Three

Estéban Suarez, the TV journalist who hosted the program Left of Center, was a breath of fresh air, at least compared to Cherie Braxton. Sure, he was just as ambitious and cynical, but he hadn’t slept with Legs Gibson, at least as far as I knew.

“I love it when they go on about the ‘Liberal Media,’” Suarez was saying. “You get guys like Bill O’Reilly on TV, just to the right of Attila the Hun, and they complain about this liberal bias in the media, on the air, as if they weren’t in the media themselves.”

All of which was fascinating, but it didn’t answer my question about his getting into a fight with Legs on the show six days before Legs ended up as a Conservative-on-a-Stick. Instead, he was explaining, without being asked, why his own televised soapbox was named “Left of Center.”

“I’m a liberal,” he said, having worked up a head of steam. “I think I’m the last one left who’s willing to admit it. Everybody else is so busy trying to be ‘centrist’ or ‘objective’ that they can’t get out of their own way fast enough. Leaves the market wide open for a guy like me, who’s got the balls to say it right to your face. ‘I’m a liberal.’”

I was starting to wish I wasn’t. “That’s nice,” I told him, “but the question was about the show with Louis Gibson.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for getting a word in edgewise.

“Yeah.” He walked around the set of his show, which was as simple as these things get. Two chairs, which were considerably more worn than you might think, a piece of shag rug that went out of style with Nehru jackets and lava lamps, a lot of lights and boom microphones hanging from what appear to be bathtub pipes. Still, like all the other times I’ve been on a television or film set, I felt perfectly at home. Now if I could just convince someone else I belonged there.

“He came on to talk about his 23rd Psalm in the Schools thing,” Suarez said. “You know, the shorthand for ‘religious schools getting government money and blowing the separation of church and state out the window.’ Gibson comes on, all smoke and mirrors, and gets himself bent out of shape when I call him on it.”

“I hear he took a swing at you.”

“Yeah. I told him he was working against family values by trying to make the schools only for kids who come from certain families, and he, um, took exception to that.”

“I’m told you got mad and threw him out, told him never to come to your studio again.” Suarez made sure his chair, and not his guest’s, had a bottle of Evian water on a small table next to it. “I hear you actually had to be held back by your producer. I hear you told Gibson you’d kill him if you saw him again.”

“That’s right.” There was a rundown sheet on the table next to the Evian water. It was stamped “preliminary,” because this was Thursday, and the show would air live Sunday morning. I guess the water was preliminary, too.

“May I see a copy of the tape?”

“I’ll make sure my assistant gets you one on the way out,” said Suarez, who never stopped smiling.

“Aren’t you concerned that a guy whom you threatened on live television turned up dead six days later?”

“Why should I be? I had no motive to kill him.”

“You were mad at him for hitting you on your own show,” I tried.

Suarez laughed. “Mr. Tucker, are you in show business?”

“I have my aspirations.”

“Who doesn’t?” He looked heavenward for a moment, deriding amateurs like me as a reflex. “Well, you need to learn one thing about the TV business,” Suarez said, taking on an air of condescension only those with disproportionate self-esteem can muster. “You don’t ever kill someone who gets you ratings like that. Geraldo got hit with a chair, and nobody remembers what the argument was about, but they remember him with the broken nose. You can’t buy publicity like that. It was the same thing with Gibson.”

“You mean. . .”

“Absolutely. It was great television.”