The Guilty - Jason Pinter [81]
"Come with me. And don't say a word unless I tell you to."
I opened my mouth to ask what was happening, but Wallace
held up a finger and said, "Not one word."
I followed Wallace, quickly realizing that he wasn't
leading me toward his office or my desk, but to the conference room at the end of the floor. The Kemper Room. In over
a year working at the paper I'd never set foot in it.
I desperately wanted to ask Wallace what was so important that he'd grant me access to such hallowed ground, but
on the off chance he'd change his mind I stayed quiet.
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Jason Pinter
The room was named after Peter Kemper, the Gazette' s
editor-in-chief from 1978 to 1984, but was more commonly
known among the Gazette staff as the War Room. Every
morning the editors from each department would gather in the
War Room to go over the next day's stories. Each section
editor would fight, scratch and claw for page one space, better
coverage for their department. Each day every editor left the
room either thrilled or disappointed. Then they would return
the next day to keep up their good run, or dig their way out
of the hole. Had they been shafted the day before they'd use
pity points. If they'd been granted better placement, they'd
claim sales were up due to them.
The War Room was where other bureaus such as Washington and Los Angeles would call in to battle for their share of
the table scraps, often frustrated with their perceived lack of
respect from the New York home office.
Jack would fill me in on War Room gossip from time to
time. He took a little too much pleasure in recalling the
greatest stories ever, like the time Metro editor Jacquelyn
Mills had a story negged and threw a glass of pomegranate
juice in the editor-in-chief's face. The time Wallace himself
told an editor that his stories showed as much life as Jimmy
Hoffa, and smelled worse. Between New York and outside
bureaus there was a natural conflict; reporters in Washington
felt the ebb and flow of the political arena was the spark of
the journalistic world, while the reporters in New York felt
they were the center of the information universe. Los Angelenos felt their coverage of red-carpet shenanigans trumped
all, that popular culture and celebrity scandal whet readers'
appetites. They didn't win the battles very often.
As the War Room came into sight, I counted a dozen or so
editors already seated, cups of coffee and bottles of water in
The Guilty
237
various stages of being sipped or ignored. Far as I could tell,
I would be the youngest person in the room by a good ten years.
When Wallace threw open the door, a dozen pairs of eyes
focused on me. Not to mention the speakerphone in the
middle of the conference table whose red "on" light meant
another half dozen were listening in. And the guy in the corner
with a pen and pad who was presumably there to take
minutes. I coughed into my hand. Smiled meekly. The editors
in attendance didn't seem to care much about meek smiles.
Wallace stated, "Henry, you know everyone here." I didn't,
but remembered Wallace's "shut the hell up" rule. "Folks, this
is Henry Parker. As you know Henry's been the lead on the
Paradis murder story and the subsequent victims of this killer
as well. He was attacked in his home yesterday, but as you
can see he's alive and well."
"And glad to be here," I added. Wallace nodded his
approval.
"Terrific scoops so far," said a man I believed to be the Arts
editor. He had a neatly trimmed beard and thin glasses, a polite
ink stain at the bottom of his shirt pocket. I'd only met him once,
at the holiday party last year, the details of which ended up
being reported on every gossip website between here and
Mumbai. It's well known that the arts editors always offered
exclusive scoops to gossip rags in exchange for the rags making
the Gazette seem like a hip place to work. If the definition of
hip was Jack warbling Kenny Rogers while Wallace played
acoustic guitar, both men having consumed their body weight
in JD, then yes, I suppose you could call