“God, I’d love to talk to you–but I can’t.” I’ve been hearing that one for years, in language inflected with anger, shame, or a sense of the absurd. There’s no code of omertˆ in journalism, so when the bosses want silence they buy it.
True transparency, then, is not only too much to hope for but probably more than we’re entitled to. Let sinners come clean to their priests. Newspapers are entitled to their quirky little mysteries.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
But later, it occurred to me, there’s another kind of transparency. A genuinely transparent paper would feel it owes us an explanation whenever a familiar byline disappears. Have you ever read a writer for years, in the Tribune or anywhere else, and then noticed that he or she wasn’t there any more? Did the writer retire? Find a better job? Get fired? Maybe the writer dropped dead at the keyboard? (No, in that case the paper would have run a really sweet obit.)
For instance, here’s some of the boilerplate a former Tribune employee had to agree to in order to collect a buyout:
Most companies have separation plans that guarantee all severed employees some sort of payout. “They’re going to get X,” Rothenberg says, “but if they sign they get X plus Y.” And Y is significantly more.
School board members, the head of the local planning commission, even a chief of police testified at the arbitration. It was something of a civic event, and the reporter’s old paper didn’t print a word.
Sportswriter David Haugh in the same edition: “Nobody reported to camp more serious about improving than Rex Grossman. Some of his throws make ones thrown by Brian Griese or Kyle Orton look and sound like Triple-A fastballs in comparison.”
