The Fourth Estate

“Right,” said Armstrong, avoiding his lawyer’s disbelieving stare. “Here’s my offer. I’ll take the paper off your hands for twenty-five cents, the current cover price.” He laughed loudly. The lawyers from Chicago smiled for the first time, and Russell’s head sank further into his hands.

“But you will carry the debt of $207 million on your own balance sheet. And while due diligence is being carried out, any day-to-day costs will continue to be your responsibility.” He swung round to face Russell. “Do offer our two friends a drink while they consider my proposition.”

Armstrong wondered just how long it would take them to bargain. But then, he had no way of knowing that Mr. Withers had been instructed to sell the paper for a dollar. The lawyer would have to report back to his clients that they had lost seventy-five cents on the deal.

“We will return to Chicago and take instructions,” was all Withers said.

Once the two lawyers from Chicago had left, Russell spent the rest of the afternoon trying to convince his client what a mistake it would be to buy the Tribune, whatever the terms.

By the time he left Trump Tower a few minutes after six—having sat through the longest lunch of his life—they had agreed that if Withers rang back accepting his offer, Armstrong would make it clear that he was no longer interested.

* * *

When Withers called the following morning to say that his clients had accepted the offer, Armstrong told him he was having second thoughts.

“Why don’t you visit the building before you commit yourself?” suggested Withers.

Armstrong could see no harm in that, and even felt it would give him an easy way out. Russell suggested that he should accompany him, and after they had seen over the building, he would phone Chicago and explain that his client no longer wished to proceed.

When they arrived at the New York Tribune building later that afternoon, Armstrong stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the art deco skyscraper. It was love at first sight. When he walked into the lobby and saw the seventeen-foot globe marked with the distance in miles to the world’s capital cities, including London, Moscow and Jerusalem, he proposed. When the hundreds of staff who had crammed into the hall to await his arrival began cheering, the marriage was consummated. However much the best man tried to talk him out of it, he couldn’t stop the signing ceremony taking place.

Six weeks later Armstrong took possession of the New York Tribune. The headline on the paper’s front page that afternoon told New Yorkers, “DICK TAKES OVER!”

* * *

Townsend first heard of Armstrong’s offer to purchase the Tribune for twenty-five cents on the Today show, just as he was about to step into a shower. He stopped and stared down at his rival, slumped in an armchair and wearing a red baseball cap with “The N.Y. Tribune” emblazoned on it.

“I intend to keep New York’s greatest newspaper on the streets,” he was telling Barbara Walters, “whatever the personal cost to me.”

“The Star is already on the streets,” said Townsend, as if Armstrong were in the room.

“And keep the finest journalists in America in a job.”

“They’re already working for the Star.”

“And perhaps, if I’m lucky, make a small profit,” Armstrong added, laughing.

“You’ll have to be very lucky,” said Townsend. “Now ask him how he intends to deal with the unions,” he added, glaring at Barbara Walters.

“But isn’t there a massive overmanning problem which has beleaguered the Tribune for the past three decades?”

Townsend left his shower running as he waited to hear the reply. “That may well have been the case in the past, Barbara,” said Armstrong. “But I have made it abundantly clear to all the trade unions concerned that if they won’t accept my proposed cuts in the workforce, I will be left with no choice but to close the paper down once and for all.”

“How long will you give them?” demanded Townsend.

“And just how long are you willing to go on losing over a million dollars a week before you carry out that threat?”

Townsend’s eyes never left the screen.

“I couldn’t have made my position clearer with the trade union leaders,” Armstrong said firmly. “Six weeks at the outside.”

“Well, good luck, Mr. Armstrong,” said Barbara Walters. “I look forward to interviewing you again in six weeks’ time.”

“An invitation I’ll be happy to accept, Barbara,” said Armstrong, touching the peak of his baseball cap. Townsend flicked off the television, threw off his dressing-gown and headed for the shower.

From that moment he didn’t need to employ anyone to tell him what Armstrong was up to. For an investment of a quarter a day he could be brought up to date by reading the front page of the Tribune. Woody Allen suggested that it would take a plane crash in the middle of Queens to remove Armstrong from the front page of the paper—and even then it would have to be Concorde.

Townsend was also having his problems with the unions. When the Star came out on strike, the Tribune almost doubled its circulation overnight. Armstrong began to appear on every television channel that would take him, telling New Yorkers that “If you know how to negotiate with the unions, strikes become unnecessary.” The trade union leaders quickly sensed that Armstrong enjoyed being on the front page of the paper and regularly appearing on television, and that he would be loath to close the Tribune down or admit he had failed.