Only when the early risk takers had established the route to modest TV success did copycat BCN jump on board the bandwagon.
For the first fifty years of the television age, BCN offered bland and formulaic TV programming that was a virtual carbon copy of what every other network was broadcasting.
At some point during this first half century of wheezy dramas and formulaic sitcoms, an enthusiastic and truth-challenged public-relations man had dubbed BCN the "Diamond Network," the inference being that only quality programs ever found their way onto its nightly schedule. Despite years of evidence to the contrary, somehow the image stuck.
For years the Diamond Network coasted on its reputation. It wasn't until the last decade of the twentieth century that BCN finally began to show cracks in its corporate facade.
Even before the appearance of upstarts like Vox, UPN and the Warner Brothers network, BCN was already unsteady. Media mergers and changing demographics didn't help. Even as the other networks began to skew younger and younger, BCN's core audience continued to age. It looked as if the end might be at hand for one of the original Big Three networks.
Industry experts who had forecast her demise were surprised when salvation for BCN came in the form of one single reality show.
No one expected Winner to be such a huge success. It was supposed to be less than a blip on the TV radar. A curiosity that had somehow found its improbable way onto the prime-time schedule. Sure, it might generate a few good numbers for a week or two. But it would flame out fast.
The television world was shocked when the high-concept show didn't crash and burn. Winner was not only a success out of the gate, it continued to grow.
Other networks were quick to churn out knockoffs. It was an amazing role reversal for BCN.
The rising tide began to lift all boats. As Winner's numbers grew, so too did those of the rest of BCN's lineup.
All of this was welcome news for BCN's president. When Martin Houton was appointed by the board to head up the Broadcast Corporation of North America, the network had been third in the ratings and was sinking fast. Ten years into his tenure, the network's numbers were on the rise and advertisers were flooding back. The scratching wolves had finally been chased away from the back door. It was a new century and a brand-new golden age for the Diamond Network. Thanks to one great gamble on one mediocre show, there was nothing but clear sailing as far as the eye could see.
Until today when one little suicidal lunatic-way up in godforsaken Harlem of all places-had slammed the network's ship smack-dab into the mother of all icebergs.
"We're gonna sue!" Martin Houton boomed. Houton was a silver-haired man in his late fifties.
His cherubic face was devil-red with rage. He prowled near the window of his corner office, glaring hatred at the streaming headlights on Madison Avenue thirty stories below.
It seemed that everyone was on the way home. And, finally, finally some of them would be watching BCN when they got there. It had taken so long to build up.
Houton slapped his hands against the window. "That bastard!" he yelled. "What the hell was he doing in Harlem? I didn't authorize whatever it was he was doing."
The windows in his office were shatterproof glass. There was no way to break through and hurl himself to the glittering diamond headlights of Madison Avenue far below.
He spun furiously away from the window. "What are they saying now?" he demanded.
The vice president in charge of BCN programming sat on a plush sofa in the conference area of the room. A bank of televisions played silently in a nearby wall unit. Dozens of pictures flashed images of unrest in Harlem.
On Vox, a reporter who was scruffy by network standards was talking to an anchorman. The News Company network was obviously dipping into the pool of local talent.
The BCN vice president turned up the sound on Vox.
"...is the latest information we've heard," the reporter was saying. "So far BCN is refusing comment."
"Can you blame them?" said the anchor from the Vox news station in New York. "Those are serious charges."
"Serious? Try slanderous!" Houton boomed at the TV.
The programming veep strained to hear the television.
"According to Thomas Trumann, BCN's man in Harlem who committed suicide on national television earlier today, the Broadcasting Corporation of North America is entirely responsible for last night's riot," the reporter said.
"We are not responsible but we are suing your ass!" Houton screamed. He stabbed a pudgy finger at the screen. "I'm suing you, Vox, ABC, NBC and anyone else who's slandering this network. Why aren't our news people on the air denying this? Hell, tell them to get on and blame someone else. No one likes Ted Turner. Blame him."
"We can't just make up a story like that," the programming vice president cautioned.
"Why not? They are."
"They claim Trumann said we were responsible. Our own news people were there when he killed himself. He gave them a tour of the church basement before he blew his brains out. It was crammed full of BCN equipment."
"It's a setup. Shittman must have looted our stuff. This is all a big scam."
"Trumann apologized for his misuse of the technology on BCN's behalf. He came right out and said we were responsible for what happened at the former president's office building. Marty, he even exonerated Hal Shittman and that mob of his."
Martin Houton couldn't believe his ears. It had been going on like this since morning. The networks had been hammering the story into the ground all day long. Everyone was saying that BCN was testing a dangerous mind-controlling technology that had somehow gone wrong.
"If I had some kind of subliminal gizmo that'd make people mind slaves, don't you think we'd be pulling numbers on more than just 'Winner'? I mean, turn the damn thing on and save God-Wednesday-damn night, for Christ's sake."
"They're saying we only recently developed it," the vice president said. "They're claiming we're starting slow using it. We're pulling the numbers up on Monday with it, plus we switch it on for 'Winner' on Thursdays. We don't want to overdo it, which is actually a pretty good strategy if we have something like this. Which we don't, do we?"
The vice president smiled hopefully.
"No!" Houton screamed.
"Oh," the vice president said, disappointed. "Not even for late night? We're still getting creamed by Leno. Maybe if someone were to really have something like that he could-I don't know-bump the 'don't touch that dial' button for an hour at eleven-thirty Eastern Standard Time on weeknights."
The vice president had no idea how close he came to getting a Golden Globe award bounced between his winking eyes.
"Get out of here," Houton snarled.
As the vice president hurried from the room, Martin Houton trudged to his desk. He was slumping in his chair when the sleek black phone on his desk buzzed like an angry wasp. For an instant, he froze.
He had already gotten a dozen calls today from Moe Carmichael, CEO of the entire BCN family of companies.
Houton's employer had long been unhappy with the television division of his media empire. For the first few years he had owned BCN, the network's ratings had been in the toilet. Even with the recent upswing in audience, Carmichael remained superstitious, assuming the improving numbers were nothing but a cruel mistake.
When he learned about BCN's possible involvement in brainwashing technology that morning, Moe Carmichael had hit the roof. He had called every hour on the hour to scream at Martin Houton. During the last call, he had been yelling something about selling his fifty-one percent of the network. It was hard to make out clearly what he was saying over the sounds of the frantic ambulance technicians who were trying to jump-start the heart of BCN's soon-to-be-former CEO.
As he reached tiredly for the ringing phone, Martin automatically assumed the ambulance boys had done their job and his boss was calling back, this time to scream at him from an intensive-care-unit bed.
He was surprised when it wasn't Moe Carmichael's voice on the other end of the line.
"G'day, mate," said the nasal voice. "How's tricks?"
This was a company line, access to which was limited to a handful of people. Whoever this man was, he was not part of the BCN inner circle. Yet that voice sounded familiar.
"Who is this?" Martin Houton demanded.