By Terrence McCoy
By Allie Conti
By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
It's high noon, and the TV-news folk are gathered across the street from the American Media, Inc. offices, which swarm with agents from the FBI and Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in search of anthrax. More accurately the 40-or-so reporters, photographers, and cameramen assume agents are swarming inside the building, because no one from the media cadre has been allowed to cross the yellow police line to see firsthand the continuing anthrax investigation on this, the ninth day of October. Instead the news pack has converged on a swale across Broken Sound Boulevard, the four-lane parkway that curves in front of the headquarters of the company that produces The National Enquirer, Star Magazine, The Globe, and other grocery-store tabloids.
The excitement began October 5, when Robert Stevens, a 63-year-old photo editor for the company, died from anthrax. Investigators subsequently found traces of the toxic substance on Steven's keyboard, and seven more workers tested positive for the bacterium. Because anthrax has long been considered a potential agent for biological terrorism, worldwide media descended upon South Florida in light of the September 11 attacks.
The nation's anxiety level has shot up recently with reports of even more cases: anthrax-laced letters have been delivered to NBC Studios in New York City, a Microsoft office in Reno, and the office of Senate majority leader Tom Daschle. In the first incident, an assistant to anchor Tom Brokaw became infected, as well as a New York City police detective and two health-department lab technicians. No one has tested positive at Microsoft, and the envelope that arrived in Daschle's office left investigators scrambling. On Monday the seven-month-old son of an ABC freelance news producer in New York City tested positive. A raft of reports to police about suspicious letters and powdery substances have proved unfounded but nevertheless led to evacuated buildings, grounded flights, and a worldwide media frenzy.
American Media is nestled in Boca Raton's 850-acre Arvida Park of Commerce, a tree-filled expanse of winding roads, ponds, businesses, and an 18-hole golf course. As a venue for pack media, the park has more advantages than drawbacks. Traffic is leisurely and light, so the media's swale-to-office view is clear. Nearby-office workers steadily stroll by on the sidewalk and provide fodder for the question of the day: "Do you feel scared?" Equally important, though, is a fortuitously landscaped mound on the swale favored by photographers and video cameramen alike. The rise offers the best vantage point on the makeshift FBI compound, and its five closely planted palms provide a break from the rain. Behind the grassy knoll are parked eight satellite trucks bearing the nomenclature of South Florida's biggest television stations, including affiliates for CBS, ABC, and NBC. A cacophony of generators robs the area of its usual calm. The reporters have been plagued with a morning drizzle and blustery wind that make consistent coiffures impossible. Despite their disheveled look, they consider the standups for noon broadcasts a welcome break from tedium.
As the noon updates end, a reporter from WPEC-TV (Channel 12) remains in front of the camera after being told via cell phone that more promotional segments, or teasers, are needed to flog the evening news. "Aack! How many teasers do I have to do?" he groans to the cameraman, who's not particularly sympathetic. Resigned to his fate, the reporter stiffens his shoulders and intones, "Coming up: We'll show you how the workers near the American Media offices are dealing with the anthrax scare."
The tactic used against such fear, at least today, seems to be black humor. Tom Slagle and Ken Cross, two employees at the nearby branch office of Siemens, which designs telephone electronics, wander upon the scene. Slagle, with a mop top of black-and-gray hair, peers at the American Media building. "I just want to see Scully walk out of there -- then I'm running," he jokes, comparing this bizarre anthrax case to an over-the-top X-Files episode. Slagle regards the mingling media horde. "Visually this is nothing," he says as he pokes a finger at the cordoned-off investigation site. "I mean, it's not like someone's going to run out of the basement with a dead cow yelling, "This is it! This is it!'" A reporter from WPBF-TV (Channel 25) overhears Slagle's musings and -- surprise! -- asks him if he's afraid of getting anthrax and would he be willing to be filmed for an interview. No, he says in response to the request with a roll of his eyes toward Cross. It's not the last time he'll be asked that during his lunch-break stroll through this circus.
A coworker of Slagle and Cross's spots the two loitering on the sidewalk. "What the hell are you doing here?" he roars in mock reproach, and the WPBF reporter lunges.
"Are you frightened about the anthrax they've found here?" she queries hopefully.
"Nah," the guy waggishly retorts, pointing to his nose. "I've got a head cold, so nothing can get in here anyway." He adds that he can't wait to see The National Enquirer's headlines on the anthrax panic. The reporter does not ask to interview him on camera.