Fake News

by G L Rockey

  Chapter Fifteen

  Later that afternoon

  4:15 p.m. EST

  The Labor Day edition of The Boca downloaded to Right This Second printer service, Zack figured he was ahead of schedule. Dressed in his normal dress-down outfit—black T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, brown deck shoes—he looked forward to a long weekend out on the water with Veracity–boating, drifting, fishing, cold Bohemia.

  He poured a cup of coffee, sat at his desk and recalling the previous evening, said, “I knew that ‘just one drink’ idea with O’Brien would never work.”

  He ran his left hand over his head and remembered Mary’s parting words in the parking lot of the Pulp Fiction around after midnight: “You’re going to marry me, Boca. It’s not a question of if, it’s just when. You have to make a decision. Better be soon, or we’ll be doing it in your wheelchair.”

  He slipped off his shoes, turned, propped his bare feet on the window sill and studied a line of purplish cumulus clouds pushing in from the Atlantic. He heard someone enter his office, smelled the exotic cologne, and immediately knew who it was.

  “Zackary, I think you should turn your TV on.”

  Zack, confirming his smell detection, recognized the mellow voice of The Boca’s ace reporter, Jim Roberts.

  “You hear me, Bwana?”

  “I heard you, Massa.” Zack turned to his desk and looked at Jim. The University of Miami summa cum laude journalism graduate stood a six feet capital I, straight and lean. His face glowed like an open-all-night neon sign on a deserted roadside café. A meticulous dresser, today he wore a tan Baroni suit, royal blue shirt, mauve tie and cordovan Johnson & Murphy loafers. No rings—ears, hands or otherwise. He was proud of his African ancestry.

  Zack said, “How much is that stuff?”

  “What?”

  “Cologne.”

  “Fifty an ounce, Versace.”

  “Nice suit.”

  “Baroni.” Used to Zack’s paternal reviews, Jim stepped to the television set and picked up the remote control. “Wait till you see what our friends in TV land are offering up to begin this nice Labor Day weekend.”

  Looking him over, Zack said, “No wonder you’re always asking for a raise—you need to lighten up on the accessories.”

  “I drive a Chevy.” Jim turned on the TV.

  “Corvette, ain’t bad.”

  Zack leaned back and watched the TV come to life. “You know, Massa, even when you were an intern you always had much latitude in this office, but you have just committed a cardinal sin.”

  “What’d I do? Wake you up?”

  “Worse, you’re threatening me with TV.”

  Jim pointed the remote control toward the set. “Wait till you see this. This just broke on Channel 10 twenty minutes ago.”

  The set on CSPAN, he pressed one then zero and Channel 10 came on.

  “I guess you’re going to do it anyway.” Zack lit a MORE and noticed small beads of perspiration on Jim’s forehead.

  Jim said, “Get prepared for a dose of reality.”

  Zack said, “Must be something special if the unflappable Mr. Roberts is sweating.”

  “I think so.”

  “Why don’t you take that suit coat off?”

  “I’m fine.” Jim turned the volume up and tossed the control to Zack. “You are not going to believe this, Bwana.”

  He sat on the sofa.

  “Not much on television that I do believe,” Zack said as they watched Steve Eaton, a familiar local newscaster—slick brown hair, square jaw, blue suit, red necktie—exuded dynamic presence in a medium close-up: “as we piece this incredible story together, this is all we know as of this minute. To recap, as you no doubt are aware from earlier reports, a brutal homicide occurred last night of an African-American woman on Key Largo.

  “Channel 10 has obtained exclusive video just a few hours ago showing what appears to be a directly related incident. The video, from a confidential source, has horrific implications for the Miami Police Department. Our attempts to get a response from Miami Police Chief Manny have gone unanswered. We will keep trying. Meanwhile, let me recap, and, ah, roll the video again, guys.”

  The video switched to a wider shot of Eaton with a TV monitor beside him.

  Eaton: “Forgive us, folks, this whole thing just came in and we’re making it up as we go.”

  “That is not new,” Zack said.

  News video began to play on the monitor.

  Eaton: “Folks, this is awesome video.”

  The video of a familiar white-and-blue Miami squad car, lights flashing, behind a white car, played.

  Eaton: “Ladies and gentlemen, if there are children present, you may want to use parental discretion. As you will see, this is extremely explicit video.” He pressed a hand to his earphone. “Wait, hold that video, guys, we have a live report from Genie Collins on the scene in Freedom City. We’ll go with the video later.”

  The view on the monitor switched to a shot of a perky brunette wearing a Channel 10 baseball cap.

  Eaton: “Genie, can you hear me?”

  Genie: “Yes, Steve.”

  Eaton: “Just where are you now?”

  Genie: “I’m at the corner of 21st and Seventh Avenue.”

  Eaton: “Tell us about it, Genie.”

  The video switched to a full screen of Genie.

  Genie: “The atmosphere down here is very quiet right now, almost eerie. Nobody around. It’s like everybody is watching this story somewhere on a TVoh, here is somebody. Excuse me, sir; have you seen the video of the incident last night on Key Largo with the Miami police?”

  The video zoomed out to include a middle-aged African-American male.

  Male: “Screw the cops.”

  Genie: “Sir, we’re on live TV.”

  Male: “Fuck TV.”

  The video switched to a close up of Eaton. “Okay, Genie, we’ll get back to you later. Sorry about that, folks. Live TV is risky, but it’s worth it, isn’t it? Well, anyway, where do we go from here, guys?” He pressed an earpiece to his ear. “Okay, let’s take a break, then we’ll show the video again. Don’t go away, we’ll be right back.”

  Zack muted the volume. “Jimbo, is this some kind of slightly late April Fool joke?” He clicked his fingers. “Wait, I know, it’s a new TV reality show, An Obsolete Affair, starring your own local man in the SUN, Steve Eaton.”

  Jim pursed his lips. “Zackary, this is no joke.”

  Sensing Jim’s concern, Zack tilted his head. “Am I missing something here?”

  “You have to see the full video. They’ll show it again.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “This is one for the record books, Bwana. Dynamite news story.”

  “What news story?”

  “That murder out on Key Largo last night—sheriff found the body this morning”

  “I saw that. Sheriff said it was drug”

  “Maybe not, Bwana. This video Channel 10’s got is gonna blow your socks off.” He looked at the television set. “There, look at this, this is unbelievable.”

  “Everything on TV is unbelievable.” Zack pressed the sound up.

  Eaton: “so, now we’re going to take another look at that videotape. There’s no sound so I’ll try to fill you in as we”

  “Please, don’t fill me in.” Zack muted the TV and studied the dim video of the two white cops standing beside a white car parked on a deserted beach road.

  “That large fellow could lend his skinny partner about fifty pounds,” Zack said.

  “Wait till you see what the fat guy doeslook at that.” Jim glanced at Zack with raised eyebrows. “Hello.”

  Watching the cop yank the woman out of her car, Zack tipped his head. “Say what?”

  “Look at this.”

  The female, unsteady, extended her arms then staggered.

  Zack massaged the top of his head. “Looks like she’s inebriated.”

  “Watch this,” Jim said.

  Za
ck said, “Did anchorman Steve mention where his TV station got this bit of socially engineered cinematography?”

  “No, I don’t knowconfidential source is what Eaton just said. From the looks of it, amateurlook at that.”

  The video blurred then cleared as the fat officer drew a line in the sand and began a body search. The skinny cop joined in.

  Zack shook his head. “What is this?”

  “What does it look like?” Jim pointed. “Look at that.”

  Zack watched then turned to Jim. “This is a joke, right?”

  “I wish. Look at this.”

  They watched the oral sex.

  Stoically, Zack sat back. “Where did Channel 10 get this?”

  Jim: “Watch this.”

  The fat cop pushed the female into her car, placed his pistol to her head and shot her.

  Zack pinched the bridge of his nose, blinked his eyes, sat motionless then whispered, “This can’t be.”

  “We both wish.”

  The video played out and the TV screen switched to a shot of Steve Eaton. Zack increased the sound.

  Eaton shook his head. “What can I say, folks, incriminating video? Let’s take a break. We’ll be right back.”

  “No, you won’t.” Zack muted the set and asked himself, how could that be? He looked at Jim. “How could that be?”

  “How could what be?”

  “That, what we just saw?”

  “Seeing is believing.”

  Scratching the top of his head, Zack stood. “Jimbo, this can’t be.”

  “Like I said, Bwana, seeing is believing.”

  “Yes, you did say that.”

  “Zackary, this is a bat out of hell.”

  Zack tugged a thread hanging from his T-shirt. “When did Channel 10 hit the airwaves with this little ditty?”

  “I just saw itthis is the second timehalf an hour ago.” Jim stood and straightened his tie.

  Reading each other’s thoughts, they remained silent for several minutes.

  Zack broke the ice, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The unabridged version or the other?”

  “Other.”

  “This city is going to fucking explode.”

  Zack drained his coffee in a long swallow and pondered Jim.

  Jim squeezed his focus to Zackary’s eyes. “It’s insane.”

  “At least.” Zack picked up a Camel then decided on a MORE. He scratched a wooden match across his desk and lit the cigarette. “Channel 10 broke this story half an hour ago, you say?”

  “Something like that, yes, about thirty minutes ago.” Jim sat on the sofa and leaned back. “I can’t believe it.”

  Zack stroked the top of his head. “Did you notice if they gave the source of the tape?”

  “Eaton said a confidential source.”

  “He did say that, didn’t he?”

  Jim glanced at the television. “There it is again. Look at that, I cannot believe that.”

  Zack slipped his shoes on and, surfing through the TV channels as he went, walked to the television. “I guess none of the other TV people have it yet.” He changed back to Channel 10. The tape played.

  “Look at that, I can’t believe that.” Jim said.

  “Seeing is believing.”

  “Bastards.”

  Contemplating, Zack walked back to his desk and sat. “Anyway, Mr. Roberts, like the good reporters that we are, we need to check it out.”

  “What’s to check out, it’s on TV.”

  Exhaling, he replied, “D-minus,” glanced at his watch. “Five o’clock. I’ll start working the phones. You need to get down to the Chief Manny’s office and find out what he is saying about all this. We’ll do a special edition for tomorrow. Two, three pages”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Our readers expect it.”

  “Butit’s Labor Day weekend I got a long weekend planned…”

  “And we shall labor.”

  “But, weren’t youaren’t you going out on Veracity?”

  “Was.”

  “Shit.”

  “That, too.”

  “What can Manny say?”

  “I don’t know, he might think of something, usually does.”

  “Not this time.”

  They looked at the TV as another play of the video unfolded.

  “Look at that.”

  “You’re going over to the Chief Manny’s office, right?” Zack said.

  “Right.”

  “Manny has to be offering some explanation.”

  “Explanation for what?” Jim frowned.

  “What’s on that video, who, what, why, all that stuff.”

  “What can he say?” Jim stood and stepped to the door. “I had this fabulous weekend plannedlady friend got a boat, we were going to”

  “So did I.”

  Jim raised an eyebrow, “Ms. O’Brien going with you?”

  “D-minus. Alone.”

  “Right.” Jim pointed to the television screen as the video played again. “Look at that. I cannot believe that.”

  “And while you’re over there, we need to find out the name of the female victimwhere, what, why, when, all that stuff, and who those two idiot white cops are.”

  Jim glanced at the TV. “I can’t believe that.”

  “I can’t eitheranyway, when you get ready, go on over there. Meantime, I’ll see if I can find out the name of the so called ‘confidential source’ that furnished the video to our friends at Channel 10. Wonder if said source is a reliable source.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Call me after you talk to Manny.”

  “I need a raise.”

  “Cut back on the cologne.”

  Jim started down the stairs.

  Zack shouted, “We’ll hold everything till we hear from you.” He eyed yet another play of the gruesome video. “Go ahead, kiddies, play that video again. Analyze it again, slow-mo it again, reverse angle it again, zoom-in-the-detail again, go ahead, play it again.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  4:50 p.m. EST

  Zack punched Night Editor Ted Stallings’ first-floor video phone number. After three rings an image of Ted’s slender gothic face appeared on Zack’s phone screen.

  Ted said in his normal dry dot-com tone, “I know the question. Did you see the latest insanity on TV?”

  “Know the answer?”

  “A special edition, like for tomorrow.”

  “A-pluscouple pages, some facts, our readers will be expecting it. Let’s talk.”

  “When?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “Why so long?”

  “So you can call the printers, get a new deadline for later tonight, then do a quick call around to your contacts, see what’s up—victim, cops involved, names, you know, a few facts.”

  “Why muddy things up?”

  “I’ll call our friends at Channel 10, try to find out where they got that video,” Zack said.

  “Lots of luck on that one.”

  “Half-hour.”

  “Yep-purr, half-hour.”

  Zack flipped his phone off and began thumbing through his Rolodex for Channel 10’s phone number. He mumbled to himself, “Channel 10, Channel 10, call letters, call letters, WSUN-TV, General Manager, Lucy Lockman. I know her from somewhere. You’ll never get through to her. Media in this town thinks you’re insane. Feeling is mutualnever mind.”

  Noticing yet another play of the infamous video on TV, he said, “What is it with carnage and sex that rivets the attention of higher forms of animal life? And the gorier the better. I mean, do other creatures pause along the road to ogle Bull Durham mounting Elsie in the clover? Anyway, run that video again, Channel 10, keep running it, stir the pot up good. We’ll all have lunch over a witches’ brew.”

  Zack pushed his Rolodex aside and muttered, “You have a phone directory in th
e video phone, why don’t you use it? Don’t push me, okay. I’m trying, okay?”

  He accessed the video phone directory and punched in WSUN-TV. The number appeared—555-1010.

  “Cute how they get that number to match their channel number.” He touched enter and waited through fifteen rings. “Must be busy over there at Disney central.”

  Continuing to wait, he scratched notes on a yellow pad for an editorial: In an age when seeing is believing don’t bet the farm…

  He paused to think and remembered a quote from E.B. White, a course he had taught. “‘We shall stand or fall by television, of that I am quite sure.’ Hummm. Insert news after television E.B., and you may have hit the nail on the head.”

  He noticed the image of a perky blond WSUN receptionist appear on his video phone. He positioned himself in front of his phone’s camera.

  The TV receptionist oozed sweetness. “It’s SUN in Miami. Thank you for calling CBS, Channel 10, WSUN. How may I help you?”

  “This is Zackary Stearn, The Boca. Is Lucy Lockman in?”

  “I believe she has gone for the holiday, but I’ll connect you with her secretary if you like.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. Is your news director there?”

  “Mr. Hoffman? Yes, one moment, please.”

  “Thank you.”

  The telephone screen switched to a logo of WSUN—rising yellow sun, green palm trees, huge orange WSUN-TV letters. Zack leaned back, propped his right foot on his left knee and studied a small scratch on his bare ankle. Touching the scratch, out of nowhere came the last time he talked with Joe Case at the Bimini Road. He could see his face, hear his admonitions: How many steaks can you eat a week…when banks fail it’s a disaster, when people die of hunger, have no place to sleep it’s, oh well…men kill, women weep, children die…love, hate; order, chaos; blackness, light; give, take; mostly take...something is up…

  He noticed yet another female on the telephone video, this one a brunette. Looks like she won the Belmont Stakes by a nose, he thought.

  Cold and superior, she spoke. “This is Mr. Hoffman’s office, how may I help you?”

  He leaned closer to the camera. “Hi, I’m Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca. Is he in?”

  “Are you referring to Mr. Hoffman?”