Deadline - U.S.A.

What part did you play in the recent local elections, Mr. Rienzi?

You got me mixed up with somebody else, senator.

I'm in the cement and contracting business.

What would you say your earnings are per year?

Around 20,000 or 30,000.

Say 30,000. You've got a $60,000 home here.

A winter place in Miami. A summer place in Maine.

Two limousines. A sailboat worth 50,000.

All on $30,000 a year. How do you do it, Mr. Rienzi?

Sometimes I wonder myself, senator.

It was testified here yesterday that you were paid...

$200,000 in cash to, uh, influence the election.

Yeah, I read that in the papers.

Now, if somebody'll only tell me where all that money is hiding

- You deny meddling in the election? - Does it look like it?

After all, you got elected, didn't you, senator?

Fire swept through upper floors of hospital...

You say this man keeps getting undressed...

without pulling down the shades?

Well, what's your complaint, madam? Boy!

Here.

Well, from the condition of the body, she'd been soaking in the river for several days.

This fur coat she wore was all she had on.

Well, maybe she was a rich society matron.

Mink isn't class-Conscious, Sonny. No.

No other clothes, no identification...

Mr. Hutcheson wants to see you in his office, sir.

Boy!

What about the Rienzi story, George?

Boss wants to check it first.

One column head three line bank.

A.P. Says the paper's being sold.

What? Sold? Who to? When?

- What about that, Frank? - That's something only the Garrison heirs,

Hutcheson and the gods would know, not us.

It's a conspiracy to keep you just as you are, nice and ignorant.

Sold. I can't believe it.

Don't believe the associated press?

- My, my. - Maine 2000.

Better run for your lives, men.

And don't forget to trample the women, loudmouth.

Record? Give me the city desk.

Look, who's the boss? Who says what goes in the paper?

The managing editor, Mr. Hutcheson. Then he's the man I want to see.

Well, right now, he's busier than a bird dog. Why don't you sit down?

If you don't mind.

He's still in a makeup conference. Call him, call him.

Credit controls. Inflation to be halted. Billions.

Yes? Frank Allen. Urgent.

Okay. Billions required.

National budget. O.P.S., N.A.M., P.C.A.

What's all this mean to the reader?

Consumption tax? Huh, sounds like a disease.

It'll be page one in every paper in the country. In the day too.

What does this tax program mean to the average man and woman?

Not billions, that's an impossible figure. Here, break it down.

Yes, sir. What'll it cost the housewife for groceries?

How much more for a car? A radio? Fifty bucks? A hundred? How much?

Run the story as is, page one. New lead for the second edition.

Right.

United press flood story in same slot?

- Pictures come in yet? - With casualty lists.

All right. Yes, Frank. Ed.

What about the dead nude murder story?

- Is it murder? - Looks like it.

Looks like it! Who is she?

I don't know yet. Got some pictures of her though.

Very interesting.

Put 'em on postcards and send 'em to Paris.

Second section. Play it down. No pictures. - Yes, sir.

Story's fine, George. Tie it off.

Yes?

- You're late for the dome. - Okay.

Can you leave tonight to handle that strike upstate?

Oh, I'd like to stay with the Rienzi story.

- You're wasting your time, baby. - Not if we can prove he's guilty.

It's not our job to prove he's guilty.

We're not detectives, and we're not in the crusading business.

- Gimme a week. - Forget it. State senate couldn't prove anything.

Neither could that probe four years ago.

We've had a nice circus, that's all. Television's had a field day,

All the papers raised their circulation,

And Rienzi's lawyers got richer.

One week. Three days. Please, I got a good lead.

All right. Stay out of trouble.

Ed.

That's right, Frank. Baby's on the auction block.

But we're the best outfit in town, in the country maybe. But why? Why sell?

Money. That's usually the reason something is sold, isn't it?

Tell 'em I'm on my way up.

The heirs and the lawyers are up in the dome right now...

waiting to explain the nature of their crime with facts, figures...

and falsehoods.

One more "f" and they won't be drafted.

But, mother, the paper belongs to us.

Why do we have to go to court to sell it?

Perhaps because we never intended it to be sold.

Oh, please, mother. We've been over that a hundred times.

The surrogates court will decide that, Mrs. Garrison.

- Ed. - Mrs. Garrison.

What kept you so long?

- How is the expectant mother? - Lousy.

- Hello, Ed. - Alice.

- You're looking very well. - Thank you. How's your husband?

- Oh, fine. Just fine. - It's fine, isn't it?

- Let's get this over with. - I suppose you know why we're here, Mr. Hutcheson.

Practically everybody seems to know except the people who work here.

We're sorry about that. We thought it best to make a general announcement discretely.

The death of a newspaper is never discreet.

Here we go again.

The last will and testament of the late John Garrison,

Drawn up just prior to his death 11 years ago,

Designated as his heirs his eldest daughter Alice,

His daughter Katherine and his wife Margaret.

Inasmuch as Katherine attained her majority last week...

and became entitled to a full vote,

- It was decided by the three stockholders - Decided?

- Unanimously? - Of course.

Uh, any objections?

Would it make any difference?

- None. - Then I have no objections.

- The reason it was decided - Must we go into detail?

I don't feel well.

My entire staff feels the same way.

Oh, Ed. What do Alice or I know about newspapers?

Gives you an income.

We never even come down here except twice a year for meetings.

You're invited every day.

Mrs. Courtney's husband feels the money could be invested more wisely elsewhere.

John Garrison founded this paper, not Mrs. Courtney's husband.

- We're taking care of you, Ed. - What?

- We always try anyhow. - You're to get one percent of the sale price.

- Your share will amount to slightly more than $50,000. - Thank you.

You're to notify all personnel they will receive two weeks' pay.

- In the meantime - Wait a minute, this sounds as if we're being closed down.

Who's buying the day? What difference can it make?

To the 1500 people who work for you, it makes a lot of difference.

Well, who is buying it?

Or are you ashamed of it?

Lawrence white is the buyer.

White? We're being sold to The Standard.

Oh, I think I'm going to vomit.

So do I.

Mr. White's paper is very successful.

He will undoubtedly make this one more profitable too.

It won't be this paper anymore. It'll be lost in The Standard.

As far as we're concerned, his offer is a generous one.

He's only buying our circulation, features and goodwill.

He's eliminating his competition, that's all.

Mrs. Garrison, you've got to stop them.

Your husband created a new kind of journalism, and you helped him.

Take a look at the first paper you ever printed.

Here. Page one. Quote:

"This paper will fight for progress and reform.

"We'll never be satisfied merely with printing the news.

"We'll never be afraid to attack wrong,

Whether by predatory wealth or predatory poverty."

You're not selling the day, - you're killing it.

The hearing to approve the sale will take place...

in surrogates court day after tomorrow.

- You'll be there, of course. - I never go to funerals.

I think I like that man.

Too excitable, much.

It might be advisable to replace him until the sale is consummated.

Oh, shut up. Please.

Stop it! Stop it!

Come on. Get him, Frank.

Kill him, Frank. Kill him.

Hey, cut it out.

- You all right? - In the pink.

Yeah. What happened?

One punch, six pushes, two kicks, lots of hollerin', no decision.

- Henry? - Well, I was settin' there, minding my own business...

He's been asking for it. Heard the rumor. Quit without notice. Took a job at the record.

The rumor? Well, how about it, Mr. Hutcheson?

Is it a rumor? We have a right to protect ourselves, haven't we?

Well, go ahead.

Tell us we got nothing to worry about.

The day after tomorrow in surrogates court...

You got two weeks' pay coming to ya. The paper's closing.

Quit now and look for another job or...

wait for the probate judge's decision.

It's up to you.

It was nothing personal, Mr. Hutcheson. I have my family to think about.

That's right, Henry. Nothing personal.

- Oh, Mr. Hutcheson, the mayor wants - I'm busy.

- What are you gonna do? - I got an assignment.

- Harry? - There's still a sports page to get out.

- Fighting. A man your age. - Did me good.

- He was right to quit. They all oughta quit. - Maybe.

Anyway, I got it out of my system.

You were with the new york world, weren't you?

Under Pulitzer, Cobb and Barrett.

- What'd you do when it folded? - Let's see now.

I think I got myself a drink. Yep, I'm sure of it.

- Then what'd you do? - Came over here and went to work for old man Garrison.

He was a great newspaperman.

Yeah, but no good as a father. Terrible.

Daughters, one of 'em married to a high-Class broker...

who knows how to invest their money more wisely.