The Kingdom and the Power (83 page)

Salisbury was a member of the Century, as were several ranking
Timesmen
, among them John Oakes, Clifton Daniel, and James Reston. Wicker was unaware of it during lunch but Reston was then also in the club, seated behind a partition with a former colleague from the Washington bureau, John Pomfret, presently a
Times
executive in labor relations.

When Reston and Pomfret stood to leave, they saw Wicker. They both seemed surprised and delighted to find him there, and the three
Times
men soon became engaged in rather intense conversation.
Salisbury watched them from across the room. His suspicion was aroused, but he did not reveal this to Fremont-Smith. Salisbury had wondered if the Greenfield appointment was going according to plan, but he had not asked Daniel or Rosenthal about this during the past week. He had, in fact, avoided any direct involvement, not consciously but instinctively, with the plan to transfer Greenfield to Washington, for there seemed something not quite propitious about it, although Salisbury himself could find no hard facts to support his notion. His feeling was the result of his keen awareness of office vibrations, and that his instinct was justified seemed to be supported by the few days’ delay in the announcement of Greenfield’s appointment. Now, seeing Reston, Wicker, and Pomfret with their heads together in the Century’s dining room, Salisbury’s fine Kremlinologist’s mind was whirling.

He left the club and walked back to the
Times
building. In the newsroom, the editors’ expressions seemed unchanged—Daniel and Rosenthal seemed composed, and Greenfield appeared to be untroubled as he stood speaking to a copyreader. At 4 p.m., Salisbury walked with the other editors into Daniel’s office for the daily conference. Daniel presided as usual, and around him sat Rosenthal, Bernstein, Topping, and the others. Behind Daniel, dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, seated comfortably with his legs crossed, gently jiggling a polished black shoe, was Turner Catledge. If Reston and Wicker had been in the newsroom, they would undoubtedly have been invited into the conference; but neither man had been seen on the third floor, and Salisbury was perhaps the only
Times
man in the room who knew that they were both now in New York.

The news on this Wednesday afternoon, February 7, was no better nor worse than it had been for several days—the war continued to go badly in Vietnam: Soviet-made tanks were spearheading the North Vietnamese assault west of Khesanh, and Vietcong forces were infiltrating Saigon. The Johnson administration was still unable to induce the North Koreans to return the captured
Pueblo
with her eighty-two surviving crew members. In New Hampshire, Theodore Sorensen, acting in behalf of Kennedy, was reportedly trying to discourage any political movement to lure Kennedy into a primary fight with President Johnson. Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota, the chief Democratic spokesman against the Vietnam war, was entered in the New Hampshire
primary and was being applauded on
The Times
’ editorial page, which had also condemned Robert Kennedy earlier in the week for neither supporting McCarthy nor opposing Johnson.…

The conference had progressed in its normal manner for about twenty minutes when a secretary entered the room with a message for Catledge. Catledge left the room. It was not unusual for Catledge to be called out to receive calls from the publisher’s office, or from very important individuals from the outside; but when Catledge returned to his seat five minutes later, Salisbury detected a mild change in Catledge’s expression. It was not that Catledge had lost some of his composure; it was rather that he seemed
too
composed,
too
casual, suggesting the look of a man trying desperately to conceal his inner thoughts. When the conference was over, the editors began to file out but Catledge remained, and asked that Rosenthal also remain; Catledge had something that he wished to discuss with Rosenthal and Daniel. As Salisbury left the room he was fairly certain that James Greenfield would not be going to Washington.

“Gentlemen,” Catledge said to Daniel and Rosenthal, after the others had left, “I have bad news. The publisher has reversed his decision.…”

Daniel’s white face paled even more, and he swallowed hard. Rosenthal reddened. Both were momentarily stunned. Then Rosenthal shouted angrily, “I’m calling Punch!”

“Don’t,” Catledge said, softly, thinking that it would do no good.

“I’m sorry, Turner, but I have to!” Rosenthal replied, beyond control, walking quickly out of the room and grabbing a telephone at his own desk in the newsroom. But the publisher was unreachable: he was in conference, the secretary said, he could not be disturbed. Rosenthal hung up and turned back toward Catledge and Daniel. Both men were standing motionless in the middle of the big office, as silent and still as the photographs on the wall, two wax figures in a museum, the impact of Sulzberger’s decision mounting in their minds. It was humiliating and unforgivable. It was unbelievable. They had been betrayed by the publisher, and now they did not know what to do. Were they expected to resign?
Should
they resign? If they remained, what power did they have? After decades of fidelity to
The Times
, after years of climbing the
executive ladder and finally getting to the top, what did it mean? What was the point of being the executive editor or the managing editor if one could not replace the bureau chief in Washington?

It was all too disturbing to contemplate at this moment in Daniel’s office, where only one thing was clear—Reston had won. What Reston had won was debatable, but he had undeniably won: New York had again failed in its attempt to control Washington. Sulzberger had permitted Catledge, Daniel, and Rosenthal to go out on a limb, and then Sulzberger had chopped them down. The big question was
why?
Even Catledge did not know the answer. The obvious guess was that Reston had somehow alarmed the publisher and alerted him to the fact that, particularly now, with the upcoming election,
The Times
needed a strong Washington bureau at its best, with the top reporters in high morale. There had been enough dissension on
The Times
within the last few years, and Sulzberger had perhaps felt that it was better at this point to let Reston have his way, although Catledge wondered what Sulzberger’s reversal presaged for Daniel and Rosenthal. Catledge was near the end of the line—he had already told Sulzberger that he was contemplating his retirement—but Daniel and Rosenthal would have to deal now, and in the future, with a Reston whose influence with the publisher was clearly formidable. Whether Sulzberger’s acquiescence represented solely his own change of mind, or whether the women of the family had played a decisive role, namely Iphigene with her fondness for Reston, was something to ponder at another time: now the important fact was that Reston had won, Wicker had survived, and Greenfield would not be going to Washington. And Greenfield did not yet know this. When this dawned on those standing in the office, Clifton Daniel volunteered to call Greenfield in and break the news, but Rosenthal insisted that he be the one to do it in another place. Greenfield was Rosenthal’s friend, had come to the paper primarily because of Rosenthal; Catledge agreed, and Rosenthal walked out to the newsroom, where Greenfield was smiling, accepting congratulations from members of the staff.

Rosenthal got Greenfield’s attention and led him out of the newsroom into the third-floor lobby, then into one of two very small rooms near the receptionist’s desk. These are windowless rooms, barely wider than a confessional, with tall ceilings and small chairs and a single desk no larger than a chess table. The rooms are sometimes used by subordinate editors when interviewing
job applicants who are not quite ready for the rites within; or they are used by reporters when interviewing some of the wide-eyed people who arrive at
The Times
, unannounced, with incredible tales that are never fit to print; or they are used by staff members who do not have private offices and wish to speak confidentially. Rosenthal closed the door behind Greenfield, and the two men sat down. Then Rosenthal told him what had happened, and as he did he seemed about to cry.

Greenfield remembered his premonition, his own fear that it somehow would not work out. Even so, he was now shocked. If only Reston had been more explicit in advance, more demonstrably opposed to Wicker’s removal, Greenfield thought, then this incredible office blunder could have been avoided.
If Reston had merely dropped a hint to George Ball
, Greenfield thought aloud, Greenfield would have been forewarned and he would have refused to go to Washington. Greenfield had not sought the bureau job; when he had joined
The Times
he had been promised an important position, but nothing had been specified, and Greenfield had not been particularly eager about returning to Washington, and certainly would not have gone if he had known that Reston was unalterably opposed. But Reston had been vague; and New York had perhaps not really wanted to know Reston’s true feelings on the issue, and had therefore skirted it—but now there had been a headon collision, and there was no saving face in New York. Greenfield could see on Rosenthal’s face the depth of his demoralization, and Greenfield was also overwhelmed with embarrassment.

“Abe,” Greenfield said, finally, “do me a favor.”

Rosenthal nodded.

“Abe, don’t ever ask me to come into this place again.”

Rosenthal understood, and Greenfield resigned on the spot.

Greenfield returned to the newsroom to get his things. It was shortly before 5 p.m., the busiest hour of the working day—the room was crowded with reporters, deskmen, clerks; other staffmen were returning to their desks after a coffee break in the cafeteria, or were returning more hurriedly from outside assignments.

One reporter saw Greenfield putting on his coat, and called, “Hey, Jim, is it true you’re going to Washington?”

Greenfield turned and tried to smile, but he could not.

“It
was
true,” he replied, softly, “until a few minutes ago. But
there was flack from Washington, and so I’m leaving. And I’m not coming back.…”

The reporter, sensing Greenfield’s anxiety, did not detain him with more questions. He shook hands with Greenfield and watched him leave, and then the word quickly began to spread throughout the newsroom. One reporter tried to telephone a colleague in the Washington bureau for more details, but all the lines between New York and the bureau were busy. Then a clerk from one of the copydesks came back with the confirmed report—yes, he said, it was all true, Greenfield had just resigned; Reston had gotten Sulzberger to back down; Reston, Wicker, and Frankel had been spotted in the building earlier, presumably with their resignations ready.

Within a few hours it was on the early-evening radio and television news:

Rosenthal sat at his desk with his eyes fixed on papers that he was not reading. He was aware of the talk in the room, the reporters circled around their desks. There was laughter among some of them when one reporter arrived and said, in a loud voice, “Hey, did you hear the latest?—the Washington boys just took over WQXR!” Rosenthal could not hear the jokes or comments, but he suspected the worst from a few reporters, those who had been against him since he had begun as an editor years before, and now they were no doubt repeating their old accusations—he was pushing too hard, too fast, and it was bound to catch up with him. As Rosenthal sat, he felt both an inner torture and an outward exposure to the rawness of ridicule—unlike Catledge and Daniel, who were now sheltered within their own offices, Rosenthal had no
place to go but back to his desk in the newsroom, in full view of hundreds of staffmen. He felt that he was in a vast gray courtroom being judged simultaneously by several juries, being cross-examined, doubted, speculated upon, scorned; he felt as he had never felt before, the whole tide had abruptly shifted, everything was out of balance, the room had lost its perspective, the New York editorships seemed shattered. His goals destroyed, Rosenthal wondered where he stood. If Catledge had lost his influence with Sulzberger, if Reston was now the publisher’s most trusted adviser, then Daniel and Rosenthal could be in a very awkward position: the line of succession might be shifted from New York to Washington, away from Daniel-Rosenthal to Wicker-Frankel or other Reston followers. Daniel would never succeed Catledge, Rosenthal might never become the managing editor. Since Rosenthal could not speak with Sulzberger, he had no idea whether he should leave or remain, and Catledge and Daniel were no doubt equally bewildered. Rosenthal did not want to stand up and walk to his locker to get his coat, a move requiring that he pass the reporters’ desks and possibly look into their faces. Perhaps one of them would ask him a question, and he might reveal what he truly felt. Rosenthal could not hide his feelings as Daniel and Catledge could; he was transparent, incredibly honest—when he was happy, it glowed through every particle of his face; when he was miserable, his face floundered with despair or erupted with emotion. Now he felt gloom, guilt—his friend Greenfield had been an innocent victim of this mess, and he did not know what he could do to partially make amends. He would talk with Greenfield tonight. Rosenthal’s closest friend, Arthur Gelb, was vacationing in the Caribbean, and there was no one in the newsroom at this time to whom he could turn, or would wish to turn. The other editors in the room had left, or were about to leave; only the bullpen editors seemed preoccupied with putting out the paper—a ninety-six-page edition dated Friday, February 9, 1968,
All the News That’s Fit to Print
: Vol. CXVII. No. 40, 193 … 10 Cents … 
56 Marines Die in Battles in Tense Northern Sector … War-Ending Victory Seen As Aim of Enemy’s Drive … Kennedy Asserts U.S. Cannot Win
 … Rosenthal read through some of the cables and the carbons of local stories on his desk, but it was difficult to concentrate fully, and he imagined that the same was true of Catledge and Daniel. The great machinery of
The Times
was grinding out another edition, was moving ahead without them, was moving as great ships often move through the night with senior
officers drifting in slumber—
we are three men sitting behind our desks in a state of confusion
, Rosenthal thought, his reporter’s eye retaining some detachment;
we are in a state of mourning, like the old Hebrews. We are sitting shivah
.