The Deal from Hell (35 page)

At heart, newspaper budgets are really paper and people. In Los Angeles, the newsroom cost ratio for people is about 80/20, or about $.80 of every dollar you spend pays the salary and benefits of the journalist writing or editing the news and $.20 covers expenses, things like travel, meals, notebooks, cameras, and overhead. Bean counters usually place the other major expenses—newsprint and ink—in a separate budget. A newspaper like the
Los Angeles Times
can spend $160 million to $170 million a year on ink and paper alone. In the Tribune's top-down budget process, accountants usually gave you the bad news in two messages. In one, they would order, say, $8 million or $10 million in newsprint savings, leaving editors to come up with recommendations to the publisher regarding which sections to slash or kill. In a second message, they'd squeeze your editorial spending, demanding something like a 5 percent cut in a $130 million budget, or $6.5 million. Do the math, and it's easy to see why hitting that target without getting rid of people is almost impossible. Assuming 80 percent of a $130 million budget is devoted to salary and benefits, you would have to cut $6.5 million out of the remaining $26 million if you didn't want to axe people. A 25 percent reduction in expense money would seriously diminish most newsrooms.

In our first budget dance, Hiller tried to hit me with a huge staff cut, but I objected in strong terms, actually storming out of the building after arguing that I needed a chance to rejuvenate sections that were losing money and to increase revenues in others. To his credit, Hiller backed off. I truly believed I could resolve the problems in the
Los Angeles Times
newsroom, but I also knew I wouldn't make any progress unless—and until—I won the respect and confidence of the staff. To do that, I needed Hiller's help, and he needed mine. But barbs inevitably developed that complicated our relationship and made me realize that I faced a far larger hurdle than I'd anticipated.

In early December, I walked into my office and noticed my schedule placed me in Hollywood for much of the day at a ceremony in which the
Los Angeles Times
, in honor of its 125th anniversary, would become the first newspaper to be awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. “What is this?” I asked Polly Ross, my assistant. “Are you kidding? I'm not going. I've got better things to do with my time.” But Ross reminded me that my newfound stature dictated otherwise. “You have to go,” she said. “You are the editor. They would be insulted if you didn't show up.”

To my surprise, one of the people who would take offense was Hiller. Later in the morning, Clayton from the metro desk came to see me, her eyes bulging in disbelief that the publisher's office had called the city desk to ask about our plans to cover the Walk of Fame ceremony. This was not something that a publisher at the
Los Angeles Times
would have done in the past, and Clayton was shocked by the suggestion we cover something so lacking in substance. I told Clayton not to worry; I would take care of it. I called the photo editor and told him to send a photographer up to Hollywood to take pictures at the event. “As far as a picture in the paper,” I said, “judge it in the context of the day's news. If it doesn't measure up to the rest of the news, it doesn't measure up.” Many of the pictures a photographer takes don't make it into the newspaper and I couldn't imagine that such an image would ever appear in the news columns of the
Los Angeles Times
. It simply wasn't newsworthy. It was a publicity stunt.

But Hiller saw things differently. When the
Times
limo pulled up at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, Hiller stepped out, beaming. He was thrilled to be
Los Angeles Times
publisher when the paper got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Certainly, there had been a time when being awarded a star had been a big deal, but by late 2006, it didn't take much to get one. More than 2,000 stars dotted sidewalks in the neighborhood. Even Charlie Tuna had one! Stars were not ceremoniously handed out solely for a lifetime of achievement, either. Recipients forked over $25,000 for their pink terrazzo, five-point star rimmed in bronze.

As the
Times
entourage neared the sidewalk where our star was laid, Hiller met Johnny Grant, the honorary mayor of Hollywood who ran the star selection committee. Grant, an avuncular, glad-handing legend, shook hands with Hiller, sealing a union of kindred spirits. A delighted Hiller stepped to the lectern and praised Grant and some
Times
veterans who had shown up for the ceremony. Grant, who died months later, unveiled the star and more pictures were taken. Ed Begley, Jr., spoke at a lunch at the Roosevelt Hotel and then it was finally over. I got back to the office just before the 3:30 news meeting with my editors. No one mentioned the Walk of Fame, and I didn't bring it up.

As I was driving home, Hiller called me, wanting to know about coverage of the
Times
star in the Saturday paper. I told him that we had sent a photographer to cover the event, but that the picture didn't measure up to the news of the day and that we wouldn't run anything. A moment of silence passed uncomfortably. When Hiller finally responded, he was furious.

“They'll run negative stories about us all the time,” Hiller barked, referring to the coverage allotted to his dismissal of Baquet, “but when something positive happens, no story.” I tried to settle Hiller down, explaining that the event was the kind of public relations stunt we simply didn't cover: It wasn't news. When I pointed out that the newspaper had paid for the star, Hiller shot back, “What do you mean we paid for it?” I told him that I had heard we paid for the event, but that
I didn't have the details and would get back to him. “Well, I want a full and detailed report,” he sputtered in frustration before hanging up.

The next Saturday afternoon, Hiller called me again, asking if I could run a photo of the event, or a story in the Sunday paper. I told him no, a story would be inappropriate, particularly given the circumstances of the award. I had subsequently learned that the deal to honor the paper with a star had been hatched when the head of the
Los Angeles Times
PR department met Johnny Grant at a party and suggested it. Twenty-five grand later, Grant agreed. “If you want something in the paper, you should run a house ad [an advertisement labeled as a
Times
ad and paid for by the paper],” I told Hiller. After more back and forth, an angry Hiller agreed, letting me know that he would take the space for the ad “out of the fucking newsroom budget.” Within a week he ran a full-page house ad touting the paper's star.

The flap over the star exposed me to another side of Hiller for the first time, the one behind the smile. I felt bad for him. He obviously loved the klieg lights of Hollywood, and not to have a story in the paper about the glitzy event would have embarrassed him in front of his new Hollywood friends. But I was also concerned. As trivial as the Walk of Fame incident might seem, it made me realize the depth of Hiller's blind spots as a publisher. A major part of an editor's job is to educate the publisher. Lacking any true editorial experience, he honestly didn't seem to know where the publisher's job ended and the editor's began.

From my days in Chicago, I knew Hiller liked to intervene in stories, letting reporters and editors know what he liked and what he didn't. At first, Lipinski and I dismissed Hiller's meddlesome notes as naïveté, but they kept coming, and many were tinged with his own political bent. He often queried editors, seeking their views about the adequacy of
Chicago Tribune
's and, later, the
Los Angeles Times'
stories, compared to accounts sent to him by conservative bloggers or political operatives. In his view, a publisher bore responsibility for the entire paper and should therefore weigh in on issues involving news coverage.

Hiller seemed oblivious to the impact that notes from the publisher would have on a reporter, particularly regarding political issues. Some staffers in Chicago appreciated his tendency to comment on their work; they felt he displayed more interest in them and their stories than former publishers. But in Los Angeles, no one appreciated his interference. Publishers were supposed to stay out of the newsroom, and Hiller made many journalists feel uncomfortable.

There was also a significant difference between the two papers. At the
Tribune
, the editorial page reported to the editor. When Baquet became editor of the
Times
, the Tribune Company changed the reporting relationship between the editor and the person who ran the editorial page. Under Carroll, the editorial and op-ed pages had been under the control of the editor, as it was in Chicago. Under Baquet, the editorial pages in the
Los Angeles Times
reported directly to the publisher of the paper. There was nothing unusual about either system. Some papers put the editorial pages under the editor, and others under the publisher. I told Hiller that the arrangement in Los Angeles made him a more visible factor in the editorial page voice of the paper—something that was different from Chicago. Even if his intentions were benign, Hiller was treading on a minefield. Commenting on a news story could easily be seen by a reporter as an effort to align the story with the newspaper's editorial position.

I had warned Hiller about the difference in the structure of the two papers before we left Chicago and had suggested he curtail his notes and leave the newsroom to me. But he wouldn't stop his notes to the staff and even asked if the editorial board should be placed under me. I said no. It didn't help that many of his complaints about unfair headlines or stories revolved around conservative political issues or influential people in the community. I don't think he ever complained about stories written about liberals or poor people.

What's more, Hiller loved to interact with readers, showing them he cared about their views and often inviting them to deal directly with him. I hated to discourage anyone from talking to readers. In my mind, journalists hadn't done enough of that, particularly at the
Times
. I spent
as much time as possible going to community forums where I would defend the paper against critics and convince readers I was in Los Angeles for the long haul, regardless of how long it would take to fix problems at their paper. I even encouraged them to come in and attend page-one meetings. But when readers and community leaders exchanged views with Hiller, he usually bypassed the reporter who'd written the story or the editor who had handled it and dealt with the complaining party himself—thereby angering staff and engendering resentment. When I suggested to Hiller that it was more effective for all concerned to refer readers to the staffers who'd been involved in the stories under scrutiny, he didn't listen. Instead, he started his own blog.

Tensions between editors and publishers were becoming increasingly common in American newsrooms. On the surface, newspaper finances in 2006 didn't seem that bad; the real estate boom that fueled the subprime mortgage crisis was in full swing, generating huge amounts of real estate classified ad revenue. But help wanted and automobile classified ads, a crucial component of newspaper revenue, were in a free fall, partially because of the Internet and partially because advertisers were aware of newspapers' declining circulations. Were the real estate market to soften—something that was only a matter of time—newspapers would be in real trouble.

In a near panic, publishers ordered marketing studies to help determine how they could reverse the slide. Civic-minded editors traditionally try to balance the needs of readers with their own agendas, providing stories about sports, money, and celebrities as well as reports on the environment, foreign news, and legislation. The marketing studies' results were music to a publisher's ears. Newspaper readers wanted local news about their communities, the surveys said, not lengthy expensive reports on the foibles of the Bush administration, the war in Iraq, or the political implications of some arms treaty. Of course, the answers to questions in these surveys depended a lot on how the question was asked and who was asking it. But it soon became pretty clear that things near and dear to the
hearts of journalists—big, expensive foreign and national news bureaus that grappled with the weighty, significant subjects of the day—were the next targets for budget cutters. As accountants sharpened their knives, editors scrambled to protect their journalistic assets, while publishers felt the heat from stockholders and Wall Street. Tensions escalated sharply across the country as journalists and publishers squared off over which journalistic assets should be cut and which should be spared.

In Los Angeles, Hiller had inherited a gimmick to attract readers' attention when he took over from Johnson, in the form of a “guest editor” venture. In an effort to make the paper more relevant or entertaining to the local community, the weekly Sunday opinion section would be assigned to a famous non-journalist. The guest editor would select the stories, get writers, edit the copy, and give readers a perspective on his or her choices when the section was published in the biggest paper of the week. The
Times
editorial page editor, Andrés Martinez, who had been recruited by Hiller's predecessor, had selected an all-star team of news makers as guest editors, including celebrities such as Hollywood's Brian Grazer, the spike-haired producer of big hits like TV's
24
, and film's
American Gangster
,
A Beautiful Mind
, and
The Da Vinci Code
. I didn't see much harm in the idea, particularly since it involved the editorial board, which was out of my purview. Hiller loved it.

Problems soon surfaced in its execution, though. The newsroom was abuzz with gossip that editorial page editor Martinez had separated from his wife and was romantically involved with an attractive woman who worked for a public relations firm where Grazer was a client. I didn't know a lot about all of the personalities involved, but after thirty years as a journalist, I knew how this story would read: