War at the Wall Street Journal (32 page)

"It's starting to look like a real newspaper," attempted Ginsberg, hoping to draw out his boss on the paper. The reaction was muted.

Murdoch's brow furrowed. His white handkerchief peeked out of his front breast pocket, like the white roots that betrayed his pale brown dyed hair. "The stories could be better, but it's a start."

This morning, April 21, 2008, was the first day of the official redesign that was inching the paper in the direction where Murdoch wanted it to move. Previously the old
Journal,
with its airless but important appearance, had seemed beyond time's changes, newsstand appeal, and even questions of readability. It seemed designed for those so seriously and closely intertwined in the events described that not even a nuance could be sacrificed. The paper's front page had contained three lengthy feature stories every day down its sides and middle, like columns adorning the front of an ancient temple. In lieu of sensational photos, the page showcased stately ink-drawn portraits of the business figures it featured. Even before Murdoch, the temple had been under siege: breaking news, color, and photos, the province of the populist papers, had nosed their way into those sacrosanct spaces.

The changes Brauchli and others had rushed to make were evident in that morning's paper, which displayed a new sports page, more political coverage, shorter stories, and bigger headlines. The unusual vertical design that had graced the front page of the
Journal
for most of its history had all but disappeared. The day before Pennsylvanians were to vote in a primary for either Hillary or Obama, political stories—accompanied by large color photos—dominated the front page. A four-column headline stretched over them, announcing in tall, bold letters: "Latest Attacks Roil Democrats."

The notion that the
Journal
could be a second read, famously espoused by the legendary midcentury
Journal
editor Barney Kilgore, was no more. No one had time to read two publications. And anyway, Murdoch didn't want to be second at anything. As smaller papers around the country faltered, Murdoch wanted to pick off their readers. Turning to the second section of the
Journal,
"Marketplace," he mused, "I think we'll change it from 'Marketplace' to 'Business.'"

He paused briefly, then said, "I don't know." Then he abruptly shot down his own suggestion. It seemed that Murdoch wasn't exactly certain what he wanted to do with the paper he had coveted for twenty years. At first, his judgments had looked haphazard; he demanded the paper make its Web site free and then would reverse himself once presented with Dow Jones's research on the money such a decision could cost the company. He was an improviser.

Though the paper wasn't what he wanted it to be yet, he was casual, confident, and unconcerned. The
Journal
would evolve, each move making possible the next, and in time a new personality—breathless, naive, and attention-getting—would greet readers who once considered the paper the province of carefully considered judgments and old blue suits. "More graphics, with more color; just you wait," he murmured.

He opened the
Financial Times,
London's
Journal
equivalent, which Murdoch had attempted—and uncharacteristically failed—to buy years before. He glanced through, looking for lessons. As he scanned the pages, he noted the preeminence of reports from behind the scenes. He loved colorful quotes. Murdoch was a fan of full access and on-the-ground reporting. He didn't want his reporters analyzing; he wanted them pounding the pavement, telling him what the important people had to say about important things.

"See, they have very strong reporting on Obama and Clinton. In the
FT,
you hear word for word what they're saying, they have somebody with them, you can tell." He took a quick look at the
Journal.
"Our story," he said, pausing. "Typical overediting." But then he pulled back, not wanting to be too harsh. "You could argue it either way."

As he was no longer the renegade never invited to dinner, Murdoch now found himself a tourist attraction for the obsequious politicos and dignitaries on global jaunts. They knew, as he did, that enemies and opponents were best kept on a first-name basis. He enjoyed their entreaties. He wasn't afraid of making his own. Right now, Murdoch wanted a sit-down with Obama, and Ginsberg wanted to firm up a meeting between his boss and the young candidate who was closing in on the Democratic nomination. Hillary Clinton was expected to win in Pennsylvania, but Obama was the star and had the momentum.

Murdoch made a point of establishing friendly relationships with politicians in his adopted homes. When Hillary Clinton stepped up to become senator from New York, Murdoch made a bridge to her as a fellow pragmatist. She was planning to run for president and didn't hold grudges. The
Journal
's editorial page never made such allowances. It had hounded the Clintons for everything but their fashion decisions and devotion to fast food. In a particularly vicious attack in June 1993, the editorial page singled out Vincent Foster, deputy White House counsel and a former law partner of the then First Lady, with the headline "Who Is Vincent Foster?" Other editorials about Foster and his role in the Clinton White House followed. On July 20, 1993, Foster was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head. With him was a suicide note of sorts, reading, "The WSJ editors lie without consequence." But Hillary let it all go and came to the table. Her reward was what seemed to be, at the top of the primary season, Murdoch's support.

Hillary wasn't the stock to buy at this juncture. Murdoch, intrigued by Obama and his surprise win in the Iowa caucus, had started to distance himself from Senator Clinton. Months earlier, in January, Murdoch's
New York Post
endorsed Obama over the former first lady, disappointing those in the Clinton camp who had pieced together the rapprochement with Murdoch. Ginsberg, who had worked for the Clintons years earlier, had reached out to Obama numerous times, but to no avail. Obama-ites, including Al Gore and others, said the candidate was interested in talking to Murdoch. Yet no meeting was forthcoming. The latest intermediary, former U.S. senator Tom Daschle, had broached the subject to Ginsberg, who decided on the plane to gauge his boss's interest in pursuing a meeting.

"We don't want to be supplicants," Ginsberg said quietly to Murdoch.

"On the other hand," replied Murdoch, looking toward the window that morning on the plane, privately exploring an altogether different angle, "we don't want him to win the presidency thinking we are bitterly hostile."

Just before 10:00 a.m. as the plane lifted off, Murdoch's thoughts turned to his comments for the lunch with Atlantic Council members that day. He went over his address for the gathering. Like the dinner speech, these words were written by recently retired Bush speechwriter William McGurn. Murdoch had just hired him as his speechwriter; in a pleasant felicitous synergy, McGurn's column debuted on the op-ed page of the
Journal
that morning.

His carefully organized pages in hand, Murdoch asked Peggy, the flight attendant, for some coconut water, one of his favorite health boosters. Murdoch was always looking for a way to maintain his energy, to stay youthful, to not slow down. It was one of the habits that betrayed his awareness of growing older, a bit of reality he successfully ignored. Wendi had banned dessert as part of an effort to keep Murdoch slim. Peggy placed a lowball glass in the gold-rimmed built-in coaster in front of her employer, who stood up and raised it. "It's a magic potion. No calories, and packed with all sorts of..." He trailed off, snapping his fingers together, trying to remember the name. "Electrolytes," he finally resolved, heading down the hallway to his private meeting room as the plane passed over New Jersey.

 

Two weeks before, on April 7 to be exact, Marcus Brauchli sat in the dingy ninth-floor conference room of Dow Jones's headquarters in Battery Park City. He had arranged for the chiefs of domestic and foreign bureaus to call in that morning to hear a discussion of the paper's proposed direction. Around the table, deputy managing editor for news coverage Bill Grueskin, Page One editor Mike Williams, and deputy managing editor Alix Freedman all sat with him. The New York chiefs also gathered to hear a new way to think about the paper. Brauchli hand-picked Grueskin and Williams for their jobs. Each, like Brauchli, possessed a desire to change the paper and the confidence to think they were the right men to do it. Freedman was the longest-serving deputy M.E. of the three and the only one to survive Brauchli's management shuffle intact. She was now the anointed keeper of the
Journal
's ethical standards.

Murdoch's outspoken statements that there were too many editors at the paper—he had repeated his amazement that stories in the
Journal
were touched "an average of 8.3 times" before appearing in print—fueled anxieties that were already running high. Fear of firings (what was a Murdoch takeover without a bloodletting?) accelerated as the new era announced itself in not-so-subtle ways. Traditional "leders," the long, narrative, front-page stories that were a
Journal
trademark, were disappearing in favor of shorter news stories. Brevity was always desirable these days. So was anything political. Coverage of the presidential primaries dominated the front page in a paper that had originally made its name with enlightening features on business and the economy. This revolution had originally been instigated by Brauchli, but it was Murdoch's message that had been heard loud and clear around the
Journal
empire.

Engaging and charming one-on-one, Brauchli fell apart in front of crowds, cracking obscure jokes and making casual remarks that sometimes left permanent scars. Brauchli was a constant planner, often weighing how to get his way while giving his audience the perception that they had gotten what they wanted. His promotion strained this strategy. He had too many constituents to please all of a sudden, including Murdoch. He was determined to win over Murdoch and, at the same time, carefully counter him.

In the past few months Brauchli had appeared pale and gaunt, constantly rushing to get somewhere else but never quite arriving. The editors who worked for him could barely get a moment alone to discuss a story—he was too preoccupied with the task of preserving his publication to run it. Most dangerous, though, was his lack of combat training; he had no notion of the tested and gradually perfected tactics that allowed Murdoch to plot a murder while smiling at the face of the chosen victim. Brauchli read up on his subject. Andrew Neil had written in his book
Full Disclosure
that Murdoch had courted and then shunned him when he was the editor of Murdoch's
Sunday Times.
Brauchli, like Neil, felt he would be the exception, the one to make it work with Murdoch.

As the meeting began, the stressed-out Brauchli attempted to articulate his editorial philosophy, which he hoped would not be too distant from his new employer's vision of what the paper should be. "Every story on Page One has to compete for space and length," he said. This represented a break from the
Journal
's past. No longer would feature stories dominate the page. Williams, the Page One editor, explained this further: the front page would be more responsive to news. He had already sent out memos to the staff urging them to write shorter stories and be punchier in their writing. Bureau chiefs chafed at their glibness. Grueskin, formerly the head of the paper's Web site, urged more news breaks and online packages.

But Brauchli had a credibility problem. This latest direction for the
Journal
was the polar opposite of what he and Crovitz had championed the entire previous year.

Now, in 2008, as he pushed a message in the meeting that the
Journal
would cover more politics and general news, he wasn't admitting even to himself that the previous redesign of the paper promoted exactly the type of story his new boss despised. Murdoch wanted straight news stories, and Brauchli found himself in the difficult position of backtracking. His new message undermined the old one. This is what his life had become, a series of misfired communications and bureaucratic gatherings. The non-New York bureau chiefs listened via conference call as Brauchli led the meeting. The people in the room could sometimes hear them snickering.

Toward the end of the meeting, Brauchli checked his BlackBerry and saw that he had a message from Thomson. He told the group he had to excuse himself and go to another meeting. Brauchli returned the call. "We have to go and talk to Les," Thomson said, referring to Leslie Hinton.

The two men walked to Hinton's office; he had just returned from a trip to China.

"
Ni hao,
" Brauchli said, Mandarin for "hello." Hinton didn't smile.

"There's no easy way to put this but we want you to step down as managing editor. We don't think things are working out. We'd like to make a change." Neither Hinton nor Thomson went into detail or explained why. Brauchli knew they were merely handing down a verdict arrived at by their boss.

 

Murdoch's influence often began with installing a like-minded editor. As a student of history, Brauchli shouldn't have been surprised. Plus, so many of his colleagues were already missing: the eleventh-floor executive ranks had been decimated. Stuart Karle, the beloved newsroom lawyer who had edited the
Columbia Daily Spectator
when Brauchli was a reporter, recently had been fired. Brauchli had imagined this grim scenario a hundred times, even going so far as to liken himself to a soldier in Iraq who sees officers shot and wonders if the next bullet is for him.

Suddenly, he heard himself say, "I think it would be impossible for me to remain as editor if I don't have the support of the owner." His twenty-four years of climbing ended abruptly with that sentence. "I'll do whatever I feel is in the best interests of the
Journal
as an institution, including stepping down if necessary. But I think you're making a mistake."

Thomson chimed in. "Don't worry. We can take care of you financially."