The Reporter

CHAPTER ONEJesse let the phone jangle three times before lifting the receiver off its rotary dial base. The chord stretched long enough so he could type while he talked. “This is Jesse,” he said, trying to sound busier than he was. The person on the other end of the line paused for dramatic effect so he could ask who it was. Jesse wasn’t playing that game. It was 10:00 p.m., one hour before the reporters at the Fort Wayne Journal Gazette finished their shift. The presses began rolling at 11:00 p.m. He was tired and he knew who was calling. He could tell by the breathing. When the caller finally spoke, his deep voice sounded like a Boris Karloff impersonator narrating The Monster Mash. “I’ve got another cold one for you, Jesse.” Jesse chuckled. “Harold, you and your ghouls at the funeral home are setting a record today. What’s this, six in one day? You know it’s too late for the morning paper.” Harold mustered his most villainous chortle. “I know all about you and your deadlines.” “You’ve been waiting all night to use that line,” Jesse said. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.” Harold returned to his hushed tone of funeral home formality. “Why, thank you, Jesse. Coming from you, I regard that as high praise. And might I say, as I always do, you are my favorite death editor of all time.” It was April 16, 1973. Jesse Conover was twenty-three years old. He had an athletic build and a handsome smile that couldn’t quite hide an inbred contempt for authority. He’d been writing obituaries at the Journal Gazette for three months. The work had been exciting and even frightening at first, seeing his copy printed in the paper and hoping he hadn’t made mistakes. He wrote careful notes on his pad regarding the name, date of birth, date of death, life accomplishments, survivors, and details of the memorial service. He had to be even more careful as he typed out the obit in proper order and form. He was a thrill-seeker of the motorcycle riding and water tower climbing variety. Writing obituaries had gotten old in a hurry. “So, what was the cause of death?” Jesse asked. There was a pause. “You know I can’t talk about that.” Jesse took his hands off the typewriter and placed both elbows on his desk. “You know, this is starting to piss me off. I always have to leave out the most important part of the story. People want to know the cause of death.” “It’s the newspaper’s policy, not ours.” Jesse’s shoulders sagged. “It’s stupid.” “I’ll tell you how she died if you promise to keep it confidential.” Jesse sat up straight in his chair. “I never reveal my sources unless they want to be revealed.” “Very well, then. I believe you,” Harold said. “So here’s what happened. Mrs. Donaldson slipped in the ladies’ room at the country club and cracked her skull wide open on a toilet.” Jesse paused to let the imagery settle, then asked the probing question, “Was the seat up or down?” Harold’s voice lightened up. “Ah, my boy, you are a natural reporter. You have put your finger on the real mystery. The seat was up. Now, can you tell me why the toilet seat was up in the women’s bathroom?” Just then, the city editor, George Weatherly, yelled from several desks away, “Who the hell you gabbin’ at now, Jesse? I need the School Lunches from you ASAP.” The venomous command sent Weatherly into a coughing jag so violent he had to light a Camel cigarette to regain his breath. The newspaper was the heartbeat of the community in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Political candidates issued press releases to announce their agendas. Elected leaders held press conferences to answer questions from the public. Sports fans had to wait for the morning paper to find out if their team won or lost. Mothers read the School Lunches section to see if they needed to pack a lunch for their finicky children. There were twenty-five reporters and eleven editors working at the morning paper with Jesse. Desks were arranged in rows of four or five in one high-ceiling room the size of a high school gymnasium. There were no windows. The clatter of typing and teletype machines was as loud as the chatter of discussions and arguments among the staff. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes, coffee, and newsprint. Most of the desks were piled high with papers, reference materials, empty beverage bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. Jesse’s desk was too neat and clean for comfort. Restrooms and a small cafeteria were down a long hall at the other end of the building. Jesse hung up the phone without saying goodbye and jumped up to report to the city editor’s station, which comprised of three desks in a U shape at the center of the room. “That was Harold from Wayne Funeral. He says a lady died when she slipped and bashed her head on a toilet at the country club.” “I don’t care how she died. All we need to know is that she’s dead.” Weatherly exhaled a storm cloud of smoke that might as well have been a bucket of cold water on Jesse’s excitement. He was a wiry man and stood at five-seven. He was bald on top with bushy gray hair on the sides. His eyebrows were long and wild, and they stuck out at odd angles when he furrowed his brow. His voice sounded like he was already dying of emphysema. Jesse was undeterred. “It sounds like a story to me. If people are dying because of unsafe conditions at the fanciest club in town, that’s news to me.” Weatherly motioned for Jesse to sit in one of two wooden chairs on the other side of his desk. “What do you know about news? You’re still a kid. Everything is news to you. Obits aren’t news. They’re death notices. Banks and creditors keep track of them. Families want their privacy. We respect that.” Jesse folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “We do stories on car crashes all the time. What’s the difference? She died in an accident.” Weatherly took a deep drag of his cigarette. “It’ll be news when it’s a lawsuit. We don’t put the cause of death in an obit. Period. You do obits on people who die in cars all the time, but you never give the details of the crash or the cause of death. Why? Because it’s an obit.” “So how about a story on safety conditions at the country club?” Jesse asked. Weatherly laughed so hard he nearly choked to death. It took a moment for him to regain his voice. “Stephen Longstreet is a member of that club. Does that name ring a bell? He’s our publisher. He’s a friend of your father and the reason you got hired, and the reason I’m stuck trying to educate you right out of college with no journalism experience.” Jesse was surprised to hear the editor admit his prejudice so openly. He felt like he’d been sucker punched below the belt. Damn, he thought. This guy might never give me a chance unless I stand up for myself. It’s time for a showdown. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “How can I get experience if you won’t send me out on a story?” Weatherly stared toward the back of the newsroom where the automated teletype machines were clacking away with news from the Associated Press and United Press International wire services. He returned his gaze to Jesse with a sad look in his eyes. “You know, Jesse, you’re a nice kid, but I’m afraid you might be in the wrong business. Even on the obits, your copy is not that clean. And this School Lunch thing . . . I can’t seem to get bulletins out of you when I need them.” Jesse realized he was on shaky ground. “I gave you the School Lunches at seven. There they are, buried in your in-basket.” Weatherly sifted through several piles of paper on his desk before shuffling through his overflowing in-box. “Oh, I see. Guess I forgot they were there.” He glanced at the copy and looked back at Jesse with only a fleeting apology in his eyes that quickly morphed into stern inquiry. “So, you really want to be a newsman, or is this job just some step on your ladder of success?” “I want to be a reporter more than anything in the world. Give me a chance. I can do this. I know I can. I’ll prove it to you.” Jesse had risen to his feet without realizing it. He looked around to see the entire newsroom paying attention. For the first time, the city editor smiled at Jesse and shook his head in reluctant approval. “All right, I like enthusiasm from my cub reporters. Tell you what. I’ll see if I can find a story for you to prove your case. I’m gonna give you one chance and you better not blow it.” Jesse raised his arms to flex his biceps. “Yes. That’s all I need. You won’t be sorry. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Weatherly waved him away from the desk. “Don’t thank me yet.”