In Plain View

pants.

“We’re going to try and interview Mr. Jost, the adoptive father, later today,” I told Gatt. “Maybe swing by the victim’s place after we get an address. I still don’t know what we’re gonna use as visual on this. Ainsley says these people don’t go to public school. No yearbook photos, none of the usual sources for a head-shot.”

“Keep looking,” Gatt muttered. “Something’ll turn up. And stay away from Curzon for a while.”

“Yes, Mother,” I droned.

“I’m serious. Let him cool down.”

If I was right and Curzon was running interference, I’d have to go after him again. “Let me do my job, Gatt. That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, right?”

“Fine. Speaking of which, I’ve got the GM coming in for the weekly management meeting in an hour. I want you both attending the show from now on.” He flipped his finger back and forth, pointing to Ainsley and me. “But your final contract meeting will have to wait until Monday, O’Hara. GM’s got a conflict.”

“Fine.”

“That’s it. I’m done. Get the hell outta here,” Gatt said. “I got work to do.”

I have no patience for most TV office politics. Once you’ve watched World Wide Wrestling, or read The Art of War, there are no surprises. Making me wait to review my employment terms was a standard opening ego-blow. Managers like to count coup on new employees. Happens all the time, especially with a reputation like mine. ’Til now, freelancing had kept me out of the worst of the fray. As a permanent hire, there was lot less room to maneuver. Pucker up, O’Hara. Life’s a series of trade-offs.

Of course, I hated being seen as a complete push over.

“One more thing, Richard. When do I see my office?”

“What the hell do you need an office for? You’re supposed to be out on location shooting and in here editing. I’ll have Barbara find you a desk someplace.”

“A desk? You want me discussing station business with Curzon-and any other concerned citizens I happen to meet-at some bullpen desk?”

A growl roughed up the back of his throat. “See what I can do,” Gatt answered. “Now get lost.”

Ainsley seemed impressed. I smiled, modestly.

Not bad. Second day on the job, and Richard Gatt and I had already established a rapport.

With no office to call my own, I went out to my car to make a few confirmation calls while Ainsley went to find us a room to view what we’d shot this morning. The social worker at Jenny’s school helped me set up an after- school care scenario back when school started in August, so I’d have a place for the kid as soon as I got the work situation pinned down. All I had to do was confirm my new employment details over the phone.

Bad enough I had to ask Ainsley to chauffeur the kid around this morning; no way was I about to use the public office phone for these calls. The television business is a wild ride, fickle with her favors and always sniffing after the next, younger thing. I’m not saying it’s right, but once somebody gets a reputation for putting business second-behind the kid, the lover, the mother, whatever-the business finds a way to claim her pound of flesh. Or she drops you cold. The only way I figured to keep this whole situation in hand was if my personal life remained as vague as possible within the station’s walls.

It took some serious begging but I managed to get them to take Jenny into after-school care immedia-mento, paperwork to be finalized at pick-up. The relief of not having to rush out and meet the kid by three o’clock eased the sting of the grovel. After another three calls, I’d nailed down addresses for all the Tom Josts listed in the phone book. Business was in hand. Life was good.

Ainsley had our raw material on standby when I tracked him through the building to the available editing bay.

Edit bays are the cold, dark, primordial wombs of electronic storytelling. Cold keeps the machines happy, and light creates glare on the monitors. All the walls are covered in dark egg-crate foam to absorb any stray sound waves. The rooms are usually small and made smaller by stuff-blocks of players in various formats, switcher technology, playback monitors, audio controls, oscilloscopes and miles upon miles of connecting wires. The finished product may be seen by millions but most of the work is done alone, with an engineer assisting on the final cut. Two chairs on wheels are all you need.

It’s a slightly different kind of darkroom, but one I’d also learned to love. When I’m developing film, I can almost convince myself each photo is one hundred percent my creation. In the edit bay, I can never forget that creation is a team effort. Keeps me humble.

Well, most of the time.

“Staff meeting in sixteen minutes,” I reminded Ainsley. “Let’s see what you got.”

He flicked a little glance over his shoulder at me, are you ready for this? and hit Play. I watched it all the way through once and felt myself flatline a bit with surprise.

“Again.”

Rewind. Play. Same images.

Not bad, not half bad, is what I was thinking. What I said was, “Shit, College. You are awful tight on some of these.”

He’d framed most of the interview as an extreme profile close-up of the farmer’s face. I hit the freeze frame. The close-up highlighted the rough skin and deep lines of Lowe’s face and revealed the unique patina of the working man. He might not be Tom Jost’s father, but it was clear he knew the cost of a young man’s death.

“I like to shoot tight,” Ainsley answered.

I released the freeze. “Unfortunately, you’re out of focus every time he moves.”

“I figured we’d work around it with B-roll.”

“Did you shoot me any B-roll?”

B-roll is filler, supplemental shots, extra footage, whatever’s left over. Right now, I didn’t have enough A-or B-roll to even fill air time.

“Um…”

“You have a reason for shooting tight?”

“I kind of like the way it looks.” He shrugged and kicked back in his wheeled chair to stretch his long legs in front of him, like an over-sized retriever relaxing into a sprawl.

“Not good enough.” If he had a reason, I might listen. If he was just showing off- “I don’t need artsy-fartsy, College. I need clean and clear. That means in focus. Got it?”

“Yeah.” He turned his back to me and punched a few buttons. Hard. “Got it.”

“Next time give me some head room.”

“Fine.” He jerked his chin.

After thirty seconds of sulk, I tacked on, “I like the shot of the kids.”

“You do?” He spun around on his chair, eyes bright, smile starting to glow. In the darkness of the booth, the contrast hurt my eyes.

“I said I did.” I checked my watch. “Time to hit the staff meeting.”

“Okay. I’m looking forward to this,” he answered with gusto. “They cater these meetings, you know.”

“Well, eat fast. We got a lot to accomplish today. I’m planning to blow out of this place as soon as we can,” I told him, as he led the way through the building, past the kitchen-Ainsley slowed but didn’t stop-to the conference room. “I found a possible address for Tom Jost.”

“Cool.” Looking more eager than an address usually warrants, he added, “This is my first time at a manager’s meeting.”

In my experience, manager meetings are best handled like amputations. Strive to remain unconscious while the big shots lop off a few hours, and pray the whole thing doesn’t cripple the entire remainder of the day.

I gave him a pat on the back. “It’s never good the first time, College. But I’ll remind them to be gentle.”

The boy ducked his head, denying the rise of pink to his cheeks more so than the grin as we entered the conference room.

Gatt saw us and frowned suspiciously in my direction. I gave him the what? shrug. Ainsley paid no attention to this side play. He went straight for the counter with the bagel extravaganza and hot caffeine.