The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 8

JANUARY 2016

That little episode pushed me into the second week of 2016, listing but not rudderless. After several days of cleaning up loose ends left over from leaving the paper, I began picking up freelance work from Internet free-agent websites. I sold my Fat Leonard piece to Gannett, and it would eventually appear in USA Today. But the Washington Post's national military bribery story would break before they published my article, and the timing diminished the effect of my work. To the casual observer, instead of what would, and should, have been a seminal exposé appeared to be leveraging the national scandal to ride its coattails.

Six weeks after the fateful day I exited the Union-Tribune, I visited my hairdresser friend of many years. Lindsay stood behind me, a hand on each shoulder as I considered my options in her chair at the salon.

"I want something different today," I said as we peered into the mirror at her station. "The gods seem to favor change, and I shall give it to them."

"Okay, I see you're in a strange mood today. But I'm here to serve, milady," Lindsay said. She cocked her head and sized up the possibilities, her creative wheels spinning. "How far do you want to go? I have weaves, I can do extensions, and I can always cut and color...." She began positioning the laptop camera for use with her hairstyle visualization software.

"I don't want to go too crazy," I wavered. "Maybe try a different color and a more modern style. Something easier to care for ... maybe not so long?"

"How about a tousled look with some highlights?" Lindsay leaned back and regarded me in the mirror. "I can do a textured, short bob. How about deepening your natural color to more of an auburn for the base? I could layer over some ginger and strawberry blonde shine...."

"Oh, that sounds great," I said, intrigued by the possibilities. "Can you show me a what-if?"

As the 3D rotating image of my head popped up on the screen, I had to admit I liked the look—almost. "Can we make the base color a tad darker?"

Lindsay changed one of the app's settings and glanced back at me to see my reaction.

"Perfect," I said. "Let's do that!"

"So, what's motivating the 'new you'?" Lindsay asked as she prepped her station for her work, her voice sliding into a tease. "Is there a romantic development I must hear about in your life?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I quit the Union-Tribune, and I'm going to freelance for a while." The news dropped like a bomb.

Lindsay absorbed the hit with surprise as she began sectioning my hair for coloring. "To be honest," she said while fastening her clips, "I never understood why you went to work for such a stick-in-the-mud paper anyway. Then, after you'd been there so long, I didn't think you'd ever leave."

I relayed the basic story of my departure from the newsroom, reflecting aloud on why I'd left. "You know, Linds, I think I create and inflict some of these challenges upon myself. It may be genetic, or at least inherent. I have been called 'incorrigible' occasionally by those who love me," I said wryly.

"Oh, no! Say it isn't so!" Lindsay cooed in falsetto. She stopped her work so she could laugh without pulling out any of my hair.

"Hey, it's not so much that I can't change. It's more that I have to do it at my pace," I said, mounting a weak defense. "Still, I know much of it is on me. I have this hardheaded idea about not compromising my core beliefs. Or shortchanging certain reporting standards. I like to think it's my brand of professionalism."

Lindsay accepted the idea as she began placing towels to do the color. "It's worked pretty well for you. Come on, you're respected, and I've read some excellent stories you wrote."

"Thanks. You are so discerning, Lindsay," I said with false arrogance before getting serious again. "But I can't quite get to that next level. The mark of a true professional in this business is making the sacrifices necessary to get the story out. I knew that going in. I haven't picked my battles well. I get into situations where worthwhile outcomes suffer in the quest for perfection."

"Your Fat Leonard piece was great. Is that what bothers you? That it didn't turn into something bigger?" Lindsay asked. The acrid smell of the chemicals she was mixing filled my nostrils.

"That's part of it," I admitted. "But I tried too hard at the beginning of my career to fit in. I've gone out for drinks more than a few times, thinking I was 'one of the boys,' only to find out later that I wasn't. Letting your hair down among those you believe you can trust only works if the trust is there. And people have thrown things back in my face that I never meant to be fodder for a public discussion."

"That's why I like what I do," Lindsay said. "I could never deal with that whole 'glass ceiling' thing. You need to lighten up on yourself—it's not all on you, right?"

"Thanks, Lindsay.... That's true," I said. "The industry itself is the root cause for many of its challenges. Those problems have become legion, familiar to everyone. The sordid groveling and selling of publishers' souls for ad revenues. Trying to compensate because their circulation and local newsrooms are shrinking. Weak organizations buying out the weaker.... That wipes out the local competition that drives investigative reporting."

Lindsay nodded. "Wasn't the original purpose of the ads to support the newsgathering? Now they tailor the news to promote the advertising. Turning all the Coke cans so the labels face the camera—just before the TV reporter narrates the home invasion that killed five people," she said disdainfully.

"There's no money in regional markets for in-depth reporting," I added. "So, talent and resources flow to national conglomerates owned by billionaires. In their minds, it's their money to do with as they please. They use it to impose their slants on the news. This trickles down to the editorial boards, and it only gets worse from there. That's the situation at the Union-Tribune."

"I'm betting that affects the quality of reporters they hire. Who would accept a situation like that? Fresh out of college?" Lindsay offered.

"Your 'glass ceiling,'" I agreed. "Staff diversity and seniority are among the first casualties. I know it's directly affected my career, especially as a woman." We fell silent for a moment while Lindsay began to apply color to my hair.

Then she asked, "Do you plan to freelance permanently? Or is that just to fill in until you can find something better?"

"I'm not sure," I answered. "I think my portfolio shows I have the chops to compete for a slot with one of the big online media organizations. Maybe CNN. But those outlets are tightening their belts, too. The competition would be stiff. The result wouldn't differ much from what I had before."

"At least you'd be on the national stage instead of stuck in a local market...."

"True." I thought about it momentarily. "Maybe a meatier selection of stories to chase. But the reporting would still take a back seat to profits."

"It's always about the money, right?"

"Greed," I granted, then gave a big sigh. Our talk turned to world peace, as was our wont when she was doing my hair. Deciding my future employment choices would go unresolved.

Still, the conversation proved a healthy one for me. My mood had improved, and I returned home with my new look and some time to reflect more positively on the outcome of my Fat Leonard work. Even though I wasn't the one who got to tell the bigger story, its impact proved I still had the instincts for a great news piece. Now I was free, and hungry to find and report that break-through magnum opus I could call my own.

But I'd be hungrier than was good for me if I couldn't pay my bills.