C H A P T E R • 33
When I got to the office, Adrianne met me at the door. “Federal regulators are at First,” she said. “They plastered masking tape on the automatic teller machines and padlocked the front door.”
I tossed my notebook on the desk. “That is why the insiders were running and why Cecelia wanted the story told. And we missed it.”
“We didn’t have the whole story yesterday. Don’t have it yet today. But we will.”
“What time is the bank meeting?”
“They’re meeting at five.”
What was the edge I was picking up in her voice?
“I talked to the president.” She stopped. “He said I would be the one to represent the paper.”
“I’m the legitimate representative of the Journal. We should both be there.”
“That’s what I told him. He said the publisher of the other Harlem paper is an essential part of this community.”
“And I’m not?”
“He said, based on your attitude this past week, they can’t even be sure they can trust you to keep what they discuss off the record through the weekend.”
“Did you remind them we don’t have an edition coming out until next week?”
“I tried to convince him we should both be there, but he wouldn’t budge,” she said. “He said the way this information is handled could mean the difference between life and death. You look terrible, by the way.”
“You don’t look so great yourself.”
I left her, and put on my sunglasses and walked back to 125th Street, feeling the heavy public humiliation of not being on the scene of real news in the making.
“Hey, wait up.” It was John Johnson from the television station. “Pearl Washington, are you on your way to the meeting about First? The word went out today that FDIC liquidators are moving in to take over the bank. They sent me up to see what you all are doing about it.”
“If you hurry,” I said, “you can probably catch some of the people who are doing something about it.”
“Will you be available later, if I need to check some of the background for my story?” he asked.
I handed him one of my father’s cards and wrote Adrianne’s name on it. “Call this number and ask to speak to my editor, Adrianne Sinclair.”
He was staring at the tape on my nose and the discoloration and swelling that was probably showing below the glasses, and he looked like he was going to say something. But then he probably thought better of it.
At the downstairs door to the upstairs office where the meeting was being held there was a bevy of representatives of the powers-that-be—the second tier, once or twice removed, eager, mostly young, dressed for effect in their conservative power suits.
“I want to know what we’re saving if we save this bank,” said the wisecracking sister who represented the white governor. Her life-long ties to Harlem gave her the kind of access he paid her for. But apparently not access to this meeting.
The congressman’s rep stood outside the door in his secondhand glory.
“Pearl Washington!” Reverend Garrison said and he smiled at me as the guard at the door ushered him in and closed the door against me and John Johnson and the small crowd of B-team others.
And I was left with the dawning realization I had just missed the Harlem scoop of the decade, perhaps the century.