Deadline - U.S.A.

What part did you play in the

recent local elections, Mr. Rienzi?

You got me mixed up

with somebody else, senator.

I'm in the cement

and contracting business.

What would you say your

earnings are per year?

Around 20,000 or 30,000.

Say 30,000. You've got

a $60,000 home here.

A winter place in Miami.

A summer place in Maine.

Two limousines. A sailboat worth 50,000.

All on $30,000 a year. How

do you do it, Mr. Rienzi?

Sometimes I wonder myself, senator.

It was testified here

yesterday that you were paid...

$200,000 in cash to, uh,

influence the election.

Yeah, I read that

in the papers.

Now, if somebody'll only tell me

where all that money is hiding-

- You deny meddling in the election?

- Does it look like it?

After all, you got elected,

didn't you, senator?

Fire swept through

upper floors of hospital-

You say this man keeps

getting undressed...

without pulling down

the shades?

Well, what's your complaint,

madam? Boy!

Here.

Well, from the condition of the body, she'd

been soaking in the river for several days.

This fur coat she wore

was all she had on.

Well, maybe she was

a rich society matron.

Mink isn't class-Conscious,

Sonny. No.

No other clothes,

no identification-

Mr. Hutcheson wants to

see you in his office, sir.

Boy!

What about the Rienzi

story, George?

Boss wants

to check it first.

One column head

three line bank.

A.P. Says the paper's

being sold.

What?

Sold? Who to? When?

- What about that, Frank?

- That's something only the Garrison heirs,

Hutcheson and the gods

would know, not us.

It's a conspiracy to keep you

just as you are, nice and igNorant.

Sold.

I can't believe it.

Don't believe the associated press?

My, my. Maine 2000.

Better run for your lives, men.

And don't forget to trample

the women, loudmouth.

Record? Give me the city desk.

Look, who's the boss? Who

says what goes in the paper?

The managing editor, Mr. Hutcheson.

Then he's the man I want to see.

Well, right now, he's busier than

a bird dog. Why don't you sit down?

If you don't mind.

He's still in a makeup

conference. Call him, call him.

Credit controls. Inflation

to be halted. Billions.

Yes? Frank Allen. Urgent.

Okay. Billions required.

National budget.

O.P.S., n.A.M., p.C.A.

What's all this mean

to the reader?

Consumption tax? Huh,

sounds like a disease.

It'll be page one in every paper

in the country. In the day too.

What does this tax program mean

to the average man and woman?

Not billions, that's an impossible

figure. Here, break it down.

Yes, sir. What'll it cost

the housewife for groceries?

How much more for a car? A radio?

Fifty bucks? A hundred? How much?

Run the story as is, page one.

New lead for the second edition.

Right.

United press flood story

in same slot?

- Pictures come in yet?

- With casualty lists.

All right. Yes, Frank. Ed.

What about the dead nude murder story?

Is it murder?

Looks like it.

Looks like it! Who is she?

I don't know yet. Got some

pictures of her though.

Very interesting.

Put 'em on postcards

and send 'em to Paris.

Second section. Play it

down. No pictures. Yes, sir.

Story's fine, George.

Tie it off.

Yes?

You're late for the dome. Okay.

Can you leave tonight to

handle that strike upstate?

Oh, I'd like to stay

with the Rienzi story.

You're wasting your time, baby.

Not if we can prove he's guilty.

It's not our job

to prove he's guilty.

We're not detectives, and we're

not in the crusading business.

Gimme a week. Forget it. The state

senate couldn't prove anything.

Neither could that probe

four years ago.

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