Read Online A Little Trouble with the Facts by Nina Siegal - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nina Siegal
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a correction.
After some months had passed like this, Buzz called me into his office and sat me down in his Aeron chair (a gift from his partner, not the manufacturer or its flack). He leaned close and produced a silver tube of L’Occitane shea butter and offered me a dab. I shook my head. I didn’t need any lubrication. If he was going to chide me, I’d take it dry.
“I want to go over something with you,” he said, taking out a marked-up copy of my most recent story on Nora Sumner, the editor in chief of the glossiest fashion glossy in town. “First off, I want to talk about a few words you’ve used here: editrix .”
“Editor, you know, but with a touch of dominatrix.”
“Oh, I get it,” Buzz said flatly. “I’m familiar with the term. That’s just not what we call one of our media colleagues. How about we go with plain old editor?”
“Sure,” I said, and swallowed.
“Okay, now. We’re talking here about a rumored affair with an unnamed millionaire fund-raiser for the Democratic Party. And this just pops up in the sidebar, unattributed.”
“It’s attributed—”
“It’s attributed to ‘the Sumner camp.’ Where, may I ask, is that? Rhinebeck?”
“It’s on good authority from two executive secretaries. They don’t even know each other. They work in different departments.”
“Hmmm. That doesn’t give us the right to call it a ‘none-too-secret dalliance.’ And meanwhile, her lawyer says she’s not seeking a divorce. We have him on the record. His statement is going to stand up against two unidentified secretaries. I suggest we scrap this sidebar altogether. There’s nothing on this loin once you remove the gristle.”
“Okay, Buzz, but I know we’ll look silly if we don’t even mention it. Everyone else in town is running it already.”
Buzz leaned back in his chair and sighed. He took the tube of L’Occitane off his desk and squeezed some yellow cream into his palm. “That’s just it. We’re not everyone else, Valerie. This paper writes the first draft of history. We can’t afford mistakes, and we can’t be putting out unverified items about any old editrix . If you get something wrong here and, by some fault of our system, it gets in print, it stays wrong. It gets reported in other papers wrong, it goes out on the Internet wrong, and then it turns up wrong in the history books. Then it’s always wrong, and it’s our fault. That’s a big burden we shoulder, but it’s one we all share.”
The way Buzz was rubbing the lotion into his hand made it seem like he was working up to something. He wielded the word wrong like a battering ram.
“So, you’re saying we need to cut that section about the affair? What if I got some more publishing world insiders?”
“I know what’s happening here,” Buzz continued. “You never worked anywhere but Gotham’s Gate, and that’s the kind of reporting you know—the kind where facts don’t ever get in the way of a good story. Maybe you had fact-checkers who were supposed to comb for flaws, but they were using their combs for their bangs. Gotham’s Gate is as full of mistakes as a colander is full of holes. I knew all this when I hired you, and I blame myself for not taking the time out to help you. I’ve been remiss.”
I started looking around for my purse. I wondered if they’d let me finish my lunch before they showed me the door.
“Don’t look so glum,” Buzz said. “We’ll fix it. We’ll make itright. From now on, you sit down and circle every fact in your story. Check it against your notes. Check it with your sources. Check against your gut. Is something not right here? Is this not exactly the truth?”
He stopped making circles on the back of his hand and handed me the tube of lotion. This time I took it and smoothed some into my palm, then rubbed it against my neck, massaging slowly. He wasn’t firing me. He was giving me a second chance.
“I understand,” I said. “I promise to do
After some months had passed like this, Buzz called me into his office and sat me down in his Aeron chair (a gift from his partner, not the manufacturer or its flack). He leaned close and produced a silver tube of L’Occitane shea butter and offered me a dab. I shook my head. I didn’t need any lubrication. If he was going to chide me, I’d take it dry.
“I want to go over something with you,” he said, taking out a marked-up copy of my most recent story on Nora Sumner, the editor in chief of the glossiest fashion glossy in town. “First off, I want to talk about a few words you’ve used here: editrix .”
“Editor, you know, but with a touch of dominatrix.”
“Oh, I get it,” Buzz said flatly. “I’m familiar with the term. That’s just not what we call one of our media colleagues. How about we go with plain old editor?”
“Sure,” I said, and swallowed.
“Okay, now. We’re talking here about a rumored affair with an unnamed millionaire fund-raiser for the Democratic Party. And this just pops up in the sidebar, unattributed.”
“It’s attributed—”
“It’s attributed to ‘the Sumner camp.’ Where, may I ask, is that? Rhinebeck?”
“It’s on good authority from two executive secretaries. They don’t even know each other. They work in different departments.”
“Hmmm. That doesn’t give us the right to call it a ‘none-too-secret dalliance.’ And meanwhile, her lawyer says she’s not seeking a divorce. We have him on the record. His statement is going to stand up against two unidentified secretaries. I suggest we scrap this sidebar altogether. There’s nothing on this loin once you remove the gristle.”
“Okay, Buzz, but I know we’ll look silly if we don’t even mention it. Everyone else in town is running it already.”
Buzz leaned back in his chair and sighed. He took the tube of L’Occitane off his desk and squeezed some yellow cream into his palm. “That’s just it. We’re not everyone else, Valerie. This paper writes the first draft of history. We can’t afford mistakes, and we can’t be putting out unverified items about any old editrix . If you get something wrong here and, by some fault of our system, it gets in print, it stays wrong. It gets reported in other papers wrong, it goes out on the Internet wrong, and then it turns up wrong in the history books. Then it’s always wrong, and it’s our fault. That’s a big burden we shoulder, but it’s one we all share.”
The way Buzz was rubbing the lotion into his hand made it seem like he was working up to something. He wielded the word wrong like a battering ram.
“So, you’re saying we need to cut that section about the affair? What if I got some more publishing world insiders?”
“I know what’s happening here,” Buzz continued. “You never worked anywhere but Gotham’s Gate, and that’s the kind of reporting you know—the kind where facts don’t ever get in the way of a good story. Maybe you had fact-checkers who were supposed to comb for flaws, but they were using their combs for their bangs. Gotham’s Gate is as full of mistakes as a colander is full of holes. I knew all this when I hired you, and I blame myself for not taking the time out to help you. I’ve been remiss.”
I started looking around for my purse. I wondered if they’d let me finish my lunch before they showed me the door.
“Don’t look so glum,” Buzz said. “We’ll fix it. We’ll make itright. From now on, you sit down and circle every fact in your story. Check it against your notes. Check it with your sources. Check against your gut. Is something not right here? Is this not exactly the truth?”
He stopped making circles on the back of his hand and handed me the tube of lotion. This time I took it and smoothed some into my palm, then rubbed it against my neck, massaging slowly. He wasn’t firing me. He was giving me a second chance.
“I understand,” I said. “I promise to do
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