The Old Lady of Vine Street: The Valiant Fight for the Cincinnati Enquirer

By Richard K. Mastain

THE OLD LADY OF VINE STREET REVEALED

These days the notion of a free press is almost an entirely foreign concept, and its ever-diminishing presence in our society has shown itself to be a thief of true democracy.

The Old Lady of Vine Street is the story of a small band of reporters who had the courage to risk everything they had for their belief in the importance of a free and independent press. They had the audacity to fight the powerful Taft family for the right to buy their own newspaper, the Cincinnati Enquirer.

The story unfolds in January 1952 in Cincinnati and moves on to the Federal District Court in Washington, D.C. Reporters Jim Ratliff and Jack Cronin head the list of major players that also includes the former United States Senator who chaired the Senate investigation of Joseph McCarthy in 1950, two of the wealthiest men in the United States, the most famous family in America, the trust company that sold the Washington Post to Eugene Meyers for $833,000, and over 800 Cincinnati Enquirer employees who risked their homes and lifes savings for a chance to own their paper, affectionately known as the Old Lady of Vine Street.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440120596

Book preview

THE MAJOR PLAYERS

In Cincinnati, Ohio:

The Cincinnati Enquirer: The Old Lady of Vine Street

The Times-Star: Afternoon newspaper owned by the Taft family

The Frost and Jacobs Law Firm:

In Cleveland, Ohio:

The Portsmouth Steel Company:

Cyrus Eaton: President

Robert L. Kaiser: Secretary of Portsmouth Steel

Judge Robert Marx: Legal counsel and director (heads the Portsmouth

Steel Company offices in Cincinnati)

In New York, New York:

Halsey-Stuart: A New York/Chicago-based bond company

Harold Stuart: President

Charles Stuart: Vice President

The American Institute of Management:

Jackson Martindell: President and Treasurer

A New York Law Firm:

Abraham Lincoln Bienstock: Legal counsel to the McLean heirs, Ned and Jock.

In Washington DC:

The American Security and Trust Company:

Daniel Bell: President

G. Bowdoin Craighill: Legal counsel

Davies, Richberg, Tydings, Beebe, and Landa Law Firm:

Millard Tydings: Partner and former U.S. senator

Arthur Red Condon: An associate of the law firm

In Florida:

The McLean heirs:

Jock McLean: Grandson of John Roll McLean

Ned McLean: Grandson of John Roll McLean

SUPPORTING CAST

In Cincinnati:

The Cincinnati Enquirer:

Other Cincinnatians:

In Chicago and New York:

Halsey-Stuart: A New York/Chicago-based bond company:

M. Scott Bromwell: Chicago office staff

Thomas Huff: Vice President of the Chicago office

C.D. Maxwell: New York office staff

Russell Williams: Chicago office staff

In Washington DC:

The McLean heirs, family, and legal counsel:

Marie Spears Reynolds: Great-granddaughter of John Roll McLean and, along with Jock and Ned McLean, one of the three principal heirs

Robert Reynolds: Father of Marie Spears and former United States senator

Arthur Drury: Legal counsel for the fourth-generation heirs

Journalists:

George Harris: Time magazine

Victor Salvatore: Washington Post

CHAPTER ONE

News of the Sale: A Mixed Reaction

It was a typical Cincinnati January morning as Jim Ratliff got ready for his 6:00 AM tennis game. He shivered as he stepped into the biting cold wind to get the nearly frozen milk and two securely wrapped newspapers, the Cincinnati Enquirer and the New York Times. He needed the milk for Mary’s coffee and his cereal. Neither a smoker nor a drinker of coffee or hard liquor, he usually started the day with orange juice, oatmeal, and toast. He was finicky about his food and proud of the fact that at forty-two, he still carried his college weight of 155 pounds, evenly spread on his lean, athletic, five-foot-eleven-inch frame.

Ratliff had joined the Enquirer in 1937 as a greenhorn cub reporter. Now, fifteen years later, he was considered the city’s top investigative reporter. He devoured both papers on a daily basis, but today, he only had time to check his own column and skim the front page of the Enquirer, enjoy a glass of orange juice, grab the rye toast, and head for his tennis match.

He now limited his tennis to Saturday and Sunday mornings. Tennis had been an important part of his life since childhood, and he had excelled. He had won the Cincinnati City Championships eight times and, with his brother, the doubles championships ten times. He had played against and, on occasion, beaten Bill Talbert and Tony Trabert, both members of the Tennis Hall of Fame. He thrived on the fierce competition, the self-reliance, the intense physical demands, and the opportunity to excel. He had the reputation of a ferocious competitor who came to play and win. He was also recognized as a gentleman when the game was over.

Tennis had also played an unexpected but crucial part during his service in the U.S. Army’s Counter Intelligence Corps (CIC). Recalled for duty in June 1946, Captain Ratliff was assigned to the Munich CIC headquarters as the deputy director. His first assignment was to investigate the details of the July 1944 plot to kill Hitler. One of the plotters was Baron Gottfried von Cramm, whose name was familiar to Jim. Von Cramm was the pre-war number-two tennis player in the world.

As Ratliff headed to Von Cramm’s ancient castle at Bidenburg, he recalled listening to the radio broadcast of the 1938 Wimbledon finals between Don Budge of the United States and Baron von Cramm. Budge defeated Von Cramm 19-17 in the fifth set in what was called the greatest match in Wimbledon’s history.

When Ratliff arrived at the castle, Von Cramm was engaged in a heated discussion with a U.S. Army major. The major was ordering Von Cramm, his family, and his guests to vacate the premises; they were to be used as the major’s headquarters.

Never one to be intimidated by rank, civilian or military, Ratliff took the major aside and, throwing diplomacy to the wind, told him, My God, Major, do you know who you are moving out of the castle? Baron von Cramm was the prime leader in the plan to kill Hitler in July 1944. He went to Sweden to meet with the king of England and the British foreign secretary, Anthony Eden, to try to negotiate a more lenient surrender, if the bomb plot was successful. He is an idol to tennis fans and a hero to every German citizen who opposed Hitler. We have reason to believe that many of the guests in his castle are refugees from East Germany who will prove to be valuable informants.

Ratliff’s admonition to the major proved more prophetic than he could have imagined. Von Cramm, appreciative of the successful intervention, cooperated by providing a comprehensive account of the plot to kill Hitler. In addition, he introduced Ratliff to his guests and encouraged them to provide any information that would be helpful to the CIC. One of the guests, another anti-Hitler plotter, Countess Marion von Doerhof, provided additional information and perspective on the plot.

During the weeks that followed, Ratliff and Von Cramm developed a friendship and trust based on the successful intervention and on their mutual knowledge and love of tennis. The U.S. Army, encouraged by the CIC headquarters in Frankfurt, arranged a series of tennis matches between the two men in various cities in the U.S. and British zones. These matches helped improve relations between the German people, who remembered and idolized Von Cramm, and the U.S. Army. Von Cramm usually won, but not without a struggle and not without seeing and feeling the intensity, determination, and never-say-die spirit of his opponent, Jim Ratliff.

Now Jim looked forward to Saturday tennis against his neighbor Frank Dale or some other strong player. Sunday mornings were reserved for doubles with his wife, Mary, who was one of the better players among the women. Jim’s intensity was offset by Mary’s equanimity. Together, they made a strong team, on and off the court.

He walked slowly across the icy walk to the garage and pulled the well-oiled hanging door to the side. He never tired of admiring his well-preserved, dark-green 1938 Lincoln convertible. There was not a scratch anywhere, and the motor purred like a well-fed kitten as Jim turned the key. With every tank of gasoline, Jim added a pint of an additive his father had developed. Without a patent, he had lost the rights to the largest petroleum company in Ohio. Jim never purchased gasoline from that company, nor did he ever have trust in the ethics of big business. However, he swore by the additive and kept the formula a secret, shared only with his brother.

He took great care of his car and drove at a slow pace through the slippery, snow-covered roads on the three-mile drive to the public indoor tennis courts. Even though the top of the convertible was hooked in place, the cold, biting wind found enough space to sting his nose and blow asunder his sandy, slightly receding hair. He wore unusually thick glasses, probably as a result of having read everything within reach. His face was set with a firm chin, and a half-smile crossed his lips as he contemplated the joys that awaited him on the tennis court.

He thoroughly enjoyed the drive through the city where his grandparents, parents, and he and Mary were born. He knew literally every inch of the city, from the blustery banks of the Ohio River to the three great hilltop parks overlooking it, from the suburbs of Hyde Park, Walnut Hills, and Indian Hills to the magnificent homes of the Taft family and President Benjamin Harrison, to the Spring Grove Cemetery, where thirteen Union generals were buried. Many of his newspaper columns included sketches of Cincinnati’s history. He was proud of his hometown and wanted others to know why J.B. Priestly, the famous English author, called Cincinnati, along with New Orleans and San Francisco, the three most unique towns in the United States. To Jim Ratliff, everything about Cincinnati was either world famous, unique, or simply the best. Some of his colleagues at the paper joked, mostly behind his back, that if you had an hour to sit and listen, just ask Jim something about the city. His passion for tennis was almost matched by his passion for his city and his paper, the Cincinnati Enquirer.

During the past fourteen years, with four years out for his U.S. Army service, he had risen to his present recognition as Cincinnati’s most distinguished investigative reporter, thanks to the high intelligence that had landed him in the Counter Intelligence Corps and the training he had there. One of his most exhaustive investigations, lasting most of 1949, had resulted in an exposé of Communist front organizations in the greater Cincinnati region. His articles on the investigation, published each Sunday in the spring of 1950, exploded over the city. It was not like the conservative old Enquirer to be spectacular, but even though the makeup of the series was conservative, the contents were explosive. Competing newspapers in the city, the Times-Star and the Post, tried to minimize or discredit the story, but the public recognized that a serious, constructive effort had been made to combat a dangerous menace.

The spectacular nature of the exposure could hardly escape the attention of the House Un-American Activities Committee, which decided to conduct a hearing on the subject. This decision was made over the strenuous objections of some political interests who feared the consequences. Each day of the hearing brought forth new witnesses, persons whose names the committee had never heard. They were witnesses who had been inside the Communist Party in and around Cincinnati. They named names, places, details.

The critics were forced to recognize the thoroughness and accuracy of the story that Ratliff had developed and they had ridiculed. Ratliff had brought the Enquirer’s prestige and influence to a peak in the community it had been serving since 1841.

In another investigation, Ratliff wrote of the fraud by a prominent multi-millionaire physician who virtually ignored Internal Revenue laws. The paper’s legal counsel advised against any further articles because of a threatened libel suit. Again, the Times-Star and the Post were critical of the articles. However, at the last possible minute, the judge forced the physician’s lawyer to divulge some non-privileged information, and the physician was found guilty in federal court, sentenced for tax evasion, and ordered to pay $3.5 million in back taxes, penalties, and interest.

The snow had been cleared from the spaces closest to the clubhouse. Jim parked his car at 5:40 AM, leaving time to dress and stretch before the game. His neighbor, Frank Dale, was in the locker room and greeted Ratliff with his usual blarney.

Hey, Jim, this is the day the lawyer kicks the butt of the journalist. It’s Duke University against the University of Cincinnati, with no holds barred.

There’s a first time for everything, Frank, he teased. Today, however, is not that time.

He enjoyed Frank as a neighbor, as a fellow member of the Episcopal Church, and as a tennis opponent. Frank was four years younger than Jim, about the same height and build, a fine tennis player, and very successful as a junior partner in the law firm of Frost and Jacobs. He and Jim differed in several noticeable respects. Dale was extremely affable, with a seemingly endless number of friends and a member of every upper-society organization in Cincinnati. He was a die-hard Republican and a personal friend of Senator Richard Nixon from his law school days at Duke. In comparison, Jim Ratliff, in his own words, was a loner, with a handful of close and steadfast friends, along with his and Mary’s immediate family. In addition, he and Mary were staunch Democrats, whose only organizational affiliation was with the Episcopal Church; Jim was a member of the Lay Board and Mary was a Sunday school teacher.

Jim smiled to himself as they took the court for a warmup. It felt good to run, to make solid contact with the ball, and to anticipate Dale’s next shot. Frank’s serve was much faster than Jim’s, but he had learned a long time ago that placement of the serve was more important than speed, and it took far less energy. Frank was often able to win two or three games because of his serve, but Jim’s strokes and speed were usually too much. Today was no exception, with Jim winning the set 6 to 3.

As they walked to the side of the court for a short breather and a drink of water, the manager came out of his office holding a phone on a long extension. Jim, it’s Mary on the phone.

It was unusual for Mary to phone him here, and given her present state, he anxiously asked, Mary, are you okay?

"Yes, I’m fine, but I phoned to tell you today’s New York Times has a story that the Times-Star has purchased the Enquirer!"

What? Ratliff shouted loud enough to bring disgusted glances from every one of the early morning tennis players. Then, with a guttural I don’t believe it, he smashed his tennis racquet against the net post. The racquet, still in Jim’s hands, was barely recognizable.

The smash was followed by silence. Every head was focused on Ratliff and the racquet in his hand. He was too angry to be embarrassed or even to notice the commotion he had caused. He just stood there holding his fatally damaged racquet and looking angry and distraught.

Frank cautiously asked, Jim, is Mary okay?

Finally, Jim turned and, looking directly at his tennis opponent, answered slowly, Yes, she’s fine.

Well, then, what’s wrong?

In almost a defeated whisper, Jim answered, "The Times-Star has purchased the Enquirer. Then, taking a deep and seemingly painful breath and looking directly at Dale, he asked, Did you know about the sale, Frank?"

Stepping back a pace or two and without looking directly at Jim, he responded, I’ve known about this potential purchase for nearly six months.

The news caught Ratliff with surprise and anger. You knew and yet you said nothing? he said, with unaccustomed harshness, to his neighbor.

It was privileged information, Jim, Dale responded defensively. "Carl Jacobs, my boss, wrote the purchase contract at the request of the Enquirer publisher, Roger Ferger. The impetus for the purchase came from Ferger at the instigation of his employer and owner of the Enquirer, the American Security and Trust Company."

Echoing Dale’s statement about Ferger’s instigation of the purchase, Ratliff added, Wait a minute, I’ve got to sit down. I’m drained. He slowly eased himself onto the closest courtside chair.

Dale hesitated a moment and then continued, Ferger has been encouraging Hulbert Taft to offer $7.5 million for six months. The Taft family thought the price too high but given the losses their paper has sustained and their need of a morning paper, they finally made the offer.

Why in hell wouldn’t they announce the sale and put it up for open bidding, multiple offers, or even a closed-bid auction? Couldn’t they expect to get a better price if it weren’t a one-horse race? Ratliff questioned.

"Yes, but the American Security and Trust Corporation is only three blocks from the White House. They would like to be in the good graces of the next president, who they expect to be Senator Robert Taft. The trust company thinks it has the authority to sell the Enquirer to whomever it wishes," Dale told him.

Jim finally mustered the energy to finish the second set, beating Dale 6-0, and trying to remember when he enjoyed destroying his opponent quite as much.

It was nine by the time Ratliff headed home. He was physically tired from the tennis match and mentally frustrated and angered by Dale’s silence and the news of the sale.

Damn it, he muttered, as his hands alternately gripped and pounded on the steering wheel. He couldn’t wait to read the New York Times article and learn the conditions of the sale.

Mary greeted him with her usual calm, How’d it go, Jim?

Jim relaxed a bit at the sight of Mary and the sound of her quiet greeting. I kind of lost my cool.

What happened?

Well, first of all, I hollered loud enough to wake the dead, and then … then I smashed my racquet into a thousand pieces, he answered with a sheepish, hang-dog look.

Was that the racquet I gave you for Christmas, only two weeks ago?

Without looking up, he answered, Yeah, the brand-new Pancho Gonzales.

Sounds like an interesting morning so far. Anything else happen?

I asked Frank if he’d known about the sale, given his law firm probably did all the legal work. When he said that he’d known about the pending sale for six months, I was angry with him.

I hope you didn’t break another racquet.

No, I just beat him 6-0 in the last set. I was so angry about the sale and then his silence that I just wanted to destroy him. I’ll apologize when we see him and Kay in church tomorrow.

Sounds to me like you need to calm down, read the article, and decide how you plan to direct your anger, Mary advised.

Yeah, you’re right, as usual. Where’s the paper?

On the kitchen table, next to some orange juice.

Thanks, Mary. Jim quickly sat down and reached for the paper. He read quietly for a few minutes and then erupted.

Oh, my God! Jim bellowed as he finished reading the article.

What, Jim? Mary asked anxiously as she sat down at the table. Is it that bad?

Worse than I imagined, Jim responded and proceeded to read part of the article to Mary.

Is the price too low? Is that the problem, Jim?

No, that’s a fair price. The problem is in the conditions of the sale. Turning back to the paper, Jim read: "’The agreement requires a down payment of $1.25 million. The balance of $6.25 million is due at the end of twelve years at an annual interest rate of 4.5 percent. The Enquirer building will continue to be owned by the present owners, Jock and Ned McLean. The physical assets will be sold or moved to the Times-Star building.’"

"I can’t follow all of those figures, Jim. Is it a good deal for the Times-Star?"

It’s a gift, Mary, a gift, Jim almost shouted. "The Enquirer’s move to the Times-Star building will save $170,000 in rent a year. The annual Enquirer profits and the savings in rent will generate a minimum of $600,000 a year. That’s enough, without any other funding, to pay off the entire debt in approximately twelve years."

You mean the Tafts will own the paper outright, in twelve years, without any funding other than the down payment? Mary asked, with a quizzical look.

That’s exactly correct. The paper pays for itself! The poor slobs working for the merged papers will be sweating to buy the paper for the Tafts.

What are those physical assets mentioned in the article?

Mainly the presses that were purchased less than two years ago for two million dollars. They could sell them tomorrow for a million and a half or more.

What else are they getting?

What else? Jim shrieked. I’ll tell you what else. One of the country’s great newspapers. The only morning newspaper in Cincinnati, the …

Slow down, honey, you’ll raise my blood pressure. I know it’s a great newspaper, so you don’t have to convince me. I’m just trying to understand the assets they’re getting.

Okay, okay, but they’re getting 210,000 daily subscribers, 280,000 Sunday subscribers, and the goodwill of a paper that’s been in business over a hundred years.

The Enquirer began publishing in 1841 under the ownership of Washington McLean. John Roll McLean purchased the paper in 1881 from his father and ran the Enquirer until his death in 1916. When he died, he placed the Enquirer and a second paper he owned, the Washington Post, in a trust for his heirs. The American Security and Trust Company, a Washington DC bank, administered the trust. In 1929, the banks turned down an offer of five million dollars for the Washington Post and refused an offer of three million in 1932. Due to a continually declining economy, the paper was sold for $830,000 at a receivership auction to Eugene Meyers, the father of Katherine Graham.

The few employees who had worked for John R. McLean remembered him as a man who dearly loved the Enquirer and the people who worked for the paper. He stipulated in his will that the Enquirer could not be sold without the approval of his son, Edward B. McLean, and his long-time friend, Frances T. Homer. His son died in 1941, and Homer died in 1930.

Ned and Jock McLean, sons of Edward B., were two heirs. The other heirs included the seven grandchildren of Edward B. These seven minors and any unborn heirs were represented by a court-appointed guardian, Arthur D. Drury.

Why does the trust company want to sell? Mary asked.

"The New York Times article cited increased labor and material costs and pressure from the custodian of the minor heirs. He thinks the newspaper business is too risky. However, I think the main reason is that the trust company wants to sell to the family of the man they think will become president."

What’s in all of this for Ferger?

"Ferger wants to continue as the publisher until he retires. He has undoubtedly come to an agreement with the Times-Star management to remain as the publisher of the Enquirer on a long-term contract that includes an increase in salary and bonus."

That fits in with your past characterization of Ferger. You’ve often described him as a good man in public relations and advertising and one who looks out for himself.

I’ll give him his due. The paper has grown in advertising, circulation, and profit during his tenure.

What about his relationship with the employees? Mary asked.

"He’s likeable enough but he doesn’t give a damn about the employees, only the profit. His friends are the members of the Queen City Club and not the employees of the Enquirer. He’s not regarded as one of us … a newspaperman. He couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag. He never served as a copy boy, subservient to everyone, or served as a reporter who has covered every story imaginable from arson to zealot, worn out a hundred pairs of shoes seeking the truth, worked twenty-four hours at a stretch to get the ‘story,’ worn the same clothes for days on end, been thrown out of the best offices in town, insulted the high and mighty, protected his sources even to the point of serving time in jail, and always and without exception, got the completed story to the editor before the presses started to hum!"

Wow! Mary laughed. You newspapermen set a pretty high standard. I suspect it’s even higher for newspaperwomen!

Yes, much higher. The point is that Ferger is not one of us, nor do I think he gives a damn about the employees, Jim responded in anger.

At the same time Jim was venting his spleen with Mary, Roger Ferger was sitting in the dining room of his palatial home with his wife, Sadi. They had purchased their home in the pricey Walnut Hills District in 1919, the year he had first joined the Enquirer as the director of advertising, at the incredible annual salary of $6,000. It was clear that Sadi, still slim and pretty in her late fifties, enjoyed her position as matriarch as she gave directions to the maid and the cook about that evening’s dinner guests. Roger was busy searching through the pages of the morning’s New York Times.

Yes, here it is, he announced with gusto. "I hoped that the news of the sale would be in today’s New York Times."

He read the entire article out loud to his wife with smug satisfaction and exclaimed, It’s a done deal, Sadi, a done deal!

So, you’ll be getting that huge raise you’ve been talking about? Sadi asked.

Yes, I hope so.

I know you’ll enjoy working with Hulbert and Robert Taft. You couldn’t ask for more agreeable business associates.

Speaking of agreeable associates, I’m off to a breakfast meeting with Carl Jacobs and Robert Taft to finalize the conditions of my contract.

I’m sure it will work out just as you’ve planned, Sadi answered, as Roger rose and headed for the meeting.

Ferger walked the two miles from his home to the elite Queen City Club almost every day. The daily journey, his only exercise, enabled him at fifty-eight to stay fit with just a slight paunch on his six-foot frame. He prided himself on his physical condition and dress. On this cold January morning, he had worn his usual three-piece suit, white shirt with a conservative dark-blue tie, gray wool overcoat, galoshes over black Florsheim shoes, and his ever-present gray felt hat.

He maneuvered the icy sidewalks carefully through neighborhoods he had known all of his life. His jaunty gait and facial expression evinced a man well pleased with himself. He smiled inwardly as he recalled the initial asking price of $7.5 million, all in cash, and Hulbert Taft’s quick response, Absolutely not! However, Roger knew how desperately the Times-Star needed the merger in order to stay in business. He also knew what terms were necessary to move Hulbert Taft from his rejection to agreement. During the months of negotiations, he gradually accepted the terms that the Tafts asked for. In return, he discussed his role in the merger and the conditions of his contract. His gait quickened as he thought of the tremendous rewards, security, and prestige of being the publisher of a paper owned by the famous Taft family.

He arrived early. He spoke to the waiter about the private table he’d reserved, set with colorful flowers and a pot of steaming coffee. Ferger was finishing his second cup of coffee and reading the Times article for the umpteenth time when his first guest arrived.

Carl Jacobs and Ferger were long-time friends. It was common knowledge that Ferger never made an important decision without first consulting Jacobs, the Enquirer’s legal counsel. Known to his friends as Big Carl, because of his six-foot-four-inch frame, he was highly respected as the senior partner in Frost and Jacobs and considered by many as tough enough to hunt bear with a switch.

Given our firm’s hourly fee, I assume this will be a short meeting, Jacobs announced with his usual smile and dry humor.

Huh, Ferger grumped. I’m buying your breakfast and that’s the only fee you’ll get today.

Robert Taft Jr. arrived just in time to hear some of the kidding. As the thirty-seven-year-old legal counsel for the Times-Star, he had worked with the two men on the merger during the past six months and had grown accustomed to their banter. Even though he had grown up in the midst of power and wealth, as the son of Mr. Republican and the grandson of William Howard Taft, he was gracious and comfortable to be around.

Glad to see you two are in a good mood. What’s on the menu? I’m starved, he greeted them cheerfully.

"First of all, let me read you an article in today’s New York Times you’ll find interesting," Ferger told the two men.

He read the article, with smug satisfaction in his voice as he concluded with, Well, we did it, gentlemen. We did it.

"Yeah, it’s been a long journey to get here, but the owners of the Times-Star are very pleased with the agreement, Taft assured them. This is a day to celebrate. I’m ready for breakfast."

I’ll have the usual, Ferger told the waiter.

Turning to the waiter, Jacobs asked, What’s the usual?

Mr. Ferger wants eggs Benedict, poached three and a half minutes, a thick slice of Virginia country-cured ham, two hot biscuits, jam, and orange juice.

How long do you plan on being here, Roger? Jacobs kidded. Anyway, you’re the gourmet, so I’ll have the same.

Sounds good to me, Taft joined in.

As they drank coffee, they agreed on the conditions of Ferger’s contract as the publisher of the Enquirer under the new owners. The conditions, planned by Ferger, specified a long-term contract with an increase in salary and a more lucrative bonus arrangement.

I appreciate your confidence in me, and I predict a great future for both papers, Ferger told them as they finished eating. Is there anything else we need to discuss?

Yes, there is, Taft stated. "Hulbert and I do not think Duffield should continue as the assistant publisher of the Enquirer."

Ferger, completely surprised, asked gruffly, What? Why?

Roger, you know he’s disliked intensely by most of your employees, Taft replied.

He has to make some difficult personnel decisions, so naturally, he makes some people unhappy, Ferger shot back.

He seems to be constantly in the middle of turmoil.

Where are you getting your information? Ferger asked a bit testily.

"We don’t seek out information about personnel problems at the Enquirer, we have enough of our own. The information comes mainly through the union supervisors to our managers."

What are they saying? Jacobs asked. Ferger looked at his legal counsel with some disappointment, on the edge of anger. He surely did not want the discussion prolonged by questions from Jacobs.

The story we get most often, Taft recalled, is that he supervises your top five managers, and that three of them won’t even talk to him. If that’s true, I don’t know why you want to continue his employment.

We’re working on that problem! Ferger shot back. And, besides, he was instrumental in ensuring only one bidder for the paper.

What do you mean, ‘ensuring only one bidder’? Taft questioned.

"He was hired by the trust company as my assistant for the express purpose of seeing that the Enquirer was sold and sold to one bidder, your family."

I sure as hell never knew that or saw evidence of it, a surprised Taft countered. Anyway, he’s a troublemaker who has served his purpose!

"He’s served me well and been a major factor in the success of the Enquirer. I want to keep him as my assistant," Ferger stated with increased vigor.

"Wasn’t it Duffield who rewrote the editorial resulting in a libel suit costing the Enquirer $120,000 just last summer?" Taft asked.

We’ve instituted procedures so that can’t happen again.

You mean you’ve instituted procedures that eliminate Duffield from rewriting any more editorials? Taft questioned.

Well, yes, but only because he already has too much to do, Ferger answered apologetically.

"We’re not going to micromanage the Enquirer, Roger. But you need to satisfy Hulbert and me that Duffield will be an asset to the operation."

Recognizing the need for a resolution and Taft’s reluctance to micromanage, Jacobs offered a compromise. I know we agree that Roger should have the authority to name his own assistant. Can we agree on that and review Duffield’s record following the first year of operation?

Maybe that will have to do for now, Taft responded with resignation. I just hope it works out.

"It will. Duffield was a success as the deputy to the secretary of defense, Forrestal, a success as coauthor of Forrestal’s multi-volume biography, and a success, in my opinion, with the Enquirer," Ferger concluded, with a look of relief.

Before we conclude our meeting, there is one other issue we need to discuss, Jacobs said. "The issue was brought to my attention in a phone call from Frank Dale just before I came here.