Free The Ambition by Lee Strobel

somehow managed to coalesce into a tight–knit journalism team that rivaled the best in the business.
    Now his voice was more personal. “This is a very sad day for me and my siblings. We have resisted this and agonized over it. Our most fervent hope was that there would be another way. But there’s no alternative. So let’s press onward. Let’s hope that someone with deeper pockets will recognize that the Examiner still has a future.”
    Montgomery turned to Redmond, who looked for an instant like he was going to launch into a speech of his own. But as Redmond glanced over the dispirited staff, he quickly discerned that a pep talk would ring hollow.
    The employees had every right to feel deflated. Most were savvy enough to surmise that there would be no financial white knight to rescue the Examiner. Their world — the grit and glamour of the bigcity print newspaper — was dying. No words of exhortation would change that. These reporters would see through that kind of phony cheerleading as quickly as they could skewer a politician’s hypocrisy.
    “Okay, everyone,” was all Redmond could say. “Let’s get back to work.”
    The staff started to disperse, quietly at first, and then the chatter began to return to the newsroom. Strider drifted toward the far side of the room, where he worked in a warren of cubicles amidst specialty reporters who covered politics, medicine, law, education, transportation, religion, and a dozen other subjects.
    Like everyone else, he was mentally doing the math: he would get nearly four months of salary if the paper shuts down. At the most, he had a few grand in the bank — not nearly enough in a deteriorating economy where reporting jobs were evaporating fast.
    As Strider was ambling toward his desk, eyes downcast, he inadvertently bumped shoulders with someone walking briskly in the opposite direction. “Sorry,” was Strider’s reflexive response. As he looked up, he saw it was Howard Preston, the assistant managing editor.
    “Strider — hey, I missed the meeting. How’re people taking it?”
    Strider shrugged. “Everyone knew something was going to happen, but it always stings when you hear the words.”
    Then Strider realized this chance encounter was a real opportunity. “Have you got a second? C’mere,” he said, motioning for Howard to join him in a small alcove where the vending machines were located.
    “Give it to me straight,” he whispered. “How many are getting canned?”
    Howard looked around; a couple of other reporters were meandering in their direction in search of a cup of coffee. Howard had been told to keep quiet about specifics, but this was his friend. Certainly Strider deserved some details.
    “Let’s go,” Howard said, giving Strider a shove in the direction of his glass–walled office that overlooks the horseshoe–shaped copy desk.
    Strider sat on the couch, his back to the glass, and slumped down so that nobody could identify him if they peered inside. Howard, a pugnacious and chronically impatient former collegiate wrestler, sat on the edge of his desk.
    “Here’s the thing,” Howard said. “I want to keep you, Redmond wants to keep you, but you’ve got to give us a reason to keep you. Getting passed over for the Pulitzer didn’t help you.”
    Strider stifled an objection. After all, his work speaks for itself. His last series won every investigative award in the region.
    “We’re going to jettison the other two guys on your team,” he continued. That wasn’t news to Strider; he already assumed they would get cut. “But I want you to dig up the kind of exclusives that will keep us the talk of the town. What are you working on now? Please tell me it’s something big.”
    Strider knew that Howard didn’t like expansive explanations, so he simply said: “Eric Snow.”
    Howard slapped his forehead and let loose with an expletive. “You’ve got Snow? Fantastic! What — banging his secretary? Covering up child abuse? This is great,