Author: Arthur Hailey
Category: Literature
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“I can’t tell you any more,” Sloane said finally. “There simply isn’t anything. I wish there were.”
Havelock, while present and watchful, declined to participate in the exchanges and eventually the reporters, some of whom seemed resentful at the lack of news, left as they had come.
“Now, Mr. Sloane,” Havelock said, “I want us to leave here in the way I described—with you in the back of the car, down low and out of sight.” Reluctantly, Sloane agreed.
But in the execution of the plan, an unforeseen misfortune happened.
Crawford Sloane entered the FBI car so quickly that it was observed by only a few people in the crowd outside. However, those few promptly passed the word to others so that the message spread like fire—“Sloane’s in the second car.” Within the same car Havelock and another FBI agent were in the backseat, with Sloane uncomfortably on his hands and knees between them. A third FBI agent was at the wheel.
Two more FBI men were in the first car and both cars began moving immediately.
With the crowd now apprised of Sloane’s departure, some at the rear pushed forward, impelling those at the front off the sidewalk and onto the road. At that point several things occurred in swift succession.
The lead car emerged from the Sloanes’ driveway, waved out by a policeman. It was traveling fast, with the second car close behind. Then suddenly, as spectators opposite the driveway were pushed even farther onto the road, the first car’s previously clear path was blocked. Its driver, shocked to see a line of people facing him, jammed on his brakes.
In other circumstances the lead car might have stopped in time. As it was, on a wet road surface slick from recent rain, it skidded sideways. To the sound of screeching tires followed by a series of horrifying thuds and human screams, the car plowed a path through the front ranks of spectators.
The occupants of the second car—excepting Sloane, who could not see—gasped in horror and braced for a similar collision. But as people scrambled hastily to the opposite side of the road, the crowd parted and Havelock, his face set grimly, ordered the driver, “Don’t stop! Keep going!” Afterward, Havelock would defend his apparently callous action by explaining, “It all happened so fast, I wasn’t sure of anything and figured it could be an ambush.”
Crawford Sloane, aware only that something unexpected was in progress, raised his head to peer out. At that precise moment, a TV camera already focused on the car caught Sloane’s face in closeup, then stayed with the car as it sped from the accident scene. Viewers who later saw the videotape on air had no means of knowing that Sloane was pleading to go back, but Havelock insisted, “There are police right there. They’ll do whatever’s needed.”
The Larchmont police did control the situation and several ambulances were rushed to the scene. When the toll was reckoned, eight people had been injured—six with minor lacerations and bruises, two seriously. Of the seriously hurt, one man sustained a broken arm and crushed ribs while a young woman had a leg so badly mangled that it required amputation.
The accident, though tragic, in other circumstances would not have gained wide attention. Because of the association with the Sloane family kidnap, it received national coverage and some of the blame appeared, by implication, to attach to Crawford Sloane.
The researcher from CBA’s London bureau, Teddy Cooper, had been flown in, as promised, on that morning’s Concorde. He came directly to the task force offices, arriving shortly before 10 A.M., and reported first to Harry Partridge, then to Rita. The three went to the conference room where the group meeting was assembling.
On the way in, Cooper met Crawford Sloane who also had arrived a few minutes earlier, still shaken from his experience at Larchmont.
Cooper, a wiry slip of a man, radiated energy and confidence. His brown lank hair, worn longer than was now fashionable, framed a pale face that bore signs of adolescent acne. The effect was to make him seem even younger than his twenty-five years. Though a born-and-bred Londoner, he had been in the U.S. several times before and was familiar with New York.
To Crawford Sloane, he declared, “Sorry to hear about your missus and family, Mister S, but cheer up! I’m here now! I’ll have those buggers before you know it. It’s what I’m good at!”
Sloane, glancing at Partridge, raised his eyebrows inquiringly, as if to ask, Are you sure we want this bird?
Partridge said dryly, “Modesty has never been Teddy’s problem. We’ll give him some rope and see what happens.” The exchange seemed not to bother Cooper in the least.
To Partridge, Cooper said, “First thing, Harry, is to check out the reports. Then I’ll suss out the scene of the crime. I want a word with the geezers who saw it happen—and I mean everyone. There’s no point pissin’ about. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.”
“You do it your way.” Partridge remembered previous occasions when he had witnessed Cooper at work. “You’ll be in charge of research here, with two assistants.”
The assistant researchers, a young man and woman who had been borrowed from another CBA project, were already in the conference room. While waiting for the meeting to begin, Partridge introduced them.
Cooper shook hands and said, “Working with me will be a great experience for you, kids. Don’t be nervous, though—I’m very informal. Just call me ‘your excellency,’ and you need only salute first thing each morning.”
The researchers seemed amused by Cooper and the trio began discussing a “Sequence of Events” board, already in place in the conference room and occupying an entire wall. A standard procedure in task force reporting, it would record every known detail about the Sloane kidnapping, in proper sequence. On another wall was a second large board, headed “Miscellaneous.” This would contain incidental intelligence, some of it speculation or rumor, whose sequence was irrelevant or not known. From time to time, as “miscellaneous” items developed, they would be transferred to the other board—all of it a research responsibility.
The boards’ purpose was twofold: first, to apprise everyone in the task force inner circle of all available information and new developments; second, to provide a focus for progress reviews and brainstorming sessions which could, and often did, provoke new ideas.
Punctually at ten o’clock, Rita Abrams raised her voice, cutting across the general buzz of conversation. “All right, everyone! Let’s get to work.”
She was seated at the head of a long table, Harry Partridge beside her. Leslie Chippingham arrived and took his place at the table too. As he caught Rita’s eye, they exchanged discreet smiles.
Crawford Sloane seated himself at the far end. He did not expect to contribute to the discussion at this point and had confided to Partridge, “I feel helpless right now, like a loose nut.”
Also at the table were the three producers Rita had recruited. Norman Jaeger, oldest of the three, was a CBA veteran who had worked in every phase of news. Soft-spoken, imaginative and scholarly, he was a producer for the network’s highly acclaimed magazine program, “Behind the Headlines.” His abrupt temporary reassignment today pointed up the exceptional resources of the task force.
Next to Jaeger was Iris Everly, in her mid-twenties and a brightly shining star on the news production scene. Petite, pretty, a Columbia Journalism School graduate, she had a shrewd mind which functioned at lightning speed. When working to pursue an elusive news story, her reputation for toughness and cunning matched Rasputin’s.
Karl Owens, the third producer, was a workhorse who had gained his reputation through persistent, tireless plodding; sometimes his joint investigative work with correspondents succeeded after competitors had given up. Midway in age between Jaeger and Iris Everly and not as imaginative as either, Owens could be counted on for solidity and a thorough knowledge of his craft.
In other seats at the table and immediately behind were Teddy Cooper and the two assistant researchers, a staff writer borrowed from the National Evening News, Minh Van Canh, who would be senior cameraman, and a woma
n secretary, appointed unit manager.
“Okay, we all know why we’re here,” Rita said, opening the meeting with a businesslike tone. “What we’ll discuss now is how to go about our work. First, I’ll talk about organization. After that, Harry will direct us on the way we should march editorially.”
Rita paused and looked the length of the table at Crawford Sloane. “Crawf, we won’t make speeches here. I don’t think any of us could without becoming emotional, and you have enough distress to carry without our adding to that burden. But I want to tell you, very simply and from all of us—for your sake, your family’s, and our own because we care—we’re going to do our damnedest!”
From the other task force members there was an approving, sympathetic murmur.
Sloane nodded twice, then managed to utter, “Thank you,” his voice choked.
“From here in,” Rita said, “we shall operate on two levels—the long-term project and the daily breaking story. Norm,” she continued, addressing the older producer, “you’re to be in charge of long term.”
“Right.”
“Iris, you’ll do the day-by-day, starting with a spot for the news tonight, which we’ll discuss shortly.”
Iris Everly said crisply, “Got it, and the first thing I’ll want is the video of that melee this morning outside Crawf’s house.”
Sloane winced at the mention of the incident and glanced half pleadingly at Iris, though she took no notice.
“You’ll get it,” Rita told her. “The tape’s on the way in.”
To the third producer, Owens, Rita said, “Karl, you’ll move between the two project sides as needed.” She added, “And I’ll be working closely with all three of you.”
Her attention turned to Cooper. “Teddy, I understand you want to go to Larchmont.”
Cooper looked up with a grin. “Yes, ma’am. To dig around and make like the famed Sherlock H.” Turning his head, he added for the others, “At which I’m exceptionally good.”
“Teddy,” Partridge said, speaking for the first time, “everyone in this room is exceptionally good. It’s why they’re here.”
Unabashed, Cooper beamed. “Then I oughta feel right at home.”
“After we finish this meeting,” Rita advised him, “Minh will go to Larchmont, heading two fresh camera crews. You’ll go with him, Teddy, and meet Bert Fisher who’s a stringer for our local affiliate station. I’ve arranged it. Fisher was first to break the story yesterday. He’ll drive you around and introduce you to whoever you want to see.”
“Wizard! I’ll make a note o’ that: Go fishing with Fisher.”
Norm Jaeger said softly to Karl Owens, “Before this assignment’s over I may strangle that Limey.”
“Minh,” Iris Everly said to the cameraman, “let’s you and me talk, please, before you leave for Larchmont.”
Minh Van Canh, his square dark face impassive as usual, nodded.
“For the time being that takes care of the nuts and bolts,” Rita said. “Now, more important, there’s editorial direction. Harry—over to you.”
“Our first objective, as I see it,” Partridge began, “is to find out more about the kidnappers. Who are they? Where are they from? What are they aiming for? Of course, very soon they may tell us that themselves; however, we won’t wait for it to happen. At this point I can’t tell you how we’ll learn the answers to those questions, except that together we will focus our brains on everything that’s occurred so far, plus each new piece of information that comes in. Today I want everyone here to study all the data that we have, memorizing details. The boards will help.” He motioned to the “Sequence of Events” and “Miscellaneous” boards, adding, “Both will be up to date later this morning.
“After everyone has caught up I want us, separately and collectively, to keep picking over the pieces, worrying at them. If we do that, based on past experience something will come out.”
Around the table the group listened attentively as Partridge continued.
“One thing I’ll tell you for sure. Somewhere, those people—the kidnappers—have left traces. Everybody leaves traces, no matter how carefully they try to hide them. The trick is to locate some.” He nodded to Jaeger. “Concentrating on that will be your job, Norman.”
“Got it,” Jaeger said.
“Now the short term. Iris, about our spot for tonight’s evening news. I know you’ve been thinking. How do you see the bones? Do you have a framework?”
She answered crisply. “If there’s no fresh dramatic news like communication from the kidnappers, after saying there isn’t, we may go to the snafu this morning outside Crawf’s house. Then, since this will be the first full day since the event, a recap of yesterday. I’ve watched the tape of last night; it was a mishmash. Tonight we can do better, be more orderly. Also I’d like re-interviews with witnesses at Larchmont”—Iris consulted notes—“especially the old lady, Priscilla Rhea, who’s video-rich. She and the others may have remembered something new.”
“What about reactions?” Jaeger asked. “As in Washington.”
Partridge answered. “A short bite only, from the President, I think. Maybe some citizen interviews if we have time.”
“But nothing from Capitol Hill?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Partridge said. “Maybe never. Everyone on the Hill will want to get in the act.” He motioned for Iris to continue.
“To wrap up,” she said, “we should do some analysis at the end—an interview with an authority on kidnapping.”
Partridge asked, “Anyone in mind?”
“Not yet.”
Karl Owens volunteered, “I know of a guy. Name’s Ralph Salerno, an ex-New York cop, lives at Naples, Florida. He lectures about crime to police forces all over and has written books. Knows a lot about kidnap. I’ve seen him on air. He’s good.”
“Let’s get him,” Iris said, glancing at Partridge who nodded his approval.
Les Chippingham interjected, “Karl, we have an affiliate in the Naples area. Work through them if you can; otherwise fly Salerno to Miami.”
“And either way,” Iris added, “book satellite time for Harry to do the interview.”
“I’ll get onto it,” Owens said, and made a note.
After another fifteen minutes of discussion, Rita tapped the table. “That’ll do,” she announced. “The rap is over. Real work begins.”
Amid the serious business, a marginal tempest.
For research purposes, Harry Partridge had decided to interview Crawford Sloane. Partridge believed that Sloane, like many people who became involved in a complex episode, knew more than he realized and that skilled, persistent questioning might bring out new facts. Sloane had already agreed to the session.
In the conference room after the meeting, as Partridge reminded Sloane of the arrangement, a voice behind them broke in, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit in and listen. I may learn something too.”
Surprised, they turned. Confronting them was Special Agent Otis Havelock who had walked in as the meeting broke up.
“Well,” Partridge said, “since you ask, I do mind.”
Rita Abrams queried Havelock, “Aren’t you Mr. FBI?”
He answered amiably, “You mean like ‘Miss America?’ My colleagues might not think so.”
“What I really mean,” Rita said, “is you shouldn’t be in here at all. This area is off limits to anyone except those working here.”
Havelock seemed surprised. “Part of my job is to protect Mr. Sloane. Besides, you’re investigating the kidnapping. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Then we have the same objective, to locate Mr. Sloane’s family. So anything you people discover, such as what goes up there”—he gestured to the “Sequence of Events” board—“the FBI needs to know as well.”
Several others in the room, among them Leslie Chippingham, had fallen silent.
“In that case,” Rita said, “it should be a two-way deal. Can I send a correspondent, right now, over to the FBI�
��s New York office to examine all your reports that have come in?”
Havelock shook his head. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Some are confidential.”
“Exactly!”
“Look, folks.” Havelock, aware of the growing attention around the room, was clearly trying to be restrained. “I’m not sure you fully understand that we’re dealing with a crime. Anyone with knowledge has a legal obligation to pass it on, in this instance to the FBI. Failing to do so could be a criminal offense.”
Rita, seldom long on patience, objected, “For chrissakes, we’re not children! We do investigations all the time and know the score.”
Partridge added, “I should tell you, Mr. Havelock, that I’ve worked close to the FBI on several stories and your people are notorious for taking all the information they can get and giving back nothing.”
Havelock snapped, “The FBI isn’t obliged to give anything back.” His earlier restraint was gone. “We’re a government agency with the power of the President and Congress behind us. What you people seem to be doing here is setting yourself up as competitors. Well, let me advise you that if anyone impedes the official investigation by withholding information, they’re likely to face serious charges.”
Chippingham decided it was time to intervene.
“Mr. Havelock,” the news president said, “I assure you we are not people who break the law. However, we are free to do all the investigating we want and sometimes we’re more successful at it than what you call the ‘official investigation.’
“What’s really involved here,” Chippingham continued, “is something called ‘reporter privilege.’ While I admit there are some gray areas, what’s important is that reporters can investigate, then protect their sources unless a court rules otherwise. So you see, it would be an infringement on our freedom if we allowed you to have instant, total access to whatever comes in. Therefore I must tell you that while we’re glad to have you here, there’s a limit to your clearance and a line you may not cross—right there.” He pointed to the conference-room doorway.