It was in this place, surrounded by photographers caring for their equipment as endlessly and lovingly as any infantryman cares for his rifle, plus reporters on the phone, reporters on the manual portable typewriters given out by the Galaxy to any of its staffers forced to face the rigors of the road, reporters studying the road maps and topographical maps and real estate maps and all the other maps defacing the nice widow’s walls, reporters sleeping on the floor under tables, reporters arguing with other reporters, photographers taking photos of miniatures set up on shaky tables, which just might be made with extensive retouching to look like aerial photos of Ray Jones’s house out at Porte Regal, or the murder scene, or photos of the courtroom or Ray Jones himself behind some sort of bars, it was in this restful setting that Binx Radwell, editor, boss of this madhouse, sat and listened to the voice from Florida.
The owner of this particular voice, this nasty voice like a cross between a moped and a dentist’s drill, was a demidemon named Scarpnafe. He was not an editor, not a fact checker, not an evaluator, nor any of the other normal horrors of the editorial department; he was some sort of “manager,” possibly an “assistant flow manager,” or a “deputy product manager.” This was an added layer of harassment, inserted by the new ownership, who had sent to the Galaxy building from their corporate headquarters down in Homestead a number of their minor devils to form a new level of control. These days, every employee of the Galaxy had one of these demidemons perched on his or her shoulder, second-guessing, haranguing, nitpicking, prodding, never satisfied. Narrow pasty people, young and skinny, in dark blue suits and narrow ties, with the pinched faces of creatures taken off the breast too early. Way too early.
This one, Scarpnafe, had just called to say do more, get on with it, faster, deliver or die. “Thursday,” said this rasp of doom, “we go to press.”
This had been true for many, many years, going back much longer than Binx’s employment, since the paper came out every Friday to catch the weekend shopper, but Binx perforce had to receive the fact as though it were a startling and inspiring piece of fresh news. “Ah, right!” he cried, and turned his head aside from the phone to burp, a bad-tasting burp.
The voice in his ear whined on: “Jury selection is tomorrow, in the trial.”
Oh, that jury selection. “That’s right. That’s right,” Binx agreed, nodding spastically as sweat droplets sprayed from his head.
“Tomorrow is Wednesday.”
“Yes, it is! It is!”
“We will want those jurors.”
“Yes, of course,” Binx agreed, having no idea what Scarpnafe meant. Want those jurors? Scarpnafe made it sound as though he wanted those jurors lightly sautéed on a bed of lettuce, but that couldn’t be right, could it? Oh God, what now?
“Their names,” Scarpnafe explained.
“Naturally.” Binx sighed, afraid to feel relief — not yet.
“Bios.”
“Absolutely.”
“Interviews.”
The volcano sent a little lava into Binx’s throat, just a little. “Interviews? But, but—”
“Not afterward,” Scarpnafe elaborated. “Now, before deliberation.”
“The thing is, uh, the only thing is, little, uh, thing. Is,” Binx said, swallowing like mad, rubbing his belly with his free hand as though to soothe a dangerous cat, “the thing is, the jury’s going to be, uh, sequestered.”
“Sequest?”
“Ered.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, uh, locked up. It’s a death-penalty thing they do, serious cases; they put the jury in motel rooms, lock them up; they can’t read the papers, watch television—”
“This is America!” Scarpnafe cried, outraged.
“Well, uh,” Binx explained, hating to be the bearer of such tidings, “apparently that’s the way they do it... in America.”
“Bribe a relative,” Scarpnafe ordered, rolling very well with the punch.
“They don’t get to talk to their relatives,” Binx said. “Not without a bailiff there.”
“What are they, in prison?”
“Just about.”
“Bug the motel!”
“Uh,” Binx said as rivers of sweat foamed and whitecapped the rapids of his body. He could think of nothing else to say. He sat there, the phone at his damp ear, mouth open like a gargoyle on a French cathedral.
“Well? What’s the problem?”
Binx knew the answer to that one. “Nothing!” he cried brightly, and then inspiration — or perhaps desperation — struck. “Just as soon as you fax me the order, sir, I’ll put my team on it.”
“Fax?” The nasty voice was suddenly wary. “What do you mean fax?”
“Oh, don’t you have our fax number? It’s four-one—”
“I know the fax number! Wait a minute, Radwell. Are you saying you want this order in writing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With my signature, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In other words,” Scarpnafe said, “you think this particular use of journalistic technique might go one small step further than First Amendment protection would cover, is that it?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Scarpnafe, uh, you know, the courts, the judicial system, they get a little antsy if they think you don’t take them seriously.”
“Radwell,” Scarpnafe said, on solid ground again, “how many judges and prosecutors do you suppose read the Weekly Galaxy on a regular basis?”
“Outside Florida, sir? Probably not very many.”
“We take our readers seriously, Radwell. No one else in the world. Do you understand that?”
Of course, he did. It was what made life at the Galaxy so challenging. “But, sir, Mr. Scarpnafe, uh, state courts, you know. It isn’t like some movie star gets mad at us, sues for a couple years, gets tired. State government, uh, outside Florida, they could probably do more to us than we could do to them.”
“Hmmmmm,” Scarpnafe said. As with any satrap, he found it discomfiting to be reminded of the limits of his power.
Grasping the moment, lowering his voice in an attempt to sound both supportive and self-assured — two lies in one inflection — Binx said, “Mr. Scarpnafe, sir, I have some experience with situations of this sort. My team and me.” (Might as well spread the responsibility in case something went wrong.) “We’ll get you great stuff, guaranteed, everything within the range of possibility. More than anybody else on any other paper, I can promise you that.”
“What about the other papers, Radwell?” Scarpnafe demanded, leaping away from that uncomfortable area where he had no control. “And magazines. And television people, too. MTV, isn’t that what they call it?”
“One of it, yes, sir.” Now here was something to feel pleased about, proud of. Permitting just a trace of self-satisfaction to creep into his usual obsequious manner, Binx said, “We have many of them in our charge already, sir. Unless the Christian Science Monitor shows up, I think we’ll have the media pretty much under control. That’s print and broadcast both, sir.”
“Good.”
End with the devil saying good segue out of this. “And speaking of that, sir,” Binx quickly said, “I probably should go back over there now, make an appearance, keep them all happy.”
“Remember what I said, Radwell.”
Had to get that in there, didn’t you? “Oh, I will, sir,” Binx said. “It’s engraved on my... brain.” (He was going to say heart but decided to be less accurate.) “Well, I’m off to the open house.”
Well, yes; but if he didn’t want to empty that suite over at the Palace, he should shower first. So he did.