Hard News

by Jeffery Deaver

  But while she appreciated the offer, Rune had found she didn't do well dating people like Mr. Dockers Top-Sider here and, instead of his offer for dinner at the Yale Club, she'd opted to go film a fire in lower Manhattan for the Live at Eleven newscast. Still, she wondered if he'd ask her out again. No invitations were forthcoming at the moment, however, and he now merely looked at the screen, saw Randy Boggs's lean face on the monitor and asked, "Who's that?"

  "He's in jail," Rune explained. "But I think he's innocent."

  Bradford asked, "How come?"

  "Just a feeling."

  "Rune," said the Model. "We don't have time. Let's go."

  She said to them both, "That'd be a pretty good story--getting an innocent man out of jail."

  The young man nodded and said, "Journalists doing good deeds--that's what it's all about."

  But the Model wasn't interested in good deeds; he was interested in ammonia. "Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Rune," he said like an impatient professor. "Now."

  "Oh, the tanker truck," Bradford said.

  "See?" the Model said to Rune. "Everybody knows about it. Let's move."

  "It's a goddamn traffic accident," Rune protested. "I'm talking about an innocent man in jail for murder."

  Bradford said, "There is something about him...." Nodding at the screen. "He looks more like a victim than a killer, if you ask me."

  But before she could agree, the Model led her firmly to the elevator. They descended to the ground floor of the four-story building that occupied a whole square block on the Upper West Side. The building had been an armory at one time then had been bought by the Network, gutted and rebuilt. Outside, it was scabby and dark and looked like it ought to be housing a thousand homeless people; inside was a half-billion dollars' worth of electronic equipment and TV celebrities. A lot of the space was leased to the local O&O station but most of it was for the Network, which recorded a couple of soap operas here, some talk shows, several sitcoms and, of course, Network News.

  In the equipment room beside the parking garage Rune checked out an Ikegami video camera with an Ampex deck and a battery pack. Rune and the Model climbed into an Econoline van. She grabbed the lip of the doorway and swung up and in, the way she liked to do, feeling like a pilot about to take off on a mission. The driver, a scrawny young man with a long, thin braid of blond hair, gave a thumbs-up to Rune and started the van. Explosive strains of Black Sabbath filled the van.

  "Shut that crap off!" the Model shouted. "Then let's move--we've got ammonia on the BQE! Go, go, go!"

  Which the kid did, turning down the tape player and then squealing into the street hostilely as if he were striking a blow for classic rock music.

  As they drove through Manhattan, Rune looked absently out the window at the people on the street as they in turn watched the van, with its sci-fi transmission dish on top and the call letters of the TV station on the side, stenciled at an angle. People always paused and watched these vans drive past, probably wondering if it was going to stop nearby, if something newsworthy was happening, if they themselves might even get to appear in the background of a news report. Sometimes Rune would wave at them. But today she was distracted. She kept hearing Randy Boggs's voice.

  The first thing you think is, Hell, I'm still here....

  I'm still here....

  I'm still here.

  "SO, WHY CAN'T I JUST WALK INTO HER OFFICE AND TALK to her?"

  The Model snapped, "Because she's the anchor."

  As if nothing more need be said.

  Rune trudged beside him through the scuffed corridor that led from the elevator back to the newsroom. The worn carpet was sea-blue, the parent company's corporate color. "So what if she's an anchorwoman. She's not going to fire me for talking to her."

  "Well, why don't you quit talking about it and make an appointment." The Model was in a bad mood because, yes, it had been an ammonia truck and, yes, it had tipped over but no one had told the station that the truck was empty. So, no spill. It had even had the courtesy to roll over onto the shoulder so that rush-hour traffic wasn't disrupted much at all.

  They arrived in the studio and Rune replayed the tape she'd shot of the truck. The Model looked at the footage and seemed to be trying to think of something unpleasantly critical to say about her work.

  She said enthusiastically, "Look, I got the sunset. There on the side of the truck. That ridge of red, see--"

  "I see it."

  "Do you like it?"

  "I like it."

  "Do you mean it?"

  "Rune."

  As the tape was rewinding, Rune said, "But Piper's ultimately my boss, isn't she?"

  "Well, in a way. She works for the Network; you work for the local owned-and-operated station. It's a strange relationship."

  "I'm a single woman living in Manhattan. I'm used to strange relationships."

  "Look," he said patiently. "The President of the United States is in charge of the Army and Navy, okay? But do you see him talking to every PFC's got a problem?"

  "This isn't a problem. It's an opportunity."

  "Uh-huh. Piper Sutton doesn't care diddly-squat for your opportunities, sweetheart. You have an idea, you should talk to Stan."

  "He's head of local news. This is national."

  "Nothing personal but you are just a camera girl."

  "Girl?"

  "Cameraperson. You're a technician."

  Rune continued cheerfully. "What do you know about her?"

  "Her with a capital H again?" The Model looked at Rune for a moment in silence.

  Rune smiled coyly. "Come on, please?"

  He said, "Piper Sutton started out where I am, right here--a reporter for the local O&O in New York. She went to the University of Missouri Journalism School. Anyway, she did beat reporting, then she moved up in the ranks and became head of radio news, then executive producer for radio. Then she got tapped as a reporter for the Network.

  "She was overseas a lot, I know. She was in the Mideast and she got an award for covering the Sadat assassination. Then she came back here and anchored the weekend program then moved on to Wake Up With the News. Finally they tried to move her into the parent. They offered her something pretty big, like executive VP in charge of O&Os. But she didn't want a desk job. She wanted to be on camera. She finagled her way into Current Events. And there she is. She makes a million dollars a year. Lives on Park Avenue. That lady is ground zero in the world of broadcast journalism and ain't gonna want to spend time having a confab with the likes of you."

  "She hasn't met me yet," Rune said.

  "And she devoutly wants to keep it that way. Believe me."

  "How come everybody talks about her like she's some kind of dragon lady?"

  The Model exhaled a sharp laugh through his nose. "I like you, Rune, which is why I'm not going to ruin your evening by telling you anything more about Piper Sutton."

  chapter 3

  "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" THE WOMAN'S RASPY ALTO VOICE barked. "Who are you?"

  She was in her early forties, with a handsome, broad, stern face. Her skin was dry and she wore subtle, powdery makeup. Eyes: deep gray-blue. Her hair was mostly blonde though it was masterfully highlighted with silver streaks. The strands were frozen in place with spray.

  Rune walked up to the desk and crossed her arms. "I--"

  The phone rang and Piper Sutton turned away, snagged the receiver. She listened, frowning.

  "No," she said emphatically. Listened a moment more. Uttered a more ominous "No."

  Rune glanced at her cream-colored suit and burgundy silk blouse. Her shoes were black and glistened fiercely. Names like Bergdorf, Bendel and Ferragamo came to mind but Rune had no idea which name went with which article of clothing. The woman sat behind a large antique desk, under a wall filled with blotched and squiggly modern paintings and framed photos of Sutton shaking hands with or embracing a couple of presidents and some other distinguished, gray-haired men.

  The phone conversation continued and Rune wa
s completely ignored. She looked around.

  Two of the walls in the office were floor-to-ceiling windows, looking west and south. It was on the forty-fifth floor of the Network's parent company building, a block away from the studio. Rune stared at a distant horizon that might have been Pennsylvania. Across from the desk was a bank of five 27-inch NEC monitors, each one tuned to a different network station. Though the volume was down, their busy screens fired an electronic hum into the air.

  "Then do it," the woman snapped and dropped the phone into the cradle.

  She looked back at Rune, cocked an eyebrow.

  "Okay. What it is is this: I'm a cameraman for the local station and I--"

  Sutton's voice rose with gritty irritation. "Why are you here? How did you get in?" Questions delivered so fast it was clear she had a lot more where they came from.

  Rune could have told her she snuck in after Sutton's secretary went into the corridor to buy tea from the ten A.M. coffee service cart. But all she said was "There was nobody outside and I--"

  Sutton waved a hand to silence her. She grabbed the telephone receiver and stabbed the intercom button. There was a faint buzz from the outer office. No one answered. She hung up the phone.

  Rune said, "Anyway, I--"

  Sutton said, "Anyway, nothing. Leave." She looked down at the sheet of paper she'd been reading, brows narrowing in concentration. After a moment she looked up again, genuinely surprised Rune was still there.

  "Miss Sutton ... Ms. Sutton," Rune began. "I've got this, like, idea--"

  "A like idea? What is a like idea?"

  Rune felt a blush crawl across her face.

  "I have an idea for a story I'd like to do. For your show. I--"

  "Wait." Sutton slapped her Mont Blanc pen onto the desk. "I don't understand what you're doing here. I don't know you."

  Rune said, "Just give me a minute, please."

  "I don't have time for this. I don't care if you work here or not. You want me to call security?" The phone rose once more.

  Rune paused a moment. Took a figurative breath. Okay, she told herself, do it. She said quickly, "Current Events came in at number nine in nationwide viewership according to the CBS/TIME poll last week." She struggled to keep her voice from quavering. "Three months ago it was rated five in the same poll. That's quite a drop."

  Sutton's unreadable eyes bore into Rune's. Oh, Christ, am I really saying these things? But there was nothing to do but keep going. "I can turn those ratings in the other direction."

  Sutton looked at Rune's necklace ID badge. Oh, brother. I'm going to get fired. (Rune got fired with great regularity. Usually her reaction was to say, "Them's the breaks," and head off to Unemployment. Today she prayed this wouldn't happen.) The telephone went back into the cradle. Sutton said, "You've got three minutes."

  Thank you thank you thank you....

  "Okay, what it is, I want to do a story about--"

  "What do you mean you want to do a story? You said you're a cameraman. Give the idea to a producer."

  "I want to produce it myself."

  Sutton's eyes swept over her again, this time not recording her name for referral to the Termination Division of the Human Resources Department but examining her closely, studying the young, makeupless face, her black T-shirt, black spandex miniskirt, blue tights and fringy red cowboy boots. Dangling from her lobes were earrings in the shape of sushi. On her left wrist were three wristwatches with battered leather straps, painted gold and silver. On her right were two bracelets--one silver in the shape of two hands gripped together, the other a string friendship bracelet. From one shoulder dangled a leopard-skin bag; out of one cracked corner it bled an ink-stained Kleenex.

  "You don't look like a producer."

  "I've already produced one film. A documentary. It was on PBS last year."

  "So do a lot of film students. The lucky ones. Maybe you were lucky."

  "Why don't you like me?"

  "You're assuming I don't."

  "Well, do you?" Rune asked.

  Sutton considered. Whatever the conclusion was she kept it to herself. "You've got to understand. This ..." She waved her hand vaguely toward Rune. "... is deja vu. It happens all the time. Somebody blusters their way in-- usually after hiding by the filing cabinet until Sandy goes to get coffee." Sutton lifted an eyebrow. "And says, Oh, I've got this like idea for a great new news program or game show or special or God knows. And of course the idea is very, very boring. Because young, enthusiastic people are very, very boring. And nine times out of ten--no, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, their great idea has been thought of and discarded by people who really work in the business. You think hundreds of people just like you haven't come in here and said exactly the same thing to me? Oh, note the proper use of the word like.' As a preposition. Not an adjective or adverb."

  Both phones rang at once and Sutton spun around to take the calls. She juggled them for a while, jamming a short-nailed finger down on the hold button as she switched from one to the other. When she hung up she found Rune sitting in a chair across from her, swinging her legs back and forth.

  Sutton gave a harsh sigh. "Didn't I make my point?"

  Rune said, "I want to do a story on a murderer who was convicted only he didn't do it. I want my story to get him released."

  Sutton's hand paused over the phone. "Here in New York?"

  "Yep."

  "That's metro, not national. Talk to the local news director. You should've known that in the first place."

  "I want it to be on Current Events."

  Sutton blinked. Then she laughed. "Honey, that's the Net's flagship news magazine. I've got veteran producers lined up for two years with programs they'd kill to air on CE. Your like story ain't getting slotted on my show in this lifetime."

  Rune leaned forward. "But this guy has served three years in Harrison state prison--three years for a crime he didn't commit."

  Sutton looked at her for a moment. "Where'd you get the tip?"

  "He sent a letter to the station. It's really sad. He said he's going to die if he doesn't get out. Other prisoners are going to kill him. Anyway, I went to the archives and looked through some of the old tapes about his trial and--"

  "Who told you to?"

  "No one. I did it myself."

  "Your time or our time?"

  "Huh?"

  "'Huh?' "Sutton repeated sarcastically. Then, as if explaining to a child: "Were you on your time or on our time when you were doing this homework?"

  "Sort of on my lunch hour."

  Sutton said, "Sort of. Uh-huh. Well, so this man is innocent. A lot of innocent people get convicted. That's not news. Unless he's famous. Is he famous? A politician, an actor?"

  Rune blinked. She felt very young under the woman's probing eyes. Tongue-tied. "It's sort of, it's not so much who he is as it is the fact he was convicted of a crime he didn't commit and he's sort of going to just rot in jail. Or get killed or something."

  "You think he's innocent? Then go to law school or set up a defense fund and get him out. We're a news department. We're not in the business of social services."

  "No, it'll be a really good story. And it'll be sort of like ..." Rune heard her clumsy words and froze. She must think I'm a total idiot. Sutton raised her eyebrows and Rune continued carefully, "If we get him released then all the other stations and newspapers'll cover us."

  "Us?"

  "Well, you and Current Events. For getting the guy out of jail."

  Sutton waved her hand. "It's a small story. It's a local story." Sutton began writing on the sheet of paper in front of her. Her handwriting was elegant. "That's all."

  "Well, if you could maybe just keep this." Rune opened her bag and handed Sutton a sheet of paper with a synopsis of the story. The anchorwoman slipped it underneath her china coffee cup on the far side of her desk and returned to the document she'd been reading.

  Outside the woman's office the secretary looked up at Rune in horror. "Who are you?" Her voice was
high in panic. "How did you get in here?"

  "Sorry, got lost," Rune said gloomily and continued toward the dark-paneled elevator bank.

  The elevator doors had just opened when Rune heard a voice like steel on stone. "You," Piper Sutton shouted, pointing at Rune. "Back in here. Now."

  Rune hurried back to the office. Sutton, close to six feet, towered over her. She hadn't realized the anchorwoman was so tall. She hated tall women.

  Sutton slammed the door shut behind them. "Sit."

  Rune did.

  When she too was seated Sutton said, "You didn't tell me it was Randy Boggs."

  Rune said, "He's not famous. You said you weren't interested in somebody who wasn't--"

  "You should've given me all the facts."

  Rune looked contrite. "Sorry. I didn't think."

  "All right. Boggs could be news. Tell me what you've found out."

  "I read the letter. And I watched those tapes--of the trial and one of him in prison a year ago. He says he's innocent."

  Sutton snapped. "And?"

  "And, that's it."

  "What do you mean, 'that's it'? That's why you think he's innocent? Because he said so?"

  "He said the police didn't really investigate the crime. They didn't try to find many witnesses and they didn't really spend any time talking to the ones they did find."

  "Didn't he tell that to his lawyer?"

  "I don't know."

  "And that's all?" Sutton asked.

  "It's just that I ... I don't know. I looked at his face on the tape and I believe him."

  "You believe him?" Sutton laughed again. She opened her desk and took out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one with a silver lighter. Inhaled for a long moment.

  Rune looked around the room, trying to think up an answer to defend herself. Being studied by Piper Sutton knocked most of the thoughts out of her head. All she said was "Read the letter." Rune nodded toward the file she'd given the woman. Sutton found it and read. She asked, "This is a copy. You have the original?"

  "I thought the police might need it for evidence if he ever got a new trial. The original's locked in my desk."

  Sutton closed the file. Said, "I guess I'm looking at quite a judge of human character. You're, what, some justice psychic? You get the vibes that this man's innocent and that's that? Listen, dear, at the risk of sounding like a journalism professor let me tell you something. There's only one thing that matters in news: the truth. That's all. You've got a goddamn feeling this man is innocent, well, good for you. But you go asking questions based on rumors, just because you get some kind of psychic fax that Boggs is innocent, well, that bullshit'll sink a news department real fast. Not to mention your career. Unsupported claims're cyanide in this business."