Dispatch print her e-mail address at the end of every column. She invited readers to write in, and in fact went home depressed on the days where she got no hate mail.
Pissed-off folks tended to be more vocal than satisfied ones, so the next day she would try even harder to kneel on the public's pressure points.
She sent the e-mails to HR because it was mandated by corporate. PR wanted it in case any public figures wrote in. Ted Allen demanded it because he liked nothing more than employing a reporter who so riled up readers that they took time out of their busy (or tragically not busy) day to pen her a missive so vile that they would tell all their friends to buy the paper to see what that bitch wrote.
When the media reporter for the New York Gazette had questioned Paulina's ethics in reporting on a congressman she'd allegedly had a romantic liaison with years back, Cole responded in her column questioning the reporter's manhood. More specifically, she stated her doubt that his manhood was longer than his pencil's eraser.
Both she and Ted had gotten a kick out of it, and HR needed a new folder to house all the letters she received.
Naturally, the paper sold 50,000 more copies that day than the previous one, and her story was linked to by dozens of influential media Web sites. Nobody was better at riling up the bourgeoisie than Paulina Cole, and in today's
America people paid good money to be pissed off.
Paulina began her career in journalism nearly two decades ago working in the Style section at a New York alternative weekly paper. Boring easily of reporting on asinine trends and mindless models, Paulina took a job on the news desk at the New York Gazette. Widely considered one of the city's most prestigious dailies, it was at the
Gazette where Paulina first made a name for herself. And while her progress at the Gazette matched her drive, she quickly tired of the politics and backroom handshakes that were staples of the old boys' club. Wallace Langston and
Jack O'Donnell were dinosaurs, analogs in a digital world.
The newsroom needed a swift stiletto in the ass, but they were too busy sniffing brandy to realize the world was passing them by. And when Wallace brought in Henry
Parker, then stood by him when the weasel was accused of murder, it sickened Paulina more than anything in her career had before. And she was not a woman who sickened easily.
Leaving the Gazette was the easiest decision she'd ever made. To her, that newspaper represented everything wrong with the current system. Old. Stale. Clueless about technology, and out of touch with the average reader.
People wanted pizzazz, something to shock them, something to ignite their senses. They didn't care about politics unless there was sleaze behind the suit. Didn't care about crime unless it was a celebrity drunk behind the wheel. So
Paulina was happy to dig and dish the dirt. She was happy to be hated by the highbrow, embraced by the lowbrow.
Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 03
The Stolen (2008)
But everyone had an opinion.
Once safely nestled in the bosom of the New York
Dispatch, Paulina had made it her goal to not only boost the paper's circulation rates, but to do it at the expense of the Gazette. She would topple their leaders, set fire to the old guard and burn the paper to the ground. She'd laid the groundwork with her articles focusing on Henry, to the point where nearly half the city would answer "Henry
Parker" when asked what was wrong with the current state of journalism.
But Henry was young. Not yet thirty, his proverbial balls had not yet dropped. Going after him was like shooting a fish in a barrel, and its ripples wouldn't travel far. To truly bring down the Gazette, she had to stop worrying about the epidermis, and instead dig down to its skeleton. The old guard. The reporter the paper staked its very reputation on.
Jack O'Donnell.
For years Jack O'Donnell had been the public face of the Gazette. He'd won countless awards, brought respectability, integrity and readership to Wallace Langston's newspaper. Yet during her tenure there, Paulina had noticed the old man begin to slip. His reporting had been shoddy, numerous quotes and sources had to be spiked by the managing editor. Not to mention the unmistakable odor that wafted from his desk, strong enough to make you fail a sobriety test just by inhaling.
It was only a matter of time before somebody took a sledgehammer to the pillar of the Gazette, and it was only fitting for it to be wielded by someone who'd seen the cracks up close.
Paulina turned off her office light, took the umbrella from under her desk. Her office had a beautiful view of the Manhattan skyline, twinkling lights amid the dark hues of night. The skies had opened, drenching the pavement, and the N train was several blocks away. As she strolled through the corridors of the Dispatch, Paulina stopped by the one office she'd asked Ted Allen to clear out for her a few months ago. A junior media reporter had been given the office, a reward for a promotion, but when Paulina informed Ted Allen what she had in mind, the young man was given a nice little cubicle by the Flavia coffeemaker.
The office was enclosed, sealed off. Exactly what she needed.
On Paulina's orders, the office had been cleared out; not even a dustball remained. Instead three rows of shelves had been installed, forming a U around the walls. What was inside the office had to be kept a secret until her story was ready. And then the bombshell would drop.
Only two people had a key: Paulina and Ted Allen himself.
The key was removed from the rings of the entire janitorial staff, and Paulina only entered when she was positive there were no looming eyes peeking over her shoulder.
Tonight, she had a tremendous urge to look inside. She needed to be reminded of what all her hard work was preparing for.
Checking once more to make sure she was alone,
Paulina twisted the key in the lock, opened the door and flicked on the overhead light.
What she saw inside made her glow with delight. The way the room glittered, the light reflecting on everything she'd painstakingly gathered over the past few months.
And her treasure trove was growing by the day. It was only a matter of time before the contents of this room, these seemingly innocuous items, changed the face of New York journalism.
Satisfied, Paulina turned off the light, closed the door and got out her umbrella, preparing for her journey into the rain.
"Right here," I said to Wallace. He was holding a copy of the transcript of my interview with Daniel Linwood. I'd asked him to read it in its entirety before we spoke. So far he'd only read what was printed in the Gazette. There were many quotes that were cut for space, details that didn't make it into the final piece. I wanted to see if
Wallace noticed what I had just minutes ago.
I hadn't noticed it upon my first few listenings. It was so subtle, yet because I was already skeptical of the whole situation, it stood out in neon lights.
"I'm not following, Henry," Wallace said. He turned off the tape recorder. "Please, placate an old man whose hearing is going. Enlighten me as to what the hell you're talking about."
"First off," I said, "Daniel mentions he heard sirens when he woke up. Yet there's no record of any complaints or investigations by the Hobbs County PD in that vicinity.
And when I spoke to the detective assigned to the case, he was only slightly more helpful than your average retail clerk. And then I heard this."
I rewound to the spot in question. Then I pressed Play.
When Daniel spoke that word, I stopped the tape.
"Brothers," I said. "Daniel Linwood talks about seeing his family for the first time when he got back home that day. He refers to his sister, Tasha, but then he uses the word brothers. As in plural. Daniel Linwood has one brother,