Author: Arthur Hailey
Category: Literature
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The network president’s strong face was set grimly, her lips compressed, but her silence showed she understood the point Chippingham had made. At length she said, “You’ll keep it short?”
“That will happen automatically. It’s not something that’s worth a long report.”
“And I don’t want some smart-ass reporter implying that Theo knew about the illegality when he says he didn’t.”
“The one thing I’ll promise you,” Chippingham said, “is that whatever we do will be fair. I’ll see to it myself.”
Margot made no comment and instead picked up a slip of paper on her desk. “You came here in a chauffeured limo.”
Chippingham was startled. “Yes, I did.” The car and driver were one of the perks of his job, but the experience of being spied on—which had obviously happened—was new and unsettling.
“In future, use a taxi. I do. So can you. And something else.” She fixed him with a steely glance. “The News Division’s budget is to be cut by twenty percent immediately. You’ll receive a memo from me tomorrow and ‘immediately’ means just that. I shall expect a report within a week on how economies have been made.”
Chippingham was too dazed for more than a polite, formal leave-taking.
The item about Theodore Elliott and income taxes appeared on the CBA National Evening News and the Globanic chairman’s statement about his innocence was left unchallenged. As a Horseshoe producer observed a week later, “If it had been a politician, we’d have poured skepticism on him, then peeled away his skin like an onion. As it is, we haven’t even done a follow-up.”
In fact, a follow-up was considered; there was sufficient new material. But during a discussion at the Horseshoe in which the news president participated, it was decided that other news that day was more important, so the follow-up didn’t run. The decision was subtle; few, even to themselves, conceded it to be a cop-out.
The matter of budget cutting was something else. It was an area where all networks were vulnerable to their conquerors and everyone knew it, including Leslie Chippingham. The News Divisions in particular had become fat, overstaffed and ripe for pruning.
When it happened at CBA News—the result of the demanded cost economies—the process was painful, mainly because more than two hundred lost their jobs.
The firings produced cries of outrage from those left jobless, and their friends. The print press had a bonanza, with newspapers running human interest stories slanted sympathetically toward the economy wave’s victims—even though, quite frequently, print publishers exercised the same kind of economies themselves.
A group within CBA News, all of whose members were on long-term contracts, sent a letter of protest to the New York Times. The signatories included Crawford Sloane, four senior correspondents and several producers. Their letter lamented that among those abruptly unemployed were veteran correspondents who had served CBA News for most of their working lives. It also pointed out that CBA overall was in no financial difficulty and that the network’s profits compared favorably with those of major industrial companies. The published letter was discussed and quoted nationwide.
The letter and the attention accorded it infuriated Margot Lloyd-Mason. Once more she sent for Leslie Chippingham.
With the Times open in front of her she railed, “Those overpaid, conceited bastards are part of management. They should be supporting management decisions, not undermining us by public bellyaching.”
The news president ventured, “I doubt if they consider themselves management. They’re news people first and are unhappy about their colleagues. And I may as well tell you, Margot, so am I.”
The network head impaled him with a glare. “I’ve enough problems without any from you, so forget that brand of garbage. See to it that you ream out the people who signed that letter and let them know I expect no more disloyalty. You may also inform them that their kind of double-dealing will be remembered at contract renewal time. Which reminds me—some of the amounts we’re paying news people are insanely exorbitant, especially for that arrogant son of a bitch Crawford Sloane.”
Subsequently, Leslie Chippingham relayed a softer version of Margot’s comments, reasoning that he was the one who had to hold the News Division together, something that was becoming increasingly difficult.
The difficulty was compounded a few weeks later when a new proposal by Mrs. Lloyd-Mason was announced through a CBA internal memo. The intention was to create a political action fund to pay for lobbying in Washington on behalf of CBA network. Money for the fund would be contributed “voluntarily” by network executives and deducted from their salaries. Senior personnel in the News Division would be included. The announcement pointed out that the arrangement conformed to a similar one within the parent company, Globanic Industries.
The same day the announcement arrived, Chippingham was near the Horseshoe when a producer asked him, “Les, you’re going to fight that political action shit for all of us, aren’t you?”
From several feet away, Crawford Sloane interjected, “Of course he is. Les would never agree to anything which had the News Division asking for political favors instead of reporting them. We can all rely on him for that.”
The news president found it hard to tell whether or not there was irony in the anchorman’s voice. Either way, Chippingham recognized he had another serious problem, originating through Margot’s ignorance—or was it plain uncaring?—about news integrity. Should he go to her and argue against the political action fund? He doubted, though, that it would make any difference since Margot’s main objective was clearly to please her Globanic masters and advance her own career.
In the end he solved his problem by leaking the story, along with a copy of the internal CBA memo, to the Washington Post. He had a contact there whom he had used before and who could be trusted not to reveal a source. The resulting Post report, which was picked up by other papers, ridiculed the idea of involving a news organization in political lobbying. Within days the plan was officially abandoned—according to rumors, on the personal orders of Globanic’s chairman, Theodore Elliott.
Once more the CBA network president sent for Chippingham.
Coldly, without greeting or preliminaries, she asked, “Who in the News Division gave my memo to the Post?”
“I have no idea,” he lied.
“Bullshit! If you don’t know for sure, you have a damn good notion.”
Chippingham decided to keep quiet, though noting with relief that it had not occurred to Margot he himself might be responsible for the leak.
She broke the silence between them. “You have been uncooperative ever since I came here.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way because I don’t believe it’s true. In fact, I’ve tried to be honest with you.”
Ignoring the disclaimer, Margot continued, “Because of your persistent attitude I’ve had inquiries made about you and have learned several things. One is that your job is important to you at this moment, because financially you can’t afford to lose it.”
“My job has always been important to me. As to financially important, isn’t that true of most people? Perhaps even of you.” Chippingham wondered uneasily what was coming.
With a thin, superior smile the network chief said, “I’m not in the middle of a messy divorce action. You are. Your wife wants a large financial settlement, including most of your joint property and, if she doesn’t get it, will produce evidence in court of a half-dozen adulterous relationships which you were careless about concealing. You also have debts, including a big personal bank loan, so you desperately need a continuing income; otherwise you’ll be a personal bankrupt and the next thing to a pauper.”
Raising his voice, he objected, “That’s insulting! It’s an intrusion on my personal privacy.”
Margot said calmly, “It may be, but it’s true.”
Despite the protest, he was jolted by the extent of her knowledge. He was in a near-desperate financial bind, in part because he had never been abl
e to manage his personal money and across the years had not only spent his substantial salary as it came in, but had borrowed heavily. He had also never been able to resist the temptations of other women, a weakness that Stasia, his wife of twenty years, had appeared to accept—until three months ago. Then, without warning, Stasia’s pent-up rage and stored-up evidence exploded into a ferocious divorce action. Even with that to contend with, he had foolishly started another affair, this time with Rita Abrams, a CBA News producer. He hadn’t intended it to happen but it had. Now he found it exciting and wanted to go on. But the thought of losing his job frightened him.
“Now listen to me carefully,” Margot said. “It isn’t hard to replace a News Division president and if I need to, I will. Before you even know what’s happening, you’ll be out on your ass and someone else in. There are plenty of candidates for your job, here and at the other networks. Is that clear?”
Chippingham said resignedly, “Yes, it’s clear.”
“However, if you play ball with me, you’ll stay on. But News Division policy will be the way I want it. Remember that And one more thing: When I want something done which you don’t like, don’t waste my time with crap about news ethics and purity. You stopped being pure—if you ever were—when you didn’t use those follow-up pieces about Theo Elliott’s taxes.” Margot gave her thin smile again. “Oh yes, I know about that. So you’ve been corrupted already and a few more times won’t make any difference. That’s all. You can go.”
That conversation had taken place two days before Chuck Insen, and then Crawford Sloane, had come to the news president with their personal problems about the National Evening News. Chippingham knew that their differences must be settled promptly within the News Division. For as long as possible he wanted no more visits to Margot, no more confrontations.
“I’m telling you, Crawf, just as I told Chuck,” Chippingham said, “right now you’ll do the greatest harm to all of us in news if the two of you go public with your infighting. Over at Stonehenge, the News Division is out of favor. As for Chuck’s idea of involving Margot Lloyd-Mason, she won’t take his side or yours. What she’ll probably do is more cost cutting on the grounds that if we have time for internal feuding we’re not busy enough, and are therefore overstaffed.”
“I can fight that,” Sloane said.
“And I guarantee you’ll be ignored.” Unusually, Chippingham was becoming angry. At times it was a news president’s function to protect his reporting staff, including an anchorman, from the network’s top management. But there were limits; for once he decided to be rough. “Something you may as well know is that our new boss doesn’t have a lot of time for you. Because of that damnfool letter you and the others wrote to the Times, she described you as arrogant and overpaid.”
Sloane protested, “That letter was on target. I’m entitled to a free opinion and I expressed it.”
“Balls! You had no business putting your name there. In that I agree with Margot. For god’s sake, Crawf, grow up! You can’t take the kind of money you do from the network and continue being ‘one of the boys,’ shooting off at the mouth when you feel like it.”
There was no reason, Chippingham thought, why he should take all the flak from the network’s new owners. Let other senior staffers, including Sloane and Insen, carry their share! The news president also had a private reason for irritation. Today was Thursday. Tonight he planned to leave for a long, love-filled weekend with Rita Abrams in Minnesota. Rita was already there, having arrived the night before. What he didn’t want was to have this stupid brawl fomenting in his absence.
“I still come back to what we started with,” Sloane said. “There need to be changes in our news format.”
“There can be,” Chippingham told him. “I have some ideas myself. We’ll work them out here.”
“How?”
“Starting next week I’ll hold meetings with you and Chuck Insen—as many as it takes to get agreement. Even if I have to slam your heads together, we’ll find an acceptable compromise.”
“We can try it,” Sloane said doubtfully, “but it’s not totally satisfactory.”
Chippingham shrugged. “Tell me something that is.”
When the news president had gone, Sloane sat silently in his office brooding over their discussion. Then he remembered the speakerphone announcement about Larchmont. Curious to know if there was any more information, he left his office and headed for the newsroom.
15
Bert Fisher, the Larchmont stringer, was continuing to pursue a potential news story stemming from the police radio message about a “possible kidnap.” After telephoning WCBA-TV, Bert hurried out of his apartment, hoping that his battered twenty-year-old Volkswagen bug would start. Following an anxious minute of abortive whines and grunts, it did. He kept a scanner radio in the car and set it to the Larchmont police frequency. Then he headed for downtown—the Grand Union supermarket.
Partway there some more police radio exchanges caused him to change direction.
“Car 423 to headquarters. Proceeding to house of possible victims of reported incident. Address, 66 Park Avenue. Request a detective meet me there.”
“Headquarters to 423. Ten four.”
A brief pause, then, “Headquarters to car 426. Proceed urgently to 66 Park Avenue. Meet post officer, car 423. Investigate officer’s report.”
In local police usage, Bert realized, “proceed urgently” meant: with flashing lights and siren. Clearly, the action was heating up and Bert increased his own speed as much as the ancient Volkswagen would allow. Now, heading for Park Avenue, he felt excited about that address number—66. He wasn’t sure, but if the house belonged to the person he thought it did, this was really a big story.
Officer Jensen, who had responded to the original call from the Grand Union supermarket and interviewed the old lady, Priscilla Rhea, now had a feeling he was involved in something serious. In his mind, he went over the situation so far.
During his questioning of others at the supermarket, several witnesses confirmed seeing a fellow shopper—identified by two of them as Mrs. Crawford Sloane—leave the store suddenly, apparently in distress. She was accompanied by her young son and two other men, one about thirty, the other elderly. The thirty-year-old appeared to have come to the store on his own. At first he had asked other shoppers whether they were Mrs. Sloane. Then, when he encountered the real Mrs. Sloane, the hasty exodus ensued.
From that point, the only person claiming to have seen any of those described was Miss Rhea. Her story about an attack, with the victims being carried away in a “little bus,” was increasingly believable. Contributing to the credibility was that Mrs. Sloane’s Volvo station wagon—pointed out to Officer Jensen by someone who knew her—was still parked in the supermarket lot, with no sign of Mrs. Sloane or the others with her. There were also those splotches on the ground which possibly were blood. Jensen had asked one of the other officers now on the scene to protect them as evidence, for examination later.
Another onlooker, who lived near the Sloanes, had given Jensen the family’s home address. This, coupled with the fact that there was nothing more for him to do at the supermarket, had prompted Jensen’s radio message asking for a detective to meet him at 66 Park Avenue. In other circumstances, and because Larchmont police radio conversations were casual compared with those of larger forces, he would have included the Sloane name with the address. But knowing that Larchmont’s most famous resident was involved, and being aware that outsiders might be listening, he withheld the name for the time being.
Jensen was on his way to Park Avenue now—a journey of only a few minutes.
He had just entered the driveway of number 66 when a second police car—unmarked, though with a portable flashing roof light and screaming siren—pulled in behind. Detective Ed York, an old-timer on the force whom Jensen knew well, stepped out. York and Jensen conferred briefly, then walked to the house together. The policemen identified themselves to Florence, the Sloanes’ day m
aid, who had come to the front door at the sound of the siren. She let them in, her face showing a mixture of surprise and alarm.
“There’s a possibility, only a possibility,” Detective York informed her, “that something may have happened to Mrs. Sloane.” He began asking questions which Florence answered, her concern mounting as she did.
Yes, she had been in the house when Mrs. Sloane, Nicky, and Mr. Sloane’s father left to go shopping. That was about eleven o’clock. Mr. Sloane had left for work just as Florence arrived, which was 9:30. No, she had not heard from anyone in the family since Mrs. Sloane left, though she hadn’t expected to. In fact there had been no phone calls at all. No, there had been nothing unusual when Mrs. Sloane and the others drove away. Except … well …
Florence stopped, then asked anxiously, “What’s this all about? What’s happened to Mrs. Sloane?”
“Right now there isn’t time to explain,” the detective said. “What did you mean by ‘except … well’?”
“Well, when Mrs. Sloane, her father-in-law and Nicky were leaving, I was in there.” Florence motioned toward a sun-room at the front of the house. “I saw them drive away.”
“And?”
“There was a car parked on the side street; you can see it from there. When Mrs. Sloane left, all of a sudden the car started and went the same way she did. I didn’t think anything about it at the time.”
“No reason why you should,” Jensen said. “Can you describe the car?”
“It was dark brown, I think. Sort of medium size.”
“Did you see a license plate?”