Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Read online

  Shannon Michaels took a moment to pull himself together. He had witnessed death and destruction in El Salvador, but nothing like this. One Argentine high tech missile had destroyed an entire British ship, killing twenty and wounding hundreds. Shannon blew on his hands to warm them and then began writing in his notebook. His words emphasized the intensity of modern warfare. A few minutes later, he spotted a group of British officers walking down the plank of the ship. He signaled his cameraman and soundman, and the three met the officers on the dock below the ship. Shannon’s best soundbite came from a British medic who had been aboard the Sheffield.

  “The lads never had a chance,” said the medic in a quiet voice filled with emotion. “The bloody Exocet came in low in the dead of night. The explosion was deafening and sheets of flame flashed through a section of sleeping quarters. The lads were burnt within seconds, screaming with pain. I still hear those screams every night. I can’t get ’em out of my mind.”

  Shannon asked a few more questions but knew he had what he needed for a first-rate report—one deserving a prominent position on GNN’s The News Tonight with Lyle Fleming. He and his crew returned to the GNN office at the Excelsior Hotel, edited the videotape in just two hours, and sent the three-minute story by plane to Buenos Aires, where it would be fed back to GNN’s headquarters in New York via satellite. Later that evening, Shannon and his crew went out to dinner to celebrate a job well done. A good story always overrode the tragedy that spurred it. Shannon hoped his friends in the states would see him on the air that night. But Shannon’s story never made air.

  Instead, GNN news managers in Argentina electronically took Shannon’s voice off the video and inserted a voice-over done by Ron Costello. The veteran correspondent then did an on-camera stand-up in Buenos Aires that was edited onto the end of Shannon’s battle casualty piece. Many of the words Costello used were the exact ones Shannon Michaels had written, but to GNN’s worldwide audience, it looked as if Costello had written and reported the entire story himself.

  The next morning, without any knowledge of what had happened, Shannon Michaels called a GNN producer in Los Angeles to get some feedback on his story. The producer, a friend of Shannon’s, was confused. Ron Costello, he told him, had filed the story. What was Shannon talking about?

  Fury gripped Shannon like a tourniquet. Costello wasn’t even in Uruguay. What the hell was this about? In Montevideo, Shannon’s GNN colleagues told Shannon to be cool, advising him not to bitch until he found out why his report had been co-opted. But Shannon’s anger blocked out reason. His disposition turned chillingly quiet. Two days later, when street demonstrations erupted in Buenos Aires, he was summoned to Argentina.

  During the Falklands War, GNN’s headquarters was located inside the Buenos Aires Sheraton Hotel, where all the networks had offices. The competition was fierce. Each network tried to one-up the other, vying for exclusive combat footage, dramatic interviews, and the latest intelligence information.

  The Sheraton was a typical rectangular high rise—no charm, but very functional. GNN had rented the entire fifteenth floor, installing editing facilities in some of the guest rooms, using others as offices and lounges. Technicians were constantly scurrying around, pushing hotel beds against walls and installing microphones, TV monitors, and recording equipment. Some rooms looked like giant spider webs, with mazes of wire running up and down walls and into closets. Bathtubs were often filled with videotapes, equipment boxes, and various war souvenirs such as flags and leather flight jackets. Telephone lines were patched in almost everywhere. The fifteenth floor of the Buenos Aires Sheraton looked like the Jersey Turnpike north of Newark.

  Shannon Michaels was new to all this. He had joined the network just three months before the Falklands War broke out, having been hired by GNN after a successful six and a half year career in local television news, where he had piled up four Emmy Awards for excellence in reporting. He had already spent time at the GNN bureau in El Salvador, and felt confident he could handle the work in Argentina. But upon his arrival in Buenos Aires, he remained troubled by what he considered the theft of his work by Ron Costello, and the fraud he and the network had perpetrated on the viewing public.

  “Michaels, good job in Uruguay,” said GNN South American bureau chief Robert Solo as Shannon walked into his office, a large suite overlooking the hotel courtyard. “Welcome to B.A.”

  Shannon shook Solo’s hand. The GNN administrator was about 5'8", and very thin, with a pallid face and blue veins crisscrossing his nose. A drinker, Michaels thought. No question.

  “Bob, I need to talk with you about my casualty report,” Shannon said, his face tense. “What happened?”

  Solo knew immediately what Shannon Michaels was referring to. Network gossip travels fast, and word had gotten to him from Uruguay that Michaels was pissed off. “Shit, you know how New York is,” Solo said with a casualness that rankled Shannon. “They wanted Costello on the air that night, so we decided to fold him into your package.”

  “But that,” Shannon said slowly, “is plagiarism.” He was angry but trying to remain in control.

  Solo’s eyes narrowed into a ferret-like squint. “That’s network news, Michaels. We’re all team players here, not glory boys. If New York wants Costello, we give them Costello. There will be other stories, Michaels. Let this one go.”

  Instinct told Michaels two things: that Solo was not a sympathetic audience, and that he should end the discussion. But his ego overrode his instinct. Shannon was used to having the final word. “Well, I think it’s bullshit,” he said with a harsh edge in his voice.

  Solo shrugged and walked away, thinking Michaels might need to be taught a lesson someday.

  Shannon, still quite upset, walked out of Solo’s office and nearly tripped over a cable lying on the hallway floor. Cursing to himself, he rode the elevator down to the hotel lobby. The three small children in the elevator with him apparently sensed the anger in the air, backing away from the big Anglo man, then practically sprinting out of the elevator as the door opened. Shannon quickly strode into the lobby and then into the hotel coffee shop off to the left. As Shannon walked in, he recognized a face from television sitting alone at a corner table. David Wayne was a long-time GNN correspondent. In his early forties, Wayne was a reliable reporter who backed up the featured players. Michaels introduced himself.

  David Wayne stood up and shook Shannon’s hand. His grip was one Shannon would remember. Wayne himself was over six feet tall and powerfully built. He had the physique of someone who trained seriously with weights.

  “Have a seat, Michaels. First time in B.A.?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been here about six hours and I’ve already been screwed.” David Wayne did not respond. The older correspondent took a sip of coffee and measured Shannon Michaels. He saw a twenty-eight-year-old man with piercing blue eyes, a swagger, and a blunt manner. Immediately, David Wayne knew that Shannon Michaels would be in for it. His good looks made him a threat to other correspondents and his hard attitude would make assaults against him easy.

  Wayne put down his coffee cup and said in a soft voice, “Getting screwed is part of network news, Michaels. You’ve got to do it their way. If you’re not up for that, grab the first plane north.”

  Shannon sighed and looked at the older correspondent. He had heard the old “their way or the highway” line throughout his professional life. He hated it. For the moment, however, he needed information and David Wayne might be able to provide it. “So what’s the landscape around here?” Shannon asked.

  “B.A.,” said Wayne, “is boring, Michaels. They destroyed most of the old, charming parts and built a modern city that looks like Paris without the attractions. Good leather, good steaks, some good-looking women, but they won’t talk to you. People who live in B.A., the Portenos, are overwhelmingly anti-American because they think we’re siding with the Brits. Oh, and one more thing—don’t go out by yourself at night. Three days ago, the police picked up Doug Stein—you know, tha
t New York local reporter, and took him for a ride. They roughed him up a bit and then stripped him naked and dumped him in the middle of a busy street. The message was, ‘We don’t like American reporters—they’re not real men.’ ”

  “Sounds ugly,” Michaels said.

  “It’s just beginning. Word is the Brits have control of the islands, and the Junta will have to surrender pronto. Most of the Argentine pilots have been killed and those guys were the only ones fighting for the Junta anyway. Forget the army. They won’t fight.”

  “So what happens when the Argentines pack it in?” Shannon’s voice was eager. He felt like Wayne knew what he was talking about.

  “My guess is that all hell will break loose here. The Argentines are a lot like the Chinese—they can’t stand to lose face. And the people hate the government anyway. So the mob might try to remove the Junta by force, and the fighting could shift to here.”

  “Lots of action for us, then.”

  David Wayne, fidgeting with his coffee cup, watched Shannon Michaels size him up. Wayne was cautious, but sensed that Shannon resembled what he had been fifteen years before: a young journalist intent on telling good, truthful stories.

  Wayne scratched the back of his dyed brown hair. His deeply set brown eyes wandered around the room while he calculated exactly how much information to give Shannon Michaels. It was a tough call, but he decided to take a chance. “Here’s some advice, Michaels. Stay out of the line of fire. You can get killed on the streets here real easy. They gunned down Bill Stewart in Nicaragua for absolutely no reason. He was a veteran reporter for ABC. A lot of Latin soldiers and police despise reporters; to them, we’re the enemy. And if you’re ever confronted by idiots with guns, do not, I repeat do not, show any fear. South of the U.S. border, showing fear means you are not macho.

  “If these thugs think you’re afraid, they’re more likely to shoot you—in their warped minds, you’re someone worthy of respect. Somoza’s thugs made Stewart go down on his knees. That, I believe, was his fatal mistake. As soon as he did that, he lost macho. It wasn’t his fault, of course. Put a gun to my head and I’d drop down too. But he might have had a better chance if he had defied the order and kept his feet. Anyway, it’s not worth taking any chances down here. Stay low and out of the way.”

  “But what about covering the action?” Shannon asked.

  Once again David Wayne paused and pondered his response. Shannon returned his gaze, now noticing the well defined lines in the older correspondent’s face. They were lines not only of fatigue, but also of frustration.

  “Michaels, the action will get covered. And now I am going to tell you something important. But if you tell anyone what I am about to say, I will deny it, and I will come after you. Understand?”

  Seeing the intense expression on David Wayne’s face, Shannon nodded assent. Even though he had just met Wayne, he knew that this was not a man he wanted to cross.

  “I saw the story you filed from Uruguay,” Wayne said, “and it was damn good. But the bigfoot got you. Costello liked your report and stole it. This happens all the time. Some genius at GNN has decided that a few big-name correspondents should get all the important stories, whether they personally report them or not. The thinking is that the audience will remember these reporters and more readily identify with GNN. Fleming is going along with it because he wants the most recognizable reporters on the evening news. He thinks it makes the broadcast stronger.”

  Shannon Michaels sat enthralled hearing Wayne lay out the way things worked at GNN, but he was having trouble believing it all. He had never heard this stuff before.

  “So what you’ve got here,” continued Wayne, “is a caste system. And it doesn’t matter if you develop a good story. There’s a chance these bastards will order you to do the work, and then let Costello or some other fraud get the glory. This bullshit’s called bigfooting and it’s been around in various forms since Vietnam. I was over there and I saw a lot of reporters build up big reputations sitting around the bar at the Rex Hotel in Saigon.

  “Other journalists risked their lives in the jungle and highlands, only to see these fucks take their video and voice it over. They would run over to Tan Son Nhut Airport and do a stand-up in front of a burned out tank or something. Back home, everybody thought they were the big, brave war correspondents. Total bullshit. Yeah, some gutsy people like Hillary Brown actually did the dirty work and got the praise they deserved. But there were a lot of frauds. So why take the chance, Michaels? Why get killed if you’re just going to get stepped on by a bigfoot? Do your job, but don’t do it too well. The system will fuck you in the end.”

  Shannon Michaels stared hard at David Wayne. He saw a very bitter man who, by the look of his red face, eased his frustration with the help of a filled glass. “How come you guys don’t complain to the brass?” Shannon asked. “Isn’t there anyone at GNN who’s appalled by this?”

  “Apparently not,” the older correspondent said. “Everybody knows what’s going on. That fuck Costello stole my interview with Galtieri just last week. I spent a month wining and dining that idiot’s PR people, went out with them three times a week and picked up the tab. Sat through the most incredibly boring conversations you have ever heard. Finally, they produce El Supremo, but just as I’m about to walk out of the hotel to do the interview, fucking Solo calls me back and tells me New York wants Costello to do the interview. They’re all bastards, Michaels. Remember that and remember you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

  “One more question, David,” Shannon said. “You seem like a smart, honest guy. Why do you put up with this?”

  “It’s simple and it’s pathetic,” David Wayne answered. “Money and prestige. We’re fucking GNN correspondents. We’re paid six figures. We travel the world. We stay in fancy hotels and eat and drink on the company. We’re big shots. The elite at the top of our field. Flash that gold-embossed GNN business card and watch the doors open.”

  David Wayne’s face took on a look of sadness. “Where ’m I gonna go? Some local station in Houston? Covering fucking city council meetings? This is it, Michaels, the big time. Most of us struggled to get here and we know there are thousands who would take our place in a second. Yeah, it’s not what everybody on the outside thinks it is, but what’s the alternative?”

  The older correspondent paused, drumming his fingers on the table. His face was pale, his worry lines now more noticeable—no amount of makeup could cover them.

  “GNN sells us prestige,” Wayne continued, “and that’s what we’re buying. Love it or leave it. And believe me, few leave it willingly. We take the abuse and come back for more. As Cronkite used to say before they killed him off, ‘That’s the way it is.’ ” And with that, David Wayne got up, smiled cynically at Shannon, and walked away.

  The call came early, about seven a.m. Shannon was already awake, but still in bed. He reached over groggily and picked up the hotel phone. “Michaels, this is Solo. The Argentines just surrendered. Get down to the Casa Rosada as fast as you can. Francisco Alonzo will be your cameraman, Juan Lopez will do sound, and Carlos will be your driver. The van is out front.”

  Eight hours later, as Shannon Michaels stood behind the nervous Argentine palace guard, he wondered why he did not see David Wayne or Ron Costello or any of the other three GNN reporters assigned to Buenos Aires covering the action there in front of him—the thousands of people demonstrating against the government. Throughout the day, the crowd had been building and Shannon had interviewed a number of Argentines, all of whom had told him essentially the same thing: Argentina has been disgraced and the Junta must go.

  Shortly after three in the afternoon, Michaels heard the sound of sirens coming from behind the presidential palace. The Casa Rosada was surrounded by a seven-foot-high iron fence anchored by two huge gates, one in the front of the building and one in the back. The protective police line was behind the fence, but now a dozen brown transport trucks escorted by police cars were roaring into the courtyard thr
ough the back gate. Immediately, soldiers began jumping from the trucks—combat-ready shock troops dressed in full battle gear and armed with machine guns.

  The crowd’s chanting got louder:

  ¡Nunca la derrota! “Never surrender!”

  The mob began pelting the troops and police with rocks and coins. To Michaels, it looked like a scene out of the middle ages: a castle under siege—the sky full of arrows raining down on the inhabitants.

  And here in “Castle Buenos Aires,” the “arrows” were finding their targets. Scores of soldiers and police were hit. Blood flowed down their faces. Tempers on both sides flared. Shannon knew he had to get away.

  “Francisco,” Michaels yelled to his cameraman, “take Juan and go to the left side of the palace. Remember, Carlos is waiting for us behind the palace in the van. If we get separated, meet me there at 6:30 sharp. We’ve got to make the 7:30 feed to New York.”

  Heeding their orders, cameraman Francisco Alonzo and soundman Juan Lopez took their gear and ran. Shannon followed closely behind, detailing the worsening confrontation in his notebook. His crew had already shot great video from the front lines. Now they would get another perspective by shooting from the side.

  The afternoon sun was setting and the air was growing chilly—the cool Argentine winter was just beginning—but the crowd in front of the Palace continued to grow, both in number and in passion.

  ¡Hijos de putas! shouted the crowd, spitting obscenities at the soldiers. “Sons of bitches.” The army was unrattled. Shields were being used to deflect the accompanying rocks and coins. But now, the agitators began throwing cans full of beer and soda, and bricks, and the military shields offered less than full protection. That did it for the troops.

  Without warning, they began firing directly into the crowd. Shannon was stunned. Hundreds of people immediately fell onto the cement of the Plaza de Mayo.

  ¡Madre de Dios ayudanos! a woman screamed. “Mother of God help us!”