Free Twenty-Five Years Ago Today by Stacy Juba Page B

flared tempers in the
news business.
    "Walter," Jacqueline said in a high-pitch.
"Hello."
    He clutched a rolled-up newspaper, the banner
brushing against his silk designer tie, and tapped the opposite end
against his wrist. "I just got back from a conference. This is the
first chance I've had to look at today's edition. Why did you run a
feature photo on page one and the bank shot on page seven? You know
the bank is among our biggest advertisers."
    Jacqueline's face mottled deep crimson. Kris
slunk lower in her chair, wishing the publisher had chosen another
time for criticism. She and her editor had been on the verge of a
significant breakthrough rivaling the end of the Cold War.
    "But you didn't tell me page one." Jacqueline
connected her hands. She tucked one leg behind the other, hiding
the run in her nylons.
    "That was a huge donation to an important
civic group. I thought it was understood. I hired you to improve
communication with the newsroom, but it's no better than with Dex
in charge." Walter Barnes plunked the newspaper onto Kris's table.
She didn't flinch. He frowned as if trying to place her, then
shifted his gaze back to Jacqueline. "My office. Now. Obviously, we
need to review our policies."
    "I'll be right there," she said to his
retreating back.
    Kris slipped her fork into her insulated
lunch bag and fumbled for her salad dressing cap. Jacqueline lifted
the bowl, clasping it between her fingers. She thumped it down onto
the counter. The chicken slices hopped up, then fell into the bed
of rice.
    "Shit," she muttered.
    "He was out of line," Kris said. "He should
have specified where he wanted the picture."
    "I can't believe he compared me to Dex. I
work sixty-to-seventy hours per week. I've expanded this paper,
introduced new sections. Circulation had its biggest jump in
months."
    "It'll blow over. He'll forget about it next
time Dex pisses him off."
    Jacqueline's forehead grooved and her eyes
flashed. "This is none of your business. If I get wind that you
shared this with anyone in the newsroom, your days here will be
numbered. You just keep your mouth shut."
    Kris felt a tic contracting. She should have
suspected Jacqueline's civil facade wouldn't last. "Look, if you
wanted me to keep quiet, all you had to do was ask. Why would I
tell anyone, anyway?"
    "I understand that a relative gave you a hard
time about an obit. Why didn't I hear this from you?"
    "I didn't know it was important. I don’t see
what that has to do with-"
    "I want to be appraised of problems. I am the
managing editor." Jacqueline stuck her bowl in the refrigerator and
walked out.
    Kris hurled her trash in the wastebasket. The
woman was a shrew, and Bruce was a scheming jerk. He must have
opened his mouth about the Eric Soares confrontation. He was on
assignment, so she couldn't question him. Lucky for Bruce.
    Kris spent the next couple of hours typing
obits and wedding announcements, the mindless tasks soothing her
bruised psyche. At least the obits were on people in their late
eighties and nineties. Anything younger than eighty depressed Kris.
It wasn't a waste, as with a child or young adult, but it was a
shame.
    Fluorescent lights shone overhead, bouncing
off the dark windows. A middle-aged female reporter banged out a
last-minute story in the silence and a couple of composing room
staff members worked out back. After deadline, press room employees
would drift into the building to start the print run.
    Irene Ferguson called around 8 p.m. While
Jacqueline complained about ad layout problems to the composing
supervisor, Kris clutched the receiver, glad she could speak freely
without PMS Barbie overhearing.
    "I'm not sure what to think of Jared," she
said. "He was candid, but he claimed Diana lied about the phone
calls."
    Irene snorted. "Is he still using that story?
Of course he made the calls."
    "You've heard this?"
    "About how he was the innocent victim? We'll
have to compare notes. Maybe the louse slipped up after twenty-five
years. I'm