by S. W. Capps
The unit beeped again, but Stacy didn’t hear. He grabbed the machine and heaved it across the room. “Has the world gone mad?” The scanner came next, flying through the air and exploding against the wall. “Why’d you have to die, Julius?” He kicked the TV, tube shattering as it hit the floor. As the circuits sizzled, he raced to the window, searching for cruisers. “Jesus, Jul! What am I—?”
His eyes locked on the Escort, zeroing in on the Great 8 logo.
“We’re going to give viewers more,” Toole’s speech echoed in his ear. “Entertain them, dazzle them, shock the hell out of them if we have to.”
A faint smile crossed his lips, the answer hitting him like water from a fire hose.
Julius was not going to die in vain.
He moved to the phone and dialed. “Newsroom.”
“I need you to do something for me, Larry.”
“Stacy?”
“I need you to send Brannuck and a camera op to Clarion with the live truck.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ve got an exclusive for noon.”
“But you’re not even—” Toole paused, his interest clearly piqued. “What kind of exclusive?”
Stacy smiled again. “One Texomaland will never forget. But I don’t have time to explain.” He reached for his coat. “Just send the truck. I’ll be at the City Limit sign north of town.”
The reporter hung up, knowing full well the truck would be there. Toole couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this. The temptation was too great. After one last look at Julius’ guitar, he bolted for the door.
***
Chip Hale fired up a cigarette. He hadn’t eaten since hearing about Julius. He preferred smoking his meals, then chasing them with alcohol.
“Two minutes,” the floor director barked.
“You coming?” Amy Chow asked on her way to the booth.
Chip waved her on, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was hungover again. In fact, he was still drunk.
“You get the changes?” Toole handed him a script. “You look awful.”
“I feel awful.” The disheveled T.D. puffed on his cig. “Place has a way a’ doin’ that to ya.”
“I know people who’d give their right nut for your job.” Chip walked off, Toole checking his makeup. Reg McNair, who now anchored at noon, was out on assignment this morning, his boss filling in. Perfect timing, as it turned out, for Stacy’s exclusive.
At the Clarion City Limit sign, Don Brannuck feverishly swapped cables. His head was already on the block for failing to solve the microwave problem. One more screw-up and he’d be punching the clock at Uniroyal. “I got it!” He poked his head out the door, patch cables everywhere. “One minute, Bill!”
Stacy stepped from the weeds, taking his place beneath the sign. When he arrived at Channel 8, he couldn’t have imagined doing what he was about to. That Stacy and this Stacy were two different people.
“This is insane!” Rich Martin was shaking, having turned the color of his OU sweater. “I’ve got a career to think about. They’re gonna fire me if—”
“They’re not going to fire you, Rich. Just frame the sign and pull out when I give you the signal.”
The cameraman refused to move. “I won’t do it.”
Stacy stepped forward. “Look, Rrrrrrrich, I’ve had a bad week.” He lowered his voice. “Either you do this, or I’m going to kick your ass on live TV!”
The man looked up at him. “I think you’re bluffing.”
“Do I look like I’m bluffing?”
The flustered camera op looked away. “I…guess not.”
“Thirty seconds!” Brannuck loaded a tape. “They need a sound check, fellas.”
Stacy held out his hand.
After a gut-wrenching sigh, Rich passed him the microphone.
***
“Okay, people,” the director spoke into his headset. “We’re going to bump the lead and go live after the intro.” Chip sat to his left, head pounding, Amy to his right. Each stared at the overhead monitors. Number one held a wide shot of the set, number two a low angle of Thad, number three a medium shot of Toole, and number four a close-up of the Clarion sign. “Stand by, Larry.”
The anchor shuffled scripts, working his eyebrows into the appropriate concerned position.
“Fifteen seconds.”
Thad checked his teeth for chives.
“Ten.”
The audio tech waited. “Stand by, live truck.”
“Standin’ by,” Brannuck responded.
“Five…four…three…”
“Ready intro.” The clock hit twelve. “And roll intro.” Chip punched the TAPE button. Whoosh. Flying states. Synthesized beat. “Get ready, Texomaland!”
Stacy listened through his IFB. “Yeah…get ready,” he whispered.
“…the news starts now!”
“And take three. Cue talent.”
Toole leaned into camera. “One journalist is dead. Another flees from justice.” It was the first time he’d ever read a Bill Stacy lead-in verbatim. “I’m Larry Toole. A shattered community looks for answers today. Answers in a senseless death. Answers to a devastating crime spree. Answers from the man allegedly responsible.” A monitor rose over his shoulder, the Clarion sign filling it. “Reporter Bill Stacy joins us live from Quintoc County. Bill, I understand you’ve got those answers.”
“Ready four.” Chip reached for the switch. “And take four.”
The Clarion sign went full screen, Rich cueing Stacy. “Larry, I’m standing just outside the city limits…”
“Son of a bitch!” Leonard Allenbaugh spilled coffee in his lap, then reached for the radio, legs on fire. “All units! Proceed north a’ town immediately! Bill Stacy’s on live TV, reportin’ from the turnpike!”
“The sign behind me, as you can plainly see, includes the town motto— ‘See Things Clearly in Clarion’.” He signaled Rich, the reluctant camera op zooming out to include Stacy in the foreground, his face in extreme close-up.
“What’s he doing?” The director stared at the monitor. “Pull out, Rich!”
No response.
“My hope is that every one of you will see things clearly after this report.” He tossed his notepad aside. “When I came here last summer, I believed in the media. Believed in what we do. Believed in who we are. I believed in the truth.”
The director turned to Amy. “Where’s he going with this?” She shrugged.
“At one time, our credo at Channel 8 was ‘News You Can Use’. And, true, our newscasts weren’t flashy. Weren’t full of glitz or scandal. Weren’t even very interesting at times. But they informed the viewer. Provided him with the truth, no matter how mundane.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, that philosophy earned us a last-place finish in the ratings and got a good man fired.”
“He’s rambling, for God’s sake! Ready camera three.”
“No,” Toole intervened. “Let him go.”
“Today, our task is no longer to ‘inform’ the viewer, but to ‘entertain’ him. That’s a direct quote from our illustrious G.M.” Wilhelm sat bolt upright in his office. “TV’s a ‘visual medium’, to further quote the man. And ‘pictures’, preferably graphic pictures—dead bodies, drug raids, fires— ‘are everything’. I’ve been told people ‘eat this crap up’.”
The director swiveled. “Did he say crap?”
Chip raised a hand to cover his smirk.
“Our news director, the man at the anchor desk right now…” Toole straightened. “…thinks you, the viewer, want to be dazzled, bowled over, bullshitted!”
“We’ve gotta pull the plug—”
“No,” Toole ordered.
“He thinks you want a newscast that resembles the National Enquirer. And the owner agrees. They think shows like Entertainment Tonight, A Current Affair, Geraldo are the signposts to the future.”
“Goddammit!” Wilhelm stormed out of his office.
“So in the name of cutting-edge television, we’ve brought you conflict, hyperbole, melodrama
. If stories were vanilla, we spiced them up. If they weren’t controversial, we made them controversial. We’ve falsified interviews. Faked live shots. And when we ran out of news to air, we created news.”
“Jesus Christ, Larry, let me kill this thing!”
Toole shook his head, refusing to turn from the monitor. This was great TV!
“And in the process, people have been hurt.” Stacy looked to the ground. “People like Julius Candelle. My friend. He died for the ideals this station, and countless other stations across the country, are preaching. ‘Shock TV’. Sensationalism. Winning at all costs.” He looked deep into the camera. “He died for nothing.”
Wilhelm sprinted down the hall.
“And now, the Clarion Police want to arrest me. They want to put me on trial for the Texomaland Torch fires.” Employees rushed to monitors. Salespeople dropped their phones. “I’m not guilty of these crimes. But I am responsible. And so was Julius. Katie Powers. Thad Barton. And Larry Toole. So is everyone at Channel 8, everyone who bought into this dangerous muckraking philosophy. And didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything.”
Wilhelm reached the staircase, gasping for breath.
“And you’re responsible, too, folks. You, the viewer. You may not have asked for this. But you’re watching in record numbers. You’re saying to the program directors of this country, ‘Give us more!’” He pointed to Rich, the man zooming out again.
Stacy was wearing no coat. No tie. No shirt.
The director froze.
“And I’m warning you…” The shot continued to widen, Stacy wearing no pants, no underwear—no anything! He stood there, feet planted in the Oklahoma soil, naked as the day he was born.
Every crew member gasped, Brannuck dropping his Fresca.
“If you don’t change your viewing habits, don’t stand up to the people in power and tell them to stop feeding you garbage…” He paused, glancing down at his exposed body. “…then you’re looking at the future of television in this country.”
“That’s enough!” Wilhelm raided the control room. “Cut him off, goddammit! Cut him off!”
“Take three!” the director screamed. “Cue talent!”
Chip punched up camera three, the shot a close-up of Toole looking dazed. “I…uh…” He shifted in his seat. Twisted a cufflink. Tightened his tie.
For the first time ever, the garrulous anchor had nothing to say.
***
As the first squad car arrived, he climbed in the Celica. Fully clothed now, there was no cause for panic. He’d expected the police—they were a crucial part of his plan.
“Step out of the vehicle!” the loudspeaker boomed. Stacy ignored it, starting the engine and pulling away from the shoulder. As two more units arrived, he drove off, heading back to town with the urgency of a tractor. All three cars screeched U-ies behind him, sirens wailing, lights flashing. In seconds, they were on his bumper. “Stop the car!”
He checked his speedometer—45 in a 50-mph zone. Navigating his way through town, he passed the KEGT bureau, the Lion’s Den, the Quintoc County Courthouse. As he cruised past the Clarion Police station, five more units joined the chase. Stacy ignored them, obeying all traffic laws, respecting all road signs.
“He ain’t stoppin’, Chief.”
“Whadda ya mean, he ain’t stoppin’?” Allenbaugh raised the microphone, spittle flying everywhere. “Take ’im down, goddammit! Take ’im down!”
“We can’t shoot ’im, Chief. He ain’t even breakin’ the speed limit. An’ b’sides, there’s people everywhere.”
Crowds were indeed gathering. In an effort to save his job, Brannuck had called in the story, Toole announcing the chase to a still-riveted noontime audience. As Stacy puttered through Clarion, people were actually cheering!
“All right then…” Allenbaugh smoothed the FBI bulletin he’d just mangled. “…tell me which direction he’s headin’?”
“West on 89er.” The cop glanced in his rearview mirror. “We got eight ’r nine units in pursuit. Think he’s headin’ fer the interstate.”
The chief grinned, exposing long skunk-like incisors. “Then that’s where we’ll nail ’im! Stick to ’im like glue, an’ lemme know if he changes directions. I’m gonna arrange fer a nice little OHP welcome.”
Katie threw a fifty-dollar bill down and ran for the Mustang, hair dripping wet. Everyone at the Marseille Salon was watching when Bill Stacy appeared ‘au natural’. “Why’d you let that one get away?” one of the stylists trilled. She didn’t have time to answer. She had to find him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Wilhelm roared like a lion, six employees cowering like mice. Five-and-a-half actually—Chip looked bored. “I want to know who made the decision to stick with that feed!”
The director looked to his associates, the ‘mice’ silent.
“It was my decision, Dick.”
Wilhelm wheeled to see Toole enter the control room, expression matter-of-fact. “Your decision?”
Toole handed the C.G. op a sheet of paper. “I need you to make these changes for the six o’clock.”
“How can you think of the six o’clock news at a time like this?”
“Relax, Dick.” Toole loosened his tie. “You know as well as I do there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” He looked around. “Can you people imagine the numbers we’re going to pull tonight? Tomorrow?” He laughed like a kid who’d just solved the Rubik’s Cube. “After Bill Stacy’s little ‘exposé’, our number-one rating is set in stone!”
“The only thing set in stone is the fine the FCC’s going to hit me with! That’s if they don’t yank my license altogether!”
“That’s not going to happen, Dick. If it comes down to it, Texomaland’ll revolt!” He smiled. “Bill Stacy was right about one thing. The people want more.”
There were twelve cars in pursuit now—two Quintoc County Sheriff’s vehicles had joined the chase, as had news vans from KYTF and KPXZ. Stacy continued his trek westward, passing an I-35 1 MILE sign. He saw lights up ahead, counting cars as he approached—one, two, three. A pair of OHP troopers blocked the road, another guarding the northbound ramp.
“Stop the vehicle!” a trooper demanded over the P.A.
Stacy slowed, a line of glistening spikes directly ahead. He looked behind him. KYTF had pulled into the oncoming lane for a better shot. KPXZ was pinned in. Stacy nodded to the trooper, then made a hard left, bypassing the spikes and veering up over the berm—he knew what the Celica was capable of, having explored countless logging roads back in Oregon.
“He got past the roadblock, Chief.”
“He what?”
“Swerved off the road and went over a sand bar. Drove ’at li’l car like a dune-buggy. Shoulda seen them troopers’ faces!”
“Son of a bitch!” The chief’s head looked like something for the bomb squad. “Where is he now?”
“Gettin’ on 35 south. We’re right on his tail. Troopers, too. Weird part is, he ain’t doin’ but fifty. Almos’ like he wants us to catch ’im.”
Allenbaugh glanced at the map. “I gotta pretty good idea where he’s goin’. Keep ’im in your sights. If he pulls over and tries to run, shoot him!” He grabbed his keys and bolted for the door.
Katie screeched into the lot, hair a wind-blown mess. She’d called Stacy three times, her ex-boyfriend refusing to answer. “Chip!” she screamed, leaping out of the car. “What in the world’s going on?”
The weary T.D. sparked a jay. “Hey, Katie,” he rasped, looking the woman over. She wore sweatpants and a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt, her hair extremely un-helmet-like. “That’s a new look.”
“Where’s Stacy?”
“Headin’ down 35, with a dozen cops on his ass!” He cracked up, taking another hit. “Toole just sent a crew.”
“He did what?” Chip nodded, holding smoke in his lungs. “Sweet Jesus!” She stormed the station, her stoned coworker basking in the autumn sun.
The chase, if one could call it that,
went on for more than an hour. At no time did Stacy exceed the speed limit. Nor did he place another driver at risk. Six years later, the world would watch a white Bronco evade capture in similar manner on live TV.
Of course, by then, they were used to such things.
“Mobil 2 to Base.”
Toole reached for the radio. “Go ahead, Reg.”
“We found the motorcade, Larry. Fifteen cars, counting the news vans!”
“Then start rolling. And make sure you get better footage than 2 and 7. Break the law if you have to. Remember, they’re after him, not you.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Toole turned to find Katie in the doorway. “Well, don’t you look lovely.”
She touched her hair self-consciously. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s a news story, Katie. Last I checked…” He reached for a cigarette. “…that’s what we do here.”
“This isn’t a news story. He’s one of us!”
Toole struck a match and inhaled. “He’s never been one of us.”
“Mobil 2 to Base.”
“I’m here, Reg?”
“He turned off the highway. At the last Avalon exit.” A burst of static followed. “He’s heading straight for the station.”
Toole and Katie looked at each other. “Then I guess we’ll see you soon.”
Stacy stared through the windshield, oilrigs pumping on both sides. As he headed east, he thought about Julius. Through the tragedy of his friend’s death, he’d found strength. And in that strength, forgiveness. Forgiveness of his mother. His father. Maybe even himself.