My father had died two months earlier. My mother died just weeks after that—I’ve always believed of a broken heart. I had few job prospects. My mind was a fog. “If you’re half as good a reporter as your father was a pressman,” he said on the phone that day, “then we’re going to have a long and successful relationship. And since you’ve been kicking the hell out of my poor reporters virtually every day for the last two years, I have no doubt that this is true.” I accepted on the spot.
When John Cutter died five years ago, Paul Ellis ascended from president to publisher and never looked back. It was a devastatingly sad time at the paper, but Paul proved a reassuring presence. He promised that theRecord would continue in the great Cutter-Ellis tradition. He accepted Brent Cutter as his president. He began expanding the staff at a time when other newspapers were cutting back.
And now, with the nonchalance of someone shutting off their car headlights, he was forever gone.
So the news lead on this day was that two publishers ofThe Boston Record, John Cutter and Paul Ellis, died within five years of each other, one of a heart attack, the other of what appeared to be a random street robbery. The casual observer would say we were cursed, but sitting in the heart of the newsroom, knowing what I knew, feeling what I felt, I couldn’t help but believe otherwise.
I looked around me at all the reporters and editors scurrying every which way in pursuit of every possible scrap of information in the murder of Paul Ellis. There were questions they wouldn’t think to ask, because they wouldn’t know to ask them.
I’m overtired, I thought to myself, and being overly dramatic, even melodramatic. Maybe Paul was wrong about John Cutter. Maybe that assailant in Florida was just another random robber. But I didn’t believe that. In this business, we’re trained not to believe in coincidence—not unless you wanted to work back on the Style page.
I knew just one thing then, and I knew it clearer than I’ve ever known anything else: It was time to get to work.
Nine
MY FIRST CALL WASfrom Paul’s wife, Polly. Yes, Paul and Polly, a favorite pairing of the gossip columnists at theTraveler, theTraveler being the local tabloid, or what the know-it-all media analysts invariably call our “feisty competition.” She was, understandably, a mess, though I’ll admit here that even on her best days, she had more than a touch of Wasp eccentricity—what the less polite might call inbred lunacy. Paul adored her. “She keeps me young,” he used to say with a distant smile. Indeed, she’d keep Bob Hope young.
Anyway, she was flying back from California and said she wanted to hold the memorial service on Wednesday morning, two days hence, at the Trinity Church in Copley Square in Boston. She asked if I would be willing to “say a few words.” Sure: Somebody, anybody, help us.
Then came the calls from a couple of members of the Cutter-Ellis board of directors, each of whom casually inquired about my own career intentions, given that Paul, they said, had always spoken so highly of me.
My politic answer: “I’m in such a daze now I don’t know what I want for dinner.” Truth is, I didn’t know if I even wanted dinner.
And finally, Detective Tommy O’Brien called.
“We were just up talking with Brent Cutter,” he said. “Is he always that much of a nervous Nellie, or is he acting strange?”
“He’s not what you’d call Cool Hand Luke,” I replied.
Silence, so I added, “He’s a bit of a jackass, but I don’t know of anyone who could easily handle the fact that their relative, who is also the boss, was shot three times in the head and killed in the parking lot of their office for still unknown reasons. I wouldn’t be too concerned by him.”
“Good point. Travers wants to come up to talk with you. He seems a little anxious about it. I don’t know what the hell happened between the two of you, but are you alright with that?”
“Tell the prick to come up,” I replied.
“Jesus Christ. This story I have to hear.”
I didn’t reply, so he said, “Fifteen minutes okay?”
I thought for a moment, and replied, “No, give me about an hour.”
As soon as I hung up, I walked out of the newsroom and up into the paper’s executive suite, where my aim was to peruse—alright, rifle—Paul’s office looking for his files dealing with the takeover bid as well as any overt clues that might lead to his killer—while at the same time saving the newspaper. Maybe I should have eaten a can of spinach first.
Understand, the executive suite is nothing like the newsroom, in that it’s civil, even nice, like the offices of a real company, complete with a paneled boardroom, rich, burgundy rugs and antique lamps with hunter green shades. Paul’s office even had a fireplace. The newsroom, in comparison, is like the factory floor.
But as I walked into the reception area, I immediately saw several strips of garish yellow “Crime Scene” tape spread across his open door, and if the tape didn’t make the point, then the uniformed cop standing in front of it did. Time to go to Plan B.
The entirety of Plan B involved me walking over to Paul’s longtime secretary, Amelia Bradford, as if that was my intention all along. Look, no one ever accused me of being one of life’s great strategists. She was sitting at her desk in tears, makeup streaked down her dignified, well-preserved face. She got up and hugged me and we both talked for a while about what a great man he was and what an awful world this has become.
Soon, other secretaries and company officials gathered around, everybody sad and a little bit nervous about what an uncertain future would hold.
I always felt a little awkward in the executive suite, like a young teenager sitting at the adult table at Thanksgiving dinner. In other words, I wanted to get out of there quickly. But before making my way out, I stopped in Brent’s oversized, overstuffed office down the hall. He’s one of these guys who has his diplomas on the wall—high school, undergrad, and his MBA from Wharton, alongside a collection of absurdly cheap prints of Boston landmarks, the same kind of things that hang in the family rooms of McMansions in so many treeless, suburban subdivisions. In all, his office was exactly suited to his personality—completely and entirely without imagination.
When I walked in, he looked relieved that his interview with the Boston Police had ended.
“No problems, no sweat,” he said, standing up at his desk as I approached. “This Travers seemed to be a cool guy.”
I knew they’d get along. I said, “By the way, have you gotten any calls from the board of directors?”
He sat back down. “No,” he replied, and looked at me darkly.
“No big deal. I’ve gotten a call or two. I think they’ll want to have some sort of meeting, probably next week. We should have a talk before then, don’t you think?”
Walking back, I wished the police guard a “good afternoon” and made my way to the friendlier environs of the newsroom, where I snapped up the telephone and punched out the familiar extension to Robert Fitzgerald, the person whose advice I needed most right now.
“Dear God, Jack,” he said in that deep, almost Shakespearean voice of his. “I’ve been trying to track you down. Tell me how you are.”
“I will, I will, but I need to do it in person. Sorry I had to hang up so abruptly this morning, but you caught me at an awkward time. Long story.”
He said, “Of course. I’ve been waiting to hear where you were. I’ll jump in a car and be over there in ten minutes.”
I quickly interjected, “No, stay right there. It would do me good to get out of here for a while. I’m leaving now. I’ll see you in your office.”
I called for a taxicab, took a long, panoramic gaze around the newsroom, at all the reporters madly working the telephones, at the editors gathered in a circle of chairs in one of their glass offices brainstorming the day’s coverage, at Mongillo sitting with his feet up and a receiver pressed against each ear. He saw me looking and flashed a thumbs-up, then held one finger up to tell me to hold on. A moment later, he came waddling up to my desk, flush
in the face, asking where I was going.
“Not that duplicitous prick,” he said when I told him. It would be an understatement to say that Mongillo didn’t hold Fitzgerald in the same high regard as I did.
“Don’t start.”
“He’s a fraud.”
I said, “This isn’t the time to resolve or even address it. I’ll see you in a while.”
Fitzgerald’s office, by the way, sat not in the newsroom, but in downtown Boston, on School Street, in a neighborhood of narrow, crooked byways mobbed with shoppers, tourists, and businessmen. One could make the exotic argument that the area looked like ancient Rome. Years ago, the newspaper used to be situated downtown as well, but when the Cutter-Ellis’s vacated the central city for the convenience of sitting aside a major highway, Fitzgerald didn’t want to leave. So rather than lose him, whoever was publisher at the time leased him his own office on the second floor of a brick townhouse, and he’s been there ever since.
On the way downtown, the cab, of course, reeked of one of those tree-shaped air fresheners that can’t possibly conceal a smell worse than it exudes. The vinyl covering the backseat was torn, exposing the foam beneath. Every door rattled at the mere anticipation of a bump.
At first, I looked carefully around for a white Cavalier, before realizing how utterly foolish a thought that was. I snickered to myself, then just looked at the cars behind us to see if I recognized anyone driving them. The good news was that I didn’t.
So I tuned it all out as I looked at the downtown skyline, reflecting on a city, on a life that seemed to be changing like the numbers on a digital clock. Used to be that Wasps ran the entire show, and I’m not necessarily saying that’s a good thing, but at least it was easy to understand. You knew the score. Wasps were in positions of authority and money. The Irish worked as cops and firemen. The Italians ran the mob and the food stores. Everyone else fought for the scraps.
No more. Oh, there are still plenty of Lodges and Cabots and Roosevelts around, but they’re mostly in the suburbs now, commuting quietly to work in unheralded positions counting money in investment houses or practicing corporate law in white-shoe firms. The Irish and the Italians took over the State House and City Hall, and have risen to the boardrooms of many of the city’s biggest companies. Look at the Flynns as a reasonable example. The old man worked in the pressroom. His kid is in the newsroom, and was even invited to ascend to the front office.
The problem, everyone’s problem, is that those companies got bought out by bigger companies, and it increasingly seems that the entire metropolis that is Boston is a wholly owned subsidiary of New York. Bank of Boston is now Fleet. Jordan Marsh is now Macy’s. The Red Sox are owned by out-of-towners who made their fortunes on Wall Street and in Hollywood. And evenThe Boston Record, after one hundred and twenty-seven years of local ownership, is at risk of falling into out-of-town hands.
Mind you, it’s not all bad. We used to be some sort of puritanical, quirky little backwater where cousins married each other for the money, baked beans were a gastronomical achievement, and Talbots and Brooks Brothers were haute couture. Now the city is more than 50 percent minority, which means that blacks and Hispanics aren’t a minority at all, and a simple walk through the shopping districts reveals a booming melting pot of races, ethnicities, styles, and fashions.
Speaking of which, I jumped out at Downtown Crossing, pulled open the heavy, unmarked door to Fitzgerald’s simple brick building, and trudged up the wooden stairs.
When I arrived at the landing, he was there to greet me. We embraced silently, his arms engulfing my shoulders.
“Jack, I am so unspeakably sorry,” he said, his voice thick and raw with emotion.
He stepped back, and so did I. The scene had a sense of déjà vu to it, for good reason. He led me across the hardwood floors, through a single door and into his office. The furniture was all antique. The sconces on the wall were brass. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases were packed with signed first editions from some of the world’s most notable authors. We both sat down, he in a Boston Rocker, me in a facing leather chair.
“Are the cops giving you any information about who did this, or why?” Fitzgerald asked.
I slowly shook my head. “Right now, things point to a robbery, but the detectives outside say they don’t have any suspects yet, and I don’t think they have any real clues.”
Regarding Robert Fitzgerald, he was, to say the least, an institution, and still very much an active one. He was tall and distinguished, nearing sixty-seven years old, with a shock of silver hair that framed a patrician face that is best described as knowing. Indeed, he knew things that most mortal men did not, saw things that few others would ever see. He’s sat in the Oval Office with presidents, visited the private Georgetown and Beacon Hill salons of so many senior government advisers, toured far flung countries with United States ambassadors and foreign heads of state, provided solemn advice in the plush working suites of corporate titans. He is a fixture on the Sunday morning talk shows, his demeanor unfailingly easy and always smart. He is the best representative this newspaper could ever have, and one of the best newsmen I would ever know.
And, if our schedules allowed, every Monday afternoon since I arrived at the paper more than a decade ago, he would share with me his knowledge, his experience, his expectations, and his ambitions. We would gather in this office from noon to oneP.M. to talk about theRecord, about newspapers, about journalism in general, in what often proved to be the kick-start to my week. Early on, he saw in me a talent that I took a while to see myself—no small virtue on his part. Give him credit for a lot of things, but at least grant that he has a great eye. He was my mentor, and he was my friend.
“Well, you know if they’ve ever taken a case seriously, this will be the one,” he said.
We sat in silence for a moment. I gazed out the pair of small-paned windows that overlooked the street below, where throngs of determined people brushed past each other in opposite directions. I wondered if they had already heard of Paul’s murder. I wondered if they cared. My gaze drifted momentarily over his massive wooden desk, rumored to have once belonged to Nathaniel Hawthorne.
I turned back to Fitzgerald. He sat in his shirtsleeves with a navy blue bow tie. I said, “It’s a mess, Robert. There’s something I haven’t told the cops yet, and I want you to keep this confidential.”
He nodded and pulled his reading glasses off his handsome face. I continued. “Paul and I met yesterday morning in the Public Garden. He told me that the paper is the target of a hostile takeover. He was trying like hell to fight it, and today was the day he was going to get some answers, but he warned me that it looked like he wouldn’t be able to ward it off. Campbell Newspapers, if you can believe it.”
We looked at each other again. Under his breath, Fitzgerald said, “Good God.”
“You realize, Jack, that you have to go to the police.”
I hesitated, and he quickly said, “Jack, you’re not just a reporter now. You’re a potential witness with valuable information. Your friend and boss was murdered. We don’t know who killed him. You have to cooperate with the authorities, because you know as well as I do that the takeover ofThe Boston Record is more than likely linked to Paul’s death.”
I nodded, my eyes on the floor. “I’m meeting with detectives in about twenty minutes.”
More silence between us, then I said, “I just needed to tell someone first. I wanted you to know. I need you to keep quiet until I figure out how to handle this internally. Not even Brent Cutter knows.”
“You have my silence,” Fitzgerald said. In a more paternal tone, he added, “But you know what you must do.”
“I know.”
I stood to leave. I thought about telling him Paul’s suspicions of John Cutter’s death, and my subsequent trip to Florida on his behalf.
But as the words formed on my tongue, I held back for reasons unknown.
In the silence, he said, “I was planning to fly to the capital ton
ight to meet with some friends in the White House and on the Hill on the Randolph nomination. But I’m not going anywhere with this hanging over the paper. I’ll be in my office, and I’ll keep in touch with Leavitt and Randolph. Let me know whatever you need.”
We embraced again, in silence, and I left.
Luke Travers walked up to my desk with barely a sound, theRecord security guard escort, Edgar, lagging a few paces behind. He was about my age. His suit looked handmade, though I don’t think I even know what a handmade suit looks like, except that it probably looked like what he had on. He wore a shirt that required cufflinks, which, as I’ve said, is something I’ve never understood. Buttons are so much easier. His facial stubble was even more pronounced than a couple of hours earlier. In total, he looked not so much like a homicide cop as he did a downtown lawyer or Goldman Sachs stockbroker who was trying too hard to look like something he wasn’t—meaning young and stylish, worldly, and smart.
I had to quell the urge to punch him in his too-pretty mouth. I looked up and nodded without speaking.
“Thank you for taking the time,” he said, formal, flat.
“Come with me,” I replied, and I slowly stood up and walked across the newsroom, never giving him the dignity of even a backward glance. As we moved in silent, single file, I could hear the newsroom hush all around us, the reporters staring at us with the kind of curiosity that wouldn’t die without an explanation. I led him into a small conference room with a glass wall looking out over the metro department and sat down at a round table just large enough to accommodate six chairs. He sat across from me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, stone-faced, my elbows on the wood tabletop, my body slouched from the weight of a day that wasn’t even half over. I had a view of the entire newsroom past his stupid head. He had the better seat because it had a view just of me. This was our version of a police interrogation room.
The Nominee Page 8
