Rising Sun: A Novel by Michael Crichton Page A

with the sound off. The anchorman pointed to the monitor. “I’m not stupid, Bobby. I watch these things. She did the lead-in and the wrap-up the last three nights.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say, Bobby.”
    My friend Bob Arthur, the heavyset, tired producer of the eleven o’clock news, sipped a tumbler of straight scotch as big as his fist. He said, “Jim, it just worked out that way.”
    “Worked out that way my ass,” the anchorman said.
    The anchorwoman was a gorgeous redhead with a killer figure. She was taking a long time to shuffle through her notes, making sure she stayed to overhear the conversation between Bob and her coanchor.
    “Look,” the anchorman said. “It’s in my contract. Half the lead-ins and half the wraps. It’s contractual.”
    “But Jim,” the producer said. “The lead tonight was Paris fashions and the Nakamoto party. That’s human interest stuff.”
    “It should have been the serial killer.”
    Bob sighed. “His arraignment was postponed. Anyway, the public is tired of serial killers.”
    The anchorman looked incredulous. “The public is tired of serial killers? Now, where’d you get that?”
    “You can read it yourself in the focus groups, Jim. Serialkillers are overexposed. Our audience is worried about the economy. They don’t want any more serial killers.”
    “Our audience is worried about the economy so we lead off with Nakamoto and Paris fashions?”
    “That’s right, Jim,” Bob Arthur said. “In hard times, you do star parties. That’s what people want to see: fashion and fantasy.”
    The anchor looked sullen. “I’m a journalist, I’m here to do hard news, not fashion.”
    “Right, Jim,” the producer said. “That’s why Liz did the intros tonight. We want to keep your image hard news.”
    “When Teddy Roosevelt led this country out of the Great Depression, he didn’t do it with fashion and fantasy.”
    “Franklin Roosevelt.”
    “Whatever. You know what I’m saying. If people are worried, let’s
do
the economy. Let’s
do
the balance of payments or whatever it is.”
    “Right, Jim. But this is the eleven o’clock news in the local market, and people don’t want to hear—”
    “And that’s what’s wrong with America,” the anchorman pronounced, stabbing the air with his finger. “People don’t want to hear the real news.”
    “Right, Jim. You’re absolutely right.” He put his arm over the anchorman’s shoulder. “Get some rest, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”
    That seemed to be a signal of some kind, because the anchorwoman finished with her notes and strode off.
    “I’m a journalist,” the anchor said. “I just want to do the job I was trained for.”
    “Right, Jim. More tomorrow. Have a good night.”
    “Stupid dickhead,” Bob Arthur said, leading us down a corridor. “Teddy Roosevelt. Jesus. They’re not journalists. They’re actors. And they count their lines, like all actors.” He sighed, and took another drink of scotch. “Now tell me again, what do you guys want to see?”
    “Tape from the Nakamoto opening.”
    “You mean the air tapes? The story we ran tonight?”
    “No, we want to see the original footage from the camera.”
    “The field tapes. Jeez. I hope we still have them. They may have been bulked.”
    “Bulked?”
    “Bulk degaussed. Erased. We shoot forty cassettes a day here. Most of them get erased right away. We used to save field tapes for a week, but we’re cutting costs, you know.”
    On one side of the newsroom were shelves of stacked Betamax cartridges. Bob ran his finger along the boxes. “Nakamoto … Nakamoto … No, I don’t see them.” A woman went past. “Cindy, is Rick still here?”
    “No, he’s gone home. You need something?”
    “The Nakamoto field tapes. They aren’t on the shelf.”
    “Check Don’s room. He cut it.”
    “Okay.” Bob led us across the newsroom to the editing bays on the far side. He