🗽 New York, NBC Studios, Backstage at Studio 8H
Lawrence Bender's palms were slick with sweat, and his throat felt like sandpaper. For the fifth time, he tugged at the tie that was practically strangling him. He leaned in close to Link, his voice shaking.
"Link, this is live, man, a national broadcast! David Letterman can get a confession out of a corpse. If anything goes wrong, we won't have a chance in hell to fix it!"
Link didn't answer.
He was focused on the monitor showing the commercial break, calmly adjusting his cufflink. His movements were peaceful, but his eyes held a razor-sharp intensity.
"Five minutes to air!" the director's shout echoed.
Bender flinched so hard he nearly dropped his travel mug.
Just then, Link's phone vibrated. He glanced at it. It was a text from Australia:
"I'm with you."
Link smiled, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and patted Bender's stiff shoulder.
"Let's go, Lawrence."
"Time to watch the execution."
---
📺 The Late Show
The studio lights came up in a sudden, blinding flash, making eyes ache. The applause from the audience roared like a tidal wave.
David Letterman, the sharpest, most sardonic man in late-night television, leaned back at his desk, wearing his signature wry smile.
"Welcome back. Tonight, we have a guest who... well, he's been hotter lately than my monologue jokes." He drew out the line. "From Pangu Pictures, Mr. Link!"
The camera zoomed in. Link walked with ease to the sofa and sat down.
There were no pleasantries, no small talk.
Letterman leaned forward, hands clasped, and his very first question was a surgical strike.
"Mr. Link , I'm not going to dance around the issue." He leaned forward, fingers steepled. "You've seen the TMZ video. All of America has seen it. So, my question is simple: Has Pangu Pictures signed a racist who screams the 'N-word' in public?"
The studio went silent.
Every camera zeroed in on Link's face, trying to catch the slightest flicker of an expression.
Link didn't answer immediately.
In his mind, he flashed back to the transatlantic call he'd made just a few hours earlier to Australia.
On the other end, Russell Crowe's voice was hoarse, with the sounds of crashing waves and clinking bottles in the background.
"...They all think I'm that guy, Link ," Russell had said, the sound of a man abandoned by the world in his voice. "Even I... am starting to believe it."
Link had listened in silence. When Russell was done, he asked one question.
"Russell, do you remember John Nash?"
The other end of the line paused.
"Everyone thought he was crazy, but only he knew the truth," Link's voice was soft, yet it felt like a needle poking into Russell's heart. "But he believed in himself. He spent his whole life fighting a war only he could see."
"Now, your war is here."
...
Back in the studio, Letterman nudged him. "Mr. Link ? Are you with us?"
Link snapped back to the present, looked at Letterman, then straight into the camera, and smiled.
"Before I answer, I'd like to show everyone something."
He pulled a small video file out of his pocket.
"This is the TMZ version. Let's watch it together."
On the big screen, the footage played. Russell's punch, and that grating, unmistakable 'N-word' blared out. A wave of murmuring swept through the audience.
"Okay." Link signaled the director to pause. "Now, please watch my version."
The screen switched.
It was the same bar, the same angle.
But this time, it was the original, unedited footage.
In the video, a drunken white brute was pointing a finger at a Black bartender's nose, spewing the most vile insults.
Russell Crowe stood up.
Then, he slugged the drunken white guy in the face, and the words he yelled were crystal clear:
"You Fking Ignorant Prick!"
The 'N-word', the inflammatory slur, had come from the white drunkard's mouth, directed at the bartender.
The two audio tracks had been spliced together through editing.
BOOM!
The entire studio erupted!
The audience was in an uproar. People were standing up. Even Letterman was stunned silent.
Link didn't stop.
"Director, please put the spotlight on Section A of the audience, seventh row."
The spotlight hit the area. A man in a mask, with his cap pulled low, was visibly trembling.
Link stared directly at him, his voice ice cold:
"This gentleman is the cameraman who shot the video. We invited him here tonight."
All eyes in the audience swiveled toward the man. He shook even harder.
"Now, please tell everyone," Link said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "Who taught you how to edit it that way?"
The man's face went chalk-white, his lips quivering. He instinctively glanced toward a corner of the audience.
There, the PR representative sent by Harvey Weinstein looked completely aghast.
"It... it was Rick!" the man finally broke, shouting. "It was Rick, Russell Crowe's former agent! He gave me fifty grand! He told me to splice the audio together!"
The live broadcast dissolved into complete chaos.
In the control room, every phone light was blinking wildly.
---
🎬 Los Angeles, Miramax Headquarters
On the TV screen, the man shouted out the name "Rick."
Harvey Weinstein, clutching a wine glass, watched his smile freeze. The veins in his hand bulged with effort.
The next second—
"CRASH!"
He slammed the crystal glass into the television. The screen cracked into a web of fissures and went black.
Harvey stood among the shards, his voice a low snarl:
"You worthless hack..."