|
Journalist
Russell Carson didn’t believe a vampire had murdered passengers
on the Metro-North trains any more
than he believed Santa Claus was
coming to town. However, tabloid readers wanted a story, the more
sensational the better, so he’d made up a doozy. He was about to learn
that truth was more horrifying than fiction.
After
writing for the reputable Daily Gazette for twenty years, which covered the Bronx and
Westchester, he was now writing for the National
Scrutinizer because the Gazette had fired him for getting a
controversial story-fact wrong.
The
first three rules of reporting: accuracy,
accuracy, and accuracy.
Russell
remembered when he was a lowly beat reporter on his first assignment: The
Man on the Street Interview. It took him three hours to get a
statement and photograph from one of seven residents standing in front
of a Bronx deli in the freezing cold of winter. After that, his outlook
on groundbreaking journalism cooled considerably from his optimistic
view that he was going to be a great reporter, but he never gave up.
Flash
forward to his last day at the Daily Gazette.
With the
increasing pressure to break the news first, Russell forgot the most
essential tenet of reporting, which was accuracy. His “unconfirmed
source” was positive that a shooter in a school killing used an AR-15.
That was what he told his editor, Chuck Dolan, and that was what the Daily
Gazette printed. However, later they discovered that the shooter
didn’t use an AR-15; it was an M-16.
All the
newspapers were chasing the school shooting story like hounds on a fox,
but only one paper would break the news first. Russell was determined to
get his story out ahead of the competition, so he didn’t take the time
to verify his source.
Chuck
Dolan, a big bald man wearing a pinstripe suit, slammed his fist on his
desk. “Readers are depending on us to deliver reliable news.”
Russell,
sitting in the hot seat opposite his editor, shot up from his chair.
“My source was solid.”
Dolan
leaned forward. “Not solid enough. Readers don’t want fake news,
almost true news. The problem with anonymous sources is that sometimes
they get it wrong. You should have double and triple-checked the
facts.”
I
thought I didn’t have to.
“This
guy was sure the shooter used an AR-15. That was good enough for me.”
“What’s
his name?” Dolan demanded.
“He
wishes to remain anonymous, sir.”
Dolan
sat back in his chair. “I suppose that’s his right.”
“We
broke the story first. That should account for something.”
“Being
correct accounts for more.”
A crowd
had gathered in the newsroom outside Dolan’s office and watched
through a glass wall as Russell and his boss tore into each other.
By now,
Dolan was on his feet and pacing the room. “You’re a talented
reporter, Russell. One of the best, but you know the rules.”
“I get
the story first,” Russell said. “That’s what I do best.”
“I
can’t argue that. You’ve penned a lot of great headlines, but this
school shooting is one of the biggest, which amplifies the fact that you
needed to get it right.”
“AR-15...M-16.
They’re damn near the same gun. One civilian, the other military.”
“That’s
true, which makes this so hard.” He stopped pacing and landed
nose-to-nose with Russell. “Give me your press card.”
Russell
rubbed his temples. “You’re firing me?”
“You’re
lucky the shooter’s family isn’t suing us for libel.”
“They
can do that?”
“It’s
America, isn’t it? Clean out your desk.”
“Sir?”
An icy hand tore into his ribcage and ripped out his heart. Reporting
was what he knew; it was all he knew. Becoming a byline reporter was
grueling. As a rookie, he’d made just enough money to pay rent on a
shit apartment in the Bronx, which left him with barely enough cash to
buy Ramen. He’d interview anyone with a pulse for a story. All that
work, all that sacrifice, for what? For this?
Dolan would do better to rip
off my arm and beat me to death with it.
He
slumped back into his chair. “Twenty years, Dolan. I’m a senior
reporter. You can’t do this to me.”
“The
owners of this paper are coming down hard on me, Russell. There’s
nothing I can do.”
Rage
seared through his veins like wildfire. “You can’t fire me.”
“I
just did. Get out before I call security and have you escorted out.”
“Fine.”
Russell stood and clenched his fists. “But one day you’ll be begging
me to come back.”
“Don’t
hold your breath.”
“Damn,
boss. This really sucks.” He stormed out of Dolan’s office with his
head held high. “What’s everybody looking at? Don’t you have
anything better to do than watch a man’s life go down the toilet?”
His
co-workers scattered like roaches from light.
He
headed back to his desk, unsure what he would do for work now. The other
major papers would find out he’d been fired and blacklist him. New
York Times, Epoc, Newsday, they’d all send him packing. “Anybody got
an empty box for my junk?”
The
phone on his desk rang. “What the hell?” He yanked the receiver from
the cradle, hoping for a reprieve. “Carson.”
“Hello,
Russell. It’s Frank Murphy.” He was the editor at the National
Scrutinizer, the armpit of the tabloid business. “I hear you’re
having a bad day.”
|
