“Public as in a news story?”
“Uh-huh. I have an outline for the whole segment. I just need to convince Gillespie to let me produce it my way. If I’m right, it’ll mean national exposure.”
She spun the laptop.
You’re So Vain
Alternate Title: Who are you, Mr. Vain?
By: Neela Griffin
Pointer #1: Son of a gun
The whispering introduction of “You’re So Vain” was a tribute to Joey Bishop, your close friend, fellow gang member, and opening act. Joey had this trademark phrase sewn onto his bathrobe.
Joseph Abraham Gottlieb, a.k.a. Joey Bishop, was an early television comedian, entertainer, and talk-show host. Lee had never heard of him, but he nodded thoughtfully, trying to hide the confusion on his face.
“Look, it’s none of my business, but there’s more to life than song mysteries. I’m serious about my cousin. He’s a cool dude and definitely not a wife-beater. You should start seeing people.”
Griffin stared into her cup. Lee was young and inexperienced, especially with committed relationships, but he meant well. Nevertheless, the comment hurt. Her brief, abusive marriage was over. Her life and spirit were finally healing, and she was gaining both physical and emotional strength.
At thirty-eight, Griffin had been forced back to school at Independence University. The classes were hard and bitter, and she wondered if she could ever trust another man again. She closed the laptop.
Lee gulped the last of his juice and let out a muffled belch. “So tell me again: why am I out of bed this early in the morning?”
“A man named Brett sent me an email about a hole in Delta’s security,” she answered. “Ticketing and passenger boarding.”
Lee frowned suspiciously. “What’s he look like?”
“He said he’d be wearing a Green Bay Packer jacket, but not green and gold. We’ve never actually met.”
“Brett? Green Bay Packers? Neela, you’re freaking me out. This could be a complete hoax, or worse, the guy could be a nutcase. People report fake news tips like this all the time.”
“His story could be big. It might have a terrorism angle.”
“Great.” Lee threw up his arms. “Like when you called the FBI about a suspicious white van at the federal courthouse — the windowwashing van?”
“Someday I’ll break a major news story, mister, and you’ll be begging to film it.”
“Nutcase,” Lee mumbled through a mouthful of bagel. “Just trying to get on TV.”
Griffin had her own reputation at Fox 6. Supporters labeled her investigative style “aggressive” and “bold.” Jealous detractors called it “lucky ignorance.” She managed the station’s “Crime Stoppers Tip Line,” a position that afforded maximum face time in a major news market, but one that also saw her career path running parallel to and well beneath the anchor desk instead of intersecting with it.
She lifted a cheese-filled croissant with both hands. Pausing in midchew, Griffin spotted a man browsing in the gift store next to the entrance to Terminal D. He was of average build, balding, and in his mid-forties. His black leather jacket bore a tone-on-tone Packer chest emblem.
He pretended to read a magazine, but Griffin could feel him peering. She was used to stares. Stunningly attractive, her body was thin and muscular. Her long, jet-black hair and white complexion were considered black-Irish. But attractiveness had a downside. A consultant’s report showed that male television viewers lost a full seven seconds of comprehension of opening news content while evaluating female commentators.
She nudged Lee. “Get your camera. Try and get those TSA screeners in the background.”
Lee gave a frustrated look as he unzipped his backpack. “Some anonymous guy sends an email and you grant him a taped interview. You have no idea who he is, and the topic is airline security. And you want this to run on Wednesday’s nine o’clock segment? This is a huge prank.”
“There’s a gun involved.”
“What?”
“A hidden gun.”
“C’mon, Neela. TSA employees have been shot at and even killed at airports. You can’t bring that up in here. I need to know where this is headed or I’m gone, and so is my camera.”
Griffin made a fist at Lee and then approached the man. “Brett Marshall? Thanks for coming. We’re setting up now.”
Marshall casually surveyed the area and noticed a sheriff’s deputy beginning to take an interest. “Do you have to use my real name?”
“This lighting sucks,” Lee sung from behind the viewfinder. “Try moving left.”
Griffin noted that Marshall’s voice had a slight lisp, but his tone was deep and would carry well. She clipped a microphone to his collar. “Your name is essential to the story, and by the way, that’s my assistant, Terry Lee. He’s actually a talented professional when he keeps his mouth shut and acts like one.” She flashed a brief smile. “We’ll edit the rough spots. Viewers will concentrate more on the subject than your name. Just relax and start at the beginning.”
“Do I tell the truth?”
“Yes, of course.” She nodded to Lee. The camera turned on. “Mr. Marshall… tell us what happened to you last week as you boarded a flight in Fort Lauderdale.”
“I walked up to the Delta Airlines ticket counter and told the agent that I was flying to Milwaukee. I also mentioned that I had a gun.”
“You attempted to take a gun on a passenger aircraft?” Griffin asked. “What kind of gun, and for what reason?”
“A Beretta 9mm handgun,” Marshall said. “And no, ma’am, I didn’t try to actually carry it onto the aircraft. I just said I had one. You’re supposed to declare that so it can be inspected and tagged inside your checked luggage. That’s the law.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, the ticket agent looked at my name, and then she gave me a form that allowed me to carry the gun on the plane.”
“Why would Delta Airlines give that form to you?” Griffin asked.
“I have no idea.”
“You signed it?”
“Yes, but I didn’t read it thoroughly, and that was my mistake,” Marshall admitted. “It’s a five-part form with extremely small print. I thought it was standard procedure.”
“What were you supposed to do with the form?”
“She told me to take it to the boarding gate.”
“Are you a police officer?”
“No, ma’am. I’m an accountant. I figured she got confused with my name and thought I was one, you know, a federal air marshal.”
“What happened next?”
“I walked through security, and I handed the form to the gate agent as instructed. He looked at it briefly and then told me to take a seat. A few minutes later, a flight attendant walked over and handed me this pink copy. She whispered that the captain had signed it and then reminded me that I couldn’t have any alcohol.”
“Okay, I’m trying to see an advantage here,” Griffin speculated. “Let’s play this out in a worst-case scenario. You’re in the air on a passenger aircraft, and the flight crew believes that you’re an air marshal naturally carrying a concealed loaded firearm. You’re not really carrying, but they think you are. If you were a terrorist, you could probably create panic, especially if you jumped out of your seat and started waving a toy handgun, but it’s only a bluff. Ultimately, to cause real harm to the passengers, crew, or the aircraft itself, you’d need a real weapon.”
“Or have access to one.”
Griffin gave him a quizzical look. “Access how?”