by Dave Balcom
Bart colored, “You’re right.” He turned to me, “I’m sorry, Jim. I guess I’m just not used to having new folks. I’m really sorry.” To the group he said, “This is Jim Stanton. Jim, why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Bart. I’m new to the community. Came here last March. I’m married with a three-year-old daughter. I started hunting waterfowl two years ago, and when I saw the notice in the newspaper I figured if I wanted to meet local hunters, this would be a good place to start.
“I’ve never been to a DU event, and I don’t have any idea of how I can help, but I’m willing to do what I can.”
“What brought you to Lake City?” Hennessey asked. It was plain to me he was taking great delight in outing me to his friends.
“A job, of course,” I said coyly.
Cheryl jumped in, “Where do you work?”
“The Sentinel-Standard.”
“Oh, I’m nothing but a fool,” Bart blurted. “Jim, I’m so sorry. I didn’t make the connection...”
Crosby started laughing. “You only see his name every day on the editorial page, Bart.” He was cracking up, “But I didn’t make the connection, either.”
Cheryl started laughing, too. “I guess, Bart, you’ve solved your publicity problem.”
“That’s only if Jim decides to forgive you,” Hennessey said.
When they’d calmed down, I had to set them straight. “It’s a policy at the newspaper that nobody from the newsroom can serve as a publicity chairman or directly write news releases for a community organization. I can advise and suggest opportunities, but I do that all the time for all kinds of groups.
“Often they don’t want to expend the energy to follow my suggestions, and when they don’t submit news items, calendar items and the like, they complain that we’re not doing our jobs.
“If they heard one of us was doing that work as a volunteer for this or another committee, and that committee was getting appropriate coverage, the newspaper is afraid they’d charge us with favoritism.
“I want to help you, but I figured you should know about that policy before we get carried away. We’ll get the same kind of coverage from the Sentinel-Standard as any other group gets. Just remember, the first time we tell the community something, it’s news. When we want to repeat that message, it becomes promotion, and we have a department that specializes in that.”
“The advertising department,” Frank Wright said with a bit of a sneer.
“Yep. But we have a “non-profit rate” right on the rate card that offers groups such as this a bargain price, probably lower than most businesses who sign contracts can receive. The non-profit rate is good for one ad or twenty.”
Bart said, “Thanks. I think I see the reason for the policy. We’ll just bounce things off you as they come up, and see if you can give us advice.
“I’m going to bet you can’t go out to merchants and ask for donations for our raffle tables and door prizes, either. That’s a real need we have. Year after year we go back to the same folks, but now there’s a turkey banquet and a deer banquet, and Pheasants Forever... you name it, and we’ve all got our hands out.
“The merchants are finding it harder and harder to support everyone.”
“I don’t doubt it. I don’t have a problem soliciting for the effort, but have you looked into asking for a matching donation? Donors may appreciate it if we buy one and they give one.
“Also, you maybe need to give donors more public attention say a certificate for their wall acknowledging their support. They might perceive that as a real benefit to them, and it won’t hurt us to see those certificates hanging all over town, either .
“And, I don’t know how the prizes are given away, but I’d hope there would be attention to the donors every time a prize is awarded, and at the end, we should report the outcome of the event – how much money went to the ducks? That would be a good opportunity to thank sponsors. We could probably run an ad thanking every donor.”
I could see Cheryl making notes, and Lenny spoke up, “Bart, see, you’re gettin’ more help from Jim in two minutes than we’ve had in the seven years we’ve been doing this.”
The meeting went on, and I picked up three assignments, two stores to call on and a wealthy farmer to meet and hopefully get his sponsorship nailed down.
“We’ll be meeting every week from now until the banquet,” Bart reminded the group. “Right here; same time, same day.”
“Amen,” Andy Tittle whispered.
“Adjourned,” Bart corrected him.
7
The story of Suzanne Czarnopias’ disappearance was going nowhere. I hadn’t heard from Hennessey, so we hadn’t reported on the striking statistics that may or may not have had anything to do with this story.
Without any new leads to build on other than the daily “nothing new” announcements, the story slid back into the daily police report inside the newspaper.
About a week later, Doug poked his head into my office as I was reading that day’s edition. “How’re all the little things?”
He was waving a handful of paper in my direction. “I told you I was going to check with some folks in the industry about how they’d handle the Suzanne story, and these notes all came in this morning.” He handed the notes to me.
I could see at a glance that the consensus was approving my approach to the story. “Satisfied?” I asked the publisher.
He shrugged. “I think you’ve done a good job, but if you look at those notes in detail, you’re going to see a number of angles you didn’t think of.” He was laughing as he walked back toward his office.
I looked at the notes again, and found two ideas I wished I’d thought of. I buzzed Randy on the phone. “When you have a minute come on in and chat; bring Cindy with you if she’s here.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Whenever.”
The pair knocked on the door jamb as they walked in. “What gives?” Randy asked.
“Have a seat.” I filled them in on background as to where the notes that I was about to give them came from.
“So the big guy was getting pressure to take Suzanne off the front page?” Randy asked. “I’m glad you stood up to him.”
“Don’t be too harsh on him. It’s not like he came up through the newsroom or even studied journalism in college. You don’t develop instincts on news judgment by osmosis.”
Randy chuckled. “You are generous with him.”
“I just think we’re all trainable, even him. Now, look at those notes, and see if you can learn anything. I know I sure did.”
Cindy had been looking at the notes. “There are some good ideas here. Most of them we’ve done, but this one focusing on the statistics for lost and missing children will play anytime.”
“That’s right,” I said, “but I don’t think we want to go that route as long as the family and the community are still hoping she’ll walk into her house or call her mom some night.”
Randy put his pencil to his lips, a gesture I’d noticed in him often when he was about to ask a problematic question. “You know something about those statistics?”
“Some, and I don’t think they’re anything that’ll build hope for the family or the community.”
“Well, I’m going to start the research,” Cindy said. “When you’re ready for the story, the story will be ready for you.”
“Don’t start the local reaction to those numbers until we’ve talked, okay?”
She nodded. “Anything else?”
“Not from me; you?”
She shook her head and started for the door. Randy held back, and when she was gone he asked, “Did Hennessey have any complaints about Cindy’s work?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Why ask?”
“I heard you two had coffee a couple of days after the story broke. Sounded like a neutral ground meeting, at the diner.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
�
�Call it home field advantage. I’ve lived here most of my life, and Buddy at the diner was a high school friend...”
“The meeting was his idea. He assured me it wasn’t to complain about the story, the paper or the staff, so I met him alone.”
“Did he ask you to hold off on the statistical story?”
“No, he didn’t. I wasn’t thinking of a story, but he brought up a particular statistic that would be very difficult for the family until their grief gets to a certain point. He didn’t ask me, but he told me he needed time to prepare the family for such a story. I decided to wait for his call.”
Randy was looking out the window, and didn’t say anything for a long time. “I don’t disagree with your instinct. But there’s a growing pressure in town that the police haven’t done their job. I’m sure that pressure is building for Hennessey, and eventually it’ll start building on us. I believe we should stay in front of the story every time we can.”
We sat silently for a bit, each in our own thoughts.
“I think you need to call Hennessey, Jim.”
I reached for the phone as he left.
Hennessey walked into the diner just as the waitress was pouring my coffee. She raised an eyebrow and he grinned. “Black, please.”
I told Hennessey about the meeting in my office and Cindy’s plan to pursue the statistical story. “I don’t think we can wait for your ‘finesse,’” I said.
He nodded, and said, “You’re probably right, and I appreciate the heads up. But with the story being so ‘old,’ I’m not sure how many people will pay attention to the statistics.”
“I’m sure that story, and the reaction it brings will put the story back up front. Maybe it’ll ignite some kind of lead for you guys.”
He drank his coffee in silence, then put the cup down and rose off his stool. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
8
Cindy’s story on the statistical likelihoods of child abductions broke on the front page of our Sunday edition on the first Sunday in October. Monday morning my phone was ringing off the hook, and nobody who was calling was happy with the newspaper.
We worked through the morning, capturing messages off the phone, and Cindy wrote a follow-up story, using the quotes from the callers to reflect the outrage expressed by the city.
“Readers express outrage at Sentinel-Standard reporting” the headline streamed across the top of Page 1A on Monday afternoon. The story recapped the Sunday story and the reaction from the readers, many of whom were anonymous. The gist of their concerns was the unfair impact it had on Suzanne’s family.
Doug came by my office after deadline, “How are all the little things today, Jim?”
I looked at him with a cocked head, “Did you read the paper yet?”
“I did. I think today’s story was gutsy and appropriate. How about you?”
“I think it was the only thing we could do. The public wants a solution to this mystery, and lacking that, they can only vent. Today, they vented at us; tomorrow Hennessey and his crew will probably take the heat.”
“Will you report that, too?” He asked with a worried look on his face.
“I’m afraid so, but it probably won’t be Page One-A material, and it’ll probably be trumped by the letters to the editor that will be piling up by tonight.”
“Letters sell newspapers, don’t they?”
“I’m sure they do, boss; I’m sure they do.”
The mail arrived at the newspaper just after lunch, and it was sorted in the business office, separating payables and payments from the rest, which mostly came to the newsroom.
Randy opened the mail, rough sorting the press releases into appropriate departments. Letters were sent to me. Straight forward releases with news in them were divvied up among the news reporters as “rewrites,” and were expected in the appropriate queue as marked by Randy by two p.m. Obvious attempts to circumvent the ad department were sent to the advertising manager.
Most days, the mail to sports, lifestyles and news were pretty equal, dwarfing the letters to the editor. On most days, the eight news reporters each had two or three rewrites to crank out before two p.m. On most days the paper received two or three letters to the editor.
That day, Randy, wearing a huge smile, brought a double handful of envelopes to my office. “I warned Louie already, and I’ve notified advertising that we’d need an open ‘op-ed’ page five on Thursday to print these and what’s still coming.”
I just groaned, pushed the newspaper I was reading to one side and started opening the letters.
They were all pretty much the same as the phone messages we had reported on earlier, and I was tempted to just run one with a note “this letter reflects the opinion of ‘x-ty’ other writers,” but that wasn’t what we did. Instead, I whittled each writer’s work to the core with my red pencil, and put it in a basket for Louie to type into the news system.
I had been working steadily for more than two hours when I opened an envelope that had a different kind of message.
“Dear Mr. Editor,
“I’m sure you and the rest of this town are aghast at the thought that pretty Miss Suzanne might be feeding the worms, but the truth is the truth.
“She was a stuck up little bitch, and got what she deserved. I know you’d like to find her, so I’ll keep in touch, and make sure you get enough information that even the local cops can find her, but that’ll require that you and your paper cooperate.
“See ya in the funny papers...”
The note was typed on an old typewriter, and based on the uneven tones of the ink on the paper, an old ribbon.
I knew I should be careful about handling the note. I used my letter opener to fish the envelope out of the pile of empties littering my waste basket, and placed it and the note on the credenza that lined the wall behind my desk chair.
I picked up my phone and dialed Doug’s extension. His secretary picked up right away. “Mr. Read’s ....
“Harriet, this is Jim. Where is he?”
“Club, I think.”
“Try to run him down, okay? If you get him, tell him I need to see him immediately. We’ve got an issue.”
“That’s it, the message I mean?”
“It’ll be enough. I’m not in the habit of calling him for an issue, so he’ll know that it’s important. Call me if you find him, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
I buzzed Randy. “I need you when you can...”
He came immediately, and looked surprised when I said, “I want you to read this, but don’t touch it.” I was pointing at the note and envelope on the credenza. I got up out of my chair so he’d have room.
He sidled up to the credenza, and started to read. He stopped and looked at me in amazement, then sat down in my chair to continue. “Jumpin’ Jesus!”
“Exactly,” I responded.
“What are you going to do?”
“Turn it over to Hennessey, of course. I’m trying to track Read down so he can be informed before I call the cops.”
“Why?”
“He’ll want to check in with the attorneys; at least I know I would.”
“What will the attorneys tell him?”
“I have no idea. I can’t think of anything, but that’s why we have attorneys. They’re trained to think of things we never would.”
“What if they tell him to burn it?”
I shook my head, “Lawyers can tell you what the law will do, they can warn you of possible outcomes depending on the action you choose, but the bottom line is that if you’re any kind of professional, you make the choices. I just want to make choices with the best possible information.”
“I think I agree with that, but what will the cops say if they know you sat on this all day waiting for Read?”
“I don’t know, but I believe this is not a matter of hours or even days kind of thing. Whatever happened already happened. Right?. Whatever was done is done. This isn’t like someone wrote saying they were going to do something; t
hen time might be of the utmost importance. I don’t think it is here.”
“I think you’re right,” he repeated. “What can I do?”
“Expect to be finger printed. You handled that envelope, so I’m thinking they’ll want both of our prints, as well as the business clerk’s, to try and isolate a print from the writer.”
“I got no problem with that.”
“Your prints aren’t on file anywhere?”
“Military records in St. Louis, but I’ll bet taking new would be faster.”
I grinned. “I love that about you, Randy; your constant search for efficiency.”
“We should get a good story out of this, don’t you think?”
I nodded and pulled a lopsided grin, “And we should sell a lot of newspapers.”
“That’s the problem with you journalists, you just want to sell papers,” he mocked the stereotypical press basher.
I put on my best, or least lame, W.C. Fields impression: “Ma boy, make certain of this, my every breath is about selling newspapers, yas, yas!”
I continued in my own voice as he shuddered, “Get Fritz in here to photograph the letter and envelope, make sure he knows not to touch anything.”
“Right-o,” he answered, and left grinning.
Read finally called me at home after seven o’clock. I quickly sensed he was in his cups, and suggested we meet first thing in the morning. “About seven?” I asked.
“I’ll be there by nine,” he said, and hung up.
Sandy was holding Sara on her lap and reading a book with her as I hung up the phone.
“What’d he say?”
“Remember the scene from Casablanca where Rick rigs the roulette wheel to get the young Romanian couple the money they needed to pay Louie for an exit visa?”
“What?”
“Remember that scene? They agree to exchange the money for the visa the next morning, and she says, ‘We’ll be at your office at dawn,’ and Louie says, ‘That’s fine, I’ll be there at ten.”
