She also explained that it was there, in the newsroom, that all facts concerning incoming news stories were checked and rechecked by multiple sources, and that their news coverage was quite often enhanced by DBS News’s access to various computer databases. For example, on one database they could type in the entries “Reagan,” “Human Rights,” and “Soviet,” and within a minute they could have a list of every article in which those three words had appeared in seventy-five daily newspapers for the past ten years-anyone of which they could call up on their computer screen to read.
Here, in the room they were standing in, the editorial staff met several times over the course of the day to discuss the breaking news, the coverage they had on it, and how the story line-up for that night should be revised. It was here that it was decided which story was more important than another, the length of time they would devote to covering it, and which way-out of the options they had-they would cover it (film report, live report from the field, the anchor report, etc.).
Cassy punched a few commands into the computer terminal sitting on the conference table and showed them the current story line-up for that night, pointing out the estimated segment times.
Then they went on to the satellite room where Cassy briefly outlined how the DBS TELENET satellite enabled DBS News to enjoy two lives. First, as a functioning news network, able to receive local news coverage from all over the country, and then able to transmit out all over the country a national newscast. And, secondly, as a clearinghouse of information, story coverage and pictures for their affiliate newsrooms.
Out in the hallway (where Langley and Belinda joined the tour), Cassy explained that every newscast was made up of many different inputs-both visual and audio—that could be used in endless combinations. What they would be seeing, then, were a number of these inputs and, in the control room, how they were put together in combinations and sequences that hopefully most effectively communicated the news.
She took them into editing (explaining that they would still hear the word “film” used all the time, though everything was on videotape), sliding open one of the soundproof glass doors that sealed each editing bay, pointed out some of the equipment used in editing stories, and explained that, once a story was finished, it was put on a video cassette and sent on to engineering.
They went into the graphics lab, to see where artists were working on visual stills by hand, and to see the “magical” paintbox. The head artist, Becky Seidelman, cued up a graphic on the paintbox screen and with the metal stylus—her “paintbrush”—demonstrated how she could dab in colors or paint over with new ones, airbrush images, or do almost any kind of alteration imaginable.
They went into engineering, an enormous place with islands of machinery and six-foot-high metal casings along the walls, holding all kinds of electronic equipment, dials and meters-all of which, Cassy said, were used to monitor the electronic information flowing both into and out of the DBS television facility. “If the newsroom is our conscious brain at DBS News,” she said, “then engineering is our nerve center.”
There were a number of small chambers, alcoves really, off of engineering, and Cassy stopped at one, showing them a big machine that looked sort of like a soda bottle machine with a glass door running down the side. She opened this door and pointed out how video cassettes had been inserted into it from top to bottom. These were the commercials they were to run tonight, stacked in sequence. The identical machines to the right of the commercial machine, she explained, were for cassettes of news stories, loaded in the same sequence as the rundown sheet.
She also stopped by the character generator, into which subtitles and credits were typed, on a single “page” (superimposed over an interview, for example, to identify the speaker) or on a scroll, to be rolled, such as credits were.
They went into the audio booth (where Belinda Peterson collided with Cassy and then backed away without apology), a glassed-in area that looked onto the main control room. Each of the many sliding levers on the boards they were looking at, Cassy explained, represented a channel input of sound-everything from Alexandra’s microphone in the studio to the sound on a commercial—that could be switched in or out, faded in or faded out of the newscast. The audio person sat in here, listening for the director’s cues, responsible for every input of sound in the newscast.
They moved on to the control room, where a very long desk ran almost its entire length, in front of which were rows of television monitors stacked to the ceiling. Cassy explained that, for each visual input source they had seen on their tour, there was a monitor in the control room to represent it. For example, she pointed out that each of the SAT monitors (marked SAT 1, SAT 2… showed the director what satellite signals were coming in that he or she could cut to (and to preview the signal, for example, to make sure the reporter was indeed standing there, ready to do his live report from the field).
Monitors marked CAM referred to cameras in the studio; GRPH stood for graphics; VTR for video sources, and so on. The most important monitor, she said, was the one marked PRGM, which stood for program-which showed what was going out over the air. Belinda Peterson then knocked into a chair and Langley said something to her. (Belinda was making Cassy very nervous. She was acting very strangely and Cassy knew it wasn’t her imagination because everybody else on the tour had half an eye on her too.)
Cassy went on to explain that the director—who sat in the middle of the long desk—was in charge of orchestrating all inputs of the newscast, everything from when to roll the opening sequence and bring up the sound to what the camera angle looked like; to cuing the talent; to cutting from one video source to another (such as camera 2 in the studio to the commercial cued up on VTR 3).
Sitting next to the director was the technical director, who operated the video switcher, a vast array of banks, buses, buttons, knobs and fader bars with which he or she carried out the director’s every visual command. As the audio engineer was responsible for all sound, the technical director was responsible for all visuals, including special effects.
The assistant director, also sitting at the long desk, kept track of time and—
At this point the little tour group turned around to look at the Petersons, between whom a furious bout of whispers had broken out. Langley, looking embarrassed, murmured apologies, and then Belinda, looking pale and glassy-eyed, threw her arm out, saying (in a voice far too loud), “We’re reeeal sorry. Yah just go on and we’ll be as quiet as mice back here.”
Cassy led the group into the studio, where the crews had already pushed back the audience seating for “The Jessica Wright Show” and had closed off Studio B. Jessica’s living-room set was dark; but here, on the other side of the studio, the work lights were on for the three connecting sets for DBS News: Alexandra’s set, the in-studio correspondents’ set, and the weather stand-up set.
Cassy asked them to take special note of the background of Alexandra’s set
“Take note of what?” Belinda Peterson said, too loudly again, making everyone look at her again. “Oh, stop it, Langley!” she said, shaking his hand off her arm. Langley looked as though he wanted to die. “Thank you,” Belinda said, turning back to Cassy and plunking one hand on her hip. “Now what were you saying?”
Cassy repeated that she wished them to take special note of Alexandra’s set because over the course of the newscast it would appear to change. Their video switcher—which they had seen in the control room—could make the color of the set absorb the image of another video signal, so that they could, for example, make Alexandra and her desk appear to be sitting in front of the newsroom—which was, as they could see, actually way over there.
“I’ll do whatever I want!” Belinda said to Langley. “I own the place, don’t I?”
Everyone in the studio—Cassy, the tour group, stagehands, technicians—fell silent.
Langley said something to Belinda, trying to pull her to the side. I’m sorry,” he said to Cassy, “she’s not feeling very well.”
>
“If I’m sick, then ids—isss because, because…” Belinda said, her voice trailing off. Belinda did not look at all well now. She brought her hand up to her face and Langley rushed to her side, and this time she did not object to his holding her.
“Bozzy,” Cassy said, waving him over. “Show them the sets and then take them back to the newsroom, okay? I’ll see you back there,” she added to the group, walking over to Langley and Belinda.
“I’m sorr—” Belinda was mumbling, slumping against Langley. “I don’t know whaddatiz.”
“Let’s take her to one of the dressing rooms,” Cassy murmured, taking her other side.
“Id must be da flu,” Belinda said, slurring badly.
Kyle appeared out of nowhere. “Cass?”
“Doctor,” Cassy whispered to him.
“No,” Langley said, leading them along. “It’s okay. It’s happened before, it’ll pass.”
“Lang?” Belinda said, her voice sounding weak.
“I’m right here, honey,” he whispered. “Just walk with me. We’re just going to go somewhere you can lie down for a little while.”
“Lang?” she said again, sighing. Her eyes were closed, her head resting against Langley’s shoulder and she was—
If Cassy was not mistaken—and she wasn’t because she was four inches from Belinda’s face—Belinda was smiling. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Belinda was drunk. “Is she diabetic?” she asked Langley as they came through the studio doors into the corridor.
“No, but it’s sort of like that,” Langley said.
“You better get Jackson,” Cassy said to Kyle.
“Yeah,” he said, bounding off.
They took Belinda into one of the spare dressing rooms and laid her down on the open-back couch in it. Langley sat on the edge, holding his wife’s hand, and by the time Cassy came out of the bathroom with a glass of water for her, Belinda was asleep.
“She’ll be okay now,” Langley whispered, gently brushing the hair back off Belinda’s forehead with his hand.
“I’d feel better if we had a doctor take a look at her,” Cassy whispered, putting the water down on the dressing table.
Langley looked up at her. “It’s a nervous condition. She has these, uh, periods…”
Cassy was about to say, “Like what, schizophrenia?” but thought better of it.
“It’s something like manic depression,” he continued, looking back down at his wife and taking her hand. She murmured something, moving slightly, and then was still again, breathing peacefully. “But it’s not. She’s seen a lot of doctors, they’ve done blood workups and everything, but she’s not manic-depressive, they say. It’s not like that.”
The door opened and Jackson came in. “Is she all right?” he whispered, going to her.
“Yes, she’s okay,” Langley said.
Jackson went down on his knees next to the couch, by Belinda’s head. “Baby B, are you okay?” he whispered.
Belinda murmured something and turned over on her side, away from them, tucking her hands under her head to use as a pillow.
“She’ll be fine,” Langley said, looking at his watch. “She’ll sleep, for about a half hour or so, and then I’ll take her home.”
Jackson looked up at him, bit his lower lip, patted the side of Langley’s knee twice and got up. “Anything I can do?”
“Call outside and tell them to have the car ready,” Langley said. “Other than that, no. I’m just going to sit here with her. She’ll be fine.” He turned to look at Cassy. “You won’t need me tonight, will you?”
“Oh, no, of course not,” she said, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I just wish I could do something for you. Call a doctor…”
“You could just go back to work,” he suggested, smiling slightly. “You know—the show must go on and all that.”
Cassy looked down at him-at his worried face behind those serious glasses—and, before she thought about it, leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “If you need anything, call us here. You know to do that, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Thanks.” He looked to Jackson. “Just leave us, Jack.
She’ll be fine now.”
Jackson nodded and then looked over at Cassy. He gestured to the door; she walked over to it, went outside and he followed. Closing the door behind him, Jackson turned to her. Then he sighed, fell against the wall and stayed there, looking into her eyes. “Well,” he finally said in a low voice, averting his eyes then, “now you know one of our many family secrets.”
“How long?” she murmured, so that no one passing by could hear.
“Hmmm?” he said, looking back at her.
“How long has she…?”
He bit his lip, looking somewhere past her, thinking. “I don’t know—on and off, I guess, about five years or so.” He met her eyes. “It could have been earlier. I wouldn’t have known—there was a period I wasn’t around much.”
She didn’t say anything.
He sighed abruptly, looking back at the door. He blinked several times in rapid succession, swallowed and then looked at her again. “My sister Cordie says it might have started when my wife died. My wife, Barbara. She and Belinda were real close. And then I wasn’t there for a while.” He looked away, eyes following an intern going by. “We don’t do well with death in our family. None of us.” Then he took a breath, looked as though he might say something else—but didn’t. He just yanked at his tie, pulling it loose as though it were strangling him.
“Come on,” Cassy said, touching his arm. “Why don’t you come to the newsroom with me? We’ll call for his car from there.”
“No,” he said, stopping. “If you wouldn’t mind—would you call? I think I better stick around here.”
“Sure,” she said, lowering her arm.
“Thanks,” Jackson said.
They stood there, looking at each other.
“Okay,” Cassy finally said, touching his arm again for a moment and then walking on.
“Cassy?” he called a second later.
She turned around.
“Later—” He stopped, looking around at all the people coming and in the hall. He walked over to her.“Later—do you think I could watch the newscast from the control room with you? If I promise—”
“Of course,” Cassy said quickly. She smiled. “And I would really like it if you did.”
His face brightened and he ran his hand over his jaw once, backing away. “Great,” he said. “I’ll see you later then.”
“Later,” Cassy said, smiling still. And then she turned around and walked briskly down the hall, wondering if her face was as red as it felt.
30
DBS Unveiled
Part VI- Alexandra
After she had escorted Jessica to the studio for her show, Alexandra attended the editorial meeting, at which they finalized the story lineup for the newscast. It was a holiday and there was not much hard news, certainly not domestically, but they had expected that and so, as planned, each of the in-house specialty correspondents would get on tonight. When the meeting was over Alexandra went out into the newsroom with Dan, the senior news editor, and Kyle, talked with some of the producers and writers, and then she went over into the corner with her notes, sat down at a computer terminal and worked on the copy she would be reading on the major stories, and read through all the copy filed by other correspondents and writers thus far.
When she was finished she went to the satellite room to see what kind of Memorial Day footage they were getting in from the affiliates to make a closing piece for their “elder statesman” and editor-at-large, Chester Hanacker, to do. And then, at Chester’s request, she joined him and Hex and a segment producer in editing to work on the piece, and when they had a good sense of it she went back to the newsroom with Chester to bang out some notes. Then Alexandra passed the notes—and Chester—on to Shelley, one of the writers. Someone handed her a copy of the newscast rundown sheet on her way
out, and Alexandra took it with her into her dressing room. Later, as she scooted across the hall to makeup, Kyle intercepted her, giving her a revised rundown sheet and pointing out some changes.
A few minutes before eight Alexandra walked into the studio and took her seat on the set. A script was waiting for her there. On the connecting set, an inverted V-shaped desk for two (which they could use for in-house correspondent reports or as the setting for in-studio interviews), the government and politics correspondent, John Knox Norwood, and the sports editor, Dash Tomlinson, were sitting. On the third connecting set, sitting at a small desk, next to which was the large blank wall of the set, was Gary Plains, the meteorologist. Sitting in chairs just off the sets were Dr. Helen Kai Lu, their health and science editor; Paul Levitz, their business and economics editor; Brooks Bayerson Ames, their razzle-dazzle arts and entertainment correspondent; and, finally, their editor-at-large, Chester. They ran through sound and lighting checks. They ran through the transitions, the openings and closings. Okay. Okay. Okay. Everybody knew where to go and how. Everybody could read the TelePrompTers okay. Everybody could see the program monitors okay. Everything is okay, right?
At eight thirty-eight Alexandra took off her microphone, stepped down off the set and walked to the newsroom. She opened the door and stood there, smiling.
If Alexandra Waring was beautiful, then she was never more so than at that moment—when the clocks hit 8:39 P.M. on Monday, May 30, 1988—standing in the doorway in a soft blue-gray dress that matched the color of her eyes. All activity in the newsroom momentarily stopped.
“I think it’s going to be wonderful,” she said.
And then all newsroom activity resumed and Alexandra walked out, closing the door behind her, going back into the studio to take her place on the set.
Alexandra Waring Page 40