The Freston Fiasco, Take 1
The scene of the crime. It’s like a scene in a goddamn Otto Preminger flick. Black and white. A shriek. Sumner, Methuselan, looking more than a little rickety, holding the smoking gun. His smile is more a skeletal ricktor. Producers who will speak on the record, but ask not to be identified because they work frequently with Paramount. The beloved Tom Freston, bloodied. Les Moonves, enveloped in shadows, chiaroscuro: Only his Cheshire smile in evidence. Over in the corner, that’s the previously inscrutable Brad Grey, scared fucking shitless.
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