Try Try Again Page 19

  To take her mind off golf she tuned to a webV channel. There was going to be a new contest show, the channel said. Imitating someone in a trial. Well, she’d spent several years imitating an accountant at work and a wife at home, would imitating a lawyer be so much tougher?

  She looked into the show, became fascinated. Of the trial’s characters, she picked defense attorney Liv Saunders to emulate. Liv reminded her of herself but quieter, more tightly wound – someone she might be like in, oh, maybe fifteen years or so.

  Before long, Jill was spending all her spare time studying the show and talking about it. Ellie Mason, her other next-door neighbor, told her she was doing that just to forget Roger and shouldn’t she just face her own situation instead of some murder trial? Jill told Ellie to go fuck herself, but they became friends again soon after. Ellie never said Jill was compensating for losing Roger, ever again. But a trace of resentment remained.

  Chapter 19: One Year and Six Months After the Assassination

  The show’s first season was scheduled for Wednesday evenings at eight on the AmeriNet channel. Five weekly shows aired, one for each day of the real-life trial. During trial breaks and after the end of each day, a funny and biting but very light commentary was offered by JTJ, who went from unknown to star in one day, superstar in two, sex goddess in three, and then had no more worlds to conquer. One of the networks asked her if she’d like to appear at NFL games and offer incisive commentary. She put them off.

  The show gained viewer share and advertiser success.

  Sybille Haskin had intently watched episode four. She was watching to see how Charley Dukes’ “startle” would look on webV, if it were more or less obvious than it had seemed at the trial itself, if JTJ would comment on it. The event passed, seemingly without notice – and commentators the next day didn’t mention it.

  What to do? Well, it was too late to undo what was done. But if no damage had been done in season one, in case no one had wondered at Charley’s expression and figured out Charley had just heard something he hadn’t expected to hear - someone might watch this part of the trial in season two, to be aired in a few months.

  She would have to make sure Charley’s surprised glance never made it to the season two broadcast, and just hope that would solve her problem. How could she make that happen? Any attempt to get season two modified would run her an additional risk of being exposed. She would have to think of something.

  Perhaps she should look up the producer. Who was it? A minute on the Web and she found the name: Frank (Frankie) Dickstein, Bigstone Productions, Hollywood (actually Culver City, a fact usually found in small print only).

  As the episode-five credits began to roll, Frankie Dickstein knew, for sure now, he had a major hit on his hands, even better than he had hoped just four weeks before. Millions of sets had been tuned in, hundreds of thousands of agonists had played. More importantly, the number of agonists had grown dramatically as the weeks progressed. The real-show-time registration software had worked, and everyone at WizWhiz had felt great relief and had several drinks.

  Before the end of the first five-week cycle, “Try Try Again” was the hottest thing on webV. Frankie’s wish was fulfilled that viewers would get ‘hooked’ on being, say, Brent Nielsen, and will want to get better and better at it during each five-week cycle, in order to win prizes ranging from one dollar to – in theory, unlimited, but WizWhiz had told Frankie no one would ever win more than a million bucks, max.

  The real principals in the trial were deluged by columnists and critics, beginning even before episode one aired. Except Charley Dukes.

  The morning after trial-day five was shown, Frankie’s people organized a well-publicized season-one awards ceremony and invited the Wizguys from WizWhiz, Hub and his team, JTJ, some webV execs, every journalist south of Bakersfield, and the big winners from each episode. At Hub’s instigation, Frankie invited Liv Saunders, Brent Nielsen, and also Judge Harriet DuCasse, who sent a concise one-word negative reply.

  Jill had briefly hoped to attend the ceremony, but it soon became clear winning a thousand dollars was far beneath the cutoff point to be considered a “real” winner. Watching those “real” winners take gracious bows and receive oversized replicas of bank checks on the webV, she inhaled hard, held her breath for a few seconds, and silently swore she would be on that podium after season two. She would read the how-to books that were sure to be published; study up; take courses; download trial tapes; pay for tutoring if she had to; and practice, practice.

  Toward the end of the ceremony, Brent Nielson and Olivia Saunders were introduced to the in-person and webV audience and asked to say a few words.

  Brent did an excellent job, Jill thought, of looking personable, bright, dignified, and well suited to the political position it was rumored he craved. He made two modest self-deprecating jokes and thanked Frankie and Hub and the network for bringing the trial (and not incidentally Brent Neilson) to the attention of the great and wonderful people of our great nation, love you all, God bless America. In closing, he thanked his mother. For exactly what, he didn’t say.

  Back in Pimmit Hills, Virginia, Jill sat through Brent’s talk impatiently, because she was eager to see how Liv Saunders spoke, moved, and gestured when she wasn’t in the formal environment of a trial.

  It was something of a shock to Jill, then, when Liv finally appeared and spoke her nervously rehearsed words, to find her as stiff and reserved as ever. Jill felt, again, she herself was the perfect Liv Saunders because she could be – might be – Liv Saunders herself if she didn’t watch out.

  The awards ceremony was a hit with its schmoozing, or shucking and jiving, depending on which minority you were partial to.

  Chapter 20: One Year and Seven Months After the Assassination

  For the next five months, the nation braced for season two of “Try Try Again.” Most of those who’d won a dollar or more in season one – and WizWhiz tech staff had arranged things so even a minimally dedicated agonist could win the stray buck or two – were fanatically prepping for season two. Many who’d ignored season one had also been swept up in the craze and were prepping, and taking perhaps unwanted advice from the proud one- and two-buck winners.

  Private “Try Try Again” training courses were hurriedly organized and hawked. Organizers made a great deal of money. Those who actually taught the courses – not so much.

  Downloads of season one were accessed more than a million times by contestant wannabes. Many agonists spent hours practicing on these downloads. Frankie wisely, but against his firmest moral principles, made them available at no charge. Use of the downloads was not monitored or graded, and so no one doing this ‘practice’ had any idea if his or her performance was good, poor, or indifferent. This did not deter those practicing; not for a T-slice.

  WizWhiz asked Frankie Dickstein if he wanted them to make any changes to the show for season two. That got him thinking.

  Why not, he thought, cut a few seconds here and there to make room for longer commercials? Yes! He discussed this change with Hub Landon, who said don’t mess with success, to which Frankie answered, it’s my show, I’m the fucking producer, why did I call you in here in the first place, to which Hub shut up.

  Frankie did, however give way on one point: no actual speech, no spoken words, would be cut. So where would the cuts be made? He said he’d leave that up to WizWhiz, subject to his final approval.

  In a week, the Wizguys had identified a number of potential cuts and also had proposals for improving the agonists’ experience, providing more precise scoring, and enhancing competition by reducing the scores of those habitual agonists who had won “too much,” thus giving newbies a chance. And, scenes too many agonists “got” in season one, were subject to tougher scoring in season two, and those few agonists “got” would be scored more leniently.

  Frankie studied the proposed cuts perfunctorily and informed Bigstone Productions’ sales staff of the new timings. Let’s see, now, how advertisers would
respond. One more bottle of beer on the wall, one more cruise around the track, one more cup of that wonderful coffee just smell the ah-roma.

  Neither Frankie nor his people paid much attention to one of the cuts WizWhiz had recommended, and then made: Charley Dukes startling, beginning to rise, staring at Liv Saunders who motions him to sit down.

  The inter-season downloads still reflected season one as it had been shown; WizWhiz did not retrofit the brief cuts they’d been working on. The show’s announcements mentioned there would be some very small timing changes in season two, and agonists would have to pick up on them, instantly, in order to win. This produced a higher level of interest in the show among the agonists, not just providing Bigstone Productions additional advertising revenue.

  As much as she disliked doing anything that might seem suspicious to anyone, Sybille Haskin felt she had to get that gesture of Charley’s she’d noticed at the trial, that epiphanal expression, deleted from season two. The shot had of course aired in season one, but fortunately, no one else seemed to have picked up on what it could mean.

  She didn’t have to do much Wikipedia research on Frankie Dickstein to develop a winning strategy; and so she called him, giving her name as Stephanie Bloomberg (no relation, but she didn’t quite say that). Mentioning she’d like to invest some money in Bigstone Productions’ next film, her call was immediately put through, and she had an appointment with Frankie arranged for two days later. Haskin scheduled a non-stop in first class.

  The editing of season one to increase time for commercials had been no secret. Even the trade press mentioned it in passing as a long-established trend. As the fan-base became more committed to the drama of a show, the commercial breaks got longer and the drama shorter.

  Sybille Haskin (Stephanie Bloomberg) was shown into Frankie Dickstein’s very large office. At the moment, Frankie was on two of his three phones, talking to first one person and then another. Finally, he shoved the phones together on his desk and shouted “Fix this God damn fuckbutt problem between you today or you’re both fired!”

  Turning to Haskin, he apologized to her for the impolite language.

  She smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it; I’ve heard a lot worse.”

  After some preliminary chit-chat, Haskin mentioned, in a casual way, making a few cuts to season two to increase ad income. Frankie said he’d thought of that and cuts were already being made by his tech people.

  Haskin expressed interest in seeing how the selection of material to be cut was done, offered perhaps to make a few suggestions. This would be in preparation for her own future work with Bigstone, of course.

  Normally, Frankie’s face would have reddened at such intrusion on his turf, and his oleaginous voice would have turned harsh and he would have uttered imprecations in two languages. But not this time; not with several million dollars in new production money at stake.

  “Of course,” said Frankie, controlling his face and voice as much as possible, “I’ll give WizWhiz a call and tell them you’re coming by.”

  “That would be just wonderful of you,” Haskin said. “I’ll meet with them in a day or two and then get right back to you. I’m really excited about financing a new film from The Famous Frank Dickstein.” She smiled, an unaccustomed effort.

  The following day, Haskin took a cab to Frankie’s production crew at WizWhiz. The Wizguys reviewed for her the proposed deletions of a few seconds here and there from the five episodes of season two.

  Of course she didn’t care about anything in episodes one, two, three, or five; that was a smokescreen. She reviewed their proposed cuts, noticed Charley’s ‘startle’ in episode four had already been marked for deletion. Excellent, she thought; now she didn’t need to persuade them, or Frankie, to make that cut. Even better, there would be no record or recollection she had anything to do with that particular cut. She made a few suggestions she knew would be ignored, and left.

  The next morning she called Frankie and asked him to send a few pitches her way to see if she’d like to fund them.

  Frankie, however, was in a bind: he already had funding more or less nailed down for his best scripts. For the rest, well perhaps they shouldn’t be produced at all. He picked three scripts that triangulated boffo and bomb, and sent them to her hotel.

  In midair, Stephanie Bloomberg again became Sybille Haskin. The three scripts were left, as if by accident, in the first-class magazine rack. Later, she thought, a flight attendant might find one or two of them amusing.

  Haskin relaxed as much as she could. She had done what she needed to in preparation for season two. It was still possible someone in criminal justice had noticed Charley’s odd startle-moment in season one; but no one had brought that moment to public attention. And now that moment would never again be seen by anyone.

  That July, Senator Thomas James Conning was nominated by his party for the Presidency. He had not been viewed, earlier in the year, as a front-runner for the nomination, but previous visits from Sybille Haskin, followed by a substantial increase in campaign contributions, had improved his chances considerably.

  The evening after his nomination victory speech, Conning had an unwelcome visitor. “What the hell,” Conning said to Haskin, “every damn newsy in the country is here in Kansas City now. They’re sure to spot you. Just get the hell out of here and tell them you were lost or just looking for the cow convention or something.”

  “Just your friend from ConDyne,” she said soothingly, “doing a little lobbying. I’m sure you’d grant time to Boeing, McDonnell-Douglas, and those other firms, wouldn’t you? And perhaps you should, now. Invite them by. Just to look even-handed.”

  “Well, maybe. But what do you want? You said you’d leave me alone until I was in the oval office.”

  “Just making sure you get there, Senator. You’re going to make a major campaign speech saying you’re the only candidate whose foreign policy experience and knowledge is up to the job of President.”

  “Well, yes.” Conning puffed himself up slightly. “I certainly agree with that assessment.”

  “But others may not. Look: in that speech, you’re going to predict a major terrorist offensive that will take over the government of a small Gulf state, while the current President, your competition for that job, was as we say asleep at the switch, ready to be railroaded. This offensive will take place seven days after your speech and it will be successful, at least in the short term. After that, your point will have been made and you will be elected.”

  “Well! Thank you for that information, Ms. Haskin. I can really get ahead of the competition here. Ah – when should I make this speech?”

  “Up to you, Senator, but the campaign dynamics would make it advisable for you to move within the next two weeks.”

  “But that ‘seven days after my speech?’ I need to know when that will be, or I’ll screw up the timing.”

  “No you won’t; we’re ready now; we’ll wait for you to make that speech and then count off seven days. Actually we’ll make it six days, so it won’t look like you had inside information, just the wisdom of your vast experience.”

  Conning frowned. Then his eyes widened and he started to rise from his chair.

  “Don’t worry, Senator. No Americans are nearby except a few tourists, and we’ll be sure to keep them unharmed until you can bargain successfully for their release and be a hero.” With a faint smile, she left.

  The Senator sat down. He was deep in shit now, and could never escape. Out of control. This situation was completely out of control. Resign? Kill himself? But he’d be exposed as a coward, as well as a traitor. Might be anyway, whatever he did. But somewhere down the road there could be a chance of some kind. Yes, he thought. He’d been entirely too passive. Had to get out in front. Had to find a way to pretend he was playing along at great personal sacrifice just to save America.

  Yes. He knew his resolve was greater than his abilities, but what other course was there?

  Three weeks later, President
ial nominee Thomas Conning, (“Tom” but not quite “Tommy” on the campaign trail) was being congratulated by Ned Carter, his campaign chief. “Gosh,” said Carter because he was from the Midwest, “I thought you’d really … well, …”

  “Screwed it up? Don’t be shy, Ned. Tell me that’s what you were thinking.”

  “Ah –”

  “That’s OK, Ned, I’m feeling expansive now, and if I’d been you, I’d probably have had the same thought. But I called it, didn’t I? Those Al-whatever towel-heads invaded Ras al-Khaimah and took it over in twenty-four hours.”

  “A fishing village with fifty-five hundred people and a lotta desert and no oil?”

  “But location, Ned; Strait of Hormuz, near Dubai, borders Oman where a different bunch of towel-heads is causing us even more trouble. It didn’t matter that UAE government forces, which weren’t very much to begin with, pushed the terrorists out in three or four days, shot most of ‘em. I called it. That’s what counted.”

  “The administration didn’t like what I did,” Conning continued, “called it a ‘leak of highly classified, top secret, SCI defense information.’ I guess that point made some headway with voters, but most of ‘em didn’t believe the government knew about the invasion in advance at all. ‘Highly secret,’ I heard one commentator say, ‘their asses.’”

  Conning followed up that victory with a vigorous campaign swing through the Eastern states, giving a new variation on his stump speech: how the administration was willfully refusing to act on the clear and present danger of a terrorist takeover of additional key locations in the Middle East. Yes, he said, he’d alerted the President as soon as he knew about it, although not soon enough to stop the initial takeover of Ras al-Khaimah. You know, he confided to Ned Carter and several million other people, he didn’t think that DOD or CIA or NCIS or CSI [got a little carried away, there, but he quickly recovered] or NSA, he meant, even knew about this threat. Although this one was minor, and over in a few days, what is it they don’t know about a big one coming up?