Deadline Man

I stand, nod to the M.E.’s secretary, and leave the package of original files with her. Then I return to the Governor’s Library. A meeting of features editors is going on. I silently curse all the damage endless meetings have done to newspapers as I go to my office to wait, the briefcase with the files on my lap like a heavy tumor, the stress of the day about to twist my head off. I try again in half an hour and the room is empty. I slide the briefcase behind the Churchill books and walk quickly to the door, turning out the lights.

My cell phone rings as I step out into the lobby. It’s a producer at one of the radio stations. Can I be on the five o’clock show to talk about the market? Sure. If I’m not in jail. I scan the big room, looking for detectives walking my way from the elevators. I only see a young woman in a black-and-red checked miniskirt, her hair swaying lushly as she walks by. I smile at her. I hear Pam: You are a monster.

Chapter Twenty

After the radio show, I walk outside into the gathering gloom. I don’t know where the day has gone. The sidewalks are thick with people leaving their offices, rushing to catch the bus, and the weather has changed. A cold wind gusts off the bay. Soon daylight savings time will be gone and Seattle will slip into the winter months when night comes early. It’s suicide season and the time of year when distracted drivers run down black-clad pedestrians and people complain about the dark and the rain. I like it.

The police have not come for me, not even to talk. I couldn’t bring myself to check the online site of the Free Press to see if there’s news about Pam. My cell phone says it is 5:30 and it shows five missed calls and one voice message. I had muted it while writing on deadline. All the missed calls and the message are from Melinda Stewart. I didn’t see her in the newsroom today and I don’t want to talk. But I step into an alley and call her.

“Where have you been?”

“Bad day,” I say.

“Tell me about it.” She speaks slowly, her voice odd. “They called me at home. Did they get you?”

My stomach tightens. Everyone I know could be in danger. But I ask her what she’s talking about.

“I’m out.”

“They fired you?”

A long pause, and then: “No. They demoted me to night news editor and laid off Jennifer Campbell.” Jennifer had been in that job. “They’re killing the national desk, closing the Washington bureau.” The cell towers carry the sound of her choked-back sobs.

“Oh, Melinda, I’m so sorry.” Against the street noise I ask how they could do this. That she was the best editor in the newsroom. And closing the Washington bureau—along with Knight Ridder, it had been one of the few news organizations to challenge the Bush administration’s claims over weapons of mass destruction and al Qaeda links in the run-up to the war. How could they? “What?” I lean against the wall, disbelief shaking my abdomen.

“That goddamn James Sterling,” I nearly yell. “He never had the guts his mother had. She would never do this. She would have kept the family in line, and she never would have closed the bureau.”

“I thought she was a shrew,” Melinda says. “But you were her boy. To me, Jim has been a better publisher. He’s fought against the family. They would have sold years ago. Now they’d just close the place without him. He’s at least trying to find a buyer.”

“What, you’re on familiar terms with the asshole? I can’t believe you’d defend him, especially after what they’ve done to you.”

“I’m not defending him.” Her voice changes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m still employed, I guess.”

“They’re laying off 125, I hear. Most are older staff. Mark May is gone. Susie McDonald. Who’s going to cover federal courts? I can’t believe it. I get having to cut staff to make a sale happen, but why do it to the top talent?”

“Maybe they don’t know what the hell they’re doing,” I say.

She talks over me. “You’d better be prepared. You’re a high-cost employee, babe. Not to mention how many people you’ve pissed off over the years.”

“I know.”

“Are you hearing me? Maggie Sterling is dead. You don’t have your protector any more. What are you going to do if you get cut? Have you been thinking about this? They might close the whole paper.”

I lean away from the street noise. “I’ve been kind of preoccupied.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“I’m scared to death.” My brain kicks out statistics: twenty percent of newspaper jobs lost between 2005 and 2008 alone—good jobs—what the hell happened to all those people? But that’s not my biggest concern at the moment.

Melinda’s voice hikes up half an octave. “These greedy, short-sighted sons-of-bitches have destroyed our profession.” Her voice changes, melts. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Now she’s holding back sobs. “What am I going to do?”

Her reaction is understandable. She had one of the plum editing assignments in the paper. But at least she’s employed. Me? Even if I had the temperament, I can’t go to work for some PR shop selling stories to newspapers, because there aren’t going to be any newspapers.

After a long pause, I just say her name again.

“Would you get a bottle of gin and be with me?”