Jack
Day 5 — February 6th, 1987
The housing authoritystory was coming together. I spread the documents across my desk. Invoices, contracts, a memo someone had been careless enough to throw in the trash instead of the shredder, and looked for the pattern I knew was there.
Three construction companies, all with the same post office box listed for correspondence. Two city councilmen who’d voted to approve contracts worth six figures each. And a paper trail that led, if I was reading it correctly, straight to the mayor’s office.
The newsroom hummed around me with its usual morning chaos. Typewriters clacking, phones ringing, someone arguing with an editor about headline placement. The smell of burnt coffee and cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog, so familiar I barely noticed it anymore. Markowski was shouting at someone in sports. The police scanner crackled with static and dispatcher shorthand. In the far corner, Peterson was asleep at his deskagain, newspaper over his face, having clearly pulled another all-nighter chasing a story that probably wouldn’t pan out.
This was the part of journalism I loved. Not the interviews or the deadlines or the adrenaline of breaking news, but this, the quiet work of connecting the dots, of finding the story hidden inside a stack of boring paperwork. Most people thought reporters spent their time chasing sources and typing frantically while editors shouted. The reality was more like being an accountant with a notebook. Follow the money. Always follow the money.
I’d learned that from Danny, in a way. He used to write me letters from basic training, and later from Vietnam, full of observations about the gap between what people said and what they did. “Watch the hands, not the mouth,” he’d written once. “The mouth lies. The hands tell the truth.” It wasn’t journalism advice, exactly. It was survival advice. But it translated.
“Cavanaugh.” Ed appeared at my elbow, coffee cup in hand, his tie already loosened at ten in the morning. “You see this?”
He dropped a clipping on my desk. Wire service pickup, my story on the permit scandal from last month, reprinted in the Chicago Tribune.
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday. Davis called this morning to let us know.” Ed was trying not to smile, which meant he was pleased. Ed showing pleasure was like watching a glacier express enthusiasm. “Said he’s been following your work.”
“Davis from the wire service?”
“Davis from the Times.”
I looked up. Ed was definitely smiling now.
“The New York Times,” I said, just to be sure.
“Unless there’s another one I don’t know about.”
The Times. The paper of record. The place where careers went to become legendary or to die spectacular public deaths,depending on whether you could handle the pressure. I’d dreamed about working there since I was fifteen, reading my brother’s copies of the Sunday edition and imagining my byline on the front page.
“What did he want?”
“Didn’t say. Just asked me to have you call him back.” Ed set a phone number on my desk, written in his careful blocky handwriting. “Sooner rather than later, he said.”
I stared at the number. New York area code. This was either very good or very bad, and I couldn’t tell which.
“Well?” Ed raised an eyebrow. “You going to call him or frame that piece of paper?”
“I’m going to call him.”
“Good.” He clapped me on the shoulder, the closest Ed ever came to physical affection, and headed back to his desk. “Let me know how it goes.”
Jim Davis had a voice like gravel and honey, the kind of voice that made you want to tell him things. Dangerous, for a journalist. Useful, for an editor.
“Jack. Thanks for calling back.”
“Mr. Davis.”
“Jim. Nobody calls me Mr.Davis except my mother-in-law, and she doesn’t like me much.” A dry chuckle. “I’ve been reading your stuff. The housing authority series, the permit scandal, that piece on the school board last fall. You’ve got a good eye.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have you been at the Globe?”
“Three years.”
