10-4, SQUAD 51
By Hannah Shearer

My heart clutched when I saw the big rig and paramedic ambulance in front of my condo: never a good sign, especially considering the average age of my neighbors. I felt enormous relief when everything was okay, then my eyes filled with tears of pride.

My first job, coordinating research between NBC's Emergency!, the Los Angeles County Departments of Fire, Health, and the Harbor General doctors running the Paramedic Program, ensured the show was authentic in essence and procedure. Eventually I worked my way from research assistant to producer to writer. Emergency! was as accurate as possible, creating, as Robert A. Cinader called it, the "illusion of reality", while still entertaining people for an hour.

Sid Sheinberg first came to Bob and Jack Webb with an idea for a show along the lines of an international "Rescue 8." Bob was a research nut who absorbed the atmosphere around him as easily as others breathe in and out. He discovered something closer to home: a pilot "paramedic" program, originated in Northern Ireland, mandated by the California State Legislature for a probationary period in L.A. County. The first gleaming red squad was housed at Station 8, or "8's" in West Hollywood, where the County Paramedic program was born, and was then struggling for life. Bob created a show around it, his theory being you could educate people if they didn't realize you were doing it. He believed if you presented them with something noble in an entertaining, humorous way, the audience would then demand it in their own lives. He was right. All over the country people began to demand that "paramedic thing" they saw on NBC every Saturday night for six years. They eventually got it.

Bob's creative process was his own; he easily handled the pressure of executive producing 22 hour shows a season, with only two producers, and 15 or so freelance writers. For an hour every afternoon, the fire department light he'd installed over his office door glowed red -- no entry while he played gin with production cronies as his subconscious worked on the day's script problems. He started writing about 7 at night, just when panic was setting in. His first drafts were letter perfect. He taught, sometimes none too gently, that there was no room for ego, the show's vision always came first; that events and character had to make sense within the world you've created; that the integrity of a character is much more important than a cheap sight gag; that you can write heroes and make audiences like and respect, rather than envy, them. For 126 episodes he refused to do a show about arson because there was plenty of other story material, so "why give weirdoes instructions how to burn down a building?"

He demanded all writers ride with the paramedics before doing a script, so they'd be steeped in the reality, and translate it into responsible entertainment. I was a young girl when I went on my first ride-along at 127's in Carson. It was exciting hanging around the firehouse, cooking chili with the guys, waiting for the alarm tones to blare -- then we got our first call, an old woman with chest pains. We drove through red signals, lights flashing, dodging idiots who didn't pull over. The piercing sirens shrieked in my head, my palms were sweaty, I was sure I'd throw up. When we got there I realized I was useless. I stayed out of the way, watched and learned. Someone real was hurting, it wasn't sanitized, it wasn't pretty, and these guys were pros. I was hooked: I wanted the audience to understand what firefighters did day in, day out, to know they were flawed human beings, good-hearted, overgrown kids who did good work.

I couldn't appreciate then how much the show would mean, to me personally, and to the public. Bob Cinader appreciated it, though. He was a visionary who died 14 years ago last month, much too young. Whenever I think of him, I remember the Talmudic quote, "Whoever saves one life, it is as if he saved the entire world." There's no doubt about Bob's karma -- his extraordinary legacy goes far beyond those lucky enough to work with him.

Emergency! didn't win critical accolades or Emmys, but it was the finest television has to offer. It not only held up a mirror to society, it stimulated a profound, positive force for change. We delivered a 29-33 share opposite All in the Family, the show was on time, under budget, our stars generally behaved themselves, but the industry dismissed its success because the show wasn't deemed "serious" drama.

NBC canceled Emergency! with a 28 share. The don't-blink-you'll-miss-him-boss of NBC, Irwin Segelstein, decided vignette-style shows didn't work. I don't know where Mr. Segelstein is, but the vignette is alive and well. If you don't believe me, you can watch Emergency!'s sophisticated, brilliant 90's grandchild, ER.

Emergency! and Bob Cinader received hundreds of awards for meritorious achievement in advancing, by ten years, the evolution of emergency care. For Bob, the growth was synergistic; he became one of the country's foremost experts on paramedics and advised politicians and fire departments how to make the system better. In 1985, Station 127 was re-named the Robert A. Cinader Memorial fire station. In the middle of the ceremony, the refinery across the street started to explode, fireballs visible from our folding chairs. Half the county rigs in the area attended the dedication -- they emptied out rather quickly to go save lives, leaving us with only a small audience. I could sense Bob looking down, chortling in between gin hands.

It gratifies me to know the show still lives, in the spirit of the people who were influenced by Emergency! to become paramedics, nurses, or firefighters, and in the lives of the grandparent, sister, mother or father who was injured in an accident or suffered a heart attack, and was saved by a paramedic.

The physician's credo is "First Do No Harm". I believe this should be the credo for all human beings. What I learned from Bob was not only to do no harm, but to try to do good -- the audience is listening.

© Hannah Louise Shearer

Memories of "Emergency!"
By Ed Self

Greetings, fire bugs (in the best sense of the term). My name is Ed Self and I produced Emergency! during seasons three and four. It was one of the most fulfilling times in my career, and in fact launched me as a producer. I was 32 when I started and, to the best of my knowledge, the youngest producer of a prime time network series.

I was born into the business. My father, William, had moved from the Midwest in the 1940's hoping to become a movie star. While he ended up doing some small parts, his real success came later, as a producer and executive. His contacts upon first arriving in Hollywood were established through tennis. He was a wonderful player and sought after as a partner by stars and studio heads. On several Sundays before I was 10 he took me to Spencer Tracy's house in the morning and Jack Warner's in the afternoon.

I got a B.A. in Psychology from UCLA in 1965, and then began in the story department at Twentieth Century Fox, where William Self was head of TV. While embarrassed about the nepotism, I couldn't see myself working for General Motors after my childhood experiences. Five years later I was an associate producer on a comedy series titled Arnie. When that was cancelled after two years, I moved to NBC as a Manager of Current Programming. This was actually a low paying job where you had to tell people like Rod Serling and Garry Marshall what they were doing wrong with their shows.

One of the series I was assigned to was Emergency! This was the show's second full season. The reality of what paramedics did fascinated me (it was new back then), and I spent a great deal of time at fire stations and Harbor General Hospital. Usually network execs just sent critical memos to producers, so Bob Cinader took a liking to me. In fact, we became friends. At the end of that season, Bob took me to dinner. When we got back to the studio that night, he parked the car and asked me if I would like to produce the show. He was going to become Executive Producer because he would also be supervising a new series entitled, if I remember correctly, Chase.

I remember this conversation vividly, because it was one of the most wonderful moments in my life, a dream come true. Bob said his only concern was that I was half-insane and that I'd somehow find a way to alienate the studio and get fired. This didn't happen, but Randy Mantooth once said to Bob about me, "He's even crazier than I am".

I was very nervous about my new responsibilities, but Mr. Cinader was wonderful about guiding me through the process. He had a somewhat unique view of the television process, i.e., that anybody could do it. He gave more people their big breaks (assistant directors to directors, police officers and a studio lawyer to writers), than anyone I've ever known. God bless him. He told me that the key to producing was taking responsibility for decisions, so that the people working for you were free to do their jobs without looking over their shoulders. My first "test" arose over the arrival of a new Engine 51. It was a slightly different shade of red and the transportation and art departments were afraid it wouldn't closely enough match Squad 51. Bob took me down to look at the two vehicles; lots of people were standing around holding their chins and shaking their heads. Bob turned to me and said, "Well?" The pressure! The pressure! I looked from the engine to the squad and back again. True, they weren't exactly the same color. Would anybody at home notice? I didn't have the faintest idea. Everyone stared at me, and after another moment I decreed that the colors were close enough. Everybody smiled and the gathering dispersed. On the way back to the office, Bob put his hand on my shoulder and said, "See, that's all there is to it."

But it wasn't always that easy. During the production meeting for that season's fourth episode, we had to decide whether or not to use a live rattlesnake or a rubber one for the scene in which Gage gets bitten. Bob said that we had to use a rubber one (over everyone else's objections). After the meeting the director and production manager came to my office and begged me for permission to use a live snake. While I agreed that it was the way to go, it would be a direct countermand to Bob's explicit orders. On the other hand, if I didn't give them the okay, I felt certain that they would think of me only as a rubber stamp and go directly to Bob in the future for any major decision. What did I do? I'm not going to tell you. Only kidding. I told them we could use a real snake, then went into Bob's office to find out if I still had a job. I informed Bob of what I'd done, and he just sat there in silence for very long time. Finally he said, "You've put me in a terrible position. Either I have to accept something that I feel is not only wrong but also dangerous, or emasculate you with the crew. Keep the snake, but don't ever do that again." I didn't - at least not very often.

I loved Robert Cinader and would like to make something clear. While Emergency! was a Mark VII production, and Jack Webb was our boss, I rarely saw Jack. Bob was the heart and soul of the series.

There's a little kid in all of us, especially firemen (and producers). I've still got my turnout coat with my name stenciled on the back, and my helmet with 51 on it. I wore these when I went out in the field and, I confess, still put them on occasionally (at least I don't make a siren sound). One of my memories of "playing fireman" involves a convention in Anaheim for firefighters from all over the state. This also was during my first season. Bob, Kevin and Randy were Grand Marshals and would be leading the parade, which opened the ceremonies with the Squad. Engine 51 would be next. Mike Stoker was driving, his girlfriend sat next to him, the son of the president of Ward LaFrance sat next to her, and sitting in the Captain's spot (dressed in blazer and tie), was me. Mike Norell and Marco Lopez were on the tailboard. Behind our rig was the Anaheim Fire Department, which had to be in a position to pull out if they got a call (do you see where this is going?) Anaheim's equipment, if memory serves, was chartreuse in contrast to our fire engine red. Behind Anaheim were engines and trucks for municipalities large and small, comprising a rainbow of colors.

Shortly after the parade began, Anaheim hit the sirens and started to accelerate past us (I'm getting chills even now as I relive this). As they passed the squad ahead of us, I turned to Stoker and said, "We're going with them!" Mike shook his head, explaining that this wasn't under L.A. County jurisdiction and that we could get in a lot of trouble. I replied, "Are you a fireman, or what?" and hit the SIREN. Mike grinned and wheeled us out and around the squad. As we passed them, I could imagine Bob turning to Randy and Kevin and saying, "What's that idiot doing now?" We stayed right behind Anaheim's green rigs, waved through crowded intersections by cops and honking our air horn importantly. I wondered briefly what would happen if we ran over somebody, but what the heck, firefighting is a dangerous business.

We pulled up in front of a hotel with no sign of fire. Our siren was still winding down when the Anaheim captain in the engine in front of us climbed out and started back our way. More specifically, he was walking toward my side of the engine. Stoker looked as though he were wondering why he hadn't become a plumber, his girlfriend and the boss' son were ashen from our reckless ride, and I was wondering how long I'd have to spend in jail. When the captain reached me, he said, as if speaking to a fellow professional, "It's a smoke investigation. We'll hold here." I gave him a snappy little salute and replied, "Right!" The captain turned to walk back to his rig, but then spun back toward me. Oh, oh! This time he said, "Would you mind turning off your siren?" I gave him another little salute, this time with great embarrassment, and Stoker, who had been too traumatized to do it earlier, squelched the siren. That's when I remembered that Mike and Marco had been on the tailboard. Were they still there, or had they been flung off during one of our precipitous turns? They were. As Stoker turned the engine around, Mike Norell asked the question that will never be answered: "What in the hell would one off-duty fireman, one girl, one child, one producer and two actors have done if there'd really been a fire?"

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