6. April 4,1993. First officer rested his arm on the flap/slat handle, moved the handle down, extending the slats. Several passenger injuries.
7. July 4,1993. Pilot reported the flap/slat handle moved and slats extended. Aircraft was in cruise flight at .81 Mach.
8. June 10,1994. The slats extended while the airplane was in cruise flight without movement of the flap/slat handle.
She picked up the phone and called Barker back. “Will you talk about these incidents on camera?”
“I’ve testified in court about this on numerous occasions,” Barker said. “I’ll be happy to speak to you on the record. The fact is, I want this airplane fixed before more people die. And nobody has been willing to do it—not the company, and not the FAA. It’s a disgrace.”
“But how can you be so sure this flight was a slats accident?”
“I have a source inside Norton,” Barker said. “A disgruntled employee who is tired of all the lying. My source tells me it is slats, and the company is covering up.”
Jennifer got off the phone with Barker, and pushed the intercom button. “Deborah!” she screamed. “Get me Travel!”
Jennifer closed the door to her office, and sat quietly. She knew she had a story.
A fabulous story.
The question now was: What’s the angle? How do you frame it?
On a show like Newsline, the frame was all-important. Older producers on the show talked about “context,” which to them meant putting the story in a larger setting. Indicating what the story meant, by reporting what had happened before, or reporting similar things that had occurred. The older guys thought context so important, they seemed to regard it as a kind of moral or ethical obligation.
Jennifer disagreed. Because when you cut out all the sanctimonious bullshit, context was just spin, a way of pumping the story—and not a very useful way, because context meant referring to the past
Jennifer had no interest in the past; she was one of the new generation that understood that gripping television was now, events happening now, a flow of images in a perpetual unending electronic present. Context by its very nature required something more than now, and her interest did not go beyond now. Nor, she thought, did anyone else’s. The past was dead and gone. Who cared what you ate yesterday? What you did yesterday? What was immediate and compelling was now.
And television at its best was now.
So a good frame had nothing to do with the past. Fred Barker’s damning list of prior incidents was actually a problem, because it drew attention to the fading, boring past. She’d have to find a way around it—give it a mention and go on.
What she was looking for was a way to shape the story so that it unfolded now, in a pattern that the viewer could follow. The best frames engaged the viewer by presenting the story as a conflict between good and bad, a morality story. Because the audience got that. If you framed a story that way, you got instant acceptance. You were speaking their language.
But because the story also had to unfold quickly, this morality tale had to hang from a series of hooks that did not need to be explained. Things the audience already knew to be true. They already knew big corporations were corrupt, their leaders greedy sexist pigs. You didn’t have to prove that; you just had to mention it. They already knew that government bureaucracies were inept and lazy. You didn’t have to prove that, either. And they already knew that products were cynically manufactured with no concern for consumer safety.
From such agreed-upon elements, she must construct her morality story.
A fast-moving morality story, happening now.
Of course, there was still another requirement for the frame. Before anything else, she must sell the segment to Dick Shenk. She had to come up with an angle that would appeal to Shenk, that would fit his view of the world. And that was no easy matter: Shenk was more sophisticated than the audience. More difficult to please.
Within the Newsline offices Shenk was known as the Critic, for the harsh way he shot down proposed segments. Walking around the office, Shenk adopted an affable air, playing the grand old man. But all that changed when he listened to a proposal. Then he became dangerous. Dick Shenk was well educated and smart—very smart—and he could be charming when he wanted to. But at bottom he was mean. He had grown meaner with age, cultivating his nasty streak, regarding it as a key to his success.
Now she was going to take a proposal in to him. She knew Shenk would want a story badly. But he would also be angry about Pacino, angry about Marty, and his anger could quickly turn against Jennifer, and her proposed segment.
To avoid his anger, to sell him this segment, she would have to proceed carefully. She would have to fashion the story into a shape that, more than anything else, gave vent to Dick Shenk’s hostility and anger, and turned it in a useful direction. She reached for a notepad, and began to sketch the outlines of what she would say.
ADMINISTRATION
1:04 p.m.
Casey got into the elevator in Administration, Richman following her. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why is everybody so angry with King?”
“Because he’s lying,” Casey said. “He knows the aircraft didn’t come within five hundred feet of the Pacific Ocean. Everybody’d be dead if it did. The incident happened at thirty-seven thousand feet. At most the aircraft dropped three or four thousand feet. That’s bad enough.”
“So? He’s getting attention. Making the case for his client He knows what he’s doing.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Hasn’t Norton settled out of court with him in the past?”
“Three times,” she said.
Richman shrugged. “If you have a strong case, take him to trial.”
“Yes,” Casey said. “But trials are very expensive, and the publicity doesn’t do us any good. It’s cheaper to settle, and just add the cost of his greenmail to the price of our aircraft. The carriers pay that price, and pass it on to the customer. So in the end, every airline passenger pays a few dollars extra for their ticket, in a hidden tax. The litigation tax. The Bradley King tax. That’s how it works in the real world.”
The doors opened, and they came out on the fourth floor. She hurried down the corridor toward her department.
“Where are we going now?’ Richman said. ‘To get something important mat I forgot all about.” She looked at him. “And you did, too.”
NEWSLINE
4:45 p.m.
Jennifer Malone headed toward Dick Shenk’s office. On the way, she passed his Wall of Fame, a tight arrangement of photographs, plaques, and awards. The photographs showed intimate moments with the rich and famous: Shenk riding horses with Reagan; Shenk on a yacht with Cronkite; Shenk in a Southampton softball game with Tisch; Shenk with Clinton; Shenk with Ben Bradlee. And in the far corner, a photograph of an absurdly young Shenk with shoulder-length hair, an Arriflex mounted on his shoulder, filming John Kennedy in the Oval Office.
Dick Shenk had begun his career in the sixties as a scrappy documentary producer, back in the days when the news divisions were prestige loss leaders for the networks— autonomous, handsomely budgeted, and lavishly staffed. Those were the great days of the CBS White Papers and NBC Reports. Back then, when Shenk was a kid running around with an Arri, he was in the world, getting real stuff that mattered. With age and success, Shenk’s horizons had narrowed. His world was now limited to his weekend house in Connecticut and his brownstone in New York. If he went anywhere else, it was in a limousine. But despite his privileged upbringing, his Yale education, his beautiful ex-wives, his comfortable existence, and his worldly success, Shenk at sixty was dissatisfied with his life. Riding around in his limousine, he felt unappreciated: not enough recognition, not enough respect for his accomplishments. The questing kid with the camera had aged into a querulous and bitter adult. Feeling he had been denied respect himself, Shenk in turn denied it to others—adopting a pervasive cynicism toward everything around him. And that was why, she felt certain, he would buy her frame on the Norton story.
Jennifer entered the outer office, stopped by Marian’s desk. “Going to see Dick?” Marian said. “Is he in?”
She nodded. “You want company?” “Do I need it?” Jennifer said, raising an eyebrow. “Well,” Marian said “He’s been drinking.” “It’s okay,” Jennifer said. “I can handle him.”
Dick Shenk listened to her, eyes closed, fingers pressed together to make a steeple. From time to time, he nodded slightly as she spoke.
She ran through the proposed segment, hitting all the beats: the Miami incident, the JAA certification story, the Trans-Pacific flight, the jeopardized China sale. The former FAA expert who says the plane has a long history of uncorrected design problems. The aviation reporter who says the company is mismanaged, drugs and gang activity on the factory floor, a controversial new president, trying to boost flagging sales. Portrait of a once-proud company in trouble.