Chapter 1019 Something Must Be Done

"Is that you? Tommy."

New York, Upper East Side, Motula received an international call on his newly replaced personal mobile phone, and the other party asked a question without thinking.

"Sandy?" Sounded like Sandy Glenn.

The other party did not answer.

"That kid is sick, manic, paranoid... He's taking too many drugs that he shouldn't be taking," Motura said.

"In any case, you will no longer be Miss Kelly's manager from next year. Due to my obligation, I must notify you in advance," said the other side of the phone.

Motura smiled, "I remember it will be more than a year before it expires."

"We will pay the termination fee at the price."

"She will regret it."

"Maybe." The phone was hung up.

Motura put down the phone, "Please come in."

The security director of Epic Records opened the door and entered, "Mr. Motura, you have arranged more thorough security measures for your family, and we captured this."

He put a photo on the table, a black driver was waiting for a traffic light, it seemed to be an intersection not far from where he lived, this guy looked like a villain, with his arms resting on the rolled down car window, cigarettes between his fingers, his face The tattoo was clearly captured by the camera.

"When?" Motura asked.

"At noon, he passed the same intersection twice, which caught our attention." The security director replied.

"Give this photo to our people in the nearby police station for questioning."

"It's better to find a reason to limit his movements," Motura suggested.

"OK."

The security chief put down a newspaper as he left.

'The vicious turmoil in the hip-hop circle continues to spread. After 2PAC, APLUS also suffered an assassination? '

Under the big headline are two pictures with great visual impact, one is a Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit being hoisted high, the other is a policeman putting a stretcher into an ambulance, and a black man is wounded The victim's clothes and stretcher were stained with blood.

'APLUS claimed that he originally planned to take this car, but canceled the trip because of something, and luckily escaped, his driver and bodyguard were seriously injured. He posted multiple conspiracy theories against Sony Columbia Records and CBS TV on the American music website, saying that the car accident was deliberately caused, and the words were very strong. '

‘A spokesman for the local prosecutor’s office stated that the police have entered the investigation process of the car accident...’

Motula sighed after reading it, and was rubbing his brows in thought when the phone rang again, "Mr. Stringer..."

"That kid directed and acted on his own..."

"But he showed his flaws. We can connect this incident with the death of 2PAC and publicize it as the revenge of the blood gang...let him shoot himself in the foot."

"Wait," Howard Stringer interrupted suddenly, "how do you know the driver was black?"

"I also have my own Hollywood news channel." Motura replied: "This matter has absolutely nothing to do with me."

Howard Stringer, who was in the office of Sony Electronics Beimi headquarters, was silent for a while, then hummed, and hung up the phone.

"The mayor's office." The secretary reported outside: "Mr. Giuliani."

"Come in."

He cleared his throat and picked up the microphone, "Hey, Mr. Mayor."

"Pay attention to Howard, the inner city broadcaster. That actor is not stupid enough to cause trouble for his friends in Chicago's donkey party. Would he want to incite African-Americans in New York...to repeat what happened in Los Angeles in 1992?" asked Giuliani.

"He doesn't have that much energy. In fact, according to our polls, he is now rejected by most people." Howard Stringer replied, "African singers in New York don't want to be used by outsiders."

"Are you sure? I don't know much about the entertainment industry, but I have lived such an old age, and there are very few celebrities in my memory who can make such a big move when the election day is approaching." Giuliani questioned.

"I'm 100 percent sure, rest assured, Mr. Giuliani."

Howard Stringer said with a smile: "He has some African-American megaphones, and he is very good at using new media.

But that's about it. "

"Okay, I believe you this time."

After talking with Giuliani, Howard Stringer turned on the radio and tuned to an inner-city broadcaster.

'Malcolm X, Dr. King, 2PAC...now it's the turn of APLUS, they want to kill every black person who tries to fight, EVERYONE! We can't take it any longer, we have to do something! '

The radio host was inciting wildly with fanatical tones.

He pulls out his golf club in the corner of the office and plays and listens to a ball on the mini-fairway on the floor.

"Haha, it's hard to imagine that they were still fighting over Oprah before." A white executive walked in without knocking on the door, smiling and pointing to the sign on his wrist.

"Oh, almost forgot."

He asked the secretary to take the golf equipment into the car first, "Let me give you two shots today? How about three?"

"It was you who lost last time."

"It was just an accident..."

I was too lazy to turn off the radio, and quickly left the office with my golf friends.

"Will today's remarks be too offensive? We would be embarrassed if the LAPD found out that it was just a normal car accident."

Entering the commercial time, the black host of the inner city broadcasting company pressed the intercom and asked the bosses of the New York branch who were listening through the glass outside the recording room.

"One of the major shareholders of this company has never been a broad-minded person."

The director of the New York branch replied: "He can talk about what he likes to hear. Anyway, this time you only need to scold white people."

"What is this? Our act of redemption?" the host complained.

"Haha! Go ahead and do your job. It's better to do something at this time than some guy who doesn't even want to act."

The director of the New York branch laughed.

He was alluding to Gordon, the A+CN boss and evening news anchor who was still hesitating.

"I need further evidence to post that kind of news."

In the A+CN evening news studio in Chicago, Gordon sat alone behind the anchor station, operating the laptop in front of him while answering Pierre Sutton's call, "Pierre, APLUS's mental state is really fine. Is it? I was reading his post on the American music website, and between the lines..."

"Do something for your own good, Gordon!"

Pierre Sutton interrupted him, "It's not surprising that he was almost killed by a truck early in the morning."

"Recently, I often think that no matter how hard I try, I will be hated by him. I have this realization."

Gordon said: "Black people's own 24-hour news stations have been ruthlessly proven to be unprofitable. This is the core problem. I won't be doing it soon."

"Didn't you just get a capital injection from the political circles in Chicago? That money is enough to burn for a long time. What APLUS needs most now is support and loyalty." Pierre Sutton persuaded: "On the contrary, he has the patience to endure long-term losses. "

"He didn't even bother to give the order himself, no, let Ms. Sloane pass the word."

Gordon asked, "I haven't had any instructions yet, have you?"

"Don't deceive yourself, you are Gordon, a senior media person. In fact, I don't need to say this at all. I treat you as a friend... Sigh! Forget it, you decide for yourself."

Pierre sighed and hung up the phone.

"The countdown is fifteen minutes." The director reminded.

Gordon bowed his head and flipped through the script of tonight's news, and said after a few minutes: "Bring the press release of the car accident in the morning, and put it after the general election news."

"Okay." The staff sent the prepared manuscript.

"The crashed Rolls-Royce is used for the news pictures..."

Gordon ticked off the press release, swapping certain words for something a little softer.

And in Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Hayden said to the FBI agent who came to check the scene at the door: "Sorry, Mr. APLUS thinks Los Angeles is not safe, and has already left here."

"Who does this house belong to?" the detective asked.

"It belongs to me." Hayden replied. In order to avoid taxes, it would be very complicated to transfer the property to Amy's name, so the house still belongs to him in name, which happened to save a lot of trouble.

"Can I go in and take a look?" the detective asked.

"Uh, wait, my lawyer hasn't arrived yet, let's check the crime scene first."

Seeing Donovan's car approaching in the distance, Hayden quickly dealt with the detectives, and then opened the iron gate himself.

"The paparazzi are rushing over. Maybe someone has analyzed the specific address from the background street terrain of the photo. Maybe someone inside the police station was bought by the media."

Donovan hurriedly got out of the car and said, "Where's APLUS?"

"Not long ago..."

Hayden whispered anxiously, "He is very dissatisfied with our William Morris now. I can see that he has been talking about driver's hats, Motura, Italians, the Mafia, the Truck Drivers Union, and more and more all day long. The more I contacted, the more I suspected that it was not a simple accident, and I posted many posts on the Internet."

"I've seen it."

Donovan asked: "Do you think he will replace us next year?"

"It's very likely! You know his character, Donovan, if we don't do something, we're done! We'll definitely lose him! He even trusts Sloan more, and probably beat Ovitz and Pakinsley during the day." Telephone."

Hayden burst into tears again: "How is your investigation? The driver who caused the accident..."

"If that guy is a professional killer who can take on such a big task, I have to say that he hides himself too well, but it doesn't matter now... APLUS just wants favorable public opinion, right? Hayden .”

Donovan asked.

"What do you mean?" Hayden didn't understand, "What are you going to do?"

Donovan shook his head, his expression a little lonely.

"The driver's name and home address have been leaked!"

The paparazzi who had just driven their motorcycles outside the villa received calls from newspapers and TV stations one after another, "Don't worry about the scene! There's nothing there, take a few pictures of the brake marks and rush over there, all go!" Remote order.

In a black community in Los Angeles, the police officers had just received the search warrant issued by the prosecutor's office when they heard the roar of the paparazzi's motorcycles, and shortly thereafter, the TV station's broadcast truck and helicopters all arrived.

"These bloody reporters!"

The sheriff hurriedly asked someone to pull the cordon at the door of the driver who caused the accident. He glanced at the neighbors who were surrounded by the crowd and watched the excitement. He showed a search warrant to the black woman with five or six children behind her and the wife of the driver who caused the accident, and then led the team inside. Rifle things out.

"Look here!"

After only a few minutes of work, a young police officer shouted excitedly, and he picked up three heavy plastic bags from the toilet tank.

"Give me."

The sheriff wanted to come and open it, and it was full of bundles of old twenty-dollar bills.

He weighed the weight casually, "about 60,000 dollars." He gave a judgment based on years of experience.

The police officers cheered enthusiastically.

"Oh my God!"

The wife of the driver who caused the accident covered her mouth, "I don't know, I don't know..." sobbing in disbelief and helplessness.

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