Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [4]
Joe and Georgia Wilcox had lived in their modest tract home in Rockville since the spring of 1977, having moved to this suburban area of the nation’s capital from Detroit. Thirty minutes from downtown, twice that at rush hour, they’d seen their tranquil Maryland suburban haven blossom into an extension of D.C.’s urban sprawl, still leafy and family friendly, but changed from the day they moved in. Home prices had soared, roads and highways were clogged, and malls abounded. Still, it had been a pleasant place in which to live and to raise their daughter, who had been seven when they arrived.
• • •
Leaving Detroit hadn’t been an easy decision. They’d lived a comfortable, relatively stress-free life in one of the Motor City’s suburbs. They were active in the community, their daughter happily attending grammar school, with Joe ensconced as a cityside reporter who’d broken a couple of big crime stories during his time at the Free Press. A shot at becoming an assistant Metro editor in a year or two was a distinct possibility.
That changed one day over lunch. Tom Melito, a newly minted friend from The Washington Tribune’s recently opened the Detroit bureau, mentioned to Wilcox that the Trib was beefing up its Metro staff in Washington, and thought Wilcox should consider applying.
“Damn,” Wilcox said as a drop of soup landed on his tie. “I’m not a D.C. kind of guy,” he said, dabbing at his tie with a napkin. “Can’t take me anywhere. Never get invited to the White House with soup stains on my tie.”
“Hey, presidents spill soup, too,” said Melito. “Besides, have you ever known reporters who don’t have stains on their ties?”
“And on their reputations,” Wilcox said.
“Don’t play cynic. Doesn’t become you. Look, Joe, I’m serious. You’re a helluva fine reporter, and the Trib is a hell of a paper, big and getting bigger and more influential every day and giving the hallowed New York Times a run for its money. The brain trust has decided to really ratchet up local coverage, and they’re committing big bucks to it. Metro’s already the biggest staff on the paper, and getting bigger. I don’t know what you’re making here but—”
“No,” Wilcox said, shaking his head and inserting his napkin between buttons on his shirt. “I’d never get it past Georgia. She’s happy with her job at the library, and Roberta’s doing well in school. Besides, my boss winks that he’s grooming me for an assistant editor job down the road. But thanks for suggesting it, Tommy.”
They spoke about other things during lunch, but Joe’s thoughts weren’t entirely on those topics. The New York Times and The Washington Tribune had been in competition for as long as he could remember, vying for the biggest stories with the most impact on the body politic and the nation’s conscience. Like every youngster with Yankee pinstripes or Dodger blue in their fanciful futures, The Times and the Trib represented the big leagues to journalism students across the country, and he was no exception. Sure, there were plenty of jobs in the reporting business that were meaningful and fulfilling. But those two competing newspaper giants in New York and Washington represented “making it,” whatever that meant. The Trib, he knew, tended to be more sensational than The Times in its news coverage, and had its share of critics because of that. But it was no tabloid. It had broadsheet clout, and anyone working for it did, too.
“Joseph Carlton Wilcox at the esteemed Washington Trib, huh?” he said to Melito over dessert, laughing at the very notion of it.
“Suit yourself, Joe, but they’re looking for Young Turks like you. I don’t qualify.”
“What are you, over the hill?”
“I am as far as they’re concerned back in D.C. They sent me out here to wind down, go peacefully into the night, cover the latest car models, and make it sound like I care. Maybe you’re right. It is intense in D.C. Cutthroat, like politics today. Get the story at all costs. Publish or perish ain’t only for academics. Used to be fun. No more, and I can’t say I’m unhappy being further away from it. But you? You’re exactly what they