The Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  “No.”

  “Did you recognize the make?”

  Florence shook her head. “They all look the same to me.”

  “Leave that for now,” Detective York told Jensen. Then to Florence, “Think about that car. Try to remember anything else, and we’ll come back to you.”

  The detective and Jensen returned outside. As they did, two more police cruisers arrived. One brought a uniformed sergeant, another the Larchmont chief of police. The chief, in uniform, was tall and rangy, with a deceptively low-key manner. The four began a hasty conference in the driveway.

  Near the end of it the chief asked Detective York, “Do you think this is for real—a kidnap?”

  “At this moment,” York said, “everything points that way.”

  “Jensen?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s for real.”

  “You said the Nissan van that was seen leaving had New Jersey plates?”

  “According to a witness, yes, sir.”

  The chief mused. “If it is a kidnap and they cross a state line, it becomes the FBI’s jurisdiction. That’s the Lindbergh law.” He added, “Not that that kind of detail worries the FBI.”

  The last words came out sourly, reflecting the conviction of many local lawmen that the FBI moved in on any high-profile case they wanted and found reasons to decline the ones they didn’t. Then the chief said decisively, “I’m calling in the FBI now.”

  He returned to his car and picked up the radio mike.

  A minute or two later, rejoining the others, the chief ordered Detective York to go back to the house and stay inside. “The first thing you do, have that maid put you in touch with Mr. Sloane and speak to him yourself. Tell him as much as you know, and that we’re doing all we can. After that, answer any incoming phone calls. Keep a note of everything. You’ll be getting help soon.”

  The sergeant and Jensen were instructed to remain on protective duty outside. “Soon, there’ll be more people here than flies around a shithouse. Let no one past the front gate except the FBI. When the press get here with their questions, direct them to headquarters.”

  At that moment they heard the sound of a noisy approaching car. Their heads turned. It was a battered white Volkswagen bug and the chief said glumly, “Here’s the first.”

  Bert Fisher had no need to check which house on Park Avenue was number 66. The assembled police cars were direction enough.

  As he stopped his VW at the curb and climbed out, the police chief had entered his own car and was about to leave. Bert hurried forward. “Chief, can you make a statement?”

  “Oh, it’s you!” The chief ran down his window on the driver’s side; he had encountered the old news stringer many times before. “A statement about what?”

  “Oh, come on, Chief! I’ve heard all the radio buzz, including your instruction just now to call in the FBI.” Bert looked around him, realizing that his hunch was right. “This is Crawford Sloane’s home, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And is it Mrs. Sloane who’s been kidnapped?”

  As the chief hesitated, Bert pleaded, “Look, I’m the first here. Why not give a local boy a break?”

  The chief, who was a reasonable man, thought, Well, why not? He was even a little fond of Fisher, a nuisance at times like a persistent mosquito, though never vicious the way some press people could be.

  “If you heard all the messages,” the chief said, “you’ll know we aren’t certain of anything yet. But yes, we do think Mrs. Sloane may have been abducted, along with the Sloanes’ son Nicholas and Mr. Sloane’s father.”

  Bert, scribbling as the chief spoke, knew this was the most important story of his life and he wanted to be careful. “So what you’re telling me is that the Larchmont police are acting on the assumption there have been three kidnappings.”

  The chief nodded. “That’s an okay quote.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  “No. Oh, just one thing. Mr. Sloane has not been informed and we’re trying to get in touch with him. So before you start sounding off, for god’s sake give us time to do that.”

  With that, the chief pulled away and Bert dived for his VW. Despite the chief’s caveat, he had no intention of waiting for anything. The only question in his mind was: Where was the nearest pay phone?

  Moments later, as Bert turned out of Park Avenue, he saw another car turning in and recognized the occupant—the local stringer for WNBC-TV. So the competition was onto the story. Now, if Bert was to stay ahead he had to move fast.

  Not far away, on Boston Post Road, he found a pay phone. As he punched out the numbers of WCBA-TV, his hand was trembling.

  16

  At 11:20 A.M. in the pressure-driven newsroom of WCBA-TV, tension was rising as it always did during the hour preceding the local New York station’s News at Noon. Today especially, there was a heavy budget of news with several developing stories competing for the lead position.

  A famous evangelist, in New York to receive a religious prize, had been found dead in his Waldorf suite, apparently from a cocaine overdose, and a prostitute who had spent the night with him was being questioned by police. In midtown Manhattan an office building was on fire; people trapped on high floors were being rescued by helicopter. A Wall Street billionaire, terminally ill with cancer, was being wheeled around the Bronx in an invalid chair as he handed out fistfuls of one-hundred-dollar bills. Every few minutes, from a trailing armored car, his supply was replenished.

  Amid a scene of near-bedlam, Bert Fisher’s phone call was routed to the same assistant news director as before who, on hearing who was calling, snapped, “We’re swamped here. Make it short and quick!”

  Bert did, at which the young newsman said incredulously, “You’re sure? Absolutely sure? Do you have confirmation?”

  “From the chief of police.” Bert added proudly, “He gave me an exclusive statement and, to be safe, I had him repeat it.”

  The assistant news director was already on his feet, signaling to the news director, shouting urgently, “Line four! Line four!” He told an assignment editor at a desk beside him, “We need a camera crew in Larchmont fast. Don’t ask me how to find one, just pull them off something else, anything else, and get them there.”

  The woman news director was already listening to Bert Fisher. When she had made notes of the essentials, she asked him, “Who else has the story?”

  “I was the first. Still am. But WNBC’s man was arriving as I left.”

  “Did he have a camera crew?”

  “No.”

  The assistant news director crossed the newsroom to report, “I’ve a crew on the way. We pulled them from the Bronx.”

  The news director spoke into the phone, instructing Bert Fisher, “Stay on the line.” Then to a writer at a desk nearby: “Take line four. It’s Fisher, Larchmont. Get everything he has, then write it as our noon lead.”

  At the same time the news director picked up a telephone connecting her directly to the network. Ernie LaSalle, CBA’s national editor, answered and she told him, “The kidnap in Larchmont is confirmed. Half an hour ago unknown persons violently seized Crawford Sloane’s wife, his son, and Crawford’s father.”

  “Good Christ!” LaSalle’s shock and incredulity came down the line. “Has Crawf been told?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are the police involved?”

  “Very much so, and they’ve called in the FBI. Our man Fisher has a statement from the Larchmont chief.” Checking her notes, the news director read aloud the chief’s statement, Bert Fisher’s query, and the chief’s words, “That’s an okay quote.”

  “Run that past me again.” LaSalle was frantically typing as he spoke.

  The WCBA news director did so, adding, “We’ve heard that WNBC is onto the story, though a tad behind us. Look, we’ll go with this at noon anyway, and I’m considering breaking into programming now. But I thought, since this is family …”

  Before she
could finish, LaSalle snapped, “Don’t do a damn thing over there. The brass will be in on this. And if anybody breaks it, we will.”

  Taking seconds only, Ernie LaSalle debated his options.

  He had several.

  One was to take whatever time was necessary to first contact Crawford Sloane, who might or might not be in the building, then personally and gently as possible convey to Crawf the frightening information. A second was to pick up the red reporting phone in front of him and announce to the entire News Division the kidnapping of the Sloane family, after which urgent action to make an on-air report would undoubtedly begin. The third was to issue an order to network master control that CBA News would “take air” in approximately three minutes, interrupting network programming with a special bulletin. LaSalle was one of a half-dozen people who had the power to authorize such intrusion and, in his judgment, the news just received was not only preeminent, but of immense public interest.

  He made his decision, opting for the second choice. Influencing his judgment was the knowledge that another New York station, WNBC-TV—owned by NBC network—was on the Larchmont scene. Undoubtedly NBC News would receive a report swiftly from their affiliate, just as CBA had. Therefore there wasn’t time for humane niceties. As for going on the air at once, there were plenty of other people around, including the News Division president, Les Chippingham, to make that decision.

  I’m sorry as hell to do this to you, Crawf, LaSalle thought, then picked up the red reporting phone.

  “National desk. LaSalle. The earlier reported kidnapping at Larchmont, New York, has been confirmed by the local chief of police who has called in the FBI. According to police, the reported victims are Mrs. Crawford Sloane, young Nicholas Sloane and …” Despite his resolve and professionalism, LaSalle found his voice breaking. Steeling himself he continued. “… and Crawford’s father, who were violently seized and driven away by unknown persons. WCBA has reliable on-scene coverage, details available here. NBC is believed to be working on this story, though we have a slight lead. National desk recommends taking network air immediately.”

  Horror and consternation swept through the News Division like a tidal wave. Everyone stopped working. Many looked at each other, asking silently, Did I really hear that? When confirmation was forthcoming, unanswerable questions sprang to lips: How could it happen? Who would do such a thing? Is it a kidnap for ransom? What do the kidnappers want? What are the chances the police will catch them quickly? Oh god, how must Crawford feel?

  One floor above the newsroom, senior staffers at the Horseshoe were equally appalled, though their shock lasted only moments. After it, out of habit and discipline, they were galvanized to action.

  Chuck Insen, as senior producer in the building, left his office on the run. All his newsman’s instincts told him that the national desk advice to take network air immediately would be followed. When that happened, Insen’s appointed place was in the broadcast control room four floors below. Reaching a bank of elevators, he jabbed a down button with his thumb.

  Impatiently awaiting for an elevator, Insen’s mind overflowed with sympathy for Sloane, their differences for the moment totally erased. He wondered: Where was Crawf? Earlier, Insen had seen him briefly in the distance and knew that he and Les Chippingham had had their heads together in Sloane’s office for reasons Insen already knew. Presumably Crawf was somewhere in the building and must have heard the hot-line call. Which raised a crucial question.

  When urgent breaking news was deemed significant enough to interrupt the network with a special report, it was the evening news anchorman—in CBA’s case, Crawford Sloane—who faced the cameras. If the anchorman wasn’t on the scene, he would be sent for, with any available correspondent filling in until the anchor arrived. But, Insen realized, there was absolutely no way Sloane could be expected to handle this sudden, harrowing news about his own family.

  At that moment a “down” elevator arrived and the business correspondent of CBA News, Don Kettering, prepared to step out. Kettering, middle-aged with a thin mustache and looking like a well-to-do businessman himself, opened his mouth to say something but never got started. This was because Insen shoved him back inside the elevator and hit the Bl button for first basement. The elevator doors closed.

  Kettering spluttered, “What the—”

  “Hold it,” Insen said. “You heard the speakerphone just now?”

  “Yes, I’m damn sorry. I was going to tell Crawf—”

  “Where you’re going,” Insen said, “is on the air. Get to the flash studio and take the hot seat. Crawf can’t do this. You’re available. I’ll talk to you from the control room.”

  Kettering, a quick thinker and an experienced general reporter before he became a business specialist, nodded. He even seemed a little pleased at the prospect. “Do I get some briefing?”

  “We’ll give you all we have so far. You’ll get maybe a minute to do a quick study, then ad-lib. More will be fed to you as it comes in.”

  “Right.”

  As Insen left the elevator, Kettering pressed a button which would take him upward to the broadcast floor.

  Elsewhere, other activity was in high gear, some proceeding automatically.

  In the newsroom, the Northeast assignment editor was rounding up two network camera crews and correspondents. Their instructions were to proceed posthaste to Larchmont and obtain pictures of the kidnap scene as well as interview police and any witnesses. A mobile transmitting van would follow right behind.

  In a small research department adjoining the Horseshoe, an offshoot of a larger research library in another building, a half-dozen people were hastily assembling a computer biography of Crawford Sloane and the few known facts about his family—few because Jessica Sloane had always insisted on privacy for herself and Nicholas.

  From somewhere, though, main research had acquired a photograph of Jessica which was coming through on a fax machine; a graphics editor hovered over the machine, waiting to remove the picture and convert it to a slide. Printing out from another computer was the war record of Crawford’s father, Angus Sloane. There would be a photo of him too. No picture of Nicky had been located so far.

  A research assistant grabbed all the material available and ran down a flight of stairs to the flash facility studio where Don Kettering had just arrived. Right behind research, a messenger from the national desk brought a printout of Bert Fisher’s Larchmont report, received from WCBA-TV. Kettering sat down at the studio’s central desk and, blocking out all else, immersed himself in reading. Around him technicians were arriving, lights coming on. Someone clipped a microphone onto Kettering’s jacket. A cameraman framed Kettering in his lens.

  The flash facility was the smallest studio in the building, no bigger than a modest living room. It had a single camera and was kept for occasions such as this when it could be activated and ready in moments.

  Meanwhile, in the darkened control room where Chuck Insen had now established himself, a woman director slid into her central seat facing a bank of TV monitors, some illumined, others black. On her right, an assistant with an open notebook joined her. Operators and technicians were taking their places, a stream of orders flowing.

  “Standby camera one. Mike check.”

  “Bill, this will be a live announce. ‘We interrupt this programming’ open and a ‘resume programming’ close. Okay?”

  “Okay. Got it.”

  “Do we have a script yet?”

  “Negative. Don may go ad-lib.”

  “Bring the video up ten units.”

  “Camera one, let’s see Kettering.”

  More monitors were coming alight, among them one from the flash facility. The face of Don Kettering filled the screen.

  The director’s assistant was talking with network master control. “This is news. We’re expecting to break into the network with a bulletin. Please stand by.”

  The director inquired, “Is the special slide ready?”

  A voice responded, “
Here it is.”

  On another monitor, bright red letters filled the screen:

  CBA NEWS

  SPECIAL

  BULLETIN

  “Hold it there.” The director turned in her chair to speak to Insen. “Chuck, we’re ready as we’ll ever be. Do we go or not?”

  The executive producer, a telephone cradled in his shoulder, told her, “I’m finding out now.”

  He was talking to the News Division president who was in the main newsroom where Crawford Sloane was pleading for delay.

  The time was 11:52 A.M.

  When the shattering national desk announcement began, Crawford Sloane was at the head of a stairway on the fourth floor, about to descend to the newsroom. His intention had been to find out more, if he could, about the earlier report from Larchmont.

  As the speakerphones went live, he stopped to listen, then, scarcely believing what he had heard, stood briefly, dazed and in a state of shock. His momentary trance was interrupted by one of the Horseshoe secretaries who had seen him leave and now came running after him, calling out breathlessly, “Oh, Mr. Sloane! The Larchmont police are on your line. They want to talk to you urgently.”

  He followed the girl back and took the call in his office.

  “Mr. Sloane, this is Detective York. I’m at your home and have some unfortunate—”

  “I just heard. Tell me what you know.”

  “Actually, sir, it’s very little. We know that your wife, son and father left for the Grand Union supermarket about fifty minutes ago. Inside the store, according to witnesses, they were approached …”

  The detective continued his recital of known facts, including the trio’s apparently forced departure in a Nissan van. He added, “We’ve just heard that FBI special agents are on the way here, and someone from FBI is coming over to you. I’ve been asked to tell you there’s concern about your own safety. You’ll receive protection, but for the time being you should not leave the building you are in.”

  Sloane’s mind was whirling. Consumed with anxiety, he asked, “Is there any idea who might have done this?”

  “No, sir. It all happened suddenly. We’re absolutely in the dark.”