Maisel said, "Piper's right, Rune. The story is the important thing, not springing a prisoner. And I don't see how we can do it. There just isn't time."
"The script's all written," she said. "And I've spent the last three nights editing. I've got everything timed to the second."
"The second," Sutton said in a tired sigh.
Maisel said, "Piper'd have to tape on Sunday night or Monday morning."
In a soft, spiny voice, Rune said, "I want the story to air next week." She folded her hands and put them in her lap.
They both looked at her.
Rune continued. "What's going to happen if somebody finds out that we could have saved his life and we just didn't get around to doing the story in time?"
Silence, as Sutton and Maisel exchanged glances. Maisel broke the tension, asking the anchorwoman, "What do you think?"
Rune felt her teeth squeeze together with tension. Sutton responded by asking, "What else was scheduled for that show?"
"The Arabs in Queens," Maisel said. "It's half edited."
"I never liked that story," Rune offered.
Sutton shrugged. "It's soft news. I hate soft news." She was frowning, apparently because she found herself agreeing with Rune.
"My story isn't," Rune said. "It's hard news."
Sutton said, "I suppose you'll want a credit."
For ten million people to see.
"You bet I do."
The anchorwoman continued, "But that name of yours. You'll have to change it."
"Not to worry," Rune said. "I have a professional name."
"A professional name?" Maisel was fighting to keep down the smile.
"Irene Dodd Simons."
"Is that your real name?" the anchorwoman asked.
"Sort of."
Sutton said, "Sort of." And shook her head then added, "At least it sounds like the name of somebody who knows what she's doing." She pulled her personal calendar out of her purse; the scents of perfume and suede followed it. "Okay, honey, first we'll get together and do a script--"
"A script?" Rune blinked. "But it's all finished." She nodded at the sheets in front of them.
Sutton laughed. "No, babes, I mean a real script. We'll meet at six-thirty tomorrow morning in the Current Events newsroom."
Rune's first thought was: Shit, a baby-sitter. Where'm I going to get a sitter? She smiled and said, "Six, if you want."
"Six-thirty'll be fine."
YOU DON'T HAVE A RIGHT TO TALK ON THE PHONE BUT they usually let you. A privilege, not a right. (One day, Boggs'd heard some prisoner yelling, "Gimme the phone! We got rights." A guard had answered, pretty politely under the circumstances, "You got what we give you, asshole.") But maybe because Boggs had been knifed or maybe because he wasn't a punk or just maybe because it was a nice warm day, the guard in charge of the mail and telephone room sent somebody to find him so he could take the call.
"Randy, how you feeling?" Rune asked.
"That you, miss?"