The Front Page Revisited

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It was all distilled in the City News Bureau, a cooperative founded in 1890 by the Chicago dailies. The training ground for most of the city's police reporters, City News still bills itself as "the world's greatest journalism school," and one of its classrooms is the press room at the police department's Detective Bureau. As recently as ten years ago, this room could have passed for Act I, Scene 1 of The Front Page. As in the play, the focus of activity was a raucous poker game among reporters, policemen, bail bondsmen and ambulance-chasing lawyers. Somehow, in the din of police calls crackling over squawk boxes and the clanging of the fire alarm, a reporter would hear a call of a homicide and shout out the address. Whichever newsman had failed to fill his flush would then check the "crisscross," a directory listing telephone numbers by address.

"Hello," the reporter would say sternly, "this is Lieutenant Murphy from the Detective Bureau. We have a report of a shooting at this address. Is it true?. . . Is he dead? . . . Four times in the head, huh? . . . Who shot him? . . . You did? . . . Now get hold of yourself, dear. Why did you do it? . . . Messin' with another woman, huh? . . . Did you catch 'em in bed or something? . . . Were they naked? . . . What did your boy friend do for a livin'? . . .A laborer, huh? O.K., the squad car will be right there. Goodbye."

The reporter would then return to the game and mutter "Cheap." Translation: No story, because the motive was routine and the victim was a nobody. There were other supposed nobodies. When checking on, say, "a floater d.o.a. at County" (a drowning victim pronounced dead on arrival at Cook County Hospital), the first question was, "Black or white?" If the dead man happened to be Negro, the reporter would "cheap it out." As for impersonating public officials, it was accepted practice. More than one reporter telephoned the scene of a crime and barked, "Hello, this is Coroner Toman," only to be told, "That's funny, so is this."

When not at the poker table, reporters settled into saloons and, over endless drinks and with endless embellishments, swapped anecdotes. Though less frequently and less soddenly, this still goes on at such press hangouts as Riccardo's and Billy Goat's, a short-order joint with a "Wall of Fame" displaying photographs of Chicago newsmen, some of which bear the inscription "30"—for end of story.

For many young newsmen, the passing of the old guard is not cause for fond goodbyes but bitter good riddances. They represented, says one young Tribune staffer, the "tired old practice of letting the status quo define what the news is." Mindful that their young reporters reflect the tastes of the growing number of young readers, editors are letting their younger charges have their head—within limits. Explains Emmett Dedmon, editorial director of Field Enterprises, which owns the Daily News and the Sun-Times: "This is the era of the young, socially aware reporter. We allow them more freedom today in assigning themselves, but too often they want to treat the newspaper as a pulpit. We want their personal insights rather than their personal preaching."