The Journalist

by Dan Newman

  Barret’s composure crumbles. “Listen, you little shit, I’m the point man at this paper and you know damn well I’ve been sniffing around this. Anything—I mean ANYTHING on this goes to me directly. Who the hell do you think you are?” He looks to Carroway for support and gets it.

  Carroway works to smooth the air with both bony hands. “Look, I’m not sure how this story came to be or about this smoke-and-mirrors business of faxing it in, but Dave is right. He’s the senior writer here and there’s a logic in how we do things, how we bring news to the public—if indeed something like this were proven to be legitimate. Let’s all calm down and see what we have here, get it to Dave and see what we can salvage. And Roland,” he says, gesturing at the faxed pages on his desk, “this whole thing…jeez.” He shakes his head.

  Across from him, the puffing begins again. As I watch Barret inflate, I realize that the time has finally come. I take a slow breath, steady myself as best I can, and speak. “This story will be the biggest story of the year. I get the byline. Nothing will go to Barret. And I also want the beat of my choice.” There is a rigid silence, and I can’t tell if it’s the one that precedes laughter or applause.

  After a moment, Carroway speaks. “Roland, that is one very large set of balls you’re lugging around there, son, and on some level I have to say good for you for swinging for the fences. But on the other hand, you’re fucking insane. If there’s any truth at all to this, Barret will run with it. We’ll talk about you assisting.”

  “No. The story is solid. Every fact will check out. But it collapses without the photograph.”

  “Yes, it does,” agrees Carroway. “The picture is the key—assuming the rest stands up to a fact-check. But like I said, Barret will be the…”

  My jaw sticks out just a shade further. “The photograph is mine.”

  Unable to control himself, Barret chimes in, oozing satisfaction. “Well, we’re all in agreement the shot’s a great one, Roly, but even the interns know that everything you do as a journalist for this paper belongs to this paper.”

  A quick, calming breath and I am steady again. “I agree. You should also know that the picture was taken prior to my employment here, and the rights belong to me in totality. The story has no anchor without the photograph. And the photograph is only available if it appears in conjunction with my name, on my story, on my terms.” I glance at Carroway and see that his eyebrows have made a brief but sharp migration to the north, and somewhere on his face, well hidden but in there somewhere, is the beginning of a wry smile.

  17

  “Fuck you.” Barret is an intelligent journalist with a pretty damn good command of the language, but for now, he’s completely lost it. “I mean fuck you, you little fuck.” He’s in my face, breathing into me, using all of the two inches he has on me to try to look down from some place way above—physically and professionally. I’ve said nothing in return and the cleaning woman in the corner of the otherwise deserted cafeteria is backpedaling for the door. He fires a glance at her and she’s gone, her mop abandoned to clatter on the floor.

  “Do you have any idea who I am? I’m the fucking paper, you little maggot. I’m the fucking anchor here! Jesus!” He backs away, as if my proximity has somehow become instantly revolting, performs a half turn, then spins back and unloads some more. “Where the hell do you get off stealing my story? I fucking asked you to do some research, and you write this high school bullshit and try to end-run to Carroway? What the fuck is that? Jesus fucking Christ!”

  I stare at him and say nothing. I am remaining silent as part of the deal I made with myself, holding everything until Carroway makes his ruling. The issue is a mere day old, and I knew Barret would corner me somewhere. It took him all day to time it just right: two near misses in the men’s room and a false start by the photocopier. But now, a full seven hours later, he has me solidly cornered. I cling to my silence and I think it’s goading him on. It’s a side effect I don’t mind at all.

  “You’ve just pissed away the best fucking opportunity you’ll ever have. Do you think anyone is going to take you seriously after this crap? Do you think Ed’s going to back you on this? You’re a goddamn green fucking rookie and you haven’t got a clue about this business.”

  Although sticking to my silence is working, I realize, suddenly, that I have no plan to get away from Barret. I feel no threat of physical violence from him, but I suspect he won’t let me simply walk away. I drop my head and step to his left, but he follows my lead. I try right but he’s there, spewing more of the same. The door opens again and this time Barret unloads on the cleaning woman—a clenched-teeth, arrogant bellow delivered with not so much as a glance in her direction. Unfortunately for Barret, it’s not the cleaning lady.

  Ed Carroway walks into the room, disregarding Barret’s mumbled apologies, and inserts himself between us. Somehow, Carroway manages to suck up all the hot air in the room, absorbing it like some cardigan-clad box of Arm & Hammer. He places his hands slowly in his pant pockets, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor between us all, and lets out a long puff of air. I watch him and realize for the first time that little about Carroway is the result of happenstance. The way he walks, moves, the way he dresses, the tilt of his head, every furrow in his well-furrowed brow—all of it suddenly seems to me to be the result of a lifelong studied practice. Not some dollar-store impression of an old-school editor, but the real deal. Everything about this man is the paper business.

  He takes a moment to bring a hand from his pocket and scratch the stubble on his chin, then pinches a spot of lint from a cardigan that should have been retired years ago. Barret and I have both lost the plot of our confrontation, still polarized but somehow stopped cold by Carroway’s downright eerie composure.

  The judge has returned a verdict.

  • • •

  Confidence, I have found, is a temporary, fleeting emotion. I say emotion deliberately, because that’s what I really think it is: it’s a sensory experience, a kind of arousal that picks you up and stretches your frame a good six inches, just enough to give you the height advantage over those around you. But the sensation is fickle, like happiness; it only settles on you in passing, then moves on. You can never be sure what moves it on, but today it’s a pair of words that steals every other vertebrae in my back and shrinks me down to the boy that I really am. Look, Roland.

  Perhaps it’s not even the words, but more the delivery. Look, Roland comes out with that unmistakable softness, that pursed-lipped dammit-son-life-just-ain’t-fair empathy that’s socially required but oh-so-very hollow. I lift my head up and watch Carroway, feeling slightly detached in the knowledge that I have absolutely no backup plan. It’s an all or nothing proposition, and right now nothing looks to be the big winner. Carroway goes on.

  “Look, Roland,” says Carroway. “You’re new to all this…” He tilts his head forward and looks at me through bushy eyebrows, his lips pursed as if what he has to say is hurting him more, as the saying goes, than it will hurt me.

  18

  “Dave here is the real deal,” says Carroway. The sentence somehow tugs my head down so that I am staring at a spot on the floor between us. “He’s put in his dues, he’s thorough, and he’s a damn fine writer.” Without looking, I can sense Barret’s feathers fluffing, his chest puffing out. I can also sense my teeth approaching their shatter point as I clench for all I’m worth.

  “I think you’ve shown some interesting, um, initiative here.” Barret snorts and it brings my head up to look at him, a reaction I curse myself for inwardly. My loathing for this man plumbs heretofore unknown depths. I take some consolation in the fact that Carroway catches the snort too, and pauses just long enough to make a point to Barret. Nevertheless, he continues on, like an executioner bringing the blade to just the right edge.

  “Stories—any stories, but especially big stories like this—need more than just fact. They need credibility from the institution. They need to be anchored in the local culture by a recognized, tr
usted source—someone they perceive as part of their intellectual community, or they just won’t buy it—and I mean ‘buy it’ in every sense.” His expression is pained, as if he’s passing a small stone. Unpleasant, but manageable.

  Barret’s expression is at once gloating and strangely paternal; he’s enjoying the one-sided slant of Carroway’s discourse, but at the same time he’s growing this enormous chin that seems to be jutting out in self-righteousness. It changes as soon as Carroway says, “But…”

  A flash of concern darts across Barret’s eyes, only for a second, but I catch it with a sideways glance.

  “On the other hand, new blood is something of a necessity in the business. People are strange creatures. They want the credibility and trust of the established anchor, but at the same time there’s no denying the need for new, young talent. Christ, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the combination of the two, the juxtaposition and the underlying inherent conflict…” His last remark is not lost on me, and I suppose it’s not lost on Barret either, judging by the widening of his eyes. The tide seems to be ebbing.

  “I’ve thought about this all day and I think we should go back to my office and sit down…”

  Barret’s arms cross defensively. “It’s just the three of us in here, Ed. Let’s hear it.” Carroway looks at him and gets a shrug for his efforts.

  “All right,” says Carroway, appearing to gently submit to Barret’s sudden coolness. “This story has some legs. It’s legitimate, it’s timely, and with the elections looming, well, Christ, it’s just plain important. You’ll collaborate and you’ll both get the credit, byline and all. Barret’s name will run first through seniority, and—”

  I can’t help myself. “No,” I say in a voice that sounds removed from me.

  Carroway either doesn’t hear me clearly or does a damn good job faking it. “Pardon?”

  “I said no.”

  “I thought you might. If the byline order is a big deal I’m sure Barret will—”

  Again. “No.”

  “No to the order?”

  “No to Barret in the byline. No to collaborating. No to all of it. It’s mine. It’ll run bylined by the writer. Me.” I am in a state of sheer panic inside, while outside I am nothing less than Mr. Botox. I lift my gaze to meet Carroway’s solely; Barret means nothing at this point. He’s just a sack of organs sucking in lungfuls of perfectly good oxygen and taking up space.

  And that’s when I see it. It’s almost imperceptible, a miniscule arching of a single muscle buried well under the folds of fifty-three years of facial skin. It tugs at the corner of his lip, and I catch it.

  This whole fucking thing has worked.

  • • •

  I report to Carroway’s office just after five o’clock, where he offers me a seat and has Janet bring us both coffee—something she does warmly, as if being asked to bring me coffee is some secret handshake, some Masonic rite of passage to the inner sanctum. I feel almost giddy with victory, my chest still filled to capacity with a new, lighter kind of air.

  “I thought he might storm off like that,” says Carroway. “He’s a hell of an asset to this paper, and a hell of a talent.”

  I nod and mumble that I know, unclear of exactly how to respond.

  “Have you ever had any enemies?”

  Again, no real answer forms to his question.

  “Because you’ve got one now,” he continues. “Barret is set to be just about the best in the business at this point, and you’ve made a five-star enemy out of him. Have you seen his office? That fella’s got an entire wall of awards, he’s on a first-name basis with nearly every person of prominence in the city and he has a reputation of being a real sonofabitch at the best of times. And now you’ve handed him perhaps his first professional embarrassment. How’s that grab you?” Carroway lets the moment linger, knowing full well I’ll fill the void, which I do. “I guess he’ll be pretty upset.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Barret’s feelings. If he’s nothing else, he’s a professional. I suspect by the time he’s done, it’ll all look like a bone he threw to some shiny-faced greenhorn. He’ll likely have it looking like he was fulfilling his obligation to the journalistic community, bringing the new talent along, as it were.”

  He squares a set of papers in a stack in front of him, chopping at his desk twice briskly with the stack’s edge: a clear end to this part of the conversation. “Okay. Here’s how it’ll work. You will be placed on special assignment. You’ll publish the two-parter—”

  “It’s a three-parter.”

  “Not anymore. We’re running it as a two-parter and in case you haven’t figured it out by now, you ran out of no’s in the lunch room. This is how it is. This is how it will be. Understand? I need this teased and closed in two days. By day three the Post and everyone else will be all over it, so we’re going shorter. You get the full byline, and the latitude that comes with picking your next assignment. Play your cards right and this is your ticket, although somehow I think you already knew that.”

  I nod once with a shallow dip of the head. I feel the adrenaline coming fast and it makes my hands tremble in my lap. I have no idea if Carroway can see my excitement, as I am bottling it up as best I can. It occurs to me that the whole thing—the creation of the story, the delivery of it, the confrontation with Barret—Jesus, even this conversation with Carroway—it all adds up to one thing: I have just set the agenda. The paper will run the story—my story. It will show up in breakfast nooks and commuter trains around the country. People will read it, then talk about it. They’ll discuss it, debate it, and it’ll all happen because of my story.

  “Do you understand what happened here today, Roland?” Carroway’s question jerks me from my thoughts and I am temporarily flat-footed. He repeats it. “Roland. Do you know what happened here today?”

  I raise my eyebrows rather than answer, because I know enough to know that a question like that is invariably a cuddly toy with a pound of TNT inside.

  “What happened here today was the real business of journalism, Roly. Stories and bylines are byproducts of the machine. The news is the story, not the anchors, not the writers, not the editors, not any of us. We’re just the paperboys. We just deliver the news on behalf of the machine. And we do what the machine needs, and today the machine needed your story with your pictures. Do you take my meaning, Roly? Today it needed your story. Just watch out for tomorrow.”

  19

  The story runs days later and takes on a life of its own. By the end of the first day Carroway and I are summoned to legal twice—both times to be informed of a pending lawsuit, and to reassure counsel that everything we have presented is based on fact—verifiable fact.

  On the day after the names are played out in print, we field interview requests from dozens of radio shows, television stations, and magazines. There are calls from the FBI and Holt’s office at USCIS—even someone from the White House. All of these calls are routed to the people in legal and PR, and Carroway and I are updated like tycoons watching the stock market. More trips to legal, more reassurances.

  Just as Carroway predicted, Barret has managed to commandeer an element of the story, having provided a briefing to anyone who would listen—and his reputation provided him with plenty of willing ears—on the team environment at the paper. He never actually says it, but through a masterful selection of words and phrases, he’s managed to convey that the story was one he handed on down to a promising new up-and-comer. He comes off fatherly, protective of the careful development of paper and industry, and I can’t help but be impressed.

  The second part of the story runs with the picture of Alex Joiner in a car on University with convicted felon Mike Peelman. It’s the picture I took when the dome light in Peelman’s car went on, capturing the two men in a suspicious meeting late at night. Essentially, the article ties together a series of seemingly independent threads, weaving them into a loose arrowhead that points directly at Joiner as the key man in the selling of US immigration d
ocuments. The tempest that ensues stains Holt by association, although I haven’t been able to connect him in any tangible way to Alex Joiner and Mike Peelman. By the third day, Peelman is rumored to be on the run and a week later Joiner is arrested. The story resonates through the capitol like a cracked bull whip.

  The day after, Peelman is splashed on TV being led into a police station in upstate New York. I am called into Carroway’s office. He shuts the door and offers me a seat with an outstretched hand and an upturned palm. “Quite a week,” says Carroway, settling his ever-aging frame into the chair behind his desk. He sits forward and smiles. I smile back; it’s a funny moment, but I don’t want to go for the laugh. There’s too much about to happen. He continues. “So, have you given any thought to what you’d like to tackle next?”

  And there it is. I have just been handed the keys to my own career.

  He continues with no fanfare: just another day at the office. “This story touches on politics, crime, society—take your pick. The only way I can’t see you going is into sports.” He chuckles to himself. “So, what’s it going to be?”

  “The international scene,” I say flatly. “I think that’s where I want to be.”

  Carroway ponders it for a moment, then nods. “I can see that. There could be some nice tie-ins from the immigration angle. Have you thought about following up on the impact on the people who bought their citizenship? Could be some great human interest stuff in that.”

  “That’s exactly where I wanted to start,” I say, and I’m not ass kissing. Carroway is just that perceptive. “And if it works, I was thinking of following the thread backward, back to their home countries—a perspective on the climate that existed, exists, to set all this in motion.” Carroway leans forward, pins his slender elbows on the desk, and rests his chin on folded hands. He thinks for a moment, gazing right at me, perhaps waiting to see if I flinch. I don’t.