Spiked It!

World War II and two broken legs were the reasons James Jameson, at 26, was the night editor of the Plainfield Courier News. The draft before Pearl Harbor and the rush of volunteers after the disaster meant earlier promotional opportunities for those still in civilian life.

His permanent limp spared him military service when he graduated from Princeton in June 1944. Not the case with his father or brother. The former dusted off his World War I uniform and was now in France with General Patton. His brother flew P51s in the Pacific. This left his mother alone in New Jersey's Somerset County. At her pleading, instead of joining a New York paper, JJ's wartime sacrifice was to become a reporter at the Courier, which was located near her mid-state home. 

As it turned out, he rose quickly, so on New Year's Day 1944, he became night editor when the draft took his predecessor. The Courier at that time was more than 70 years old and was an integral part of residents' daily routine. Church socials, local sports, obituaries, town meetings, farm news, accidents, and other local happenings were the paper's bread and butter. The publisher handled the editorials that thundered from the paper. At the same time, the night editor was responsible for gathering the national and international news and reducing it to two columns, one on the front page and the other ahead of the obituaries.

To accomplish his tasks, JJ's staff consisted of one assistant editor, Ben Enrite, two older veteran scribes, and three young women, fresh from college. The paper covered six counties, and in each were one or two correspondents who worked out of their homes and called in items.  Most of them came via dictation to JJ or Ben, with help from the other staff if they were in the office. Priority was always given to obituaries, sports results, and local society gatherings.

Taking dictation was difficult for JJ, often interrupting his editing of wire copy or items submitted by one of the staffers. Not every item the correspondents sent in was worth the time or effort. Early in his tenure, JJ learned it paid him to treat all as worthwhile. A rough word to the voice at the other end of the line led to a call from the publisher telling him to be more respectful. 

Over time, JJ realized some of these women—they were all female—had pipelines into local authorities that almost guaranteed they would be told of an unusual event such as an accident, death, or fire. One correspondent also had better news judgment than her peers. JJ knew her simply as Cynthia. Within two months of assuming his new duties, he began to look forward to taking her calls.

Cynthia never appeared in the office, any long copy she wrote was usually brought into the office by her mother or a messenger. Her pay was done by check, so far as JJ knew, the only one of the correspondents receiving this perk which was sent in the mail. Out of curiosity, JJ looked for her address and saw it was in one of the better towns closer to the Pennsylvania border.

One night in April, Ben answered the newsroom phone. It was Cynthia with an urgent story. Months away from retirement age, Ben hoped the war-created manpower shortage would allow him to continue.

               "City desk," Ben answered.

                "Hi Ben, thought it was you. I've got a hot one."

                "Okay, standby, I'll get JJ to take it."

                "Thank you, is he busy?"

                "I don't think he's too busy for you. Hold on."

Cradling the phone, he looked up at JJ, immersed in a story. Without hesitation, he called over to his boss.

               "Cynthia's on the phone, says she got a hot one."

Hastily, JJ shoved aside the copy he was working on, picked up his phone, and tucked it between his cheek and left shoulder before rolling a clean sheet of paper into his typewriter.

               "What'cha got Cynthia?" he said almost too warmly.

                "The president's train just stop at our way station off the main line tonight."

                "How do you know it's the president's train?"

                "Horace Anderson told me."

                "Whose Horace Anderson?"

                "He's the train man in charge on the side line."

                "What's the president's train doing off the main line."

                "He picks up Lucy Mercer Rutherford on his way south."

                "Whose this Lucy Mercer Rutherford?"

                "Now you're the big newspaper man you figure it out."

                "Oh come on, he's a married man."

                "And men don't stray?"

                "They do when they can walk, it is difficult for the president to walk."

                "My daddy says he can't walk at all."

                "How does he know."

                "He goes to Washington often."

                "What does he do?"

                "He doesn't tell me."

                "How do you know this Horace Anderson?"

                "He stops the Washington train sometimes for my father."

                "He stop the train when your father comes back?"

                "No, the conductor on the train does at some place on the mainline."

                "How does he get home?"

                "My mom picks him up or one of the men from the plant."

                "Your father must be an important person."

                "He thinks he is."

                "But are you sure the president was on the train?"

                "Horace spoke to the conductor on the train."

                "When and how the president travels is probably secret."

                "Everybody around here knows when she goes with him."

                "They do, this is the first time I found out about it the same night."

                "Why did this Horace tell you this time?"

                "He tried to kiss me."

                "How old is this guy?"

                "Older than me. A lot older."

                "Did you tell your father?"

                "I can handle men like Horace."

                "I bet you can but I'd tell your father."

                "It would only upset him and get Horace fired."

                "Could your father do that?"

                "I bet he could even get you fired."

                "Why would he do that?"

                "If I told him you tried to kiss me, he would."

                "Look here Cynthia, I'm your boss not someone trying to kiss you."

                "Do you want this story or not? Do I call the New York papers instead?"

                "They wouldn't touch it. Give me your lines and I'll clear it with the publisher."

                "Can't you make your own decisions?"

                "This is a little too big for me."

                "Drat!"

Cynthia dictated the story's who, what, why, where, and how and hung up immediately. JJ sat looking at his typewriter and the words they contained. When he hadn't moved for minutes, Ben addressed him. The night editor didn't respond until Ben nudged him.

"She's feisty, isn't she?" Ben queried.

"A spitfire. She claims the president stopped to pick up some woman named Lucy Mercer Rutherford on his way south. Do you know her or about her?"

"She's a widow with a big place about 20 miles from here. I think Green Point. Her husband died about a year ago. They're rich."

"You think our publisher knows them?"

"You can bet on it."

"What do you think I should do."

"Your decision, you're their night editor."

"I don't know, it's a big story."

"Is it worth your job?"

"You think that would happen?"

"Does the sun rise in the east?"

"Yeah, I think you're right."

"What do you do about Cynthia?"

"What about Cynthia."

"What do I have to tell her?"

"She just got this paper one hell of a story you're going to spike."

"What do I care what she feels, I'm the editor, she's a reporter. End of story!"

"Is that all she is to you?"

"What do you mean? I've never met the woman."

"You two have been dancing around each other since you came on board nights."

"No we haven't."

"Just ask the girls, they've been laughing for weeks."

"Let them, I'm thinking about the problems this paper will have if she's wrong."

“What if she’s right?

“We just blew one hell of a story.”

“No, you did. I would run with it.”

“You’re not starting your career.”

“No, but I’d rather have done something notable, then spiking a big story.

"She's not wrong and you know it."

"What would you do?"

"I told you but it’s not my call, it’s yours."

JJ thought about the story for a half hour before folding the copy and putting it in his pocket. Ben watched his boss and waited for JJ to look at him.

"I think I'll drive out to Cynthia's house tomorrow and explain my decision," JJ said in as casual a voice as he could muster.

"Smart move," was all Ben replied.

On the October 1964 day the general public first knew that Lucy Mercer Rutherford was in the little guest house with FDR when he died, JJ was in his office. His ears attuned to the bell ringing signifying urgent news caught his attention. Now the Courier’s editor, he pulled the AP version off the teletype machine immediately raced to his car.  Despite his need for haste, he drove just under the speed limit, to his home. Even so, he did not arrive before his wife was already aware of the revelations. He found Cynthia in her office, the same one she occupied when he first met her in 1944. 

"You were right," JJ said.

"Of course I was and you were right to spike it."

"You really think so."

"No one would have believed the story and you would have been fired."

"I would have gotten a job on a New York paper."

"You could have had a job on a New York paper anytime since then."

"I spiked it!

"What did Ben say? 'Smart move."

"He was referring to me driving here."

"To explain to me why you did it."

"I think he knew there was something more on my mind."

"He was right."

"I should have run the story."

"Then you think we wouldn't have met."

"Yes."

"We would have met."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I always believed that fate would give me a happy ending."

"You have always needed that faith to do what you have done."

"I only needed you. Now, wheel me into the kitchen and I'll make dinner."