“Yeah, I can do that, but—” I didn’t get the chance to finish because Larry interrupted.
“And if you use the word I or the expression this reporter I will personally fire you and kick your ass out the door, but before that I will take you down to the pressroom and stick your right hand into the press so you’ll never write again, you understand?”
I should have been insulted by that comment, but I couldn’t help but smile. “You forget who you’re talking to, Larry. Those are the exact words Neil told you during your first month of work in Olds.”
Larry paused for a second, recalling the memory, and he, too, couldn’t resist smiling. I knew this exchange would be repeated throughout the newsroom and my mystique quotient would rise within the editorial staff. “And do you remember what I told him in response?”
“Yeah, and I see that despite your rise in power, you haven’t changed that obnoxious part of your nature,” I told him. Whittaker and Anderson visibly cringed when they heard that, and it would also be repeated often.
“I’ll be even more obnoxious if you say you can’t write this sidebar for me.”
“No worries about that, Larry. I can pull this off.”
“Knew you could but I just wanted to check,” he said with a nod. “And quote Whitford on why he invited you into the tent, that’s important.”
“He’s going to be pissed off about that,” I said.
“And he’ll probably get in deep shit because of it,” Anderson added.
“Tough. He’s the one who let a member of the media into the tent so he’ll have to deal with whatever comes of it. Since he’s a homicide detective, I’m assuming he’s a big boy who can handle himself. Actually, I’m pretty sure he was aware that something like this would occur and is ready for whatever happens.
“And since he wanted a face on this victim, we’re going to do our best to give her a face. Once we learn who this person is, we’re going to find out as much as we can about her and keep writing about it. You think you can handle it, Leo? ’Cause I’m giving it to you. It’s a big job, but at least you won’t be chasing sirens for the next little while.”
It had been a long time since I had been given a continuing assignment such as this. I knew that I could handle it, but deep down there were always those words of discouragement and worry. I sometimes had the tendency to get obsessed about a story or events and get lost in them, similar to the way I could get lost in gambling, but what could I say to Larry? Sorry, buddy, can’t handle this story, give it to someone else?
Whittaker had the same view as I did although she knew little about my background. “You sure you want to keep this with Leo? I mean, writing the stuff about today, that’s okay, but the long-term, lengthy investigations we usually hand over to Murray. That’s his job, basically, and he does have seniority over Leo here.”
Whittaker was talking about Tom Murray, the paper’s resident auteur, or feature writer, who usually did the really long pieces like profiles of murderers, their victims, and other stories that not only took more time to investigate and write but required a bit more creativity than the average newspaper article. It was a strange suggestion coming from Whittaker, because one of the dividing issues about the strike had to do with seniority.
Many reporters didn’t like it when their colleagues who had been at the paper for a long time got their pick of stories and/or were handed stories that other reporters had dug up. And many of these senior reporters thought that their experience and length of service should have meant something and merited some rewards. It was in fact one of the reasons the union imploded, because in typical union fashion, it favored those with seniority and alienated a lot of young reporters who had originally supported the strike.
Maurizo thought about the suggestion for a few seconds, and I knew he was weighing the pros and cons of using me to do this. He knew that going with Murray would have been the typical decision and that no one would hold it against him, seeing as Murray was a better writer than me. And since Murray had been one of those who had crossed the picket line, it would be seen as a reward for his loyalty to the company and a continuation of the seniority status quo.
“That’s a good suggestion, and the way things used to operate,” Larry said firmly, “but I think it’s time the paper rewarded its reporters for their hard work and initiative. Leo’s on the story.”
5
Writing the second story took longer than usual. While the first one was a simple 250-word crime story, the sidebar was different. I could have pounded it out as fast as the main story, but since Larry had personally stepped in, defended me, and given me the opportunity to write it, I felt I had to put a better-than-average effort into it. I opened with a description of the victim, how peaceful she looked lying on the ground in the orange glow of a tent, and then expanded the scene to reveal that she was actually dead and this was a crime scene.
I described how the Forensics were professional in their duties, like it was just another day at the office for them, but at the same time, they were respectful of the body and determined to find all the details they needed. I made note of how exclusive this situation had been, how members of the media were never invited into a crime scene tent, but answered the reader’s logical next question by using Whitford’s comments about how he wanted the victim to have a face, not just to be dismissed by the general public as another dead body.
There were a number of things I didn’t include, like Whitford’s name—I called him “an EPS member who wished not to be identified”—my personal feelings about seeing another dead body, information about the weather, and any of the comments from the Mountie. That was nothing new, just normal journalistic operating procedure. It’s not necessary to tell the whole story; some details can be and are left out. It’s mostly due to time and space issues, but also it’s not necessary to provide all the details or to give the whole story because in truth doing that may detract from the tone one wants the story to have. And with any story, there’s always the possibility that it may develop legs, and those other details may fit better in follow-up articles.
Before I put the story through, I asked Anderson for his input. A rare request but I wanted the opinion of a writer that I respected. He agreed, but on one condition. “Tell me about Larry when he said he would put your right hand into the press so you could never write again,” he asked.
“Why?”
“He uses that line all the time and I was hoping to respond with his own words the next time he uses it on me. Make him think, you know?”
Anderson was taking a chance considering such a move, but since he was a solid performer in the newsroom, he might get away with it, although probably only once.
“Okay, let me set up the story a bit before I tell you. First off, the paper in Olds was a really good paper, been around since 1899 or something like that, with its own press in the back that was constantly printing papers for the rest of the weeklies in the area. That fucker was huge, loud, and it would shake the entire building when it was running. And on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays it ran nonstop, and there was no wall separating it from the front room where the reporters, typesetters, and ad sales folks worked, so I had to write my stories with this monster constantly roaring in my ears. And I never could do a phoner interview because there was no way you could hear anyone, so it forced you to go out and actually interview people in person, which was good.
“The people who were publishing the paper when I was there, were the grandkids of the guy who founded it in the first place, before the town was actually a town. The publisher at the time was this old dude named Neil, who had married into the family. He looked like a big, old farmer, kind of like Jed Clampett’s bigger brother. He always had this roll of bills in his pocket, mostly fifties and hundreds. Once I had to go to some event and there was a five-dollar admission charge, even for the media, so I asked Neil if the paper could pay. It took him almost twenty minutes to flip through all those bills to find something as
small as a five.
“And every time you said something to him, he grunted ‘Huh,’ so if you didn’t know him, you thought he couldn’t hear you, but it was just a fixed-action pattern, a tic that he had. He had heard you, and if you tried to repeat what you said, he would bark at you.
“So this was an old-timey weekly, the kind you really don’t see anymore, and it was here that I hired our fearless leader Larry Maurizo.”
“You gave Larry his first job in the business?” he asked incredulously. “Don’t let that get around much because there are a lot of people here who would kill you for it.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said, waving his comment away because a lot of people already knew that and were actually afraid of me because of it. “Except for Larry and a few reporters like yourself, most of the staff here wouldn’t last a week at a weekly so there’s no way I’m afraid of them. But Larry, when he was a kid, I thought he would be one of those guys who wouldn’t last, who would call it quits after a month or so.”
“Obviously, he didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t and that’s good because he’s one of the best in the business. I know he’s a bit of an asshole and that most people here hate him because of the strike, but the one thing about Larry is that he loves newspapers, he loves the business and he loves this newspaper. That asshole attitude is just that he’s passionate about putting out a really great paper and he doesn’t like it when people don’t share that passion.
“Believe it or not, if I know Larry, he was pretty proud that you guys went on strike. He would never admit it, but the fact that you stood up for something you believed in and it had to do with the paper, earned a lot of respect from him. He had to do what he had to do, but he knew that when the strike and all its fallout was over, this paper would become stronger, that all that passion you guys had during the strike would come back to your work at the paper. I bet that before the strike, a lot of people were just marking time, going through the motions. Now I think more people are personally invested in the paper and are going to show those corporate bastards why you matter.”
He nodded but the look on his face told me that he wasn’t convinced by my argument. “That’s partly true, but there is still a good-sized group that doesn’t care anymore and is hoping that the newspaper fails.”
“Yeah, but in time those guys will be weeded out and either be let go with some type of package or they’ll quit and finally write the book they’ve always wanted to write. And that will bring in new blood that, with direction and mentorship from folks like you and Larry, will create new passion for the paper.”
“Yeah, yeah, that all sounds nice but I’m sorry if I don’t believe it. I don’t really want to talk about the strike now because it only depresses me. So tell me about Larry and his first job.”
“Right. So it’s an old-timey paper, with what looks like an old-timey publisher and a complacent editor. Or at least that’s what bright-eyed, journalism-degree-holding Larry Maurizo thinks when he gets there. Sure, he’s willing to learn, but to him, we’re a bit backward with our cut-and-paste layout and our weekly broadsheet. ‘Everybody knows,’ he says in the first week, ‘that tabloid is the way to go.’ And I have to admit that Larry was partly right, we still hadn’t gone over to computers yet, and yeah, that broadsheet was wide but that’s what the people in town were used to. Many of them didn’t like the tabloid style; it reminded them too much of the new city paper. They liked a paper that you had to stretch your arms to read.
“But he was respectful, Larry. He listened to the advice I gave him and he wrote good copy. There was a time when I took him to his first town council meeting. I was introducing him around, informally, mind you, because being on the town council in a small town, even being mayor, isn’t a full-time job like it is in the city. It’s almost a volunteer thing and they all have their real jobs in the daytime. So I introduce him to the mayor, and while I’m doing so, another councilor comes into the room. And the mayor sees him and makes some sort of crack about this guy’s attitude at the last meeting, you know, innocent banter about how he hopes that so-and-so doesn’t get all annoyed about something like at the last meeting because he made it last too long.
“And even though we sit through the meeting and get the typical small-town council stories, little Larry is all excited about what the mayor said. He thinks he’s got a great story, a bit of political intrigue that he can use and then reuse once all the reaction comes in from the previous crack. Larry thinks he has a scoop, and if he was covering council here in Edmonton, he would. But in Olds, he doesn’t.”
“Why the hell not? That makes sense if someone makes a comment like that. He’s the mayor talking to a reporter so he’s got to watch himself.”
“Obviously, you’ve never worked at a weekly, either,” I said with a shake of my head. “In a small town, when the mayor makes a joke about someone else, even another councilor, it’s not a news story, it’s only the mayor making a joke. If you turn it into a story, and then another story when you get a rebuttal comment, and keep the controversy going, you might as well close up shop right then because no one is going to trust you or your paper, so people will not only stop talking to you, they’ll stop advertising with you, stop taking their printing to you, and so on.
“And I told Larry that and he didn’t believe me, he really thought he had a story. He just thought I was a complacent editor who wasn’t really interested in real news. But in a small town this wasn’t real news, wasn’t even close. But Larry kept at it, he wrote a story, and instead of giving it to me, he handed it over to Neil, the publisher, thinking that he could convince this small-town rube that he knew how to bring real news to the paper.”
“So what did the old guy do?”
“Despite his look, Neil was not someone to mess with. He may have looked like an old farmer, but this guy flew a fighter plane in the Battle of Britain, got shot down but managed to crash-land his plane with only a broken leg. And when they sent him back to Canada, he ended up in Alberta training new air force recruits to fly planes. He was also a strong supporter of the Liberal Party, which in small-town Alberta is about like supporting the Antichrist. But Neil wasn’t afraid to make his views known, and although people disagreed with him, they respected him for standing up for himself and what he believed.
“So when Larry finishes his spiel about the newsworthiness of the story, Neil nods and asks him for the copy. Larry hands it over and smiles at me while Neil reads it. But after giving it a good read, Neil rips it to pieces and tosses the pieces into Larry’s face. And he stands up, his full six-three height towering over Larry, and growls, ‘If you ever write or do anything like that again, I’ll not only fire you, I’ll drag your ass to the press, and stick your right hand in so you’ll never write again.’”
“Yeah, so what did Larry say to that?”
“For a while, Larry says nothing. In fact, nobody says anything because, of course, we’re all watching. The smart move for Larry would be to mumble, Sorry, and walk away. But Larry doesn’t walk away. All he does is look like a hurt puppy because his scoop is now in pieces at his feet. And then, I don’t what he was thinking but he blinks a couple of times, stands up straight, and says, ‘I can always write one-handed with my left.’ And he turns and walks past the press and out the back door.
“Neil shakes his head and walks over to me. I ask him if Larry is fired but Neil shakes his head. ‘Nah. He’s a got a lot to learn but he’s an obnoxious prick so I’m guessing he has a bright future in this business.’”
Anderson laughed, thanked me for the line, and took the hard copy of my sidebar. He made a few marks with his pen and then handed it back, calling it a masterpiece.
I typed in his changes and then sent the story directly to Larry’s computer, also cc’ing the piece to Whittaker. A few minutes later, Larry came out of his office. Whittaker saw him and followed behind. Larry’s face was blank but I knew I had written a good story so had no reason to worry.
“No problem,” she said. “One of our shooters even got a nice shot of the tent in the field so we can package that up with the story.”
“Excellent,” Larry said. “Excellent work, everyone. Paper’s going to look nice tomorrow. But Leo, you go home and get some rest. You, too, Anderson. No reason for you to hang around here, either.”
Everyone grunted in acknowledgment. I entertained the idea of inviting Brent out for a beer but realized he had family at home and probably wanted to go see them. I pulled on my jacket, muttered thanks and good night, and left the building.
6
It was six o’clock by the time I was outside, but it was already dark. Typical for late fall. The days were getting shorter and shorter, the arc of the sun getting lower in the south sky and the shadows longer. In a few more weeks it would be dark by four and by the time Christmas rolled around, we’d be only getting seven hours of daylight, not a lot for the most part, but at least the sun would be shining. People new to the city always commented on that. Even though winter was cold and the days were short, the sun shone most of the time. And the sharper angle changed the wavelength of its light to the warmer reds and oranges, so even the color of the air would change.
Since I didn’t have a car, but still lived relatively near downtown, I was a walker. My trip home took me north along 101st Street up to 104th Avenue where I cut through a large open lot where the old railway used to run toward my neighborhood. From there, I headed west along 105th, behind Grant MacEwan College and its concrete towers, until I got to my house, which was located in a neighborhood officially called Central McDougall.
However, over a number of years, it had been given a series of informal names based on the immigrants who lived there at the time. It had been called Little Saigon in the seventies and eighties because of the Southeast Asian boat people fleeing the Vietnam War and its aftermath. Those folks had moved, and in the past ten years or so they had been replaced by refugees fleeing African wars in Ethiopia, the Sudan, Somalia, and the like. The new name was now Little Mogadishu or, more informally, Kush.
Fall from Grace Page 4