First Victim

Following a lead by Billy-Bob, Stevie read six more lines from the TelePrompTer—a crack house catching fire—and then settled back into her swivel chair as a taped report took over.

The floor director signaled camera three, lifting a hand like a race car flagman. That hand dropped and Stevie recited from the scrolling script.

Stay with News Four at Five for an exclusive interview with

Adam Talmadge, Northwest regional director of the INS, based

here in Seattle, as we continue our investigation into the trade in illegal immigrants in High Seas, High Stakes. Back after

this break.

The TV screen went to ads. Third-quarter revenues were up 31 percent. Stevie knew the numbers.

‘‘Clear!’’ shouted the floor director. ‘‘Stevie, living room! William, camera two in sixty.’’

Adam Talmadge wore a dark suit, a white button-down shirt and a blue tie bearing red eagle heads. His wingtips were resoled but well shined. He had most of his hair, a light gray curly nap cut close to his scalp, dramatic black eyebrows and clear blue irises like fresh ice or taxidermy glass. His face filled with a reserved but friendly caution as he shook hands with Stevie. His eyes did not stray to her anatomy for even an instant, as some men’s did, and she ascertained immediately that he was well versed in media performance. She had little doubt that by agreeing to the interview, Talmadge brought his own agenda. She had, in fact, requested that this interview be with Coughlie, who presently occupied a formed-fiberglass seat off-camera, but Talmadge had accepted for himself.

‘‘All set?’’ Stevie asked her guest.

‘‘My pleasure,’’ he said.

The floor director’s arm prepared to flag her, and chopped with authority.

‘‘News Four at Five is pleased to welcome Adam Talmadge, Northwest regional director of the Immigration and Naturalization Service based here in Seattle. Welcome.’’

‘‘Good to be here, Stevie.’’

‘‘The INS is the gateway through which every legal immigrant must enter this country,’’ she said. ‘‘It also maintains its own, independent federal police force at our borders and ports of entry. You detain how many individuals a year here in the Seattle area?’’

Talmadge’s tan spoke of a low golf handicap. He said, ‘‘We detained approximately twenty-two hundred individuals in the last calendar year—but let me just say—’’

‘‘That says plenty,’’ Stevie interrupted, setting the tone for the interview. She would resist allowing Talmadge to stray and change the topic the way the media coaches taught. ‘‘And of those, approximately how many arrive by container or ship?’’

‘‘A third to one-half, perhaps.’’ He glanced imperceptibly off camera toward Brian Coughlie.

She stated, ‘‘So, of those detained, seven hundred to one thousand illegal immigrants—political refugees— enter this city as stowaways or human cargo or slaves.’’

‘‘Political refugees account for only about ten percent of all illegal entries,’’ he corrected.

‘‘And what percentage of all illegal entries are in fact detained by your service?’’

‘‘We have no way to measure that.’’

‘‘An estimate?’’ she asked.

‘‘If we were fifty percent successful we’d be pleased.’’

‘‘Less than ten percent of drugs coming into this country are seized,’’ she challenged, reading from her notes. ‘‘Why would your results be significantly higher?’’

‘‘Drugs can be hidden in a ski pole, can be left on the bottom of the ocean for a month, air-dropped into national forest. We’re dealing with human beings,’’ he reminded.

‘‘So if your twenty-two hundred is fifty percent, there are roughly five thousand illegals entering via the Northwest each year. And yet the national number is more like three hundred thousand, isn’t it?’’

‘‘The majority of which—some eighty percent—come across our southern border.’’

‘‘Mexico.’’

‘‘From Mexico, yes.’’

‘‘And here, Asians account for most of the illegal immigration, do they not?’’

‘‘That’s correct.’’

‘‘Chinese?’’

‘‘A large percentage are from mainland China. Yes. Vietnam. Indonesia.’’

‘‘Political refugees,’’ she said, returning to her earlier point.

Talmadge pursed his lips and cocked his head. ‘‘We screen carefully for those individuals with legitimate claims to political persecution.’’

‘‘And yet a recent ruling by Congress allows detained illegals only nine days to confirm their status as political refugees, isn’t that right?’’

‘‘Six working days,’’ he corrected.

She attempted to contain the gleam in her eyes from having purposely overstated the waiting period, luring him into the correction.

‘‘After which they are deported and returned to their country of origin—whatever their fate there.’’

‘‘That is generally the procedure, yes.’’

‘‘And to qualify as a political refugee these individuals, these refugees, have to be able to prove they have been tortured.’’

‘‘Tortured is a strong word. Either physically or mentally abused,’’ he corrected. ‘‘Or at substantial physical risk if they remained in-country.’’

‘‘As I understand it,’’ she went on, ‘‘select INS agents are receiving special training that has itself come under fire from both Capitol Hill and the psychiatric community. Your department employs how many such specially trained interviewers?’’ she asked.

‘‘Three,’’ Talmadge replied with another glance to Coughlie. ‘‘Only a small percentage—ten percent perhaps —of all illegals claim political refugee status.’’

‘‘Then you support the new policies?’’ she tested.

Talmadge returned quickly, ‘‘Congress has enacted one of the most far-reaching, sweeping overhauls to the Immigration Act this century, making our borders more welcoming than they have been in over seventy years, while reducing paperwork and increasing efficiency on the part of this agency. As to those people out there perpetrating these crimes against their fellow human beings, all I can say is that such behavior will not be condoned by this administration, nor by the Immigration and Naturalization Service. We will ferret out those responsible, and we will see them in prison for their actions. I should add that the Seattle police are currently conducting an active homicide investigation into the three deaths aboard that recent container. Let this serve as notice: The black market in human cargo is over. Immunity will be offered to the first few willing to expose this trade. The rest are going to prison.’’

Stevie then understood Talmadge’s agenda. He had used the broadcast to soapbox for informants.

The floor director signaled Stevie, who wrapped the interview quickly.

‘‘Clear!’’ the floor director shouted. ‘‘William, camera two, two minutes.’’

Talmadge stood and unclipped his mike. He brushed himself off as if he’d eaten a meal.

Brian Coughlie stepped up to Stevie. ‘‘Good questions.’’

‘‘Vague answers,’’ she replied.

Talmadge winced a smile and headed for the exit; he clearly expected Coughlie at his side.

‘‘Dinner?’’ Coughlie asked her.

‘‘No thank you,’’ she answered.

‘‘An off-camera interview? ‘Source close to the investigation’?’’

‘‘You’re getting warmer,’’ she said.

‘‘I can provide more specific stats,’’ he offered.

Stevie told him, ‘‘I’ll call you.’’

‘‘Good,’’ he said.

He reached out and they shook hands. Coughlie kept hold of hers a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t like the feeling. She wouldn’t flirt to get a story. She turned and walked toward the anchor desk, confident that