Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  Not only that, he had told her, she was good, she was a player, she would understand how the system worked, and that would all be to the Daily’s advantage. And they could use an advantage. Several years earlier, while she was still in London, the Daily had won a Pulitzer, but less than a year later it was discovered by the Daily itself that the reporter had plagiarized the story. They had returned the Pulitzer. Since then, they had not won a single prize. This was one of the reasons Allison had been reluctant to take the position. She was already feeling pressured to redeem the paper. She had never been comfortable with prizes. The awards on the few smaller journalism boards or panels she had been on often ended up seeming so arbitrary. It made her nervous to think that this venerable prize could be manipulated. Alan had said he would take her to lunch before her first board meeting to explain it all.

  Today was the day. He was taking her to the Federal City Club. It was one small dreary room in the Sheraton Carlton Hotel that had been roped off for members, most of whom were part of the Washington establishment. Clubs were pretty much out and she didn’t believe in them anyway, but she thought it was kind of dumb to belong to a club that had no reason for being in the first place. It wasn’t for anything, it wasn’t restrictive in any way (which she did not view as a negative, simply a curiosity), and the food wasn’t any good. So what was the point? Why not eat in a good restaurant with decent atmosphere?

  They were led to a booth, but Alan asked for a table for two against the wall. The seats in the booths were too far apart, he explained, and they would have to shout to be heard. This way they could have a private conversation.

  They both ordered soda water and the filet of sole. There was no small talk.

  “So,” he said, furrowing his brow and smoothing the tablecloth with his hands, “we have two finalists this year: Tyson for investigative and Jeremy Dugan for movie criticism.”

  “Well,” said Allison, already irritated by the idea of a potential loss in either case, “Dugan ought to be a shoo-in. The guy is far and away the best movie critic in the country and he’s been passed over three times. And nobody has anything to compare with Sprague’s drug stuff…”

  Warburg held up both hands to stop her.

  “Hold it, hold it, hold it,” he said. “The first thing you have to learn is that nobody’s a shoo-in. Especially in our case. We’re being punished for our sins. We’ve been blanked for three years for that plagiarism case. A lot of talented reporters have suffered because of it. I have a gut feeling that we’ve served our sentence and they’re going to let us out of jail. But if I’ve done my time and I’m getting out of jail I wouldn’t go for two no matter how good they are. I’d take one and run.”

  “But Sprague’s stories have had a major impact. I’ve read the other entries. They can’t touch what he’s done.”

  “Allison. Listen to me. Sprague has already won a Pulitzer, so that makes it less likely they’d give him another one anyway. We’ve got a slim chance of getting one if we’re lucky. Sprague is working on a story that is much bigger than what’s already happened. If that’s true he’ll have a better shot next year. One of the most important things to learn is to fight the right fight, to know when to fold ‘em. If the movie critic gets it and Sprague doesn’t win, then you immediately make sure that the advisory board knows he’s working on something that will have a hell of an impact, even more than this.”

  “Is that all I can do? Isn’t there some way I can help get the message across?”

  “We’ve already sent out reprints of all our best stuff to every newspaper editor in the country. We can’t just send them to the members of the Pulitzer board. That would be too crass. But everybody sends reprints to all the papers now. That’s about as blatant as you can get. We have an advantage because we’re one of the bigger papers, so more people see what we do and we’ve got more resources. We’ll probably do better now that we’ve got a professional packaging our prize entry, putting out these brochures. We didn’t use to do that but these people like glitz so we’ve had to spend a lot of time on presentation. As to what you can do. You can go up there and be as charming as you possibly can. But for God’s sake don’t get caught lobbying because that will work against you. You can’t get in the way of an express train. If there’s a sentiment developing against your candidate then get out of the way. If you know a reason why somebody else shouldn’t get it, then by all means be sure that everyone knows. But you have to have the very lightest touch. If there’s a choice between doing nothing and overdoing it, then do nothing.”

  “But if you think they’re being unfair to one of your candidates what can you do about that?”

  “If you can, get someone else to fight your fight. That’s all the better.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but if you’re so good at it, why are you giving me your seat? Why don’t you go up and politic yourself?”

  Alan sighed and took a sip of his drink.

  “Because I’m a lightning rod. I don’t think I’m doing the paper any good. And because I’m disgusted with the process. It’s so superficial.”

  “I don’t mean to sound naive, but I still don’t see how they can not reward the best people for the best work just because of political reasons alone. This is the Pulitzer Prize, Alan. For Christ’s sake!”

  “That’s the way it’s done, my dear. This is not a perfect world. I’m surprised at you. You’re supposed to be one of the most cynical reporters in this town. You know how the system works.”

  “It isn’t fair.”

  Warburg chuckled.

  “This whole process isn’t fair. It’s a game. You just have to know how to play it. Just remember one thing.”

  Warburg suddenly had a beatific smile on his face.

  “What’s that, Alan?”

  “You’re always coming back next year.”

  * * *

  Stuart Lanier Davidson IV was an old drinking buddy of Allison’s from the campaign days, one of the boys on the bus. They had shared stories and sources, covered for each other on deadline, hung out together, sung hymns together late at night, and been there for each other in bad times.

  Once, after a campaign trip years earlier, she had had a group covering the incumbent over for dinner at her house the Saturday night before Easter Sunday. Lanny had gotten completely smashed that night. She didn’t hear from him for several days afterward and was beginning to worry when she received a huge bouquet of Easter lilies with a card that said, “Risen at last.”

  Lanny was a Southern good ole boy—or bad boy, depending on how you looked at it. From a prominent Atlanta family, he had gone to the college named after his family and come back to the Atlanta Herald, much against his parents’ wishes, to start a career in journalism. When he and Allison had known each other he was a political reporter and a controversial columnist. Later, he got on the fast track, and after a series of changes in upper management, ended up, much to the astonishment of his friends and colleagues, as the editor-in-chief of the whole paper. He was also chosen to be on the Pulitzer board and was in his second three-year term. When it was first announced that Allison was going on the board, Lanny had called to congratulate her. He had called again this week to ask her to join him and a few of the other “bad boys” on the board for dinner the night before the voting.

  “You oughtta be there, darlin’,” he told her in his Southern drawl. “That’s where all the schmoozin’ and the lovin’ up goes on.”

  Allison laughed in spite of herself.

  “So that’s how it’s done,” she said. “I must say it can’t be a total coincidence that the Herald has won so many Pulitzers since you got on the board.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to sound immodest, but those boys just love my Southern ass. And when I start singin’ gospels I can just close my eyes and see the Pulitzers rolling in. Sweet Jesus!”

  “Oh, c’mon Lanny, seriously.”

  “Seriously? Let me give you a few tips. There are three areas of manipul
ation. The first is in categories. When the juries send up their three choices for finalists, one category may have no strong entry, say foreign, for instance. If another category, like explanatory journalism, has a great series about revolutions, you could get the category changed putting revolution in the foreign category and have a chance to win.

  “The second is the permanent secretary of the Pulitzers. He can change entries before the juries even meet. He can accommodate or interfere with the juries’ will to change things.

  “The third and best chance for manipulation is when there is real dissatisfaction with the jury’s selection. If you don’t like any of the three finalists the jury sends up, you can go back and say let’s see what else there is and overrule the jury by awarding the prize to someone who wasn’t in the top three.”

  “Yeah, but if you do that kind of thing, won’t people know about it?”

  “Of course. The place is a fucking sieve. Whatever position you take you have to know it’s going to get out.”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to be good at this, Lanny,” said Allison. “I’m incapable of bargaining for a rug in a Turkish bazaar.”

  “Trust me, darlin’. You just bat those baby blues and you’ll do just fine.”

  * * *

  She was nervous as a cat. This was the day of the voting. She had shown up at the Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism at precisely nine that morning. There were already a few people assembled by the coffee urn outside the World Room. She had seen it the day before when they came in to read the entries. It was very impressive, intimidating really, with huge murals of light and truth painted in blue and gold. It looked like a place a venerable prize like the Pulitzer should be awarded.

  She had survived dinner the night before. It had actually been fun. Lanny was full of stories and people couldn’t help loosening up around him. Before the night was over everyone was shouting and laughing and having a terrific time. She tried not to appear self-conscious, tried to be adorable without overtly flirting, and managed to restrain herself from ever mentioning the Pulitzers. To her surprise and relief nobody else did either.

  When she arrived back at the hotel that night there was a frantic message from the editor of the Living section to call her no matter what time she got in. Allison dialed the number immediately.

  “Thank God you called, Allison,” she said when she heard Allison’s voice. “Jeremy told me tonight that he hears there’s a lot of sympathy building to give the criticism prize to this woman, God I can’t even remember her name, a music critic from some small paper in Ohio.”

  “Did this just arise out of nowhere?”

  “Apparently she would be the first woman music critic to get it and… are you ready for this?… she’s dying of cancer.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Does she have any credentials?”

  “Apparently none. The town doesn’t even have a symphony, she’s only part time and I hear that she’s done p. r. work for the Cincinnati symphony.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to pass that along to some key people. I don’t know what I can really do, though. When criticism comes up for a vote, they send me out of the room.”

  “Good luck!”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Now, this morning, she was faced with how to deal with the problem. She poured herself some tea, looked around at the early arrivals, and decided there was no hope there. Resigned, she wandered over to a small group that was having a solemn discussion about the economy. After several boring minutes she heard what sounded suspiciously like a rebel yell. She turned to see with immense relief that Lanny had appeared, his hair still wet from the shower, looking perfectly groomed if slightly hung over.

  She sidled over to the coffee urn while he was pouring himself a cup; making sure she wasn’t overheard, she nervously relayed to him what the Living editor had told her the night before.

  “You’re learning fast,” he said, and she wasn’t quite sure whether he was criticizing or praising her.

  He casually poured some cream in his coffee, stirred it, and looked her in the eyes.

  “I hear ya” was all he said, then he smiled and walked over to another group.

  * * *

  Allison was seated at the middle of the oval table. Lanny was on the opposite side of her so that she could see his every expression. It soon became clear that the chairman, the publisher of a small paper in the West, was an ineffectual person who let the meetings drift along without much direction. The leadership gap was filled, as far as she could see, by Lanny, who was a compelling personality, and the charismatic editor of the Los Angeles Post, Jordan Sinclair.

  The first category on the agenda was public service. The L.A. Post was a finalist in three categories but not public service. From Allison’s point of view, they should have been, for their exposé and continuing coverage of the Los Angeles Police Department. She had noticed at breakfast that several of the heavy hitters on the board had taken Jordan aside during coffee and had whispered conversations with him. Now one of them spoke up.

  “Mr. Chairman, I would like to suggest that we take another look at the public service category. We have three finalists here that don’t even hold a candle to the L.A. Post on the police story. I submit that we rethink this and give the award to Mr. Sinclair here for the fine job his paper has done.”

  There were several murmurs of approval throughout the room. Allison noticed that Jordan demurred. He had managed to plaster the most incredibly humble look on his face she had ever seen. He had obviously done his politicking earlier and well.

  “It would seem that this warrants some discussion,” said the chairman. “Jordan, would you please leave the room?”

  After Jordan left it took about three minutes to yank the public service award from the three finalists and give it to the L.A. paper. Jordan came back beaming. And well he should. He had three other finalists in three other categories, all clear winners over their competition. That would mean that the L.A. paper would win four. That had never happened before. She was curious to see how that would fly. Jordan would have to be a master to pull that one off.

  The next category was national reporting and again Jordan was sent from the room. There was little discussion on this one as well. She had yet to make a comment. She had decided to lay low. His candidate was the obvious winner. He returned with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  Investigative was next. Sprague. Nobody would look her in the eye. She knew he had lost before she even left the room to go sit in the library and wait for the vote. There was no question that the winner wasn’t nearly as good, but it was not an embarrassment either. They could get away with it. She wondered whether this meant the Daily was still being punished for the plagiarism episode or that it was because Sprague had already won a Pulitzer. She took defeat with grace. She still had another shot. But she did give Lanny a long “I’m counting on you” look.

  Then came Jordan’s next candidate, this one for foreign, this one also way ahead of the other two.

  “He’s already won two,” somebody piped up after he’d left. Everyone else nodded and then began discussing the others. She still hadn’t said a word but she was stunned when they voted for one who couldn’t compare to the L.A. paper. Jordan was obviously as shocked as she was when he came back into the room.

  It happened a second time with his last candidate, only this time nobody had to say it. They just voted for one of the lesser entries, passing over what she considered a brilliant feature series. She was appalled. Several of the members puffed on their pipes or cigarettes, and looked as though nothing unusual had happened.

  The next category up was commentary. The New York World had by far the weakest of the three. Up until this point they hadn’t won a single prize even though they’d had several finalists. This was their last chance. The board was definitely going against them until one of the older and more established members spoke up with al
arm.

  “But this… this would mean,” he sputtered, “that the New York World wouldn’t get a Pulitzer Prize!”

  There was a general rustling of papers and looks of uneasiness as the members looked down at their hands.

  Finally someone else said, “He’s right. We can’t let that happen.”

  And before Allison knew it they had voted the World a Pulitzer.

  Now it was Allison’s turn again. The criticism award was up. She left the room. It was the longest wait she ever had. She pretended to thumb through magazines in the library but she couldn’t concentrate on a thing. When the young woman finally came to get her, Allison looked at her as though the doctor had stepped out of the operating room to tell her whether her loved one had lived or died.

  “You won,” she whispered with excitement, and Allison nearly expired from relief.

  Back in the World Room she didn’t dare glance at Lanny, who kept clearing his throat to get her attention. She was more interested in the next vote. One of the editors of a small newspaper in the West who was the most disliked person on the board had a woman finalist for sports. His paper hadn’t won a Pulitzer for years. Allison knew he had his heart set on it. She also knew that he had been the one who had vociferously advocated punishing the Daily for the plagiarism case. The chairman had been soliciting comment throughout the morning but she had yet to speak. This time he said, “Allison, you’ve been awfully quiet all morning. What are your thoughts on our choices here?”

  She had to weigh her answer carefully. She felt that all three candidates were about equal. She didn’t want to screw a deserving journalist out of a prize because her editor was a jerk. On the other hand, given that she wasn’t necessarily the best and might only receive the award because she was a woman, she thought she could speak up. She debated whether or not to compliment the woman before she spoke for the other candidate and decided that might be too heavy, too obvious. Instead she spoke only of her choice.