There was the tinkle of spoon against glass from the head table.
“Here it comes,” Bob McConnell said. “The after-dinner regurgitation. Duck.”
Fletch turned his chair, to face the dais.
“Anybody got a cigar?” Bob asked. “I’ve always wanted to blow smoke up Hy Litwack’s nose.”
Helena Williams was standing at the dais.
“Does this thing work?” she asked the microphone.
Her amplified voice bounced off the walls.
“No!” said the audience.
“Of course not!” said the audience.
“Ask it again, Helena!” said the audience.
“Good evening,” said Helena, in her best modulated voice.
The audience stopped scraping its chairs and began restraining its smoke-coughs.
“Despite the tragic circumstances of the death of the president of the American Journalism Alliance’s president, Walter March”—she stopped, flustered, took a deep breath, and, in the best game-old-girl tradition, continued—“it is a pleasure to see you all, and to welcome you to the Forty-Ninth Annual Meeting of the American Journalism Alliance’s Convention.
“Walter March was to make a welcoming speech at this point, but.…”
“But,” Robert McConnell said, softly, “old Walter’s being sent home in a box.”
“… Well,” Helena said, “of course there is no one who can stand in his place.
“Instead, let us recognize all that Walter has done, both for the Alliance, and, for each of us, individually as newspeople, over the years.…”
“Yeah,” said Robert McConnell.
“Yeah,” said Crystal Faoni.
“… and join in a moment of silence.”
“Hey, Fletch,” Bob said in a stage whisper, “got a deck of cards?”
There was a moment of quiet muttering.
Across the room, Tim Shields was waving at a waiter to bring him a drink.
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with the tragic circumstances,” Helena said, “but the after-dinner speech scheduled for Wednesday evening by the President of the United States has been canceled.…”
“Oh, shucks.” Bob looked at Fletch. “And here I brought two pairs of scissors.”
“… However, the Vice-President has arranged to come.”
“The Administration has decided not to ignore us completely,” Crystal Faoni said, “just because we’ve taken to stabbing each other in the back more openly than usual.”
“Just one other announcement,” Helena said, “before I introduce Hy Litwack. Well, why don’t I just introduce Virginia State Police Captain Andrew Neale, who has been placed in charge of poor Walter’s.…”
Helena stepped away from the microphone.
A man with salt and pepper short hair, a proper military bearing in a tweed jacket, stood up from a table near the main door and walked to the dais. Clearly, he had not expected to be called upon.
Bob McConnell said, “I betcha he says, ‘Last, but not least.’”
With poise, but blushing slightly, Captain Neale addressed the microphone.
“Good evening,” he said, in a soft, deep drawl. “Accept my sympathy for the loss of the president of your association.”
“Accepted,” Bob muttered. “Easily accepted.”
“First,” Captain Neale said, “I’ve asked that your convention not be canceled. I’m sure that the death of Walter March casts a tragic pall over your meetings.…”
“An appalling pall,” said Bob.
“… but I trust you all will be able to go about your business with as little interference as possible from me and the people working with me.
“Second, of course we will have to take statements from those of you who were actually here at Hendricks Plantation this morning at the time of the tragic occurrence. Your cooperation in being available to us, and open with us, will be greatly appreciated.
“Third, I realize that I am surrounded here by some of the world’s greatest reporters. Frankly, I feel like Daniel in the den of lions. I understand that each of you feels the necessity of reporting the story of Walter March’s murder to your newspapers or networks, and I will try to be as fair with you as I can. But please understand that I, too, have to do my job. Many of you have already come to me with questions. If I do nothing but answer your questions, I won’t be doing my job, which is to investigate this tragedy, and, there won’t be any answers. As solid facts are developed, I will see that you get them. It would help if there were no rumor or speculation.”
“Here it comes,” Bob said.
Captain Neale said, “Last, but not least, if any of you have genuine information which might help in this investigation, of course we will appreciate your reporting that information to me or one of the people working with me.
“Someone at Hendricks Plantation murdered Walter March this morning, with premeditation. No one has been allowed to leave the plantation since this morning. Someone here—most likely in this room—is guilty of first degree murder.
“I will appreciate your cooperation in every way.”
Captain Neale started from the microphone, bent back to it, and said, “Thank you.”
“Good old boy,” said Bob. “Good cop.”
“Bright and decent,” said Crystal.
Freddie Arbuthnot said, “Ineffectual.”
Helena said Hy Litwack needed no introduction, and so she gave him none.
Bob McConnell said, “I bet he says, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’”
Crystal and Fletch shrugged at each other.
Hy Litwack, anchorman for evening network news, was highly respected by everyone except other journalists, most of whom were purely envious of him.
He was handsome, dignified, with a grand voice, solid manner, and had been earning a fabulous annual income for many years. He was staffed like no journalist in history had ever been staffed.
An additional point of envy was that he was also an incredibly good journalist.
Unlike many another television newsman, he kept his showmanship to a minimum.
And, unlike many other journalists of roughly comparable power and prestige, there was minimal evidence of bias in his reporting—even in the questions he asked in live interview situations. He never led his audience, or anyone he was interviewing.
Also enviable was his on-camera stamina, through conventions, elections, and other continuous-coverage stories.
Hy Litwack had been at the top of the heap for years.
Next to him at the head table sat his wife, Carol.
“Good evening.” The famous voice cleared his throat. “When I have an opportunity to speak, I try to speak on the topics I find people most frequently ask me about, whether I wish to speak about them or not.
“Recently, people have been asking me most about acts of terrorism, more specifically about television news coverage of acts of terrorism, most specifically whether by covering terrorism, television news is encouraging, or even causing, other terrorists to implement their dreadful, frequently insane fantasies.
“I hate witnessing terrorism. I hate reading about it. I hate reporting it—as I’m sure we all do.
“But television did not create terrorism.
“Terrorism, like many another crime or insanity, is infectious. It perpetuates itself. It causes itself to happen. One incident of terrorism causes two more incidents, which cause more and more and more incidents.
“Never was this social phenomenon, of acts of terrorism stimulating other acts of terrorism, on and on, more apparent than at the beginning of the twentieth century.
“And television, or television news, at that point had not yet even been dreamed of.
“An act of terrorism is an event. It is news.
“And it is our job to bring the news to the people, whether we personally like that news, or not.”
