Chapter Two: Cupid’s Span
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Within a few minutes I had put together five decent sound bites that could run with an intro and an outro, something we call a reader-act. I turned the radio down in the middle of a cooking segment and recorded a couple of rosers, short for “reporter on scene” stories making it seem like I was still standing in Lucky Leoung. Well it least it did when I mixed the room sounds underneath it.
Once I had everything put together, I dialed Isabella and told her I was ready to feed. She turned me over to Mario, a nice kid still in college who worked part time for us as a tape editor. He took my download and when it was over said Isabella needed me pronto.
“Cupid’s Span,” Isabella’s voice was back in my ear with all of the warmth of a Lake Tahoe skinny-dip.
“Aw, I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I deadpanned.
“Shut the fuck up and get your ass over there right now,” she said. “You know, the stupid fucking bow and arrow pointing straight down into the goddamn Embarcadero.”
“On my way, sweetie,” I had already put the car in gear and turned it towards the east.
A year after September 11th, when the rest of the world was still reeling from the “Fight of the Century” featuring in the blue corner Osama bin Laden and in the red corner George W Bush, the artist Claus Oldenburg unveiled his new 143 foot tall sculpture of the bow and arrow. He dedicated it to San Francisco as the “home port of Eros” whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. It being San Francisco, you can’t actually see the tip of the arrow because that might imply that the damn thing was going to shoot someone. Instead the feathers of the arrow are the most prominent feature. As I pulled up to Cupid’s Span, I saw that that day the sculpture had an embellishment that would have made Oldenburg faint.
I got out of my car, slipped my headphones on, and dialed Isabella.
“Okay, I’m on scene. Ready for air when you are.”
“You’re gonna pay for calling me Sweetie even if I have to mug you when we’re both standing in the unemployment line,” she couldn’t quite keep the smile out of her voice. “We’re in spot right now, I’ll send you up there.”
Most people might think it premature doing a live report since I hadn’t actually talked to the police or sought out any witnesses or knew what the fuck was really going on. But this was all-news radio. Who needs facts when they’ve got my eyes?
“We’re 45 out,” Eddie picked up the line. “We’re coming straight to you out of the breaking news sounder. Just do your normal sig-out when you’re done.”
“Got it, thanks,” I took the moments to survey the scene. Uniformed officers were putting up crime scene tape blocking off pedestrian access to the sculpture. I spotted my old college roomie turned police captain Vincent Smith huddling with a group of detectives and pointing at the top of the feathers.
Suddenly serious music filled my ears followed by our booth announcer Dudley Anderson’s most stentorian tones announcing breaking news from Bay Area Radio News.
“This is Bay Area Radio News reporter Sean McKay live along the Embarcadero in San Francisco,” I said. “San Francisco police are now investigating what appears to be a man’s body wedged into the feathers of the Cupid’s Span sculpture, 140 feet above Rincon Park.”
I went on to describe the scene including the impact on traffic in the area. Just before signing off, I noted the arrival of the coroner’s van saying that seemed to confirm appearances that the victim was dead.
After the live shot, I grabbed my microphone and voice recorder and snagged a 12.1 megapixel camera out of the side pocket in my pack.
Yes, you heard that right, a radio reporter using a camera. These days though, it’s important to take snapshots at stories to add graphics to the report on our web site. In order to make journalism a halfway paying concern, it’s not enough to just paint sound pictures anymore. I took a couple of wide shots framing the bowstring of the sculpture around the deep blue waters of the bay and the looming concrete and metal of the Bay Bridge.
I waved at Vince but he just shook his head indicating he couldn’t talk and pointed at Sgt. Mira Hansson, the newly appointed Public Information Officer or PIO. Vince pointed his thumb at his right ear and his pinkie at his mouth indicating I could call him later. He then moved with his detectives to a pair of young white kids in their late teens or early 20’s who were sitting handcuffed on the grass about 20 feet away from the span.
I showed my press credentials to the uniformed patrolman guarding the outer perimeter and moved closer to the center of the sculpture. I could see a pool of dried blood directly under the body staining the steel bow.
As I greeted Mira, loud beeping drowned out our words. We both turned towards the street where a huge San Francisco Fire Department Tiller Truck, sometimes called a “hook and ladder” backed onto the sidewalk. Assistant Chief Medical Examiner Qiong Fang walked over to talk to the fire captain who had just hopped out of the passenger side of the truck. The each took turns pointing at the body on the feather.
“What do we know?” I asked Hansson.
` ”We got the call at 7:35 a.m.,” she consulted her notebook then spoke into my microphone. “A couple of witnesses,” she nodded to the two young handcuffed dudes, “reported the body at the top of the arrow. It seems they were shimmying up the bowstring in heavy fog in order to hang a protest banner from the span. When they got to the top, the fog lifted long enough for them to spot the body.” Mira made a slashing motion across her throat and I paused the recorder.
“To tell you the truth, Sean, we’re damn lucky we didn’t have three bodies. Those kids almost shit their pants when they saw the body up there and we’re fortunate they didn’t fall off.
She twirled her fingers in a circle and I started the recorder again.
“The witnesses say it appeared to them the victim had suffered at least one gunshot wound to the forehead although we won’t know that for sure until the medical examiner looks at the body.”
We both looked back at the Tiller truck where Fang was now climbing to the bottom of the ladder and struggled his way onto the platform. The operator then extended the basket into the air at a very slow pace until the assistant M.E. was eye level with the body.
“Oh shit, here comes the pack,” Mira said as three competing television live trucks showed up on the scene simultaneously.
“You can blame me for that,” I had already put away my microphone and taken a couple of more photos of the fire truck and the two handcuffed witnesses. “I did a live hit when I pulled up on the scene which their assignment editors certainly heard. You know the drill.”
Mira rolled her eyes then pulled out a hair brush to get presentable for the cameras. I checked my watch and saw that I had about five minutes until the top of the hour when I would need to do another live shot.
After the hit, I fed in the sound with Mira and went looking for witnesses. The first couple of people I encountered were just your standard looky-lou’s who didn’t know anymore than I did. Less, in fact. Then I hit paydirt. Standing out from the crowd because she was sitting down, a young blonde woman of about the age of the two guys Vince’s boys were questioning sat with her head in her hands on a park bench looking out towards Treasure Island. She wore a green army jacket with the Earth Defender’s Front logo embroidered onto the back. Smoke from her cigarette curled into the moist air. I figured at that moment San Francisco’s outdoor smoking ban enforcement wasn’t top of mind for any of the authorities on the scene.
“Pretty unbelievable, huh?” I sat on the park bench next to her. She took a long drag off her Marlboro Red then ground it into the concrete base of the bench with her heel. Her eyes were red with tears but they stared at me with an angry intensity.
“You a cop?” She tried to sound defiant but couldn’t quite pull it off.
“Nope, a reporter.” I showed her my press credentials.
She shook her head. “You’re the reason I’m supposed to be here this morning. Reggie and Devin knew they would probably be arrested so they asked me to come out and talk with the press about the reasons behind our action.” She pulled out a stack of flyers on green and yellow paper and handed me one of each. She also produced a surprisingly professional looking business card that identified her as Sierra Myers, Spokeswoman for the Earth Defender’s Front.
“Okay,” I said as I pulled out my microphone and hit record. “What did you see?”
She stared at the microphone for a beat, then shrugged and began to answer.
“I think, I think we heard the dude get shot,” she paused. I nodded silent encouragement so the recorder wouldn’t pick me up urging her on. “It was about four in the morning. We rode our bikes over and were just stowing them when we heard a loud bang. I thought I heard a moan right after that, but it was foggy and Devin said I was hearing things. He said the bang was probably just a backfire echoing across the water from the Bay Bridge.”
She told me about unpacking their banners and attaching them with oversized curtain hangers to the bowstring. She stayed on the ground as lookout while Devin pulled his banner up one side of the bow and Reggie went up the other side.
About twenty minutes later, she heard Devin let out a scream. The next thing she knew the banners were sliding back to the ground followed moments later by Devin and Reggie.
“I can’t believe this is happening to us,” Sierra was now shaking as she reached for another cigarette. It took her three tries to get the lighter to catch, then she took a deep drag off the smoke. “We just want the world to know how dangerous it is for the planet to have oil tankers coming in and out every day through the Golden Gate. We thought this action would wake some people up.”
My phone buzzed so I thanked Sierra and walked out of earshot. It was Isabella telling me they needed another live hit at the bottom of the hour and giving me word from our city hall reporter, Sheila Barrera, that the Golden Boy himself, our mayor, was on the way to the scene.
“He must have heard there are cameras here,” I said.
“Why the fuck else would he go anywhere?” Isabella said.
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for Hizzoner,” I was now back to my car and unpacking the laptop. “But first I’ve got some exclusive sound from a witness who says she heard the shot. I’ll send you one bite for my next hit and then a few more bites for reader-acts.”
While I edited the sound, I wondered what the hell the mayor was really up to. This kind of high profile crime would do nothing for the tourist trade or his ambitions for statewide office. What was his real agenda?
In case you can’t tell, I love my job, in fact I can’t imagine not doing it. I knew I was going to be more than pissed if the station was going under and we were all getting fired. After working my way up the ladder through jobs in smaller markets including Eureka, Reno, and Sacramento, I had arrived in San Francisco where I was privileged to work with some true pros. Many of them were assholes and a few might say the same about me, but we had a good group that put out a great product. But I knew that didn’t amount to much in the minds of the corporate fat cats and bean counters who just look at the bottom line.
As I waited on hold for my next live shot, I took Sierra’s business card and flyers and folded them inside my pack next to my already forgotten lottery ticket.
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