by G L Rockey
“I think it is what it is.”
“Maybe it’s more that I don’t want to believe it.” Zack wiped his hand across his face. “Okay, so let’s go over the facts. What have we got?”
“You tell me, Bwana.”
Zack began listing facts: “One, we’re under martial law, I know that. Two, violence in this city, I’ve seen that firsthand. Three, you’ve seen the television coverage. Four, I have this audio recording.”
Jim frowned. “Right, and the only thing that confirms that recording you have is Joe Case’s wacko theorybased on some Pi lady’s recording. Give me a break. It comes down to who do you believe—President Armstrong or fruitcake Joe Case.”
Zack thought a minute. “I think you’re letting your negative feelings for Joe Case cloud your thinking.”
Jim contemplated. “What about you? Maybe your animosity for Armstrong is getting in your way.”
“Sometimes you have to go with your gut. And my gut is telling me Armstrong. Meanwhile, let’s get the latest installment of reality from TV news.”
Zack picked up the TV remote, sat on the bed, clicked the remote; the TV screen came to life. Audio blaring, he muted the sound and began surfing channels, commenting as he went: “CNN is interviewing famous Senator Sam Hawkins from Arizona. [click] Bloomberg has Head of Transportation, Marilyn Whetly.”
Zack continued to click. “ABC has Senators Schultz, and there’s that infamous Channel 10 video again. [click] there’s some new outdoor cooking grill. [click] NBC is interviewing Mayor Carranza—hey, our mayor is back.”
He pressed the volume up.
Hair disheveled, Mayor Carranza talking: “ and I returned from my trade mission to Rome as soon as I could. I simply don’t have all the facts yet. But I call on the citizens of Miami to please let us sort this all out.”
Female reporter: “But, Mayor, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
Carranza: “It’s never too late, dear. Right makes right.”
“Genius.” Zack clicked to another channel. “Jim look, Senator Beno.”
Zack increased the volume another notch.
Beno–gray business suit, hair pulled back in a bun: “I’m certain of one thing. We must get control of this situation.”
Jim said, “She needs to do better than that.”
Male reporter: “But, Senator Beno, the question was, what do you think of the President’s handling of this situation?”
Beno: “This is not a time for partisan politics. We must all come together on this and restore order. As you know, the President will address the nation tomorrow morning.”
Male reporter: “Thank you Senator, now back to…”
Zack said, “You know, from what Beno just said, I don’t think she knows what’s going on.”
“Maybe, nothing is going on.”
Zack clicked to another channel: Video of a white male, crew cut red hair, at news anchor desk reporting: “… and we now switch to Cairo for a report from our bureau chief, Meg Scott. She has more on the conspiracy theory reported by Egyptian Ambassador Kadid.”
Video switched to Meg standing beside a short man in a blue suit.
Meg: “We have Ambassador Kadid with us. Ambassador, what is the charge you just announced?”
Ambassador Kadid: “This is all a fabrication, no terrorists, this is a plot, lies, all lies, mother of lies, camel dung.”
Meg: “But how do you know this?”
Ambassador: “Ask your President.” The ambassador stomped off-camera.
Meg turned to the camera: “When contacted, White House sources were swift in denouncing the allegations as heinous lies.”
“Like Kadid said, camel shit,” Zack sucked his front teeth. “Meantime, I’m going to try to get somebody at Channel 10, persuade them to broadcast this audio recording we got from Case.”
“Lots of luck on that, Bwana, like fishing without a hook.”
Zack sat at the desk, said to Jim, “How about you go the The Boca, sniff around. Call Mary and Ted. Start working on a special edition about this audio recording.”
“A special edition? Zack, it’s Sunday, Labor Day weekend, who’s going to print it?”
“First things first.” Zack said.
Jim stepped to the window and looked out, “I just worry that we’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Will you stop that? We’re not jumping to anything. Go to The Boca, put a story together. I’ll be there shortly. Maybe see if you can get City Hall, the mayor, tell her about our meeting with Joe Case, the audio recording.”
“And what do I say? ‘Mayor, ah, this is Jim Roberts, The Boca. We have come into possession of a recording, I don’t happen to have it on me right now, made by a group called Pi and a former restaurant owner—you may know of him—Joe Case, he’s been arrested twenty or so times, the city health department closed his dump, The Bimini Road, three times” He tipped his head toward Zack. “Think about it.”
“When you get to The Boca put together a make-shift office in that first floor storage area. I’ll be there soon as I get Channel 10 squared away.”
Jim placed his hands on his hips. “I’m not believing this.”
“Me, either, but try to fathom how easy sources–confidential, reliable, she said, he said–can get history screwed up. Meantime, get hold of Mary and Ted, tell them about the audio recording…and oh, I’m gonna need your car.”
Jim said, “And what am I supposed to do, walk?”
“Take a cab. When you get to The Boca, call Ted—he’s probably there anyway, but if not he’s on VeracityNo, on second thought, if he’s not there, don’t call him. Take the cab over to Veracity. He’s got my keys, you can use my car. Bring Ted back with you to The Boca. Might need to fill my car up with gas.”
“You…you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, see you in a bit, throw me your keys.”
Chapter Forty Six
10:30 a.m. EST
Sitting at the motel room’s desk, Zack mumbled to the computer/video phone, “What was that Channel 10's number…ah, how could one forget, 555-1010.” He entered the number. After two seconds, video of that same familiar blond receptionist appeared. He listened to her mechanical voice: “Hello, this is the SUN in Miami. Thank you for calling WSUN TV-10. Our regular office hours are eight-thirty to five-thirty Monday through Friday. If you have urgent information please call the news hotline at 555-HOTI (4684), and be sure to join Steve Eaton every weeknight at six and eleven for the latest news as it happens. Have a SUN day.”
“Do you believe that?” He entered the news hotline.
A WSUN logo appeared; then the video switched to a young, casually clad, model-thin female. She looked into the camera.
“SUN newsroom hotline.”
“This is Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca. I need to talk to Hoffman.”
“Oh, you do. Well, this is Kay Barto, and I need a day off.”
“What?”
“Hoffman isn’t here.”
“Look, I’m the editor of The Boca. I must speak to Hoffman, it is imperative.”
“Mr. Hoffman is not here.”
“I thought he was personally directing this tragedy.”
“What?”
“Look, I must speak to Hoffman.”
“Like I saidwhat’s that in your hand?”
“A cigarette.”
“Oh, my God! You’re committing suicide.”
“Please give me Hoffman’s home number.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Look, who’s in charge there?”
“Who’s in charge there?”
“Ms., please”
“Who’d you say you were?”
“Zackary Stearn, The Boca.”
He watched her yell away from the phone. “Hey! Anybody know a Zackary Stearn from The Boca?”
A male voice answered, “I do,” and a young shirt-and-tie male squeezed beside Kay. She left.
The male smile
d. “Hello, this is Frank Fitello, weekend producer. May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Zackary Stearn, editor of The—”
“Yes, I know, we talk about your paper regularlystrange perspectives.”
“I’m glad you like it. Who is in charge there?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Who’s in charge there?”
“Well, I am right now.”
“I have a recording. I need you to air it immediately.”
“Ho, ho, ho—and I’m Santa Claus and I need another Rudolph.”
“This is not a joke. I need you to air a recording.”
“Sir, I can’t just broadcast a recording. We’re under a zillion restrictions right now from big D.C. brother.”
“So who do I need to talk to?”
“Well, Doug Hoffman is the news director and our dear loveable general manager, Ms. Lucy Lockman, I believe is out of town for the weekend.”
“I need Hoffman’s number.”
“Can’t give that out.”
“Look, this is an emergency.”
“Sorry.”
“What about Lockman’s?”
“Can’t ever, ever, ever even think of doing that.”
“Look, son, I won’t tell them where I got it.”
“They find things out.”
“I will give you a job if you get fired, okay? Free parking, everything.”
“How much you pay?”
“Competitive. Look, this is truly an emergency. Just give me Hoffman’s number. I won’t tell him where I got it, I swear.”
“WellIlook, you didn’t get it from me.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“555-8340.”
“You’re a genius, thank you.” Zack closed the SUN number, keyed Hoffman’s phone number, and watched the screen read out Douglas M. Hoffman, 555-8340. He listened to a pleasant recorded message: “This is the Hoffman household. Please leave your name, phone number and a brief massage and we will return your call.” He waited for a tone to end then spoke.
“This is Zackary Stearn, editor of The Boca”
The voice of Hoffman interrupted. “Hello, this is Doug Hoffman.”
“I was just leaving you a message.”
“I heard.”
“No video?”
“No. Who gave you this number?”
“Does it matter?”
“You’re damn right it does.”
“Mr. Hoffman, I run a newspaper”
“I remember.”
“Do you think I don’t have a morgue of home phone numbers, important people in this community and how to get in touch with them when momentous things are occurring?”
“So?”
“You are a very important person and these are momentous times.”
Long pause. “Oh, yeah, so why are you calling me on a Sunday morning?”
“Have you been watching television?”
“Always have a set on.”
“Look, I have something of national importance that I have to talk to you about.”
“Oh, wow, national importance.” Doug chuckled.
“Please, this is no joke.”
“So talk.”
“I can’t on the phone.”
“So how do you propose to talk to me?”
“I need to meet with you, as soon as possible.”
“You have to be kidding. It’s Sunday morning. I do not meet on Sunday mornings.”
“In case you didn’t notice, there are a few items of news going on in our big wonderful world that might deserve your attention.”
“No shit, Dick Tracy.”
“How original.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, please, it’s a scoop, you can have it.”
Loud laugh. “Sure, a newspaper guy is going to give a TV guy a scoop.”
“That should convince you even more.”
“Get real.”
“Mr. Hoffman, this is beyond winning. It does not matter to me.”
“It matters to me, pal, every day.”
“Look, this is going nowhere. I’ll call another station.”
“Ah, wait a minute.”
Hoffman’s face appeared on the video phone screen. Zack analyzed him—disheveled hair, wide-set eyes magnified by thick, black-rimmed glasses, chubby cheeks, nostrils enlarged, little lips pursed.
Zack looked up. I knew I wasn’t going to like this guy. Don’t ask me why, I just knew it.
Hoffman adjusted his glasses and said, “So tell me, what is this scoop you supposedly have?”
“It’s about the ‘exclusive’ video you broadcast last Friday.”
“Hell of a story, huh? Talk about a scoop.”
Zack burped, “Look, some of this news stuff is not right. I can’t talk freely on the phone.”
“Can’t talk about it on the phone? Why?”
“I have a recording. Can I meet you at your station?”
“Can’t talk about it on the phone, have a recording, meet me at the station?” Hoffman shook his head. “Are you for real?”
“Yes.” Zack paused. “Look, like I said, I’m not wasting any more time. I’ll call another station.”
“Hold your horses hossshit. It’s ten-forty now, how about one o’clock.”
“Okay, one.”
“This better be good—you know where station is I assume?”
“I know where WSUN is.”
Chapter Forty Seven
12:55 p.m. EST
His Subaru’s cool air-conditioned air being siphoned out the broken rear window, Zack stopped at the closed gate to Channel 10’s parking lot and studied the razor wire that topped a ten-foot chain link fence. Inside the fence stood a two-story white brick building with tiny rectangular windows. A ten-foot red-neon sign beckoned WSUN-TV - CHANNEL 10
Zack, recalling Marshal McLuhan, The medium is the message…said, “Or is the message the medium?”
He rolled his window down and looked at a remote camera and speaker. In a few seconds a hard voice asked, “May I help you?”
“I’m Zackary Stearn, have an appointment with Doug Hoffman.”
Small chuckle in the voice: “He’s not here on Sundays.”
“He will be, I have a one o’clock appointment with him.”
“Well, sir, I can tell you, he’s never here onone moment please.”
Zack tapped the steering wheel and whispered, “Hoffman, if you don’t show up”
The male voice came on again. “That was a call from Mr. Hoffman. He’s on his way. Said he was expecting you. I’ll open the gate. Proceed to the visitor spaces to your right, park in one of the slots marked ‘visitor,’ turn your engine off, proceed directly to the side entrance marked ‘Employees Only’ and wait for Mr. Hoffman.”
“Forgot to tell me the speed limit,” Zack mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
As directed, Zack pulled to a visitor’s space and parked. Are they keeping something out of this place or holding something in? He wondered as he glanced in his rearview mirror and watched an orange Mercedes convertible pull through the entrance gate. The driver wore an orange CHANNEL 10 baseball cap. Wire-rimmed round sunglasses perched on his nose; he parked in a reserved slot near the front door, got out, and looked toward Zack’s car.
Zack said to himself, “Gotta be, in person, the lovable Mr. Hoffman,” and stepped out of his car.
Hoffman shouted, “Hey, you. You Zack Stearn?”
Zack called back, “Yes, yes, I am.”
“Over here.”
Zack walked toward him and noted NEWS DIRECTOR in large white letters across the front of Hoffman’s orange T-shirt. Closer, he saw his own face reflected in Hoffman’s black sunglasses. He smiled and said, “You in there?”
“You got it.”
Zack extended his right hand to shake. Hoffman declined, scrutinized him head to toe then said, “You live on the streets?”
Zack, hit with Doug’s morning breath, stepped back. “No, do you?”
“You look like you slept in those clothes.”
“Oh. No, I’ve been working all night.”
Doug raised an eyebrow, “Partner, you stink.”
“Sorry,” Zack mumbled, “Thought it was your breath.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. Follow me.”
Hoffman unlocked the station door and, like a bellhop stuck with a deadbeat guest, led the way through a maze of hallways and past a newsroom that bustled with activity.
At a few gawking glances, Hoffman waved and he and Zack arrived at a blue metal door that read, in silver letters, Douglas A. Hoffman - NEWS DIRECTOR.
Doug unlocked the door and entered. Zack followed. Doug sat behind his desk, propped his sandaled feet on the cluttered top, glared at Zack, said, “This better be good, Stearn.”
“It is.” Zack placed his audio player on Hoffman’s desk and sniffed a peculiar odor, like something burning.
Hoffman said, “Like I said, this better be good.”
“I think it’s better than that. You’ll recognize one of the voices, I’m sure.”
“Oh?”
“Dr. Barbara Lande, Armstrong’s media guru. She’s the female, the others are Leo Novak, President’s E.I.C. head, and General Mac MacCallister.”
“Know ‘em all.” Hoffman nodded smugly.
“Mind if I sit?” Zack touched one of the orange vinyl chairs in front of Hoffman’s desk.
“Suit yourself.”
“Thank you.” Zack glanced upward and whispered under his breath, “He’s one of Yours.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Ready?”
“Anytime.”
“Oh, I must tell you, kind sir, there were some technical glitches—microphone, some static—but theyou’ll get the drift.”
Smirking: “Uh-huh.”
Zack pressed the play button.
As the audio played, Hoffman studied his chewed fingernails, munched his right thumbnail then his left thumbnail, bent a paper clip, probed wax from his ears with the clip’s end, smelled the brown extract, threw the clip in his wastebasket, picked his nose with thumb and index finger so it looked like he might be just scratching the inside of the nostril, adjusted his sunglasses, took dental floss from his top desk drawer, flossed his top and bottom front teeth, looked at the residue, sniffed it, threw the floss in the wastebasket, twiddled his thumbs, listened, yawnedand the audio ended.