by Dave Balcom
“You know her?”
“From church, yeah. She graduated with my sister.”
Mary Dodd, the news editor, was fresh out of Syracuse last spring and her face was flushed with the excitement of her first real breaking news story. “Can I help with anything? I rushed the inside wire pages out, and they’re in camera already.”
Randy nodded. “I’m reading out-takes from Cindy as fast as she files them. Merge them into a story that Jim can read. And, Mary, merging also requires editing.”
She blushed some more, and started working the copy as Randy moved it into the page one queue.
I sat and wondered how this was all going to work out. The Sentinel-Standard newsroom had been using computers to write, manage and compose pages for less than a year. It had been my predecessor’s inability to manage the transformation from Royal typewriters and glue pots to the computers that had opened the door for me.
I had been fortunate enough to have worked for a group of small daily newspapers owned by a guy who didn’t know a byte from a dog tooth, but who had a vision for how computers could help his bottom line. I had, as they say, been on the bleeding edge of technology for years.
Those early proprietary newsroom front-end systems were archaic compared to what was coming down the pike with off-the-shelf desktop publishing, but this early in the technological landslide, the first pebbles were faster than anything we’d had before.
The press started on time at eleven-twenty, and the entire front page was dedicated to what was already a state-wide search for a young woman who was one of Lake City’s own.
The paper hit every lunch counter, cafe, and cafeteria in the region just in time for people to sit down and eat at noon.
The home-delivered copies would wait until after three when the youth and motorized carriers would make their rounds.
I was sitting at my desk in my office, reading the paper when Doug Read, the publisher, stuck his head in, “How’re all the little things?”
“Our guys did a great job pulling the Czarnopias story together this morning. Real team work. It’s a sad story, but it’s a good read.”
“Read more newspapers, that’s our motto,” he said. “You got plans for lunch?”
“I have a staff meeting at one, and I need to prepare for it. I brought a sandwich.”
“Reschedule the meeting. I want you to come have lunch at the club.”
I picked up the phone and dialed Louise Mitchell, the part-time news clerk who doubled as my personal secretary. “Louie? Will you notify everyone that we’ll meet at two today versus one? I’m called away. If anyone can’t make it, I’ll understand and catch up with them later. Oh, everybody should have their weekly news budget turned in to you in time for a one o’clock, so even if they’re not here at two, their plan will be. Thanks.”
I went to the clothes tree and pulled my sports jacket off a hook, and followed Doug out the back door.
Read was the only son of the Sentinel-Standard’s founder, Mitchell Read. Mitchell had built a little upstate New York empire he called Read Newspapers, Inc. The Sentinel-Standard was by far the largest and most profitable arm of this group that included several weekly newspapers and two weekly, all-advertising publications we called “shoppers.”
Mitchell was spending summers in the Catskills and winters in the Mediterranean clipping coupons and wondering what the hell his only son was doing to his newspapers.
Doug had a vile reputation in the newsroom, mainly because he’d been quoted in a trade publication saying, "The newsroom is a necessary evil in the newspaper industry.”
He had “earned” his position based on his birthright and an MBA from the Harvard School of Business. He had displayed little understanding of the business beyond the profit and loss statement.
He loved it when politicians and other boot-licking toadies came around fawning all over him for his newspaper’s endorsement or backing for some worthwhile cause.
In my interview with him, he had told me the number one criteria he had for a managing editor, especially one as young as I, was, “He’ll never get me sued for libel.”
I had told him that I thought a newspaper doing its job could expect, eventually and from time to time, to be sued. “I think you’d want to hire an editor who’ll make sure you don’t lose that suit.”
He had hired me anyway. Of course that may have been because I didn’t spend much time reading the trades other than the help-wanted section. I realized later I may have been the only candidate for this job.
As we reached the parking lot he said, “You better drive, too; I’ll probably stay and play some golf or cards after lunch.”
I had never been in the Country Club’s grill room before. The club was a members-only proposition. There was a public course on the other side of town where I had participated in a Chamber of Commerce outing that summer. I was much more at home in the woods or on the lakes than on the links.
Lunch found me sitting at a table with Doug’s golf buddies: Richard Shaw, a local realtor; Corey Brandsted, a downtown merchant and president of the Chamber of Commerce; and Paul Freemont, whose wife, Sally, was the president of the Finger Lakes Community College. I wasn’t clear on what Paul did, other than play golf and escort Sally to civic functions.
I studied them as Doug finished the introductions. They were all young, thirty-five to forty, I guessed. All fashionably but casually dressed. Tanned, fit, confident of their place in this place.
We ordered lunch and Doug provided the preamble. “Jim, I invited you today at the request of these men, my friends. They are concerned that as a newcomer, you might not understand how today’s story could affect Lake City.”
“They’re right. I don’t have any real feel for what their concerns might be. My only hope is the story leads to the quick location of a safe and sound Suzanne Czarnopias.”
“And we all share that hope as well,” Brandsted said with an engaging smile. “I don’t think any of us have a concern or question about today’s story. I think it might be the best piece of reporting I’ve seen in the Sentinel-Standard for years.”
“I agree,” Shaw said. “Your influence on that newspaper has been obvious for some time. But we also notice a certain aggressiveness in your work that, in this case, could cause more harm than good.”
“Really? In what way?” I asked.
“I think we all would like to think that this story will become something less than front page news until she’s located, hopefully safe and sound,” Brandsted said. “We’re afraid a story like this, blasted out on the front page day after day, could leave an image of Lake City in the minds of readers across the region that there might be safer places to work, shop or live than here.
“That could be bad for everyone,” he added. Each of the men then amplified Brandsted’s message.
As they concluded, I finished my soup and took a pull on my iced tea as I thought about what I was hearing. I nodded, and wiped my mouth with my napkin. “I think I understand your concerns, gentlemen. I appreciate your taking the time to share them with me. I think we should all be praying for a quick solution to this story. That would be good for everyone.”
I turned to Doug. “Thanks for lunch.” And to the others, “It was nice meeting you all. I look forward to getting to know each of you.”
As I left, I was hoping for just such a quick resolution, but I wasn’t confident that was going to happen. “And that could be bad for everyone,” I thought.
2
When I returned to the newspaper at about one-thirty, the place was abuzz. There were people waiting in the general reception area, and when I entered the newsroom, the staff was congregated around the universal desk, talking a mile a minute.
I went into my office, and found the hard copy news budget on a clipboard. Louie had collated it into one four-page spreadsheet for me. It was a rough blueprint of the coming week’s news coverage – the parts that can be anticipated and planned.
Each staffer had an expected num
ber of stories they’d cover based on their beat, their special assignments, and their initiative efforts as approved by the city editor.
This ran the gamut from previews or agenda stories for a school board meeting to the coverage of the meeting to the standing features such as “Personality Profile” on Mondays, “Cook of the Week” on Wednesdays, and the “series breaker” each Sunday.
The “weekly budget” listed the stories and photos the reporters thought they’d have for each day of the week along with the page play they expected for their work.
The editors then reviewed and determined final page play as we approached publication deadline.
The first time I introduced this “participatory news judgment” practice to this staff, every story came back “slugged” for Page 1A. I liked that about this team; they all thought every story they covered warranted top play.
As the week went on, each day would be “budgeted” by one p.m. the day prior. Sunday’s paper was budgeted by one p.m. on Friday, along with Saturday’s edition. Our Saturday and Sunday papers were delivered in the morning, which made Fridays a bit hectic, especially for the desk editors as we produced two editions, each with half a staff.
A newspaper is produced in stages. Each edition has a specific news hole as determined by the number and sizes of ads scheduled for that paper. The good newspapers in those days kept the ratio close to half news and half ads. In the salad years when advertising is running rampant, many papers would reduce the news percentage because the staff couldn’t handle such an expanded new hole, and quality would suffer, but there was still plenty of space for news.
On the other hand, when sales were sluggish, the newsroom didn’t get a bigger slice of the smaller pie. That was the reality of the business: Communities get the newspaper they deserve and are willing to pay for.
I reviewed the news plan, and saw Cindy had put herself in line for daily follow-ups on the Suzanne Czarnopias story. I was sure Randy had helped her as the stories were all slugged “update” followed by “classmates react” and “college reacts” and the like. It was clear they had started brainstorming right after deadline. I was pleased. Every story was slated for front page display.
I initialed the summary and found Louie at her desk in the morgue. “Can you copy these for us for the meeting?”
“Sure. Big story, huh?”
“Anything new?”
“Not that I’ve heard, but I know the coverage surprised some folks. The switchboard was flooded over lunch with people wanting to know the latest. We had radio and television reporters swarming our lobby a little while ago, wanting to interview Cindy. She hid in the bathroom for twenty minutes,” she added with a mean laugh.
“Shame on you.”
“I’m sorry, but she’s such a baby it’s hard not to tease her.”
“What did you do?”
“Went to the door and announced, ‘Ms. Shaul? There are men with cameras here to interview you; are you decent?’”
“You’re really mean, you know it? That doesn’t come across obvious when people first meet you, but you’re really a blood-in-the-water person.” She was laughing uncontrollably by then. “Let’s rally the troops in the conference room.”
I went ahead, dragging empty chairs into the “fish bowl” conference room as staff started parading in. I picked up the phone and called the receptionist. “We’re in a staff meeting, twenty-five minutes, take messages unless you can smell smoke; okay?”
I started the meeting with a broad statement: “I think this news team should be proud of the work done here this morning. Cindy, Randy, Jay, Fritz, Mary – along with the production crew in layout – put together pretty nifty coverage of a breaking news story.”
Everyone started applauding and Randy and Cindy stood, holding hands like Broadway stars and took bows ending with Cindy in a curtsey.
I continued, “Of course, that’s just my first opinion; if we find out anything in that report was in error or out of context, well then, you know...”
The group laughed in a reserved fashion, understanding the truth in that.
“This might be the consummate ‘what-have-you-done-for-me-lately’ business,” Randy said.
I picked up that thread. “The one conversation that I know has never happened around the dinner table goes like this: The guy tosses down the newspaper and complains that there’s nothing worth twenty-five cents in that day’s paper, and his wife responds, ‘But dear, it was really good day before yesterday.”’
The staff laughed as I continued, “Readers don’t average, and that’s the truth. So, what are we going to do tomorrow that makes the paper special?”
As the staff members kicked that thought around, everything centered on Suzanne’s story. Everyone in the room, it seemed, had a personal memory or stored mental image of the young woman. I started to get a feel for just how small a community this really was.
At two-twenty-five, I thanked everyone for their commitment and participation. “Randy, set the budget for tomorrow and make sure you discuss anything needing explanation before the staff leaves.”
“As usual,” he replied with a smile.
It’s like that on those days when the newspaper does its job beyond most everyone’s expectations; on those winning days the players celebrate and get loose. It was the city editor’s job to make sure nobody mentally took the next day off.
I sat in my office for a few minutes, and the phone rang. It was my Sandy, and a chill ran down my spine. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” she said. “I just wanted to remind you that we were going to look at the house on Mission today after four. When do you think you’ll be home?”
“I expect by four,” I said a bit petulantly. I didn’t expect personal calls at the office, and I didn’t like them. I was there to work, and my every effort was to be as good as I could be so I could go home earlier rather than later. Phone calls to chat were not part of my day plan.
She knew how I felt, but she went on anyway, “That was pretty disturbing stuff on the front page today.”
“You got the paper already?”
“We were at the mall, and I saw it on the news stand. It’s all anyone was talking about.”
“What were they saying?”
“Nothing bad about the paper,” she said out of habit as the editor’s wife. “But there’s a great deal of shock and fear. Everyone’s thinking it’s a serial kind of thing.”
“Why would they feel that way?”
“I dunno, but maybe it’s easier than to think that Lake City isn’t as safe as everyone has always thought.”
I thought about the conversation at lunch. “Well, we’ll take a wait-and-see approach to this before we put a collar and leash on Sara; okay?”
I could hear her mentally shrug, “I wasn’t that concerned about us. I was just thinking about what I’d heard...”
“I know. I’ll see you after four.”
3
The house on Mission Street was exactly what Sandy had in mind. I could tell because she was overly concerned about what I thought.
I saw the house as being something that wouldn’t require more maintenance than I was prepared to perform in the time that it would share with my passion for hunting and fishing.
With that understanding, I knew that the only things that mattered to me were that Sandy loved it and we could probably find a buyer when we wanted one.
“So, what do you think?”
“Are you done looking?”
“I’ve seen pretty much everything that’s out there...”
“Are you done looking?”
She smiled and nodded; her eyes were dancing with delight. “It’ll be a great place for Sara, don’t you think?”
I picked up the phone and dialed the real estate agent. “Lois? Jim Stanton here; we’re ready to make an offer on the Mission Street house....” I listened, and then signed off.
“She’ll bring it around for signatures to
morrow, but she thinks they’ll seriously consider it.”
I could see Sandy’s delight at the decision, and that was all I lived for, to make that glow appear in her eyes.
She called her folks and told them we were making an offer on a home, and I listened from another room as she chatted away with her mother. When she hung up, she came into the living room of the apartment we had rented on Owasco Street. She sat down next to me on the couch, “Mom and Dad saw your story on TV tonight.”
I perked up. They lived in Maryland. “That’s good, I think. Anything that gets Suzanne’s picture out is good.”
“They said there was a picture of your front page. They said Cindy was interviewed.”
“Really? What station had that?”
“It was NBC Nightly News. Mom said it was the fourth story. She had all the facts that I know, so it must have gotten some time...” She hesitated for a second and then went on, “Mom’s concerned about where we live. She said they showed Suzanne’s home, its street number is six forty-seven; she did the math.... it’s three blocks from here.”
I took her hand. “And it’s seventeen blocks from her house to the campus. Living on this street may or may not have any bearing on this story. I think you need to adopt my wait-and-see attitude before we jump off the curb.”
She smiled abashedly and added, “I wonder what she would have thought if Suzanne’s family had lived on Mission. But it’s that kind of story, isn’t it?”
“It is, and it’ll be a big story here for a long time, and that’s not going to make everyone happy.”
“What do you mean?”
So I told her about my lunch meeting.
“And then you come home and put an offer in on a new house? You think Mr. Read is going to be happy if you ignore his golf buddies?”
“I don’t think he’ll be happy, but I don’t think he’d put my job in jeopardy.”
“I hope not, Jim. But from what I’ve heard, he’s not a serious newspaper guy.”
“But he’s not an idiot, either. He’s going to love the financial impact of this kind of story. Readers will love this, advertisers will love the readers, and Doug loves the advertisers and their money.