Stephen Cannell - The Plan

"You don't want to take the November ratings too seriously, Wallace. You know we were facing football movers on ABC on the West Coast on weekends and Monday, and our local lead-in in New York and L. A. is that dreadful syndicated Animal World program. It skews young and we're not getting a good flow into news. . Those two markets are ten percent of the country. That really hurts." Brenton had gotten the research department to knock together this argument for him and he had the demographic research in his pocket. He started to pull it out, but Wallace stopped him.

"Brenton, I don't want to see research, I want to see ratings. The cold, hard fact is, you're trending down. How do I see my way clear to renew a two-million-dollar-a-year player who has suffered a rating decline of ten percent in six months? That's my problem, Brent." Litman rubbed his chin in theatrical thought.

"Where's this leading us, Wallace?" Brenton finally asked, dreading the answer, beginning to get one of his headaches.

"We're losing money on the news. The news is supposed to be a profit center. I'm in business to make profits."

"Then don't cover the Iowa convention. We're going to send two SNG satellite trucks and a sixteen-wheel control room out there. We're the only network sending live coverage. It's crazy. Whoever decided to do that should get his IQ checked." Brenton suspected Steve Israel had made that call.

"I think Iowa is important. It was my decision," Wallace said, "and I think my IQ may be at least as high as yours."

This fucking meeting could not be going worse, Brenton thought. I'm about to get sacked. Then the little financier got to his feet, moved over to the anchorman and put a fatherly hand on' his shoulder.

"How would you like me to renew your existing contract?"

"Huh?" Brenton said, his accustomed elegance disappearing.

"Whatta you say we sign you up for two more years at the same salary with a ten-percent bump in the second year. That would take fiscal '98 up to two-point-two. Let's say you retain your executive producer and anchor status, and we put a new magazine show in work for you. I've asked Steve Israel to start developing it. I want to call it Above the Fold-that's an old newspaper term for important stories carried above the fold of the paper."

Brenton had been in news half his life. To have this rich asshole explain that to him was mildly irksome, but he let it fly past, his mind locking on the lifeline that seemed to have been thrown out to him.

"I think the show should be you and maybe five young on-air reporters, all of them sort of looking to you for advice on angles for the stories. It could be sort of a cross between Sixty Minutes and West Fifty-seventh."

Brenton had been working on a hard-news magazine format he was calling The Spencer Report. He started to say something but Wallace waved him off. "If I'm going to do all of this for you, especially in the face of your slipping ratings, I'm going to need you to do something for me, and the favor I am going to ask might impugn your journalistic integrity."

"Integrity is simply a line that gets moved around to fit events," he said lightly, wondering what the billionaire had in mind.

"Have you heard that Haze Richards is going to run for President of the United States?"

"The governor of New Hampshire?" Brenton said, grasping for the right state.

"Rhode Island."

"He's got no national Q. He'd be a hopeless long shot."

"I want to get him elected. So you go on television the day after he announces, which will be tomorrow. I want you to start attacking him. Israel will give you the copy."

"I attack him and that gets him elected?" Brenton was smiling.

"I want you to be all over him. Beat him up. . for two or three days. You ask America, What do we know about Haze Richards? What qualifies this man to be President? And we'll give you some negative facts about his tenure as governor. They're going to be slanted facts and very unfair to him. Really pile it on."

"If you're trying to get him elected, why would I attack him?"

"I've arranged for you to be the moderator of the Iowa Register-Guard debate from the floor of the Pacific Convention Center. We carry it live, and we'll script it for you to ask him something unfair and absurd like what qualifies him to run for the highest office in the land? How could he think he had the 'stuff' to run the country? Then he is going to come back with a demand that you apologize not only to him, but to the other candidates on the stage, for your attack. And then you're going to lose it-you're going to walk off the stage, right there, in the middle of the debate, outgunned by this little governor. It's going t o m ake every local news break, every network lead story, it's going to put him in the race."

"But Mr. Litman. . Wallace. . You can't ask me to humiliate myself on TV. If I lose respect on television, I'll have no constituency. I can't do this. It's out of the question."

"In that case, it's been nice having you at UBC. I'm sorry we won't be able to continue our relationship." C. Wallace Litman went to the door and opened it. "Good night, Brenton."

Brenton didn't move. "I'm an asset to the network. You don't want to destroy an asset."

"You'll have two years to recover from one night and a prime-time magazine show to help you do it. The public forgets. By next Christmas, most people won't be able to recall exactly what happened and you'll still be in charge of the nightly news. All you have to do is have one bad moment, one public failure. Bush did it to Rather and he's still on the air. Only difference is, we're going to script it.

"Please, Wallace. . don't make me do this."

"This is not a negotiation. You make this deal now, or I replace you." He looked at Brenton sadly as if he were calling up the memory of a dead friend. "I'd still rather have you, Brenton."

Wallace led him out into the entry hall, where they waited for the elevator. Wallace looked past the anchor to the elevator door as it opened.

"I need an answer, Brenton."

When Brenton finally spoke, his voice sounded as if he were on life support. "Can we call the new show The Spencer Report?" he asked, weakly.

C. Wallace Litmanpatted him on the shoulder but didn't answer the question. "Nice having you up. I'll have Business Affairs pick up the two-year option. Give my best to Sandy." And he reached in and pushed the down button.

As the door closed, Brenton looked at himself again in the antique mirror.

He looked older.

Solomon Kazorowski had been in New Jersey for two days. He'd been sleeping in a down sleeping bag in his Budget rental car which he couldn't afford.

On Saturday, he'd found a good place in the woods above the Alo house. He'd had to cut down a few medium-size trees with a handsaw he'd bought, in order to get the small Chevy Nova up a hill to a place where he could park it and watch the house from inside the car. It was too cold to keep getting out and taking pictures with the starscope camera he'd borrowed from an old pal who was still working for the Vegas "Eye." The agent had also loaned Kaz five hundred and told him to please not get his ass shot off spying on the Alos. Kaz was determined to accept this advice.

From this spot, he could look down over the driveway and entry of the Alos' castle-style house. He figured unless somebody down there was really looking hard, they wouldn't see him. He'd gotten some good shots of a tall, blond, very handsome man who arrived on Sunday night with Mickey's sister. He didn't know who he was. He looked like an aging surfer.

On Monday morning, Mickey Alo arrived home. He went directly to his father's room. Kaz could see him through the starscope moving excitedly back and forth in front of the window. He was wondering what was going on.