited to the Greek national pastime: sitting around in cafés watching the world go by.
Suddenly, Liam Mooney was standing in the taverna. Shannon never saw him coming. He just appeared. Mooney was a small man in his late fifties, with red cheeks and light blue veins atop his nose. He wore an old navy blue blazer, baggy brown trousers, and scuffed brown shoes. His blue eyes twinkled as he shook Shannon’s hand and said in a thick brogue: “Good of ya ta come, lad. Is it a beer you’ll be havin’?”
Two Lowenbraus, the most popular beer in Greece, appeared on the table before Shannon could even reply. Amazing, since Greek service was notoriously sluggish. Evidently, Liam Mooney was well known in this taverna.
“Ah, these steep streets can give a man a terrible thirst,” Liam said. “I’ll lift a glass in honor of Socrates, if ya don’ mind.”
Shannon laughed. He didn’t drink beer, but Liam would literally drink enough for both of them. Liam Mooney was an outrageous rogue—charming, ruthless, generous, spiteful, cultured, and crude, all in the same package. And his guile was legendary. This was a man who managed to live in London for twenty years, remain one of the IRA’s most trusted advisors, and yet never get arrested. In fact, some of his best mates were officers in the New Scotland Yard. Liam, Shannon concluded, was indeed one of a kind.
Liam Mooney was also perceptive, and immediately picked up on Shannon’s unspoken melancholy, though he was valiantly trying to hide it. After a few minutes of small talk, Liam looked Shannon directly in the eye and said, “So, lad, now that the small talk is done, I’ll be wantin’ to know what happened to ya. That is, if you’ve got a mind to tell.” Mooney’s accent was full of that up-and-down Irish lilt that so charms Americans.
Shannon took the next fifteen minutes to explain his situation in detail. He knew Liam Mooney to be a detail man—one who would be interested in the Machiavellian aspects of his story. Shannon had received the phone call from Susan Oliver, Martin Moore’s secretary, three weeks prior, and he was still seething with anger. He hoped Liam could give him some perspective.
Liam absorbed Shannon’s story quickly. It was a scenario he was all too familiar with from his own life: betrayal and deceit. Growing up in the Devils Flats Catholic ghetto in Belfast, Mooney had witnessed social injustice on a scale few could comprehend. As Shannon finished his story, Liam ordered another round. He did not immediately react and silence enveloped the table. When the new Lowenbrau bottle appeared, Liam took a long pull and said, “So what are ya gonna do about it, then, lad?”
“What can I do about it?” Shannon shot back. “It’s over. I’m done.”
“Are ya, now? That sounds like surrender to me.”
Shannon was perceptive enough to know that Mooney was driving at something, that he was dancing around what was truly on his mind. Shannon thought for a moment, and then asked the question that Mooney wanted him to ask, “Okay, Liam, what would you do if you were me?”
Liam Mooney took another deep swallow of beer. He scratched his unkempt, stringy brown hair. “Well, I’ve got a tale for ya, if ya have the time, that is?”
“Sure,” Shannon said.
“When I was a lad of eleven, me and some mates in the Flats would run errands for the IRA. Take notes back and forth, get them cigarettes, tell their wives they’d be late. Weren’t many phones around in those days. Me mates and I would be paid a few quid a week for our work, and we had a purpose in life. Otherwise, we’d have just hung around, kickin’ the football and smashin’ each other.
“Our instructions were very definite: Swallow the notes if the Brits pulled us over, which they often did. Everybody was gettin’ searched in those days, especially if ya left the Flats and went inta town.”
Liam Mooney paused, seemingly deep in thought. Then he continued. “One day, I’ll never forget it, there was
a soft mist fallin’ and I was runnin’ over to the Falls Road with a message. And don’t I see a Brit patrol comin’ round the corner lookin’ like the devil’s delivery men. Bloody hell, says I, and I swallow the note straight away. But the damn Brits see me chewin’ the paper. I take off runnin’ but I don’t know where I’m goin’ cause of the unfamiliar surroundins. So they chase me down an alley and I’m trapped.
“I’m tryin’ to be brave, ya know, but I’m scared. Eight a those soldiers surround me, havin’ a good old time. Laughin’ and pushin’ me. Then one asks me what I swallowed. I say nothin’. The Brit slaps me hard across the face. Then he slaps me again. I go down, but they yank me back up. I’m still holdin’ my tongue and the truth is, I don’t know what the message says, I didn’t read it.”
Mooney paused again, took a pull, and set the bottle down. Shannon thought he saw moisture in Mooney’s eyes. “So now we’re in the alley and the fuckers are gettin’ impatient, doncha know. One of them slaps me again and I hit the ground. This time they jump me, takin’ off my bleedin’ shoes and socks. I didn’t know what they were up too, but I’m bloody scared and I start ta cry. The Brits laugh and one of ’em knocks over a trash can that was in the alley. Out roll a bunch of empty milk bottles. The fuckers take the bottles and smash ’em on the ground. Glass flies all over the place. I still don’t know what they’re doin’.
“Then two of ’em pick me up and throw me onta the broken glass. Remember, I’m bloody barefoot. And bloody is the word. The glass shards cut into me hands and feet. I’m bleedin’ like a pig, cryin’ like a hungry baby. The pain was somethin’ I’ll never forget. They pushed me back down on that glass three times before they quit and walked away. As soon as they were out a sight, I start crawlin’ down the alley, tryin’ to get to the street. I’m still bleedin’ like the crucified Christ. Finally, I pass out.”
Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Page 23