Deadline Man

“Pete Montgomery and I are old friends,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. His body looks as if it hasn’t stretched in a decade. “I’m sure he’d talk to you at the right time.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m not going to lecture the publisher about the need to get information out the door. If we sit on it, there should be a good reason. Hell, Conspiracy Grrl had it a week ago. But she doesn’t have my readership. I hope. So I just tell him I think the column is solid and I hope Montgomery will talk. That we scooped all the competition, including the Wall Street Journal, doesn’t seem to interest him. Readers will often say, “You guys just want to sell newspapers.” I wish it were so. At the big chains, they want a hefty profit margin—if they can get it by cutting circulation, fine. At the Free Press—the family just wants its money, and the publisher doesn’t want to be harassed by his buddies at the Rainier Club.

My body is rigid in the chair. I don’t want to be here. Maybe he’s called me up to give me my pink slip in person and the column will just be the excuse. I never thought I would believe that about a publisher of the Free Press. Publisher meddling is commonplace at other papers, bad papers—hands off the advertisers, give a puff piece to this department store. But not at the Free Press.

Still not looking at me, Sterling talks about the uncertainty of the market, how we have to be careful what we write because it can move a stock price. I nod but I am half listening. The rhythms of daily newspapering have ruled my adult life. The Tuesday column is due at one p.m. My job may be gone well before that, but all I really know is that I am taking a fresh breath and a column is due. In the morning you’re on the front page, but by the evening you’re on the bottom of the birdcage. The machine must be constantly fed. I am thinking of the next column.

“It’s a very delicate time in the life of this newspaper,” he says, propping his hands in front of his face again. His voice quavers. Nerves? Maybe he is about to fire me.

I wonder what he’s trying to tell me. Back off? Do more? He doesn’t say.

“I’ll try to get an interview with Pete Montgomery,” I say. In a minute the tent comes down and the meeting ends.

***

The newsroom oozes a paranoid, bitter, sad vibe. People look up from their desks and look away. Some huddle in groups and gossip quietly. Gossip is usually a newsroom delight. Now it’s all bleak. It’s a hell of a time to be looking for work in the newspaper business. I think about telling the business editor about my audience with the publisher, but, no. I don’t want her to start looking over her shoulder. An Olympic follow-up column needs to be written soon. I open up my little office and the red message light glows merrily on the phone. The first message is the nearly hysterical voice of Heidi Benson, the director of corporate communications at Olympic. Her voice is little changed when I get her in person.

“I’ve never read such an irresponsible piece of reporting! This is full of errors! I just can’t even believe you write on the business page, you are so anti-business. It’s no wonder you people are going out of business.”

Some flacks are helpful to journalists. Others see us as The Enemy, particularly if we fail to be cheerleaders, ask embarrassing questions, or discover unpleasant information. Anyone who questions the company line is little better than a child molester. Heidi Benson is definitely in this latter category. As I listen to her, I write readers thank-you notes for their emails—I call it constituent service. Everybody who writes me gets a reply, even the nuts.

“Well?” she demands.

“Why didn’t you return my calls?” I crook the receiver on my shoulder and check in on the Web. My column is one of the most-viewed items today on the Free Press site. And Olympic shares are up five percent. I look at my emails: concern from friends about the Free Press: its sale or demise is at the top of the media news report from Romenesko. In the same report, a professor says “this is the best time ever for the media.” Maybe if you have tenure and are not a working journalist trying to find a job. A reader emails: “I’ve always said YOU’RE A SOCIALIST MORON! You don’t have readers because you are all SOCIALISTS. The Free Press is a dead horse that needs to be put down!!!” I close my eyes and listen to the voice on the phone.

“I thought it would be clear we didn’t choose to participate in the story.” Heidi lectures with the finesse of an old lawn mower.

“That’s a pity,” I say.

“This should never have appeared. What will our shareholders think? What will our employees think?”

Maybe they will think they’re getting some real information about the future of their company, instead of the tomb-like silence that has emanated from the executive suite for the past several months.

“So walk me through the errors,” I say. “I’ll be happy to make a correction.” I’m not too worried. I know it’s nailed down, and indeed she wants to argue about things like the headline and “the tone.”

“It draws the wrong conclusions!” she sputters. “This is all speculation!”

I remind her that part of what I do is to speculate, based on facts and analysis: I’m a columnist. This sends her into a long silence.

“Heidi?”

The phone line is empty, then, “I’m just trying to make you understand how unacceptable this is. How one-sided.” I can almost hear her teeth grinding.

“I want it to be more complete. An interview with Pete Montgomery would be a great start.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Is he in town?”

Again, silence. I just cradle the phone and run through my emails. I set one aside to read again.

“So talk to me about ODS, Olympic Defense Systems.” I start a fresh page of Microsoft Word just in case.

“Are you crazy?” she nearly screams it.

“Let’s start off on the right foot again. I know the paper hasn’t had a reporter cover your company for a long time, so maybe we can have lunch?”

“After this? After what you’ve done to me?”