Arthur Hailey: Evening News

But Rita, instead of starting a fight she knew she wouldn't win, had switched to producing and, behind the camera instead of in front of it, had been triumphantly successful. Along the way she had badgered senior producers into giving her some of the tough foreign assignments which almost always went to men. For a while her male bosses had resisted, then they had given in, and soon Rita was sent automatically—along with Harry—to where the fighting was fiercest and the living hardest.

Broderick, who had been pondering Rita's last remark, now said, "It isn't as if your glamour gang is doing anything important. Every night that tiny news hole has only tooth pickings of all that's happened in the world. How long is it—nineteen minutes?”

"If you're shooting at us sitting ducks,” Partridge said amiably, "at least the print press should get its facts straight. It's twenty-one and a half.”

"Leaving seven minutes for commercials,” Rita added, "which, among other things, pay Harry's excessive salary which turns you green with jealousy.”

Rita, with her usual bluntness, was on the nose about jealousy, Partridge thought. With print press people, the difference between their own and TV news pay was always a sore point. In contrast with Partridge's earnings, which were $250,000 a year, Broderick, a first-class, highly competent reporter, probably got $85,000.

As if his train of thought had not been interrupted, the Timesman continued, "What your entire network news department produces in a day would only fill half of one of our paper's pages.”

"A dumb comparison,” Rita shot back, "because everyone knows a picture is worth a thousand words. We have hundreds of pictures and we take people to where the news is so they can see it for themselves. No newspaper in history ever did that.”

Broderick, holding in one hand the fresh double scotch he had been sipping, waved the other hand dismissingly.”'S not relevant.” The last word gave him trouble; he pronounced it "revelant.”

It was Minh Van Canh, not usually a great talker, who asked, "Why not?”

"Because you people are dodos. TV network news is dying. All you ever were was a headline service and now the local stations are taking over even that, using technology to bring in outside news themselves, picking off pieces of you like vultures at a carcass.”

"Well,” Partridge said, still agreeably relaxed, "there are some who've been saying that for years. But look at us. We're still around, and still strong, because people watch network news for quality.”

"You're goddamn right,” Rita said.”And something else you have wrong, Brod, is the notion that local TV news is getting better. It isn't. It's getting worse. Some of the people who left networks with high hopes to work in local news have gone back to the networks in disgust.”

Broderick asked, "Why so?”

"Because local station managements see news as hype, promotion, massive revenue. They use that new technology you talk about to pander to the lowest viewer tastes. And when they send someone from their news department on a big outside story, it's usually a kid, out of his depth, who can't compete with a network reporter's know-how and backup.”

Harry Partridge yawned. The thing about this conversation, he realized, was that it was a retread, a game that filled vacant time but required no intellectual effort, and they had indulged in the game many times before.

Then he became aware of some activity nearby.

The two DPS officers were still in the bar through which they had moved casually, but had suddenly become attentive and were listening to their walkie-talkies. An announcement was being transmitted. Partridge caught the words, ". . . condition Alert Two . . . midair collision . . . approaching runway one-seven left . . . all DPS personnel report..." Abruptly, hurrying, the officers left the bar.

The others in the group had heard too.”Hey!” Minh Van Canh said.”Maybe . . .”

Rita jumped up.”I'll find out what's happening. She left the bar hurriedly.

Van Canh and O'Hara began to gather together their camera and sound ' gear. Partridge and Broderick did the same with their belongings.

One of the DPS officers was still in sight. Rita caught up with him near an American Airlines check-in counter, noting that he was youthfully handsome with the physique of a football player.

”I'm from CBA News.” She showed her network press card.

His eyes were frankly appraising.”Yes, I know.”

In other circumstances, she thought briefly, she might have introduced him to the pleasures of an older woman. Unfortunately there wasn't time. She asked, "What's going on?”

The officer hesitated.”You're supposed to call the Public Information Office—”Rita said impatiently, "I'll do that later. It's urgent, isn't it? So tell me.”

"Muskegon Airlines is in trouble. One of their Airbuses had a midair. It's coming in on fire. We're on Alert Two, which means all the emergency stuff is rolling, heading for runway one-seven left.” His voice was serious.”Looks pretty bad.”

"I want my camera crew out there. Now and fast. Which way do we go?”

The DPS man shook his head.”If you try it unescorted, you won't get beyond the ramp. You'll be arrested.”

Rita remembered something she had once been told, that DFW airport prided itself on cooperating with the press. She pointed to the officer's walkie-talkie.”Can you call Public Information on that?”

"I could.”

"Do it. Please !”

Her persuasion worked. The officer called and was answered. Taking Rita's press card, he read from it, explaining her request.

A reply came back.”Tell them they must first come to public safety station number one to sign in and get media badges.”

Rita groaned. She gestured to the walkie-talkie.”Let me speak.”

The DPS officer pressed a transmit button. He held the radio out.

She spoke urgently into the built-in mike: "There isn't time; you must know that. We're network. We have every kind of credential. We'll do any paperwork you want afterward. But please, please, get us to the scene now.”

"Stand by.” A pause, then a new voice with crisp authority.”Okay, get to gate nineteen fast. Ask someone there to direct you to the ramp. Look for a station wagon with flashing lights. I'm on my way to you.”

Rita squeezed the officer's arm.”Thanks, pal!”

Then she was hurrying back toward Partridge and the others who were leaving the bar. Broderick was last. As he left, the New York Times man cast a regretful glance back at the unconsumed drinks for which he had paid.

Briskly, Rita related what she had learned, telling Partridge, Minh and O'Hara, "This can be big. Go out on the airfield. Don't waste time. I'll do some phoning, then come to find you.” She glanced at her watch: 5:20 P.m., 6:20 in New York.”If we're fast we can make the first feed.” But privately she doubted it.

Partridge nodded, accepting Rita's orders. At any time, the relationship between a correspondent and producer was an imprecise one. Officially, a field producer such as Rita Abrams was in charge of an entire crew, including the correspondent, and if anything went wrong on an assignment the producer got the blame. If things went right, of course, the correspondent whose face and name were featured received the praise, even though the producer undoubtedly helped shape the story and contributed to the script.

However, in the case of a "Big Foot”senior correspondent like Harry Partridge, the official pecking order sometimes got turned around, with the correspondent taking charge and a producer being overawed and sometimes overruled, But when Partridge and Rita worked together, neither gave a damn about status. They simply wanted to send back the best reports that the two of them, in harness, could produce.