The Fourth Estate Read online

  When they arrived at the New York Tribune building later that afternoon, Armstrong stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the art deco skyscraper. It was love at first sight. When he walked into the lobby and saw the seventeen-foot globe marked with the distance in miles to the world’s capital cities, including London, Moscow and Jerusalem, he proposed. When the hundreds of staff who had crammed into the hall to await his arrival began cheering, the marriage was consummated. However much the best man tried to talk him out of it, he couldn’t stop the signing ceremony taking place.

  Six weeks later Armstrong took possession of the New York Tribune. The headline on the paper’s front page that afternoon told New Yorkers, “DICK TAKES OVER!”

  * * *

  Townsend first heard of Armstrong’s offer to purchase the Tribune for twenty-five cents on the Today show, just as he was about to step into a shower. He stopped and stared down at his rival, slumped in an armchair and wearing a red baseball cap with “The N.Y. Tribune” emblazoned on it.

  “I intend to keep New York’s greatest newspaper on the streets,” he was telling Barbara Walters, “whatever the personal cost to me.”

  “The Star is already on the streets,” said Townsend, as if Armstrong were in the room.

  “And keep the finest journalists in America in a job.”

  “They’re already working for the Star.”

  “And perhaps, if I’m lucky, make a small profit,” Armstrong added, laughing.

  “You’ll have to be very lucky,” said Townsend. “Now ask him how he intends to deal with the unions,” he added, glaring at Barbara Walters.

  “But isn’t there a massive overmanning problem which has beleaguered the Tribune for the past three decades?”

  Townsend left his shower running as he waited to hear the reply. “That may well have been the case in the past, Barbara,” said Armstrong. “But I have made it abundantly clear to all the trade unions concerned that if they won’t accept my proposed cuts in the workforce, I will be left with no choice but to close the paper down once and for all.”

  “How long will you give them?” demanded Townsend.

  “And just how long are you willing to go on losing over a million dollars a week before you carry out that threat?”

  Townsend’s eyes never left the screen.

  “I couldn’t have made my position clearer with the trade union leaders,” Armstrong said firmly. “Six weeks at the outside.”

  “Well, good luck, Mr. Armstrong,” said Barbara Walters. “I look forward to interviewing you again in six weeks’ time.”

  “An invitation I’ll be happy to accept, Barbara,” said Armstrong, touching the peak of his baseball cap. Townsend flicked off the television, threw off his dressing-gown and headed for the shower.

  From that moment he didn’t need to employ anyone to tell him what Armstrong was up to. For an investment of a quarter a day he could be brought up to date by reading the front page of the Tribune. Woody Allen suggested that it would take a plane crash in the middle of Queens to remove Armstrong from the front page of the paper—and even then it would have to be Concorde.

  Townsend was also having his problems with the unions. When the Star came out on strike, the Tribune almost doubled its circulation overnight. Armstrong began to appear on every television channel that would take him, telling New Yorkers that “If you know how to negotiate with the unions, strikes become unnecessary.” The trade union leaders quickly sensed that Armstrong enjoyed being on the front page of the paper and regularly appearing on television, and that he would be loath to close the Tribune down or admit he had failed.

  When Townsend finally settled with the unions, the Star had been off the streets for over two months, and had lost several million dollars. It took him a great deal of his time to rebuild the circulation. The Tribune’s figures, however, weren’t helped by a series of banner headlines telling New Yorkers that “Dick Bites the Big Apple,” “Dick Pitches for Yankees” and “Magic Dick Shoots a Basket for the Knicks.” But these appeared humble when the troops came back from the Gulf and the city gave the returning heroes a tickertape parade all the way down Fifth Avenue. The front page of the Tribune was given over to a picture of Armstrong standing on the podium between General Schwarzkopf and Mayor Dinkins; the inside story, covering the event in detail, mentioned Captain Armstrong’s MC on four different pages.

  But as the weeks went by, Townsend was unable to find any mention of Armstrong reaching a settlement with the print unions, search as he might through the columns of the Tribune. When Barbara Walters did invite him back on the program six weeks later, Armstrong’s press secretary told her that there was nothing he would have enjoyed more, but that he had to be in London to attend a board meeting of the parent company.

  That at least was true—but only because Peter Wakeham had called to warn him that Sir Paul was on the warpath, and demanding to know how much longer he intended to keep the New York Tribune on the streets while it was still losing over a million dollars a week.

  “Who does he imagine allowed him to stay on as chairman in the first place?” asked Armstrong.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Peter. “But I thought I ought to let you know what he’s been telling everyone.”

  “Then I’ll just have to come back and explain a few home truths to Sir Paul, won’t I?”

  * * *

  The limousine drew up outside the district court in Lower Manhattan a few minutes before 10:30 that morning. Townsend, accompanied by his lawyer, stepped out of the car and walked swiftly up the courthouse steps.

  Tom Spencer had visited the building the previous day to deal with all the legal formalities, so he knew exactly where his client needed to go, and guided him through the maze of corridors. Once they had entered the courtroom, the two of them squeezed onto one of the overcrowded benches near the back and waited patiently. The room was packed with people chattering away in different languages. They sat in silence between two Cubans, and Townsend wondered if he had made the right decision. Tom had kept pointing out that it was the only way left open for him if he wished to expand his empire, but he knew that his countrymen, not to mention the British Establishment, would be scathing about his reasons. What he couldn’t tell them was that there was no form of words which would ever make him feel he was anything other than an Australian.

  Twenty minutes later, a judge in a long black gown entered the court and everyone rose. Once he had taken his seat on the bench, an immigration officer stepped forward and said, “Your Honor, I ask permission to present one hundred and seventy-two immigrants for your consideration as American citizens.”

  “Have they all carried out the correct procedure as demanded by the law?” the judge asked solemnly.

  “They have, Your Honor,” replied the court officer.

  “Then you may proceed with the Oath of Allegiance.”

  Townsend and 171 other would-be Americans recited in unison the words he had read for the first time in the car on the way to the court.

  “I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces of the United States when required to do so by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation of purpose or evasion: So help me God.”

  The judge smiled down at the joyful faces. “Let me be the first to welcome you as full citizens of the United States,” he said.

  * * *

  As eleven o’clock struck, Sir Paul Maitland coughed