Malone said, “On a commercial flight, some guy lets his fucking kid fly the plane?”
“Yes,” Casey said.
“That’s the story?’
“Yes,” Casey said. “And you have the tape in your possession that proves it. Therefore you are aware of the facts. Mr. Reardon stated on camera that both he and his colleagues in New York have watched the tape in its entirety. So you have seen this shot of the cockpit. I have now informed you what that shot represents. We have provided you with corroborating evidence—not all the evidence, there’s more. We have also demonstrated in flight test that there is nothing wrong with the aircraft itself.”
“Not everyone agrees…” she began.
“This is no longer a matter of opinion, Ms. Malone. It is a matter of fact. You are undeniably in possession of the facts. If Newsline does not report these facts, which you are now aware of, and if it makes any suggestion whatsoever that there is anything wrong with the N-22 aircraft based on this incident, we will sue you for reckless disregard and malicious intent. Ed Fuller is very conservative, but he thinks we will certainly win. Because you acquired the tape that proves our case. Now, would you like Mr. Fuller to call Mr. Shenk and explain the situation, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”
Malone said nothing.
“Ms. Malone?”
“Where’s a phone?” she said.
“There’s one in the corner.”
Malone got up, and walked over to the phone. Casey headed for the door.
“Jesus Christ,” Malone said, shaking her head. “The guy lets his kid fly a plane full of people? I mean, how can that happen?”
Casey shrugged. “He loves his son. We believe he’s allowed him to fly on other occasions. But there’s a reason why commercial pilots are required to train extensively on specific equipment, to be type certified. He didn’t know what he was doing, and he got caught.” Casey closed the door, and thought: And so did you.
YUMA
10:05 a.m.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dick Shenk said. “I got a hole in the show the size of Afghanistan and you’re telling me you’ve got a bad parts story? Featuring Yellow Peril Pilots? Is that what you’re telling me, Jennifer? Because I’m not going to run with that. I’ll get murdered. I’m not going to be the Pat Buchanan of the airwaves. Fuck that noise.”
“Dick,” she said. “It doesn’t really play that way. It’s a family tragedy, the guy loves his son, and—”
“But I can’t use it,” Shenk said. “He’s Chinese. I can’t even go near it.”
“The kid killed four people and injured fifty-six—”
“What difference does that make? I’m very disappointed in you, Jennifer,” he said. “Very, very disappointed. Do you realize what this means? This means I have to go with the gimp Little League segment.”
“Dick,” she said. “I didn’t cause the accident, I’m just reporting the story …”
“Wait a minute. What fresh bullshit is this?”
“Dick, I—”
“You’re reporting your ineptitude, is what you’re reporting,” Shenk said. “You fucked up, Jennifer. You had a hot story, a story I wanted, a story about a crappy American product, and two days later you come back with some horseshit about a whack. It’s not the airplane, it’s the pilot. And maintenance. And bad parts.”
“Dick—”
“I warned you, I didn’t want bad parts. You fucked this one to death, Jennifer. We’ll talk Monday.” And he hung up.
GLENDALE
ll:00 p.m.
Newsline’s closing credits were running when Casey’s phone rang. An unfamiliar, gruff voice said, “Casey Singleton?”
“Speaking.”
“Hal Edgarton here.”
“How are you, sir?”
“I’m in Hong Kong, and I’ve just been told by one of my board members that Newsline did not run a Norton story tonight.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“I’m very pleased,” he said. “I wonder why they didn’t run it?”
“I have no idea,” Casey said.
“Well, whatever you did, it was obviously effective,” Edgarton said. “I’m leaving for Beijing in a few hours, to sign the sales agreement. John Marder was supposed to meet me there, but I’m told that, for some reason, he hasn’t left California.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.
“Good,” Edgarton said. “Glad to hear it. We’ll be making some changes at Norton in the next few days. Meanwhile I wanted to congratulate you, Casey. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. You’ve done an outstanding job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Hal.”
“Thank you, Hal.”
“My secretary will call to arrange lunch when I get back,” he said. “Keep up the good work.”
Edgarton hung up, and then there were other calls. From Mike Lee, congratulating her, in guarded tones. Asking how she managed to kill the story. She said she had nothing to do with it, that Newsline for some reason had decided not to run it.
Then there were more calls, from Doherty, and Burne, and Ron Smith. And Norma, who said, “Honey, I’m proud of you.”
And finally Teddy Rawley, who said he happened to be in the neighborhood, and wondered what she was doing.
“I’m really tired,” Casey said “Another time, okay?”
“Aw, babe. It was a great day. Your day.”
“Yeah, Teddy. But I’m really tired.”
She took her phone off the hook, and went to bed.
GLENDALE
Sunday, 5:45 p.m.
It was a clear evening. She was standing outside her bungalow, in the twilight, when Amos came up with his dog. The dog slobbered on her hand.
“So,” Amos said. “You dodged a bullet.”
“Yes,” she said. “I guess so.”
“Whole plant’s talking. Everyone’s saying you stood up to Marder. Wouldn’t lie about 545. That true?”
“More or less.”
“Then you were stupid,” Amos said. “You should have lied. They lie. It’s just a question of whose lie gets on the air.”
“Amos…”
“Your father was a journalist; you think there’s some kind of truth to be told. There isn’t. Not for years, kid. I watched those scum on the Aloha incident. All they wanted was the gory details. Stewardess gets sucked out of the plane, did she die before she hit the water? Was she still alive? That’s all they wanted to know.”
“Amos,” she said. She wanted him to stop.
“I know,” he said. “That’s entertainment. But I’m telling you, Casey. You were lucky this time. You might not be as lucky next time. So don’t let this become a habit. Remember: they make the rules. And the game’s got nothing to do with accuracy, or the facts, or reality. It’s just a circus.”
She wasn’t going to argue with him. She petted the dog.
“Fact is,” Amos said, “everything’s changing. Used to be—in the old days—the media image roughly corresponded to reality. But now it’s all reversed. The media image is the reality, and by comparison day-to-day life seems to lack excitement. So now day-to-day life is false, and the media image is true. Sometimes I look around my living room, and the most real thing in the room is the television. It’s bright and vivid, and the rest of my life looks drab. So I turn the damn thing off. That does it every time. Get my life back.”
Casey continued to pet the dog. She saw headlights in the darkening night swing around the corner, and come up the street toward them. She walked to the curb.
“Well, I’m rambling,” Amos said.
“Good night, Amos,” she said.
The car came to a stop. The door flung open.
“Mom!”
Her daughter jumped into her arms, wrapping her legs around her. “Oh, Mom, I missed you!”
“Me too, honey,” she said. “Me too.”
Jim got out of the car, handed Casey the backpack. In the near darkness, she couldn’t really see his face.
“Good night,” he said to her.
“Good night, Jim,” she said.
Her daughter took her hand. They started back inside. It was growing dark, and the air was cool. When she looked up, she saw the straight contrail of a passenger jet. It was so high, it was still in daylight, a thin white streak across the darkening sky.