Free Truth Like the Sun by Jim Lynch

elderlymutes who exhibited all the side effects of spending decades in this brevity mill. From what she could tell, they’d been snipping color and humor and emotion out of stories for so long, they had inadvertently started pruning their personalities as well. One got so drowsy during a planning session several years ago that he tipped his chair over backward and crashed through the floor-to-ceiling window. As newsroom lore had it, he didn’t cuss or even mention it to his wife until she noticed the tiny cuts in his hairline.
    “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, Helen?” Webster said now. “But you gotta remember this isn’t Chicago or D.C. This is a
consensus
city, a compromise city, perhaps to a fault, but not a corrupt”—his fingers formed quote marks in the air—
“machine.”
    Shrontz nodded, his grin saying,
See what she’s like?
    “Hold on.” Birnbaum made a steeple with his fingers. “Why hasn’t he run before? The two theories I’ve always heard are: it’d be a demotion, and he’s got skeletons. Just listen to what we’ve heard here already: We’ve got a de facto mayor—at least he used to be—and an aging political consultant who’s somehow never bothered to register to lobby. And so now we’ve got a guy who’s always been effective, partly because he had no political ambitions, suddenly, finally, wanting to be mayor?”
    Postures stiffened and throats cleared. Marguerite, the deputy managing editor and the only other woman in the room, nodded emphatically. She’d been Helen’s advocate since she arrived, though seemingly lobbied for everyone. Still, when her effusion was aimed at you, it was hard not to feel the lift. “Helen?” she said. “Go on. What’re you suggesting?”
    “I’m not saying he has to be a crook,” Helen began gently, “but it’s hard to do all he’s done and not get dirty, no matter what city you’re in, isn’t it? And from what I can tell, nobody’s ever taken a real close look at him, probably because he’s never run for anything before,” she added diplomatically before turning toward Birnbaum. “If there are skeletons to be found, I think we’d all rather assess them before the
Times
does it for us.”
    Chins and foreheads were rocking fiercely now. Even Lundberg and Webster brightened at the prospect of exhuming corpses.
    But now that she had their attention, what should she say next? That she’d heard about some old guy who calls Morgan the
false prince
? Omar’s latest update was that his gadfly wouldn’t come forward until he was convinced Morgan actually had a chance. She half-suspected he didn’t even exist.
    “So what do you think we should look at?” Marguerite prodded her.
    “Everything,” Helen said, “starting with his childhood. His mother’s still alive, I believe, but apparently hasn’t been interviewed since the fair. His investments and consultant work—over and under the table. And his divorce papers, assuming he’s been married.”
    “Last I checked,” Webster observed, “there’s no crime in getting divorced.”
    “Good,” Birnbaum offered. “Otherwise I’m a two-time offender.”
    “He never got married,” Lundberg said after the obligatory chortling. “Got close several times, though.”
    “Maybe,” Helen dared to suggest, “even his role in the fair needs to be looked at in a different way.”
    Webster’s groan was followed by Lundberg’s snicker, before Birnbaum silenced them with, “Good, good, I like it.”
    “Terrific!” Marguerite chimed.
    Discussions erupted over divisions of labor for interviewing friends and foes as well as checking lobbying and court records.
    “Never trusted the guy,” muttered a sullen copy editor. “I think he probably made a bundle for himself as our pseudo-mayor. Always heard he was a BS-er and a gambler.”
    “A gambler?” Birnbaum chirped. “Perfect. Love it! How soon can we get a sit-down with him?”
    “We already requested one, right?” a perspiring