Into that silence, she began to speak.
“Thank you for that,” she said. “Every one of you. First, let me say that I’m all right physically, except for this burn on my cheek, and Penn is, too. But it was a near thing, and if Henry Sexton and a heroic man who worked for Albert Norris as a boy hadn’t sacrificed their lives for ours, we would both be dead. That’s one of the stories we’ll be printing tomorrow. We will honor those men as they deserve. But that’s only a small part of a much larger duty we have tonight.”
She took a moment to gather herself. “It’s axiomatic that people in small towns don’t get their news from newspapers. They never have. Local papers print stories about Little League baseball and garden clubs and the press releases from the local factory. But the real news—the reasons for layoffs or why someone lost an election or the facts behind a murder—usually travel by a different route: word of mouth. Long before Myspace and blogging, the real news traveled over backyard fences and via telephone, around watercoolers and on golf courses. The newspaper functioned as a Chamber of Commerce billboard advertising the town, while the real story lived behind the glossy sign, off the page, or at best, between the lines.
“My father’s newspapers have been as guilty of this irrelevance as any other chain. And even before Dad bought it, the Examiner was one of the worst offenders. The old Wise family made sure of that. If you go back and check the week that Delano Payton was murdered in 1968, you’ll find a perfunctory story about the bombing, then a follow-up announcing the offer of a reward by his national union—and very little else. If you go back to the week Albert Norris was burned to death, you’ll find nothing.
“During my time as publisher, I’ve tried to change that policy. All of you have helped me. Seven years ago, our Del Payton stories carried the message of justice delayed to the entire world. Now, tonight, we’re going to break the biggest story that any of us are likely to touch in our entire lives. As you know, it spans over a dozen civil rights murders committed during the 1960s. The perpetrators of those crimes have been allowed to roam free for forty years, and now they’ve killed again in their efforts to avoid being exposed and punished for their crimes. The death toll tonight is unprecedented in the history of this area, and a Natchez police officer will probably be added to the list before dawn.”
Several people gasped.
“We’re going to be dealing with next-of-kin issues, so I’m not sure if we’ll be printing names in all cases. But beginning now, we’re going to devote every waking minute to doing justice to this epic story. A single edition of the paper can’t possibly contain it. So, after physical publication this morning, I hope that those willing to remain will do so and continuously update our online edition. I fully expect that by noon tomorrow—or today, rather—we’ll be in the eye of a media storm. This is what we live for, people. For about twelve hours, we’re the only news staff in the country in possession of the facts of this story. Television, radio, the blogosphere—they’ve got nothing. But tomorrow that will change. So . . . right now, I want everyone in this room to take thirty seconds and think about Henry Sexton, who was murdered for his courage and convictions. For those of you who don’t know, on the first night he was attacked, Henry had already agreed to write for this paper, so he is your colleague in more ways than one.”
Caitlin bowed her head and silently counted to thirty. In the elegiac silence of held breaths and closed eyes, she realized that she blamed herself more than anyone else for Henry’s death. For in the end it was her forcing Katy Royal to unburden herself of her secrets that had sent Brody Royal into a homicidal rage. Of course, nothing she could do now would bring Henry back. Sleepy Johnston, either. All she could do now was carry on Henry’s cause and try to do justice to their memories. Stealing a glance upward, she saw a few people staring at Jordan to her right.
“Amen,” she said in a firmer voice, and every face in the room rose to hers. “By the way, the woman to my right is Jordan Glass, a legend in our business, and I assume she needs no further introduction.”
The room burst into applause again, and a couple of the guys whistled.
“Easy, dudes, she’s married.”
“And I’m too old for you,” Jordan added.
After the much-needed laughter subsided, Caitlin said, “Sadly, I also need to bring you up to speed on a very upsetting matter. I know the silent computers have probably freaked you all out. They do me. It’s like a 1950s horror movie or something. But there’s a good reason for it. We’ve experienced a major breach of security at the Examiner. Earlier tonight, when Penn and I were kidnapped, Nick Moore, our press operator, probably helped the kidnappers commit their crime.”
A murmur of consternation and anger rose at this confirmation of the rumor.
“The FBI is hunting Nick now. But I must tell you, I have reason to believe that Nick might not be the only one of our staff who took a bribe from the people we’re investigating.”
This time there were gasps of disbelief.
“Henry Sexton’s files and journals—the files that you spent so many hours painstakingly scanning into our computer system—have been deleted by someone working for Brody Royal.”
Many in the audience groaned as though in physical pain, and Caitlin saw more than a few reporters cursing under their breath.
“Worse yet, the physical files and journals have been stolen and destroyed. However, all may not be lost on that front. The FBI is going to lend us some computer experts who might be able to reconstruct those deleted files.”