she thought. The crusty old crime reporter turns pop psychologist. What’s next, Jason—a psychic reading?
The director (who playfully thought of airing Susan’s theatrics before being outvoted by the other control room technicians) cut back to a two-shot when Susan had sufficiently regained her composure.
With live reports such as these, there were no scripts to follow. There was only one rule that had to be followed at all times: Don’t blink.
As the shooting had taken place during one of the network’s shows, it was quickly decided that, as a duty to the audience, there would be no commercial breaks. With the two nightly news anchors already in the building, the decision not to use the morning show’s newscaster was pretty simple. During a major crisis the public didn’t want to see a former football jock giving them updates and analysis. They wanted the best money could buy and that happened to be Jason and Susan.
A news anchor is like a computer: information in equals information out. Along with having the director and production team giving them updates and subject ideas in their earpieces, the anchors have to contend with their surroundings. Only a few feet away from the set there was a small army of people running from desk to desk, furiously typing copy or on the telephone. Each person had a job to do, which today entailed only one thing: to make the anchors appear knowledgeable. Promotions and raises hinged on one’s performance during a crisis situation.
Using all available land lines, cell phones and smart phone devices, reporters and junior news directors tried desperately to schedule guests who could give their “expert” opinions on why the morning’s events had occurred. On the line at various times were police sergeants, psychologists, criminal behaviourists, car experts, gun dealers and so forth. Susan would have smiled to hear the psychic who was claiming she knew the identity of the killer and that it was not a woman! The reporter who had the misfortune of taking her call insisted he didn’t think they could afford her services.
“Not at $4.99 a minute in any case!” he’d laughed, before putting her on hold indefinitely.
Stanley watched the media circus unfold in front of him. Listening to the anchors relate the recent events over and over made him nauseous. It was the phrase, “Not since Lee Harvey Oswald,” that stuck like an ice pick in his mind.
This thing is bigger than the Kennedy or Reagan or Lennon shootings, he thought.
There were millions of witnesses who had seen it happen—live—and he now believed he’d been party to the whole thing.
Feeling physically sick for the first time, Stanley rushed to the nearby men’s room where he vomited violently. As he lay partially on the floor at the base of the toilet, he gave thanks the room was empty.
A short time later, he pulled himself off the tiled floor and walked to the vanity, where he splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticing his paleness and realizing that being sick was only part of the reason.
As he stared at his mirrored twin, he saw raw unbridled terror looking back at him. He tried to banish the image from his head as he exited into the hallway. Yet, he could only think that if he couldn’t look at himself now, how would others view him if the truth ever came out?
He shuddered at the thought and decided that now was an excellent time for a smoke.
THREE
Forgotten by all except the television crew was the morning’s distinguished guest: presidential candidate Douglas Adams. Almost as the gunshot outside had rung out, Adams was forcibly removed from his chair. To the dismay of the audio techs, Adams ripped off his lapel microphone and threw it to the floor, where one of his entourage immediately stepped on it, rendering it useless for all time.
The Nation Today’s co-host, Evan MacLean, sat in his chair across from Adams in stunned silence. He watched Adams’ handlers whisk him into the hall. As the studio door closed behind them, MacLean saw one of the men yelling into a walkie-talkie, “This is a code white situation! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”
As the sidewalk explosives went off, MacLean’s attention was directed toward the huge wall of windows, which shook from the blast.
We’re under attack! he thought as he dove to the floor. They’re going to kill us all!
He risked a look at the street scene and wished he hadn’t. He saw mass confusion as people ran for their lives, many running up to the windows and pounding on them violently. Their faces etched in fear as they realized they were stuck outside.
MacLean wondered what they must have thought seeing a roomful of people secure from the mayhem, staring blankly back at them.
“Heaven help us all,” he said aloud, before closing his eyes to await the next bomb blast that never came.
As the limousine pulled out of the station’s parking lot, candidate Adams’ head was pushed between his legs by one of his guards.
“Is this necessary?” he demanded.
“It’s what you pay us for,” came the reply.
“Don’t take Huntington,” head of security Terry Jameson said to the driver. “They may have anticipated that.”
“Anticipated what?” Adams cried, shoving the huge forearm off his neck and sitting upright. “They weren’t after me, you idiots! They were after the guy asking the question!”
Jameson turned and faced Adams.
“Did you know that man?”
“He was a stranger off the street—how would I know him?”
“We can’t take any chances, sir,” Jameson said. “When we turn this corner there’ll be a blue car waiting for us. I want you to get into that car as quickly as possible. The driver will take you to a safe place.”
Adams looked bewildered.
This is from a bad spy movie, he thought.
“Is that advisable?”
Jameson turned back to the front and said, “This limo is a bit conspicuous, don’t you think?”
Adams failed to reply.
I pay these guys to think at times like these. Trust them. They know what they’re doing.
The limo turned onto Addingham Lane and sure enough, the blue nondescript car was idling by the curb.
“The driver is one of us, so do what he says. I’m staying with this car as a decoy and will meet up with you in a few minutes,” Jameson advised.
The limo door was pulled open by a man dressed in street clothes, who watched over Adams as he ducked into the backseat of the car. As it fled the area, he slumped down in the seat in an effort to make himself invisible.
His thoughts were a mixture of panic and sheer excitement. The Reagan assassination attempt replayed in his mind; how the Secret Service had shoved the President into the back of his motorcade car while others joined the melee to restrain John Hinckley.
A split-second later however, this terrifying thought was overtaken by
