“You’re being skewered on the air.”
Taylor kept chewing.
“They’ve accused you of just about everything from a cover-up to a coup.”
The president still chomped away.
“Especially on radio. They want you out. They want a Constitutional amendment, and they can get it.”
The president wouldn’t give up his salad.
“Remember the recall in California? How quickly did they get Gray Davis out of office? Four months? Three? Less? Do you think you’re immune?”
Morgan Taylor put down his fork.
“They can do it. You want to know how?”
The president nodded.
“We can thank prior administrations. They pretty much dismantled everything that guaranteed fairness in the media. It worked for Republican and Conservative administrations until now. These days they’ll go after anyone because it makes for good ratings.”
Taylor eased back in his chair. “Go on.”
“A handful of corporations own 100 percent of the broadcast outlets and 90 percent of the cable companies. They own newspapers and radio stations. They own the billboards that the shows are promoted on, and when they decide to go after someone, there’s no fighting back because they don’t have to provide any airtime.”
“So how do we throw these broadcasters off the air?”
“Throw them off? Don’t even try to go there. They’ll all hide behind the First Amendment. They exist and thrive because they have the right to be on the air. In good conscience, both sides of the aisle said, ‘Okay, we’ll get rid of all this regulation. Who needs a multitude of opinions? The people will decide what they want to hear and who they want to hear it from.’
“And what do we have? On a national scale, there’s Elliott Strong. But locally, some of them are even worse. If you can believe it, there’s a guy in North Dakota who goes after the church, the NAACP, and the Jews. In Georgia, there’s a host who espouses a manifesto directly from the Klan. We have news directors who won’t report the news unless it represents their owner’s point of view, and stations that have no community affairs because a) they’re not required to; b) they’re programmed from miles away; and c) the operators probably don’t give a damn what’s going on. All together, radio and most of the TV talk is filled with hate beyond anything ever known. Congratulations, Mr. President, you’re the most loathed person in the ether. And if you haven’t noticed, radio isn’t the only place where you’re the main course for these media monsters. The worst of it is that the way the laws are currently written and enforced, there’s no way to cut them off.”
Taylor smiled. “You phrased that just a certain way, Bernsie. Complete the thought.”
The president followed his argument perfectly.
“Well, you’re right. I’m working on an idea. In its purest form it’s very simple. Implementation could take some time.”
“What do they say about me? I’m all ears.” The president referred to his defining feature, which political cartoonists found endless ways to caricature.
“Okay, here it is. Require opposing points of view again. The worst of them will be gone, unable to stand up to any real political debate.”
Morgan Taylor pushed his food aside and asked a White House waiter to hold the main course.
“Bernsie, I’m quite aware of these guys, but realistically, America’s hooked on opinion. Arguing it, listening to it, and I dare say even complaining about it. We’re too far down the line to turn back the clock. And hell, for a long time, I thought these guys were on my side.”
“If they were, they’re not any longer.”
“You’re right about that,” the president admitted.
“And, we need to change that. You need to change that. Make a policy issue.” Bernstein stopped, but only to phrase his next comment correctly. He delivered it in a whisper. “You owe it to President Lamden.”
Morgan Taylor did not rush to answer, so his chief of staff went on. “Try this on for size. Call for the resignations of every FCC commissioner, no matter who they are — even your appointments. Then reconsider them on a one-by-one basis. After that, meet with the majority and minority leadership of the House and Senate. Bring in the chairs of the Communications Committees and Subcommittees, too. The Secretary of Labor can determine whether the giant media conglomerates fail to meet the test of any anti-trust laws, and the attorney general can examine the holdings of all these vertically integrated companies.”
Bernstein hardly paused to take a breath. He was wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. “I’ll get you lid-tight examples — and I mean lid-tight ones — on TV station abuses that under the Fairness Doctrine would never have happened. We’ll revisit the deregulated license renewal procedures and prosecute clear violations. Finally, you order a Justice Department review of station news operations and call for the drafting of a new Doctrine. You can announce all of this at a press conference after your trip. Hell, if Janet Jackson’s tit was worthy of front-page news, then let’s strip the whole industry bare!”
The president politely listened to Bernstein. When his chief of staff finished, Taylor pointed out, “Just one problem, Bernsie.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s not our party’s fight.”
“It has to be somebody’s,” Bernstein replied. “Because if we don’t do something, it’s going to get a whole helluva lot worse.”
A summer storm pelted the rental car on the way to the airport. The rhythmic whoosh of the windshield wipers lulled Shannon Davis into a deep sleep. Roarke was at the wheel. He aimed an air-conditioning vent at his face to help him stay awake. He also tried to find a radio station worth listening to; the choices were either country music or talk. One show in particular seemed to be everywhere up and down the AM dial. He gave up on AM and chose an FM jazz station. But Roarke didn’t listen. He kept replaying an old conversation with Penny Walker that was still fresh in his mind.
“Eight strong possibilities,” Penny Walker had said. “I sent seven of them over to your buddy Parsons for further analysis.”
“What about the eighth?” Roarke remembered asking.
“No need. The guy died while on a mission in Iraq.”
Roarke shut off the radio. “Damn it!” he said aloud.
Davis stirred. “What?” He’d only been asleep for ten minutes. It felt like ten hours. “Are we there?”
“No. But we may have another stop.”
“There’s no other stop.”
Roarke checked his rearview mirror, signaled, slowed down, and pulled off onto the side of the road. “Here — you drive.”
“Why? What?”
“I need to talk to Walker, and I need to concentrate.”
“Okay?” Davis said, not hiding his confusion. They switched positions. “Still heading to the airport?”
“Yes…no…probably.” Roarke hit speed dial on his Treo. “Hell, I don’t know.”
“It’s a little late, Agent Roarke.”
“Sorry, Penny, but I need you to go back to work. Please,” Roarke pleaded over the phone. He was not cheerful. “Come on….”
“Look, sweetie,” she said, “I get it, but if we’re going to start from scratch, it’ll take more than a quick trip tonight. Give a girl a break. Come home, we’ll do this together tomorrow.”
“We don’t have to start over, Penny. I just need background on the last guy.”
“What last guy? You checked out all seven.”
“Yes, but it’s number eight I want.”
“Number eight? There is no number eight. Just seven. Remember?”