"I'm afraid the FAA is doing a very poor job. American lives are needlessly put at risk. Frankly it's time for a thorough overhaul. Otherwise I am afraid passengers will continue to die, as they did on this Norton aircraft." He gestured - slowly, so the camera could follow - to the model on his desk. "In my opinion," he said, "what happened on that airplane ... is a disgrace."
The interview ended. While her crew was packing up, Barker came over to her. "Who else are you seeing?"
"Jack Rogers is next."
"He's a good man."
"And someone from Norton." She consulted her notes. "A John Marder."
"Ah."
"What does that mean?'
"Well, Marder is a fast-talker. He'll give you a lot of double-talk about Airworthiness Directives. A lot of FAA jargon. But the fact is that he was the program manager on the N-22. He supervised the development of that aircraft. He knows there's a problem - he's part of it."
OUTSIDE NORTON
After the practiced smoothness of Barker, the reporter, Jack Rogers, was a bit of a shock. He showed up wearing a lime-green sport coat that screamed Orange County, and his check-patterned tie jumped on the monitor. He looked like a golf pro, spruced up for a job interview.
Jennifer said nothing at first; she just thanked the reporter for coming, and positioned him in front of the chain-link fence, with Norton Aircraft in the background. She went over her questions with him; he gave tentative little answers, excited, eager to please.
"Gee, it's hot," she said. She turned to the cameraman. "How we coming, George?"
"Almost there."
She turned back to Rogers. The sound guy unbuttoned Rogers's shirt, threaded the microphone up to his collar. As preparations continued, Rogers began to sweat. Jennifer called for the makeup girl to wipe him down. He seemed relieved. Then, pleading the heat, she convinced Rogers to remove his sport coat and sling it over his shoulder. She said it would give him a working-journalist look. He gratefully agreed. She suggested he loosen his tie, which he did.
She went back to the cameraman. "How is it?"
"Better without the jacket. But that tie is a nightmare."
She returned to Rogers, smiled. "This is working so well," she said. "How would it be if you take off the tie, and roll up your sleeves?"
"Oh, I never do that," Rogers said. "I never roll up my sleeves."
"It would give you that strong but casual look. You know, rolled-up shirtsleeves, ready to fight. Hard-hitting journalist. That idea."
"I never roll up my sleeves."
She frowned. "Never?"
"No. I never do."
"Well, it's just a look we're talking about here. You'd come off stronger on camera. More emphatic, more forceful."
"I'm sorry."
She thought: What is this? Most people would do anything to get on Newsline. They'd do the interview in their underwear, if she asked them to. Several had. And here was this fucking print journalist, what did he make, anyway? Thirty grand a year? Less than Jennifer's monthly expense account.
"I, uh, can't," Rogers said, "because, uh, I have psoriasis."
"No problem. Makeup!"
Standing with his jacket slung over his shoulder, his tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up. Jack Rogers answered her questions. He rambled, speaking thirty, forty seconds at a time. If she asked him the same question twice, hoping for a shorter answer, he just started to sweat, and gave a longer answer.
They had to keep breaking for makeup to wipe him down. She had to reassure him again and again that he was doing great, just great. That he was giving her really good stuff.
And he was, but he couldn't punch it. He didn't seem to understand she was making an assembled piece, that the average shot would be less than three seconds, and they would cut to him for a sentence, or a fragment of a sentence, before they cut to something else. Rogers was earnest, trying to be helpful, but he was burying her in detail she couldn't use, and background she didn't care about.
Finally she began to worry that she couldn't use any of the interview, that she was wasting her time with this guy. So she followed her usual procedure in a situation like this.
"That's all perfect," she said. "Now we're coming to the conclusion of the piece. We need something punchy" - she made a fist - "to close. So I'll ask you a series of questions, and you answer them with one punchy sentence."
"Okay," Rogers said.
"Mr. Rogers, could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"
"Given the frequency of incidents involving - "
"I'm sorry," she said. "I just need a simple sentence. Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"
"Yes, it certainly could."
"I'm sorry," she said again. "Jack, I need a sentence like, 'The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale.'"
"Oh. Okay." He swallowed.
"Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I have to say that it might cost the China sale."
Jesus, she thought.
"Jack, I need you to say 'Norton' in the sentence. Otherwise we won't know what you're referring to."
"Oh."
"Go ahead."
"The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale, in my opinion."
She sighed. It was dry. No emotional force. He might as well be talking about his phone bill. But she was running out of time. "Excellent," Jennifer said. "Very good. Let's go on. Tell me: Is Norton a troubled company?"
"Absolutely," he said, nodding and swallowing.