“I want to make sure I get those points across,” I answered.
“No. That means you are not going to say anything else. Those three points, over and over. That’s it. If Linda Schuham asks you what your favorite color is, you say, ‘What’s important to understand right now is that there has not been a terrorist attack.’ Got it?”
It seemed easy enough until I found myself gazing across the room at the news desk, with cameras surrounding it from all angles. The producer said, “We’re going to break in thirty seconds and then I’ll take you up there.” I did one more mental checklist of the points I needed to make. The producer must have seen the concentration on my face, because she said, “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a conversation. You’re going to have about three minutes.”
“Three minutes?” I asked, incredulous. It had never dawned on me that I would have so little time.
“That’s actually long for a news segment at this hour,” she said. “Remember, follow Linda’s lead and have a conversation.”
Of course, that was the opposite of what the Communications Director had advised me, I thought, recalling his final admonition: “I don’t care what the fuck she asks you. Don’t even listen to the question. When her lips stop moving, you give the answer you want to give.” The program went to break. The guest stood up to leave, a different producer escorting him off the set as I was steered into the bright lights. A young woman rushed up to Linda Schuham, handing her a bottle of water while conferring about something. The producer guided me to my seat on the set. I felt awkward and stiff compared to what seemed like the fluidity and ease of everyone around me. The lights were bizarrely bright, giving everything on the set a fake plastic feel. Linda Schuham shared a laugh with the woman who had brought her the water and then turned to me and said in a surprisingly chipper voice, “Thanks so much for coming on. Just explain to me what’s happening like you were talking to your mother.”
“We’ll just have a conversation,” I offered.
“Exactly,” she said.
From somewhere behind the bright lights beating down on me, I heard, “We’re on in five-four-three-two, and live.”
46.
THE PRESIDENT AND HIS SENIOR ADVISERS WATCHED ON THE television in the conference room on Air Force One. Linda Schuham looked somberly into the camera and delivered her introduction: “Many of you are waking up to the news that America is suffering a potentially devastating public health crisis: a previously benign virus, widespread in America, has turned deadly. This is happening at a time when America’s supply of Dormigen, the one drug that can be used to treat this virus successfully, is in short supply. Our guest is one of America’s top scientists and an adviser to the White House.” She turned to me and said, “Welcome to the program. Why are we just learning about this now?”
“That’s a good question, Linda,” I said, trying to buy myself time. It really was a good question. As the chaos had unfolded that morning, I found myself wondering if our secrecy had done more harm than good.
On Air Force One, the Communications Director yelled at the television, “No. No, that is not a good question. Do not answer that question.”
It felt awkward, almost rude, but I went with the talking points. “The most important thing to realize is that there has been no terrorist attack—”
She cut me off: “The White House put out a statement to that effect. If that’s true—”
“It is true,” I said firmly.
On Air Force One, the Communications Director continued his commentary: “Okay, good, good.”
Unfortunately for me, Linda Schuham had faced more than a few guests who showed up with talking points in their pockets. “Back to my original question,” she pressed. “How long has the White House known about this virus, and also about the looming Dormigen shortage?”
The Communications Director pleaded with the television, “Do not go down that rabbit hole.”
I answered, “The most important thing right now is to manage the public health situation. What people need to realize is that the Capellaviridae virus is extremely common. Many of us are already carrying it. Only in some small fraction of cases will it become dangerous.”
The President, watching with the others, said, “That’s good.”
“Nice pivot,” the Communications Director added.
Linda Schuham took the conversation in my direction. “So I might have the virus right now? Or you might have it?” she asked.
“Yes, we’re probably both carrying Capellaviridae,” I said.
“Might the virus be spreading through our studio as we speak?” she asked in mock alarm.
“No. Absolutely not,” I answered. “That’s the wrong way to think about Capellaviridae. The virus is already out there. You and I have probably been carrying it around for twenty or thirty years, maybe since we were born. The danger here is more like cancer than the flu.”
On Air Force One, the Strategist asked loudly, “Did he just say ‘cancer’?”
“Fuck me,” the Communications Director said.
Linda Schuham asked, “Cancer? Is that supposed to make people feel better?”
I tried to climb out of the hole. “What I mean is…” No one heard the rest of the answer, during which I tried to explain how lurking viruses work, without actually understanding how lurking viruses work.
Linda Schuham threw me a lifeline. She asked, “When Capellaviridae turns dangerous, Dormigen is effective, yes?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“And yet the nation is running out of Dormigen. How did that happen? How many people might die as a result?”
She put talking point number three on a tee for me. I explained, “The White House and all federal agencies are working around the clock to bolster the nation’s Dormigen supply. Our allies have shipped us millions of doses. We are working on alternative ways to treat the virulent form of Capellaviridae. We are managing this public health challenge.”
On Air Force One, the Chief of Staff said, “That’s a strong finish.”
The Strategist replied, “But you can’t mention the c-word. That’s going to be the headline: an epidemic of cancer, spreading.”
“Cancer doesn’t spread from person to person,” the Chief of Staff said. “That’s why he made the comparison.”
“No one’s going to understand that,” the Communications Director complained, shaking his head in frustration.
“At least we’re beating back the terrorist story,” the President offered.
In fact, the terrorist story was alive and well. We had not yet even seen the worst of it. In a nondescript suburb of Houston, Tony Perez was just finishing his work for the day. He had been up early, about four-thirty Central Time, digesting the news of the day and then, as he would tell the Outbreak Inquiry Commission, “Putting a different spin on it.” In fact, Perez was the reigning king of fake news: creative, compelling, prolific, and shockingly well read. In a burst of imagination that morning, Perez had reported that a Latino separatist group had introduced Capellaviridae to the United States and would provide an antidote only if Congress agreed to their demands.
47.
I WALKED OUT OF THE CNN STUDIO INTO THE BRIGHT MORNING sunlight, not sure what to do next. The rain had cleared and the day was pleasant in an early spring kind of way. There was no car waiting for me. I heard nothing from the Communications Director after my segment. Maybe that was because he was displeased with me; more likely it was because there was so much else going on. I knew I should not have used the cancer analogy. I felt that even as I was saying the words. My impression had been reinforced by Linda Schuham’s reaction as I made the comparison. I saw a glimmer of surprise in her eyes—recognition that she had knocked me off my talking points and unearthed something newsworthy in our conversation. That is what CNN paid her a lot of money to do.