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“Don’t want to come to the country’s smallest market, huh?”
“Surprisingly, that’s not the obstacle. Some of them sounded downright eager to try a place where there’s no place but up. And they like the idea of coaching the rookies, especially with less of a news load on their plate. The issue is they’re entrenched. Sometimes in the job — needing more time for a better retirement or up for a promotion or addicted to the pace. And even if it’s not the job, it’s the spouse’s job, kids’ school, aging parents nearby. One guy even said he didn’t want to leave his cardiologist. Even though I pointed out he might not need a cardiologist if he eased up on the stress, cigars, and drinking.”
“That’s the way to recruit, Elizabeth,” he said dryly.
“He wasn’t coming anyway.” I sighed. “Mike thinks we need an attraction. Something that makes Cottonwood County famous, alluring.”
I recounted our brainstorming along those lines.
He didn’t join in with more outrageous ideas the way I thought he would. Instead, he seemed to grow more serious. But when I finished, he said, “I might have an idea.” So perhaps I misjudged him.
“What? Happy to take anything back to Mike.”
“What about a newspaper person.”
It took a second to shift from an idea to promote the county to an answer to our hiring situation. “A newspaper person? To run a TV newsroom?”
“Sure. The news is the news. They’d need someone to cover them on what’s peculiar to TV news — and I do mean peculiar — as well as tech stuff. At least to start. But reporting, news sense, working a beat or the phones, all the core requirements they’d be great at.”
When I found myself wondering if my Philadelphia buddy Matt Lester might have any leads on individuals, I knew Needham’s suggestion might work.
“Here’s the other thing.” His voice sounded heavy. “There’s a good number who need jobs. It’s not good times for newspapers. Buyouts when they’re lucky, layoffs otherwise, and bankruptcies affecting retirement plans all too often. I’ve had people reaching out for leads on jobs — including joining our minuscule staff here. People who should be running this place.”
“Nobody could run the Independence the way you do.”
“Thanks. But I mean it. At least half of them could teach me a thing or two.”
“That’s really interesting, Needham. Let me talk to Mike. We would need to fill the broadcast knowledge gaps for someone with a newspaper background...”
Although, with KWMT being so far from the cutting-edge of technology that it was like a distant contrail in the Wyoming sky, that was never going to be our selling point. Grounding in the fundamentals and the opportunities to do a lot of flavors of work fast were the big selling points we pitched to young hires.
“Do you ever think we’re fighting a losing battle, Needham? Seems like half the people don’t want news, but only confirmation of what they already think, and the other half puts their faith in crowd-sourcing.”
He grunted. “Crowd-sourcing news isn’t news. It’s also not new. It’s been around forever. It’s otherwise known as gossip.”
I snorted in appreciation and agreement.
“A long tradition from the original tabloids to what now gets churned around as celebrity news — with huge, disbelieving quotes around that use of the word. In the early days of this country, the newspapers were not many steps above that. They were frequently the voices of parties or factions, without a thought to being factual, much less fair, and balanced. What was new — for most of journalism — in the twentieth century was an emphasis on those qualities. The outlets that didn’t achieve it were dismissed as rags.”
“So, we’re returning to the bad old days?” I asked as I pulled up in front of the Independence building, whose century-plus old brick façade demonstrated a good aspect of the old days.
“We aren’t. Some might, including those consuming the euphemistically titled crowd-sourced news, but we’re still aiming for those goals of factual, fair, and balanced.” He exited the SUV, then leaned back in. “You and me and a lot of others, Elizabeth. Still doing it right. Battle’s not over.”
****
Backtracking slightly, I came around to the museum’s rear entrance.
My goal of catching Clara without being announced — and thus cutting her time to build resistance to talking to me — failed, because she was there, doing something in the open back of the museum’s van. It was as well-aged as the NewsMobile, which was more appropriate for a history museum than a news station, but not as durable.
She groaned when she saw me.
So did the other woman standing on the ground beside the open van doors. Vicky Upton worked in the museum’s gift shop and baked delicious brownies sold there. She also held a grudge against me about a murder investigation focusing on her family.
Some people are overly sensitive.
Although we had reached an entry-level of détente over another inquiry a few months ago.
“Elizabeth, I really don’t have time,” Clara said immediately. “I need to get all these boxes inside and Vicky’s leaving me—”
