mean, the state is putting a man to death tonight, Alan.”
“An issue piece. Well, stone the crows.”
“And Harvey’s much better on that kind of thing. If Plunkitt won’t let him in for the interview, we’ll do it over the phone.”
“An issue piece.” Alan tilted back in his chair, hardly able to contain his glee.
Bob was beginning to feel a little desperate, and a little angry too. He had his own reasons for not wanting to call me in, most of them emotional. But you know the way argumentsgo: he had made up some logical excuses to explain his feelings, and now he believed in them. He felt they were self-evident. He felt that anyone who disagreed was missing the point. And explaining these things to you as if you were a child was one of Bob’s personal failings.
So he said, very deliberately, raising that open hand of his again, “Look: this guy, Beachum, he isn’t gonna give us any news. He’s not gonna tell us any information we haven’t heard before. That’s not the point. The point is—on a story like this—we want people to get the
feel
of what it’s like to be waiting for the state to pump poison into your arm. I mean, we execute people every couple of months in this state and it usually winds up on page three of the regional, maybe the front of the metro. Now, all right, this is a St. Louis story, which makes it bigger for us. But the only way to justify making it
this
big is to humanize this guy, to get at the humanity of the whole filthy thing. We want to make the reader understand that this is what capital punishment is: it’s killing another human being. And yes, I think that’s an important issue.”
“You do, huh?” said Alan, hoisting one heavy brow. “And what about Amy Whatsherface, the pregnant broad old Frankie boy shot in the throat? What about her humanity? Is that part of the issue?”
“Well, yes.”
“I mean, we had Everett in here all weekend because sixteen people were shot in two days—
sixteen
—four of them dead. What about that issue?”
“All right, well, that’s an issue too.”
“Michelle thought the issue was pee-pees and woo-woos, I don’t know what-all the hell she thought. So who’s gonna get to call what the issue is in this
issue
piece?” Practically leering, Alan came forward in his chair. He loved this, he loved it. He grabbed the greasy bag on his desk; hecouldn’t resist anymore. “You want a piece of crumb cake?”
“No,” said Bob. “No.”
Alan pulled the cake slab out and chomped it. “Let me tell you something,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “Issues—issues are what we make up to give us an excuse to run good stories. A judge grabs an attorney’s breasts, it’s the sex discrimination issue. A nine-year-old shoots his brother with an Uzi, it’s the child violence issue. People want to read about sex organs and blood and we make issues out of them to give them an excuse. That’s what makes us a quality paper instead of a cheap tabloid: hypocrisy.”
Bob threw up his hands and indulged in some of his gentle irony. “Well, then I guess I should call Steve,” he said softly. “That describes his attitude exactly.”
Alan sat back again, leisurely, chewing, crumb cake in hand. His brooding, hawklike face was angled upward, eyebrows to chin. A second breakfast, a journalistic argument, a chance to dominate Bob: aside from one of his reporters getting herself killed, this was turning out to be a jolly old morning after all. “Let me tell you something about Steve Everett,” he said, brushing crumbs off his tie with his free hand. “You know why he was kicked out of New York? Do you know this story?”
Bob admitted he didn’t.
“He busted the mayor,” Alan said. “During the scandals? The mayor of fucking New York. Steve got hold of a secret memo on a contract bribe between hizzoner and one of the ex-borough presidents. The borough president was ready to back it up too. He didn’t care: he’d already been
“An issue piece. Well, stone the crows.”
“And Harvey’s much better on that kind of thing. If Plunkitt won’t let him in for the interview, we’ll do it over the phone.”
“An issue piece.” Alan tilted back in his chair, hardly able to contain his glee.
Bob was beginning to feel a little desperate, and a little angry too. He had his own reasons for not wanting to call me in, most of them emotional. But you know the way argumentsgo: he had made up some logical excuses to explain his feelings, and now he believed in them. He felt they were self-evident. He felt that anyone who disagreed was missing the point. And explaining these things to you as if you were a child was one of Bob’s personal failings.
So he said, very deliberately, raising that open hand of his again, “Look: this guy, Beachum, he isn’t gonna give us any news. He’s not gonna tell us any information we haven’t heard before. That’s not the point. The point is—on a story like this—we want people to get the
feel
of what it’s like to be waiting for the state to pump poison into your arm. I mean, we execute people every couple of months in this state and it usually winds up on page three of the regional, maybe the front of the metro. Now, all right, this is a St. Louis story, which makes it bigger for us. But the only way to justify making it
this
big is to humanize this guy, to get at the humanity of the whole filthy thing. We want to make the reader understand that this is what capital punishment is: it’s killing another human being. And yes, I think that’s an important issue.”
“You do, huh?” said Alan, hoisting one heavy brow. “And what about Amy Whatsherface, the pregnant broad old Frankie boy shot in the throat? What about her humanity? Is that part of the issue?”
“Well, yes.”
“I mean, we had Everett in here all weekend because sixteen people were shot in two days—
sixteen
—four of them dead. What about that issue?”
“All right, well, that’s an issue too.”
“Michelle thought the issue was pee-pees and woo-woos, I don’t know what-all the hell she thought. So who’s gonna get to call what the issue is in this
issue
piece?” Practically leering, Alan came forward in his chair. He loved this, he loved it. He grabbed the greasy bag on his desk; hecouldn’t resist anymore. “You want a piece of crumb cake?”
“No,” said Bob. “No.”
Alan pulled the cake slab out and chomped it. “Let me tell you something,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “Issues—issues are what we make up to give us an excuse to run good stories. A judge grabs an attorney’s breasts, it’s the sex discrimination issue. A nine-year-old shoots his brother with an Uzi, it’s the child violence issue. People want to read about sex organs and blood and we make issues out of them to give them an excuse. That’s what makes us a quality paper instead of a cheap tabloid: hypocrisy.”
Bob threw up his hands and indulged in some of his gentle irony. “Well, then I guess I should call Steve,” he said softly. “That describes his attitude exactly.”
Alan sat back again, leisurely, chewing, crumb cake in hand. His brooding, hawklike face was angled upward, eyebrows to chin. A second breakfast, a journalistic argument, a chance to dominate Bob: aside from one of his reporters getting herself killed, this was turning out to be a jolly old morning after all. “Let me tell you something about Steve Everett,” he said, brushing crumbs off his tie with his free hand. “You know why he was kicked out of New York? Do you know this story?”
Bob admitted he didn’t.
“He busted the mayor,” Alan said. “During the scandals? The mayor of fucking New York. Steve got hold of a secret memo on a contract bribe between hizzoner and one of the ex-borough presidents. The borough president was ready to back it up too. He didn’t care: he’d already been
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