of the key elements in any successful hostage negotiation is control of what gets out through the media. Hocus is going to watch television, listen to the radio, read the paper.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Think about the kinds of things this group has done so far. While we may never find anything rational behind all this, they seem to be anarchists of a sort. We’ve got two of them in the pokey, and they seem happy to become martyrs. Don’t you think they’re on a mission?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Hard to tell.”
He looked at me as if I were just being stubborn, which I now admit I was. At the time, I was feeling leaned upon, and stubborn seemed like a good response.
“Look at their possible motivations,” he persisted. “You think someone takes a cop for the ransom money?”
“No. I think they want their friends back out of jail.”
“Maybe as an immediate goal. But if these folks are making trouble for political reasons, they may be looking for a little airtime. Sometimes the members of these groups are willing to die for their cause — as far as they’re concerned, it will be worth it if y’all will help to make them famous.”
“If you’re about to hint that I’d be willing to let Frank join them on their ride to glory in exchange for a byline, stop now.”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. I’ll try to make myself clear. I’m telling you that if you want to write about it later, I’m all for it. No one is trying to prevent that. But for now, let us handle it, okay?”
I wasn’t sure it was in my nature to make that kind of promise. “You don’t know that Hocus is like other groups. Other groups would have published a list of demands. You don’t even know what they want.”
“I have a feeling, Irene, that they plan to tell us very soon. Now, I know you want to cooperate with the press. That’s only natural, given your line of work. At some point, you’ll be able to talk to anyone you want to talk to. I want that to be because Frank is home safe, not because we did something that got him killed.”
He was waiting for a reply.
I couldn’t give him one. I excused myself and made another small escape. I went into the bathroom and washed my face with cold water. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Something in that unmerciful glass image fully awakened me.
It was the thought of all the tense and weary faces I had seen over my years as a reporter. I was starting to get that look in my eyes, the one I had seen in theirs. I’d interviewed lots of them.
If you’re a reporter, and the victim in your crime story is dead or missing or otherwise unavailable, you do your level best to talk to somebody who gives a damn about that victim. If you fail to do so, nobody gives a damn about your story. So you look for the relatives, the lovers, the best friends. They’ll have your story for you. The cops just have what passes for facts.
Facts aren’t enough for your readers. Readers want to see that sentence, the one that makes your editor say something like, “Great quote from the widow.” No matter how gentle or respectful you are when you’re with the people you interview, the truth is, you’re after their hearts.
A few of the people you talk to don’t have the look. But if the loved one is missing, if there’s no body yet — after a while, they almost always do. I’ve seen it many times — on the face of a father whose daughter had not come home after working a night shift at a college radio station; the face of a wife whose spouse had not returned from a sailing trip; the face of a mother whose son had become separated from the other hikers on a forest trail. It’s not just the worry and fatigue that wears them down. It’s the helplessness. Knowing that something awful may be happening to someone they love and they can’t do a damn thing about it.
“Screw that,” I said to the woman in the mirror.
I had some phone calls to make.
10
“S O, HOW DID HIS MOM TAKE
I didn’t say anything.
“Think about the kinds of things this group has done so far. While we may never find anything rational behind all this, they seem to be anarchists of a sort. We’ve got two of them in the pokey, and they seem happy to become martyrs. Don’t you think they’re on a mission?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Hard to tell.”
He looked at me as if I were just being stubborn, which I now admit I was. At the time, I was feeling leaned upon, and stubborn seemed like a good response.
“Look at their possible motivations,” he persisted. “You think someone takes a cop for the ransom money?”
“No. I think they want their friends back out of jail.”
“Maybe as an immediate goal. But if these folks are making trouble for political reasons, they may be looking for a little airtime. Sometimes the members of these groups are willing to die for their cause — as far as they’re concerned, it will be worth it if y’all will help to make them famous.”
“If you’re about to hint that I’d be willing to let Frank join them on their ride to glory in exchange for a byline, stop now.”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. I’ll try to make myself clear. I’m telling you that if you want to write about it later, I’m all for it. No one is trying to prevent that. But for now, let us handle it, okay?”
I wasn’t sure it was in my nature to make that kind of promise. “You don’t know that Hocus is like other groups. Other groups would have published a list of demands. You don’t even know what they want.”
“I have a feeling, Irene, that they plan to tell us very soon. Now, I know you want to cooperate with the press. That’s only natural, given your line of work. At some point, you’ll be able to talk to anyone you want to talk to. I want that to be because Frank is home safe, not because we did something that got him killed.”
He was waiting for a reply.
I couldn’t give him one. I excused myself and made another small escape. I went into the bathroom and washed my face with cold water. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Something in that unmerciful glass image fully awakened me.
It was the thought of all the tense and weary faces I had seen over my years as a reporter. I was starting to get that look in my eyes, the one I had seen in theirs. I’d interviewed lots of them.
If you’re a reporter, and the victim in your crime story is dead or missing or otherwise unavailable, you do your level best to talk to somebody who gives a damn about that victim. If you fail to do so, nobody gives a damn about your story. So you look for the relatives, the lovers, the best friends. They’ll have your story for you. The cops just have what passes for facts.
Facts aren’t enough for your readers. Readers want to see that sentence, the one that makes your editor say something like, “Great quote from the widow.” No matter how gentle or respectful you are when you’re with the people you interview, the truth is, you’re after their hearts.
A few of the people you talk to don’t have the look. But if the loved one is missing, if there’s no body yet — after a while, they almost always do. I’ve seen it many times — on the face of a father whose daughter had not come home after working a night shift at a college radio station; the face of a wife whose spouse had not returned from a sailing trip; the face of a mother whose son had become separated from the other hikers on a forest trail. It’s not just the worry and fatigue that wears them down. It’s the helplessness. Knowing that something awful may be happening to someone they love and they can’t do a damn thing about it.
“Screw that,” I said to the woman in the mirror.
I had some phone calls to make.
10
“S O, HOW DID HIS MOM TAKE
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