The second photo, the one that made me clench the paper into a wad in my hands, was of Jack. Lying in the hospital. Tubes running through his veins.
I recognized the setting. It was taken after I'd brought
Jack to the hospital after he nearly choked to death on his own vomit. Somebody had snuck into the hospital and photographed Jack while he was unconscious and recovering from alcohol poisoning. I couldn't imagine the kind of black heart needed to do such a thing.
I took the paper without saying another word to Frank and took it to my desk. There I read the entire article, every single word. And when I was done, I crumpled it up, took it to the incinerator on our floor and chucked it into the darkness.
Paulina Cole had done one of the worst hatchet jobs on
Jack I'd ever read. Somehow she'd gotten one of the porters in Jack's building to collect the liquor bottles from the recycling bin every morning. Easy, since he occupied the entire floor himself. The bottles were then brought straight to Paulina Cole. Every single one was fingerprinted to confirm that Jack had in fact drunk them himself. No other fingerprints were found on any of the bottles. And there must have been several hundred in the photograph. And he'd drunk them all himself over the span of one year.
The article described how much alcohol must have been absorbed by Jack's bloodstream over that year. It also made mention of every correction in every story that
Jack had written that same year, comparing it to his previous work. It portrayed Jack as a man whose professional life was now ruled by one of the most aggressive bouts of alcoholism ever seen in the newsroom, whose work had depreciated to the point where his stories were filled with more holes than an O. J. Simpson alibi.
Then the story took a more macro perspective, going into great detail about how the Gazette promoted Jack as one of the legends of New York journalism. Paulina ended her story with the following paragraph:
"It can be said that a news institution can be judged on one thing, and one thing only: the reputation of the men and women who report the news. Jack O'Donnell is a man whose reputation, built over years more through joviality and cronyism than true journalistic integrity, has opened a window into the true nature of this black-and-white beast. And what an ugly, ugly creature it is."
The next thing I knew I was going straight for Jack's desk. It was unoccupied. But worse than that, it was empty.
The computer was off. There were no odds and ends on the countertop. There was nothing.
I marched to Wallace Langston's office and threw open the doors. The editor-in-chief was on the phone. His face was ashen. I knew the feeling. He motioned for me to take a seat. I declined.
When he hung up the phone, I said, "Wallace, what the fuck is going on? Where is Jack?"
Wallace sighed and leaned back in his chair. I knew my anger was misplaced, but my mind was going a thousand miles an hour in a hundred different directions. "Jack is on leave," he said.
"On leave? What the hell does that mean?"
"I assume you saw the story in today's Dispatch, " he said.
"I just finished it."
"Well, word came down from Harvey Hillerman himself that Jack had two choices. An extended personal leave to deal with his demons in a treatment center. Or the termination of his employment with the Gazette. " Harvey
Hillerman was the president and CEO of the Gazette. If it came from him, it meant Jack had no way out.
"And?"
"And as of this morning, Jack O'Donnell is no longer an employee of this newspaper."
I felt as if a cannonball had hit me square in the stomach. My knees went weak, and I fell into the chair across from Wallace.
"He can't do that," I said. "Jack is this newspaper."
"No, he's not, Henry. Jack has done more for this paper than any employee in its history. But we are not one and the same. You've seen Jack over the past few months. You know things have been going downhill. He was hospitalized just last week."
"Yeah, and I know that damn picture is out there for everyone to see."
"You need to think about Jack," Wallace said. "The man needs help. More than what you or I can do. If he chooses to do it on his own, so be it. My take is that he didn't want to be forced into doing anything. That doesn't surprise me. It's always been the way he's worked."
"So what now?" I said. "We just keep working like nothing ever happened?"
"That's impossible," Wallace said. "Jack's been here so long some of his blood does run through this paper's veins.
But we have to move on. You've done some amazing work in your time here, Henry. Jack has put down his mantle for now. And I expect you to be one of the people to take it.
To carry it with pride."
"You don't take that because it's been thrown down,"
I said. "You earn it. I can't just take Jack's place.
Nobody can."
"That's true. So just do your job to the best of his ability.
Learn from his mistakes. Don't let your problems overwhelm you. Because at the end of the day, you're remembered for the end of your career, not the beginning. And the saddest part of all this is a generation might only know the Jack O'Donnell on the cover of today's newspaper."
I couldn't listen to any more. I slammed the door to
Wallace's office and left the building. Hailing a taxi, I instructed the driver to take me to Twenty-Seventh and Park.
The offices of the New York Dispatch.
I left the cab, throwing the fare at the driver, and entered the building through the revolving door, feeling as if I could tear the walls apart with my bare hands. A security guard stopped me as I approached the turnstiles. He said,
"Sir, you'll need to check in and show your ID."
I went to the security post. Another guard sat there looking bored. "Who are you here to see?"
"Paulina Cole. New York Dispatch. "
"Do you have an appointment with Ms. Cole?"
"No."
"Does she know you're coming?"
"No."
The guard looked confused. "Sir, can you state your business with Ms. Cole?"
"That's between me and her."
The guard eyed me suspiciously. Then he said, "I'm going to have to pat you down." I let him. He found nothing. "Let me call upstairs."
He picked up the switchboard phone and dialed a few buttons. I was growing impatient. I needed to see that bitch face-to-face.
The guard put down the phone and said, "Sir, Ms. Cole is not picking up her phone. I can leave a message that you stopped by."
"I can wait for her upstairs."
"No, sir, I can't let you do that."
"Listen, asshole," I said. "I'm seeing Paulina Cole today. Whether you let me upstairs or not."
Just then I heard a commotion by the revolving door.
Several voices were congratulating someone. A throng of people surrounding one person.
Then they parted and Paulina Cole continued walking toward the turnstiles.
She saw me and stopped. She was startled for a moment, then a slow smile spread across her face.
"Hi, Henry," she said. "It's been so long. Have you been keeping up with the news?"
"You fucking bitch," I said, starting toward her. I didn't take more than two steps before I felt a pair of hands grab my arms and pull me backward. The security guards were
holding me. I thrashed and struggled to get free. "He was a friend to you," I spat. "How could you?"
"It was easy," she said, stepping forward. "And you know what probably angers you the most, Henry? That every word of it is true."
I tried to pull free, but then the two guards began dragging me outside. We passed by Paulina. She raised her hand, waved a sarcastic goodbye before the guards shoved me through the doors and out onto the street.
I tumbled onto the sidewalk, then scrambled to my feet. The guards stood there with their hands across their chests.