if the subterranean context of our conversation had not existed. “Hope to see you again
before you go.”
I stepped through the door back into the press conference room. Some of the cameramen were still there, packing up their equipment.
I looked around for Angela Cook but she hadn’t waited for me.
A fter picking up the mug shot of Darnell Hicks I walked back to the
Times
building and up to the third-floor newsroom. I didn’t bother checking in because I had already sent my editor a budget line
on the drug sweep story. I planned to make some calls and flesh it out before I went back to Prendo and tried to convince
him it was a story that ought to go out front on the home page as well as the print edition.
The 928-page printout of the Winslow confession as well as the other documents I’d sent to the copy shop were waiting for
me on my desk. I sat down and had to resist the urge to immediately dive into the confession. But I pushed the six-inch stack
to the side and went to the computer. I opened my address book on the screen and looked up the number for the Reverend William
Treacher. He was the head of a South L.A. association of ministers and was always good for a viewpoint contrary to that of
the LAPD.
I had just picked up the phone to call Preacher Treacher, as he was informally known by his flock as well as the local media,
when I felt a presence hovering over me and looked up to see Alan Prendergast.
“Didn’t you get my message?” he asked.
“No, I just got back and wanted to call Preacher Treacher before everybody else did. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk about your story.”
“Didn’t you get the budget line I sent? Let me make this call real quick and then I might have more to add to it.”
“Not today’s story, Jack. Cook’s already putting it together. I want to hear about your long-term story. We have the futures
meeting in ten minutes.”
“Wait a minute. What do you mean Cook’s already putting today’s story together?”
“She’s writing it up. She came back from the press conference and said you were working together on it. She already called
Treacher, too. Got good stuff.”
I held back on telling him that Cook and I weren’t supposed to be working together on it. It was my story and I’d told her
so.
“So whadaya got, Jack? It’s related to today’s thing, right?”
“Sort of, yeah.”
I was still stunned by Cook’s move. Competition within the news-room is common. I just hadn’t expected her to be so bold as
to lie her way onto a story.
“Jack? I don’t have much time.”
“Uh, right. Yeah, it’s about the murder of Denise Babbit—but from the killer’s angle. It’s about how sixteen-year-old Alonzo
Winslow came to be charged with murder.”
Prendo nodded.
“You have the goods?”
By “the goods,” I knew he was asking if I had direct access. He wouldn’t be interested in a story with
police said
used as attribution everywhere. He wouldn’t want to see the word
allegedly
anywhere near this piece if he was going to try to give it a good ride on the futures budget. He wanted a crime feature,
a story that went behind the basic news everybody already had and rocked the reader’s world with gritty reality. He wanted
breadth and depth, the hallmark features of any
Times
story.
“I have a direct line in. I’ve got the kid’s grandmother and his lawyer, and I’m probably going to see the kid tomorrow.”
I pointed to the freshly printed stack of documents on my desk.
“And that’s the pot of gold. His nine-hundred-page confession. I shouldn’t have it but I do. And nobody else will get it.”
Prendo nodded with approval and I could tell he was thinking, trying to come up with a way to sell the story in the meeting
or make it better. He backed out of the cubicle, grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it over.
“I’ve got an idea, Jack,” he said as he sat down and leaned toward me.
He was using my name too
before you go.”
I stepped through the door back into the press conference room. Some of the cameramen were still there, packing up their equipment.
I looked around for Angela Cook but she hadn’t waited for me.
A fter picking up the mug shot of Darnell Hicks I walked back to the
Times
building and up to the third-floor newsroom. I didn’t bother checking in because I had already sent my editor a budget line
on the drug sweep story. I planned to make some calls and flesh it out before I went back to Prendo and tried to convince
him it was a story that ought to go out front on the home page as well as the print edition.
The 928-page printout of the Winslow confession as well as the other documents I’d sent to the copy shop were waiting for
me on my desk. I sat down and had to resist the urge to immediately dive into the confession. But I pushed the six-inch stack
to the side and went to the computer. I opened my address book on the screen and looked up the number for the Reverend William
Treacher. He was the head of a South L.A. association of ministers and was always good for a viewpoint contrary to that of
the LAPD.
I had just picked up the phone to call Preacher Treacher, as he was informally known by his flock as well as the local media,
when I felt a presence hovering over me and looked up to see Alan Prendergast.
“Didn’t you get my message?” he asked.
“No, I just got back and wanted to call Preacher Treacher before everybody else did. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk about your story.”
“Didn’t you get the budget line I sent? Let me make this call real quick and then I might have more to add to it.”
“Not today’s story, Jack. Cook’s already putting it together. I want to hear about your long-term story. We have the futures
meeting in ten minutes.”
“Wait a minute. What do you mean Cook’s already putting today’s story together?”
“She’s writing it up. She came back from the press conference and said you were working together on it. She already called
Treacher, too. Got good stuff.”
I held back on telling him that Cook and I weren’t supposed to be working together on it. It was my story and I’d told her
so.
“So whadaya got, Jack? It’s related to today’s thing, right?”
“Sort of, yeah.”
I was still stunned by Cook’s move. Competition within the news-room is common. I just hadn’t expected her to be so bold as
to lie her way onto a story.
“Jack? I don’t have much time.”
“Uh, right. Yeah, it’s about the murder of Denise Babbit—but from the killer’s angle. It’s about how sixteen-year-old Alonzo
Winslow came to be charged with murder.”
Prendo nodded.
“You have the goods?”
By “the goods,” I knew he was asking if I had direct access. He wouldn’t be interested in a story with
police said
used as attribution everywhere. He wouldn’t want to see the word
allegedly
anywhere near this piece if he was going to try to give it a good ride on the futures budget. He wanted a crime feature,
a story that went behind the basic news everybody already had and rocked the reader’s world with gritty reality. He wanted
breadth and depth, the hallmark features of any
Times
story.
“I have a direct line in. I’ve got the kid’s grandmother and his lawyer, and I’m probably going to see the kid tomorrow.”
I pointed to the freshly printed stack of documents on my desk.
“And that’s the pot of gold. His nine-hundred-page confession. I shouldn’t have it but I do. And nobody else will get it.”
Prendo nodded with approval and I could tell he was thinking, trying to come up with a way to sell the story in the meeting
or make it better. He backed out of the cubicle, grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it over.
“I’ve got an idea, Jack,” he said as he sat down and leaned toward me.
He was using my name too
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