White Collar Girl (16 page)

Holy crap.
I swallowed hard.

“Mr. Briar told me to gather all the memos that had been distributed to the department heads and destroy them.”

“He what?” The hair on the back of my neck stood up for the umpteenth time. “Anthony Briar? The Senior Director of Infrastructure and Maintenance for the Chicago Transit Authority told you to destroy these?”

She nodded. “Only I didn't. But I didn't mean to disobey him. I had a dentist appointment after work that day and I was rushing to get out of the office on time. I put the memos in my drawer and figured I'd destroy them the next day, but then there were meetings and well, I—I plain forgot. In fact, I forgot all about them until the derailment. And it's been eating me up alive inside ever since.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

“God, no.” She shook her head. “No. I've been too afraid. I'm hoping that enough other people in the office saw that memo that they won't be able to trace it back to me. Do you think they'll figure out it was me who told you?”

I didn't answer her question. I couldn't say. “All I can tell you is that I think you're doing the right thing.” I studied her face. The color was gone from her cheeks. “Why didn't you go to the police with this?”

“I was too afraid. I called you at first because of your articles, but then I lost my nerve. That's why I hung up. But when I realized you were a woman—I figured I could trust you. That's why I decided to meet with you. I'm showing you this now because
I'm hoping you'll understand my predicament. Do you understand what I'm up against and why I can't lose this job?”

“I do. I do understand.”

She looked at the memos in my hand. “You can keep those if you want. I made copies for you. I'm figuring I can trust you not to use my name—you know, on account of you being a woman reporter and all.”

It was the first time that my gender had ever worked to my advantage.

•   •   •

I
raced back to the city room and stood over my typewriter while I knocked out a quick memo and then rushed over to Mr. Ellsworth at the horseshoe.

He read it and puckered his mouth. “Christ, Walsh. Where'd you get this from?” He turned to me, fingers in his beard. “Wait—don't tell me, you
can't tell me.
” He set the memo down on his desk and shook his head. “You're accusing the directors of the CTA of blatant criminal activity, and without a shred of evidence.”

“Oh, I have evidence, all right.”

“Well, let's have it.”

I hesitated. My hands were sweating. My heart was pounding.

“Well?” He hiked his eyebrows up on his forehead.

“I have the evidence. Hard evidence. And I have an exclusive. But before I show it to you, I need something in return.”

He chucked his pen onto the desk. “What the—”

“I'm sorry, but you can't cut me out of this piece like you did with the insurance fraud. You can't have me doing all the work and then hand over my byline to Walter or Henry or anyone else.”

“You got some nerve, Walsh. You do realize that you're talking to your managing editor.”

“I do realize that, sir, but with all due respect, I also realize
what I'm sitting on and that any managing editor in this city would jump at the chance to run this story.”

“I don't like your tactics, Walsh, I can tell you that right now. This scoop of yours better be as big as you say it is.”

“So do we have a deal?”

He folded his arms and gave me a look that seemed to be equal parts contempt and surprise. He didn't think I had this kind of fight in me. I didn't know I had it, either. The din of the city room seemed muted. It was a showdown between the two of us.

“Okay, Walsh,” he said eventually. “We have a deal.”

I nodded and handed over the memos from J.T. Porter and Company.

Mr. Ellsworth glanced at them and sprang up from his chair. “Hey, Copeland,” he called out, his eyes still on the memos. “Get over here.”

Mr. Copeland came over and stood next to Mr. Ellsworth, reading over his shoulder before glancing at me, dumbstruck. “Where the hell did you get these?”

“From someone who works for the CTA.”

“Does this someone have a name? A title?”

“They work under one of the executives.” That was all I was willing to say.

“Can you get more information from this guy if we need it?” asked Mr. Copeland.

“That won't be a problem.” I found it reassuring that they assumed my source was a man. I hoped for the woman's sake that others would draw the same conclusion.

Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland finished shuffling through the memos. Mr. Ellsworth tossed his pencil onto his desk and rubbed both hands over his face as if he were scrubbing it clean. He turned to Mr. Copeland. “Do we have any art for this?”

“I'll have Russell pull something from the photo lab.”

Mr. Ellsworth looked at me and said, “Well, what are you waiting for, Walsh? I need your copy on my desk by four o'clock, in time for the page-one meeting.”

The page-one meeting was
the
meeting where all the editors hashed through the top stories and mapped out the next day's edition, including what would appear on the front page.

“Did you hear what I just said?” He gave me that impatient look of his.

I was still stunned. “Yes, sir. You got it.”

I hurried back to my desk and spread my notes out, sorting through the napkins and scraps of paper. My hands were shaking as I spun the copy paper into my typewriter and started crafting my lede. I never thought that doing what I always wanted would make me so nervous. But it came with the burden of responsibility to protect my source and to get it right.

At four thirty I paced back and forth while the page-one meeting was underway inside the glass cocoon of a conference room. Plumes of smoke collected above their heads as the men questioned and scrutinized every item the other editors presented.

When Mr. Ellsworth emerged, I pounced on him. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to run my piece?”

He seemed surprised that I'd asked such a thing. “Hell, yes, we're running the piece.”

“I meant
my
piece. With
my
byline.”

“You'll get your byline. Front page. Above the fold.” Then he reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Good work, Walsh.”

It was the first praise I'd ever received from him in the seven months I'd worked there and the first time since I'd stepped into that city room that I felt like a real reporter.

•   •   •

T
he day my story ran I met Jack for lunch, plopping the
Tribune
down on the table between us. My byline was right there in black-and-white. While he read through the article, I glanced about the coffee shop, looking at the Christmas decorations, the fake snow on the windows that spelled
NOEL
, the sprig of mistletoe above the cash register.

Meanwhile, my leg was anxiously bobbing beneath the table. When I couldn't take it any longer, I asked, “Well? What do you think?”

“It's—it's great.” Jack folded the newspaper and slipped it onto the seat beside him. I think if he'd had a fish with him, he would have wrapped the thing up in my story.

“That's it? That's all you have to say?”

“I told you it's great.” He opened his menu. “Really great. No, I mean it.” Which of course meant he didn't. He motioned over the waitress. “We should probably hurry up and order. I have to get back to the paper soon. I'm on deadline and I want to get out of there early today. I'm going to Mass with my parents later, remember?”

Of course. It was Christmas Eve. I'd almost forgotten. Jack had made excuses and got me out of attending Mass with the Caseys but warned that next year I'd be expected to go.

I glanced at the menu while Judy Garland sang over the speakers, telling us to have ourselves a merry little Christmas. The lyrics made me melancholy. Would there ever be a time when the holidays were not an aching, painful reminder of what and who was missing from our lives?

I closed my menu and ordered the meat loaf even though I wasn't hungry anymore. I shouldn't have brought up my article again but I had to. So after the waitress disappeared, I leaned forward and said, “So that's
really
all you're going to say?”

“About what?” He seemed truly puzzled, which was even more upsetting.

“That's a huge story I just broke, and all you can say is ‘Great. Great job'?”

“It
is
great. You
did
do a
great
job. I told you that.”

“You don't seem all that happy for me.”

His shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. “Honestly, I'm just a little surprised you didn't tell me about it before it turned up in the paper, that's all.”

“Because it all went down in a matter of hours. You know how this business works.”

“I know, but you could have at least told me you had a source inside the CTA.”

“Jack, you work for a competing newspaper. If the situation had been reversed, would you have told me? And you, better than anyone, know how hard it's been for me to get my work noticed. I had an exclusive—not to mention that I was working with an anonymous source. Was I supposed to hand all that information over to you because you're my fiancé?”

He shook his head, defenseless. “You're right. I'm sorry. I'm proud of you. I am. I guess I'm just not used to competing with you.”

“Don't think of it like we're competing with each other. The derailment story is my first real break. It was a lucky break for me, and I got it at the cost of other people's lives. That part doesn't make me very proud.” For the sake of soothing his ego, I found myself diminishing the importance of what I'd done. And to make sure he still felt superior to me as a reporter and as a man, I felt compelled to add, “And it doesn't mean that Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Copeland are going to move me off of society news. In fact, I'm pretty sure they won't.” As soon as I'd said it, I worried that it was true. I got a sick feeling in my stomach, like my innards were radiating heat. I couldn't afford to lose what ground I'd just gained. I was already hungry for my next big piece.
My editors can't expect me to go back to covering the women's pages. Can they?

“I know it's going to take more than one story to get you off society news.” He leaned forward, reached for my hand and kissed it. “I'm sorry I was such a jerk. I really am proud of you. You know that, don't you?”

After we finished lunch, he rushed back to the
Sun-Times
, but I still had a little time to kill and decided to wander around the Loop. Snow had started to fall, leaving behind a picturesque dusting on the sidewalks and streets. I cut east and walked past the holiday windows at Marshall Field's on State Street. Animated snowmen and elves were gliding about on an artificial skating pond. Enormous boxes with oversize bows were stacked on top of one another. Candles shimmered, tinsel sparkled and people crowded in on the sidewalk to get a closer look.

As I passed by the windows I remembered all the times my parents had taken Eliot and me to see the giant Christmas tree and sit on Santa's lap. Even as we grew older there was the
traditional family brunch we had each year in the Walnut Room. Back then we were like a normal family. Not like the Caseys, maybe, but still normal enough. My father would come into our rooms and wake us up early, urging us to get dressed so we could hurry down to State Street. My mother would wear one of her best dresses, like the blue satin or my favorite, her green velvet with the lace trim and pearl buttons. My parents never failed to know other people who were there with their families, and while we waited for our food, my father would get up and go from table to table, like he was hosting the whole event.

But that was long ago and those were bittersweet memories. I felt aimless now, like a snowflake floating downward, looking for a place to land. Here it was the day before Christmas and I hadn't bought a single gift for anyone, not even for Jack. The stores were filled with shoppers and Christmas carolers were on the corners. People everywhere were caught up in the holiday frenzy, and I was hoping it was contagious and that I might catch their spirit.

I went inside Marshall Field's and stood before the display of wristwatches. I was reminded how Ernest Hemingway, in a rare show of compassion, had taken off his wristwatch after Eliot's funeral and placed it in my father's hand.

“Time is the only thing that helps,” he'd said, curling my father's fingers around the watch.

My father wore Hemingway's watch every day after that until six months later, when it stopped keeping time. He never bothered to get it fixed and he hadn't worn a watch since. Even though I didn't really have the extra money, I bought my father a Timex. For Christmas. So that time could begin moving forward again for him.

Before leaving Field's, I settled on a sweater for Jack, a necktie for his father, some dusting powder for Mrs. Casey, and a bottle of Shalimar for my mother. The snow had started to pick up, and
with the winds gusting off the lake it set the flakes blizzarding sideways. I made one more stop on my way back to the paper and popped into Kroch's & Brentano's on Wabash Avenue, where I picked up a copy of
The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit
for Scott.

•   •   •

W
ith my shopping bags filled, I fought against the weather and walked over the snow-covered sidewalks, making my way back to the Tribune Tower. The lobby had a Christmas tree in the center with a cloth of white snow skirting around the bottom. A radio at the front desk was playing
Jingle Bells
. It felt like Christmas when you stepped inside.

But not so up on the fourth floor. The city room didn't stop for the holidays. Deadlines were deadlines, and accidents, murders, earthquakes and other tragedies halfway around the world were still happening and needed to be covered. I still had a story due that afternoon myself.

I was working on a follow-up piece on the CTA scandal, mostly about the reaction from the CTA spokesman, their lawyer, William Lynch, and someone from the mayor's office. Earlier when I'd called around, asking questions, I'd gotten a lot of
No comments
. They were caught off guard. I was sure they'd never expected any of this to leak out. Already people were calling for the Senior Director of Infrastructure and Maintenance to resign.

But still, even as we continued to report the news, we managed to have our own pathetic sort of holiday party. There was whiskey and scotch on the counter in the galley kitchen, along with a case of Schlitz. M had brought in a plate of cookies and Henry's wife had made a fruitcake. Someone's radio was playing
White Christmas
, but that didn't stop Randy from singing,
“You can trust your car to the man who wears the star. . . .”
M wore a
Christmas-tree brooch on her ample bosom. Peter came to work that day wearing a Santa Claus cap along with his green eyeshade. That was the extent of our festivities.

People would go to their desks, write up their stories, call for the copyboys to retrieve their work before rejoining the party. Mr. Ellsworth leaned against the wall with his red pen out, marking up Walter's piece. Mr. Copeland had a scotch in one hand, red pen in the other, doing the same to Henry's work.

“You trust your source on this?” asked Mr. Copeland.

Henry drew down hard on his cigarette. “Absolutely.”

“And did you get confirmation on that second quote?”

“Check.”

Mr. Copeland grumbled and glanced again at the copy. “And you're sure about the dollar amount?”

“Completely.”

“You've got art?”

“Yep.”

Mr. Copeland capped his pen, shoved it in his breast pocket and handed back the copy. “Nice work. Get it to the composing room.”

It was late in the day. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, making it officially Christmas Eve. One by one I watched my coworkers finish up their work, bid the rest of us good night and head home to their families. Mrs. Angelo was going to her sister's house in Hyde Park; Gabby was going to her sister's; Benny was catching a train bound for his childhood home in South Bend. M went into the ladies' room and came out a few minutes later dolled up for her date that night in a sequined dress with her hair teased high and her lips painted a shade darker. Mr. Ellsworth nearly dropped his drink when he saw her. Randy sang
I Wanna Be Loved by You,
and Walter whistled through his teeth
like a sailor. Before long it was just Mr. Ellsworth, Walter and me left behind. The night shift was already at their desks, picking up where we left off.

Walter drained his drink, crumpled up the paper cup and pitched it off the rim and into the wastebasket. “I gotta head home.” Firing up his pipe, he gave his fedora a Sinatra-like tilt. “My wife's holding dinner for me.” Much to my surprise, he reached over and squeezed my arm. I was touched. It was the friendliest gesture he'd ever made toward me. “Merry Christmas,” he said, slapping Mr. Ellsworth on the back.

Mr. Ellsworth turned to me and said, “What the hell are you still doing here, Walsh?”

I didn't have an answer. Jack was going to Mass with his family, and I knew my parents wouldn't be doing anything special to celebrate. I was in no hurry to head home and be alone in my apartment.

“C'mon,” he said. “Let me buy you a Christmas drink.”

That was one invitation I couldn't pass up. Ever since the CTA scandal, I felt like Mr. Ellsworth was slowly letting me into his circle. Even though my approach had ticked him off, I could tell he respected me more now for having done that. After that he'd acknowledge me when he passed me in the city room. He'd even stop by my desk to ask what I was working on. One night when the whole gang was at Radio Grill he sat next to me and clanked his glass to mine. I knew these were crumbs, but I savored each one because I sensed that I had challenged everything Mr. Ellsworth believed about sob sisters and what it took to be a good reporter.

So we went over to Riccardo's and sat at the bar, just a regular reporter and her editor.

“M sure was dolled up tonight,” he said, working his way out of his overcoat and tossing it on the empty stool next to his. “Wonder where she was off to.”

“A date,” I said.

“Well, good for her.” Mr. Ellsworth nodded. “Good for her.” He turned to the bartender and ordered two scotches before proceeding to tell me how he'd become a newspaperman.

“I started straight out of high school as a copyboy working for a small press that went out of business before you were even born. Then I went over to the City News Bureau
.
Met your father there. Good ol' Hank Walsh. Together we worked our way up from copyboys to reporters. The City News Bureau was a hell of a place to cut your teeth. We were all so green. None of us went to school back then to learn how to write for the newspapers—not like you kids nowadays. No, it was the rewrite men who taught me how to be a journalist. You think I'm hard on your work—let me tell you, they ripped everything I wrote to shreds. They questioned everything, made us verify every single word. They used to say, ‘If your mother tells you she loves you, check it out.'” He rattled the ice in his glass and took a sip.

“I don't care what other people say, the City News Bureau was the nerve center of Chicago. I was there. I know. Every newspaper in town looked to us because we had three different teletype wires.” He nodded to punctuate the point. “Anything happening in the city, in the country, in the world, came to us. . . . I remember I was working on the desk when we first heard about the murders on Clark Street—the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. I don't think I slept for three days trying to keep up with that story. . . .”

Normally Mr. Ellsworth could hold his liquor, but that night the scotch was getting the better of him. He was slurring his words, rambling and repeating himself, confessing things he never would have said had he been sober.

“Do you know I met my wife just two weeks before that massacre happened? She was younger than me. Still is.” He laughed.
“People probably thought she was my daughter. I was supposed to take her out for Valentine's Day.” He sat back and laughed some more. “Marjorie should have known right then and there that the paper was always going to come first. You're getting married to a newspaperman yourself, aren't you?”