All language subtitles for Deadline...U.S.A..1952.720p.BluRay.x264.YIFY

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.

They hate the paper, same
as they hated the old man.

Couldn't get at him when he was alive, so
now they're kickin' him when he's dead. Yes?

- Five minutes to press time.
- Okay. Come in.

Everybody in this racket gets kicked
sooner or later, dead or alive.

- Get that in the fudge box.
- Yes, sir. Uh, the mayor...

- Darn the mayor!
- Yes, sir.

The mayor.

All he cares about is who'll support
him for reelection if we fold.

By now, the boys will be having a nice
lively wake at O'Brien's. Ever been to one?

Before you know it, lad, you won't be
feeling a thing, not a blessed thing.

That's what a wake is for.

Yes, that's right.

Brothers and sisters,
hush up for a minute.

Friends and unemployed...

Hear, hear. Lend me your ears.

- We're gathered here to bury Caesar.
- No!

Brothers and sisters, we came
to praise the day, not bury it.

- I got the urge, brother! I got the urge!
- Repent and rejoice.

Brother Cleary, a sinner
of 14 years standing,

- Sitting or lying down, will let out the misery.
- Hallelujah!

Maestro, uh, "b" flat,
if you please.

Flash! Scoop-Scoop. Da-Dee-Deep,
Dee-Dee, Dee-Dee, Dee-Dee-Deep. *

I came over the river Jordan
from a weekly scandal sheet...

and asked old John Garrison for a job.

"Are you a journalist
or a reporter?" He said.

"What's the difference?"
I said.

"A journalist makes himself
the hero of the story.

A reporter is only the witness."

Sister Barndollar.

Sister Barndollar, has the spirit
moved the research department?

Ah. The spirits moved her, all right.

Hallelujah and pass
the collection box.

- Sister Willebrandt.
- Cheers.

Comin' through the rye, present
and, uh, half accounted for.

Hey!

Hey, hey, hey! Come on,
honey. Give us a soul talk.

It's a lovely corpse.

Alas, poor dear.
I knew it well.

And why not? I gave it the
best 14 years of my life.

And what have I got
to show for it, huh?

Eighty-One dollars in the
bank, two dead husbands...

and two or three kids I
always wanted but never had.

I've covered everything
from electrocutions...

to love nest brawls.

I've got fallen arches, unfixed teeth,
and you wanna know something, I...

I never saw Paris, but...

But I wouldn't change those years.

Not for anything in this world.

- I see the light, brother.
- Hallelujah!

Purify your soul, sinner.

Save your tears.
This is what the readers want.

- No!
- Throw the atheist out.

Don't sell it short. It's
got twice our circulation...

and three times
our advertising lineage.

It's wild and yellow, but
it's not exactly a newspaper.

- It keeps its people working.
- Hallelujah.

Well, maybe if I'd given you this
kind of paper, you'd still have jobs.

- There's a place for this kind of sheet.
- Where, daddy?

All right, so it's not your kind of paper.

Who are we puttin' out
papers for? You?

You? You?
Huh.

It's not enough anymore
to give 'em just news.

They want comics, contests, puzzles.

They want to know how to bake a cake,
win friends and influence the future.

Ergo, horoscopes, tips on the horses,

Interpretation of dreams so they
can win on the numbers lotteries.

And, if they accidentally
stumble on the first page,

News.

Old man Garrison lies
a moldering in the grave

Old man Garrison lies
a Moldering in the grave

Old man Garrison lies
a moldering in the grave

you know, I never got to Paris either.

Have some anesthetic, brother.

glory, glory, hallelujah

his day is done and gone

Feeling any pain, ed?

Ah, it was a nice wake.

Good night.

Mr. Hutcheson?

I've been trying
to see you all day, sir.

They said I'd find you here and...

This will introduce me, sir. It's from
my journalism professor at the university.

Oh, so you want to be a newspaperman.

Yes, sir. One student a
semester is recommended.

- And you're it.
- Yes, sir.

Newspaperman is the best
profession in the world.

You know what a profession is?

- It's a skilled job.
- Yeah, so's repairing watches. Nope.

A profession is a
performance for public good.

That's why newspaper
work is a profession.

- Yes, sir.
- "Yes, sir."

I-uh, I suppose you want to be a columnist.

Foreign correspondent. To Egypt.

- Do you speak Arabic?
- No, sir, but...

But you do know the
customs, habits, religion,

- Superstitions of the people.
- Well, I took a course in near eastern relations...

You know the psychology of Egyptian
politics and Muslim diplomacy?

- No, sir.
- Expert on economy, topography and geography of Egypt?

I speak a little french.
Maybe I could get a job in the...

Yeah, so do I, but I couldn't hold
down a job in my own Paris office.

I see.

Hey, Joe.

So, you want to be a reporter?

Here's some advice
about this racket.

Don't ever change your mind. It
may not be the oldest profession,

But it's the best.

Yes, sir.

Hi.

Why don't you go home, ed?

Yes'm.

- Guess what?
- Scotch.

I have decided to
dedicate my life to you.

- Yes, dear.
- Yes, dear.

That's why I'm gonna give
you the best years of my life.

Mm-hmm.

Do you know what's the matter with you,
you're a "spektic."

Hmm? Uh, a skeptic.

Yes, dear.

- White beer?
- Homogenized.

Couldn't we spike it
with a little scotch?

Drink that. As is.

Nora, I love you.

Let's get married again.
Tonight.

- This could bring on my second childhood.
- It already has,

Coming here this time of night.

Nora, I'm free.

Fired. Canned.

No more paper. Nothing
to keep us apart anymore.

- The paper has been sold.
- I know.

Divorce is a very evil thing, Nora.

Down from my Olympian
heights, I come... humbly.

I'm gonna make a decent
woman of you again, Nora.

- Yes, dear.
- Yes, dear.

We'll go on a second honeymoon.

- We never had a first.
- No, I'm leveling, baby. There's no more paper.

Travel. That's what we'll do.

Europe, south America, everywhere.

No worry about expense.

- I am loaded.
- So I noticed.

I mean money. More money than
we've ever had in our lives.

- I was paid off for being a good boy.
- Ed.

Listen,

You shouldn't have come here.

It won't work out.

Yeah.

Not bad copy.
Not bad at all.

How is the advertising business?

You know, you were right
to quit the newspaper.

Now, you've got something
you can depend on.

Something legitimate.

I went to a wake tonight.
Saw the light, sister.

Hallelujah.

Why should I fight?
For what?

The publishers don't care
about the paper.

The paper doesn't care about me.

I don't care about anybody except you.

Haven't I met him somewheres before?

Just now, in the living room.

Oh, yeah.
Fight. What with?

I'm an employee, not a stockholder.

Maybe I should have
taken it to the readers.

Ah, what do they care? You
gotta have an issue for that.

Red-hot story.

Nora?

- Right here, darling.
- "Right here, darling."

I don't have to think
about anybody but us.

Yes, dear.

You know, we'll have some great
times together like we used to.

Remember that time in Saranac when
everybody thought we weren't married,

- So we went out and got married?
- For the second time.

And the fishing trips we never went on.

And the hunting trips I promised you.

- We'll make 'em all this time.
- Yes, dear.

How I went up to Reno to
try to stop the divorce.

- What was that you charged me with?
- Incompatibility.

Incompatibility.
Huh, that was a lie.

They know where to reach you?

- Oh, I don't have to account to anybody.
- Yes, dear.

I don't like him.

I'll think of a reason later.

Good night, dear.

City desk. What?

Oh. Hold it.

Okay, go ahead.

When did this happen?

What time is it now?

Six what? 6:20.

Where'd it happen?

Did you call the hospital?

Are they sending an ambulance?

Okay.

- Good morning, darling.
- Ed.

I thought no one knew you were here.

Where else would I go
when I'm in trouble?

- Ed!
- Who slept here?

It's time we had a talk, Ed.

Oh, no, not now, baby.
I'm in a hurry.

- That call was urgent.
- Dinner tonight?

- Why not every night?
- Alberto's place okay?

8:00. I thought you were in a hurry.

Did I have a pleasant time last night?

- Yes, dear.
- I did?

Well, what do you know.

I was making my rounds, sir.
First, I didn't notice anything.

Then I heard a kind of low moaning
coming from the road down there.

Well, good morning.
Automobile accident, eh?

- Get him to the hospital.
- Name?

- I said, get him to the hospital!
- Wait a minute...

My name is Burrows.

I work for the day. He runs it.

Oh. Ben!

They started banging me around
when they got me in the car.

How many were there?

Three, maybe four.

- Well, what was it? Three or four?
- I don't know.

- All right. They gave you a going-over. What with?
- Fists.

One of 'em hit me in the face with
something hard. A sap, I guess.

- What'd they say?
- Nothing. Not after they got me in the car.

- Before?
- Yes. Outside the hall of records. I told you.

- Tell me again.
- Please, sir. He's...

Shut up. The hall of records.

You went there to check on Rienzi.

George.

The man I talked to
must have tipped Rienzi.

- Yeah? How do you know?
- He left the office for a few minutes. Probably phoned.

- Probably? But you're not positive.
- No.

- That won't stand up in court.
- How else were they waiting for me when I came out?

- Who was waiting?
- Rienzi's men.

- Can you identify them?
- One,maybe. A former boxer,Torpedo.

- Know his name?
- Whitey. I'm not sure. Whitey something.

If I brought him in,
could you identify him?

He asked me if I was Burrows.
He asked me if I worked for the day.

- What make car was it?
- I don't know.

- Sedan? Blue? Black? What?
- What are you trying to do, protect Rienzi?

I want facts that won't bounce.

Facts that'll stand up against
Rienzi's lawyers and libel suits.

Facts that'll tear Rienzi's
syndicate wide open.

There just can't be any mistake.
We can't have any retractions.

George.

- How's it look?
- I'm afraid he may lose that eye.

Mrs. Burrows.

Go away, Mr. Hutcheson.
Let us alone.

Are you blaming me?

Who sent him out?
And for what?

The great big, fat glory
of a newspaper?

A paper you haven't
even got anymore.

Mr. Allen? One moment, please.
The day, good morning.

Put every man you can
spare on the Rienzi story.

- Picture layout?
- The works, where he gets his money,

His tie-ups, data, facts,
facts and more facts.

- The tough thing is to prove them, Ed.
- Prove them later.

- Charlie.
- Boy.

Uh, city morgue?
This is Willebrandt of the day.

Any identification yet on
that nude in the fur coat?

Miss Barndollar. Relax.

- Ever heard of Rienzi?
- Mm-hmm.

Okay, now. Rienzi, Tomas. Fifty-One.

Born, Palermo, Sicily.
Emigrated here, 1914.

Attended public school number 47.

Has two children
by legal wife Gertrude.

We're not proposing him
for the chamber of commerce.

We want to convict him of
every known crime in the books,

All of which he's committed and some
even you, even I, never heard of.

- I want everything.
- Yes, sir.

I must've taken 20 shots of her as
they were dragging her out of the river.

- That fur coat's worth $5000 or $6000
- Tim, get your camera.

- Cover Burrows in the city hospital.
- George? Our George?

That's right. You take Rienzi,
his wife, home, cars, everything.

What if he smashes the
camera? He's done it before.

Let him.
You get pictures of him doin' it.

Go ahead.

Bill, Bill, I want a cartoon on Rienzi.

It's gotta be hard,
tough, below the belt.

A vulture sucking the life
out of a city. You got it?

But a vulture only preys
on the dead or the dying.

Preys.

"Let us prey." P-R-E-Y.

The paper, the paper. Why
should I stick my neck out?

I want it for the first edition.

I don't like the idea. I get in a jam with
Rienzi and tomorrow the paper folds anyway.

- Where does that leave me?
- You're fired.

- Wait a minute
- Pay him off and get him out of here.

- Why the excitement? Everybody knows we're washed up. - That's your mistake.

- But I worked here four years.
- That's my mistake.

Boy.

City desk.
Get your voucher.

Miss Bentley, get your
stenotype in there.

Get Dr. Emmanuel on the phone.

Draw $500 out of my bank and
get it over to Burrows's wife.

Mr. Bellamy here's been waiting.

Oh, yeah.

- Rewrite desk. Lobster shift.
- What's the lobster shift?

After midnight we serve lobsters.

Thermidor, naturally.

Uh...

Page one editorial.
Ten point type. Double column.

Byline,

Set off in boldface will be:

John Garrison.

Quote:

"I am dead.

"I've been dead for 11 years.

"By tomorrow, this newspaper
may also be dead.

"But as long as it lives, the day
will continue to report the facts...

"and the meaning of
those facts without fear,

"Without distortion, without
hope of personal gain...

as it always has done."

- Yes?
- Dr. Emmanuel on two.

Hello, doctor.
No, no, no. I'm fine.

Yeah, uh, I want to ask you a favor.

A personal friend of mine needs
your help. He's in the city hospital.

Name is Burrows, George Burrows.
What?

What is more important, doctor,

Your delivering a lecture in
London or saving a man's eyesight?

Well, cancel it.

Well, then delay it.

We weren't too busy to
raise funds for your clinic.

Well, certainly I'm putting
it on a personal basis.

What's a friend for, if not for a favor?

Thank you.

A real humanitarian.

Oh. Where was I?

"Will continue to report the facts
and the meaning of those facts"

Oh, that sentence is too long.

Break it down. Change
the word "distortion."

Somebody mightn't know
what it means. Okay?

Paragraph. Quote:

"What are the facts?

Rienzi stuffs your ballot boxes."

If anything will save the paper,
this is it.

You see the paper yet?

- Who's responsible?
- Obviously Hutcheson.

- Hutcheson?
- Afraid so.

Well, talk to him.

Why can't you?

I wanna meet him personally.

Why not?

Everybody can be reached.
Remember, judge?

Evening, Mr. White.

Evening, Mr. White.
Mr. White.

Give me a three column lead
with two line bank on that raid.

- Evening, Mr. White.
- Did you see this spread on Rienzi in the day?

Yes, sir. What have you
done about it for our paper?

Done, sir? A reporter
gets into a barroom brawl?

- They say it was Rienzi.
- But can they prove it?

- Prove it?
- Front page editorials, flashy cartoons...

Why, it's old-Fashioned, Mr. White.

And what's so ultramodern
about this horse in our paper?

Then give me some old-Fashioned
journalism in The Standard.

Yes, sir.

Get me the city hospital.

Sorry I'm late.

- You like it?
- It's the best looking front page in town.

- As usual.
- The makeup...

- Thank you.
- The cartoon, the editorial under the name of Garrison.

- Yours?
- Mm-hmm.

- It's wonderful.
- As usual.

And how are we?
Are we as usual?

Maybe the heirs will
sit up and take notice.

- Of us?
- They won't sell the paper. Not now.

Not in the middle of a fight like this.
It would be like endorsing Rienzi.

It's a wonderful dress for dinner.

You look much better
than you did last night.

- How do you feel?
- Amorous.

- Good evening, Mrs. Hutcheson.
- Evening.

Mr. Hutcheson. Your table's
ready, sir. Will you order now?

- An appetizer first perhaps?
- Oh, no, thank you. I have mine.

- Oh, just steak for me.
- Telephone, Mr. Hutcheson.

- Tell 'em I'm feeding.
- They said it's important.

Urgent, dear. As usual.

- Keep calling her Mrs. Hutcheson.
- Yes, sir.

Uh, Mrs. Hutcheson.

- Yes?
- This is Willebrandt. I'm at the city morgue.

The place where little girls
check their fur coats.

The dead nude? What about her?

Well, her mother showed up to
identify her this afternoon.

Is a Mrs. Schmidt.

That's the girl's name,
Bessie Schmidt.

But she also used
the name Sally Gardiner.

Why bother me? Write it.

Well, what I wanted to know is this.

Now, Allen thought I ought to
check with you first, but uh,

This Mrs. Schmidt knows a
lot more than she's telling.

No.

No, but I thought maybe if you
talked to her, you could get...

Let's not be dramatic, Mrs. Willebrandt.

No, no, no, I can't. You handle it.

Her name's Fifi. She made a
pass at me in the cloakroom.

It's a way I have with women.

I'm getting married again, Ed.

That's right. I'm giving
it to you straight and fast.

You don't know the man. He-he's
my boss at the advertising agency.

First me, now another boss.

It's getting to be a habit with you,
isn't it?

- I'd like you to meet him.
- Compare notes, you mean?

Thanks, I know enough people already.

- His name is Lewis Shafer.
- I don't want to know anything about him.

- I told him all about you.
- Everything?

Sit down.

I'm not one of your modern husbands,

Chin up, stiff upper lip
and all that sort of stuff,

Always ready to discuss things sensibly.

There isn't anything to discuss.
I don't need your consent.

- We're divorced. Have been for two years
- I don't recognize the divorce.

- You agreed to it.
- I was wrong.

You're my wife. Not only because
somebody said a few words over us,

But because of all we meant
to each other for eight years.

You can't change all that with
more words, legal or otherwise.

- They want you on the telephone, Mr. Hutcheson.
- Go away.

You want me to quit the paper, okay.
I'll get another job, something..

- I don't want you to quit.
- I had to go back today. Tomorrow, it's over.

It's right that you should go
back. It's where you belong.

You're the best newspaperman in the world.

I don't want to change
that. I never did.

It's your whole life, and for you,
it's right.

But I've got a right to a life too,
and you can't give it to me.

- Can he?
- Maybe.

Can you be the same with him as
you were with me? Is it that easy?

Do you love him?

No, you don't.
Not the same way.

Maybe love isn't enough
to make a marriage work.

Please, Mr. Hutcheson.

I'm sorry to bother you again,
but it's your office.

Mr. Allen. He said if you won't come to
the phone than to come back to the paper.

I'm sorry, sir.

Yes?

What? Yanked what story?

Willebrandt's story on Sally Gardiner.

Well, it was pulled by our
advertising department.

It seems Mr. Andrew Wharton, president
of Wharton's department store,

Was Sally's caviar ticket.

Right. Right.

Composing room. One column head
one bank on this weather report.

- Yes?
- Jake?

On Willebrandt's story, Sally Gardiner?

Yeah. Hold it, but don't kill it.

You worry about every story
in our paper, Mr. Fenway?

It just seemed to me
this was libelous material.

- We got a hundred stories in this
issue. Check 'em all for libel?
- No, sir.

- Or any of them?
- No, sir.

I see. You're a self-appointed censor
only on stories involving big advertisers.

- I was trying to protect us.
- Us or you or Mr. Wharton, and for how much?

- He denies this story.
- Willebrandt included his denial.

From there on, it's up to the police.

- I thought as a matter of policy
- Policy?

Since when has the advertising department
of this paper dictated its policy on news?

- I didn't act on my own.
- No. You haven't got the guts, so you went to Wharton.

- Run the story.
- I talked to Alice Garrison.

Mr. Wharton came here. We phoned
her. It was on her authority.

She hasn't got the authority,
not until I'm out of here.

Or have you arranged
for that too? No, sir.

You're slipping.

Well, you talk to Mr. Wharton.
He's waiting right in here.

Mr. Wharton.

- This is Mr. Hutcheson.
- How do you do, sir?

- May I give you my side of it?
- I'll take care of this.

- Please don't publish that story.
- Why? Isn't it true?

It can't do you much good, and
it'll ruin me and hurt my family.

I've been doing business
with your paper for 20 years.

You're a big advertiser, Mr. Wharton.

- We need your business, but not on those terms.
- All right.

I made a mistake with Sally,
but that was 10 years ago,

And I've paid for it
in blackmail every month.

I'm sorry, Mr. Wharton.
This is a matter for the police.

You are interested in facts,
aren't you?

One day, Sally phoned.

She was quitting her job at the store.
She was letting me off the hook.

She said there was another man.

- Another man? There always is.
- In this case, the man was Tomas Rienzi.

Sally said she loved him,
would never bother me again.

She even sent back some...
damaging photographs... of us.

She said she was set for life.

- What did she mean by that?
- She didn't say.

Surely you don't think I killed Sally.

I haven't seen her in over two years.

Mrs. Wharton knew about Sally.
She suggested that I talk to you.

Your paper forced me to come
here, but now that I'm here,

I don't know...

- Wharton, you can tell your wife I'm holding the story.
- Thank you, sir.

- But if that yarn about Rienzi doesn't jell
- It will.

It better, for both our sakes.

- Jim?
- Uh, later, dear.

What have you got on Sally Gardiner?

- The furry blonde?
- Uh-huh.

- She was a broad.
- Yes, but whose?

- Since when do you go in for gossip?
- Since now.

Jim, was Rienzi playin' around with Sally?

- What do you want?
- Proof. I wanna be sure.

From this, a fella could catch a
hole in the head.

Yeah, he could. That bother you?

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Harry?

Ever hear of Herman Schmidt?

Small-Time stuff. Had some kind
of a political job at the arena.

Boxing judge, I think.

- Oh, yeah. I got him now.
- Brother of Sally Gardiner.

Sally may have been tied in with Rienzi.

I know one thing. Rienzi's tied
in with the boxing commission.

Yeah. Get a hold of Schmidt.
Sweat him.

- 'Bout his job?
- About Sally.

- Boy!
- Here's Willebrandt's copy.

All we've got on Sally is
she was once a bathing beauty.

One thing you're short on is time.

Sally and her brother were born here.

Her mother came from Germany.
Father dead.

No known criminal record for Sally.
No recorded marriages.

Yes?

A Mr. Lewis Shafer to see you.

Okay.

- Barndollar?
- Yes, sir?

Relax. If Luggerman's closed the
financial page, ask him to come in.

Yes, sir.

- Happy to meet you, Mr...
- Yeah.

- Got those pictures?
- Uh, right here.

Put 'em up here, chronologically.

- Sit down, Mr. Shafer.
- Thank you, but what I...

Leave a space for the missing
period between Wharton and Rienzi.

Yes, sir.

- Coffee, Mr. Shafer? Sandwich?
- No, thanks.

I didn't mean to interrupt your work.

- How's my wife?
- That's what I came to see you about.

- Shoot.
- Well...

- Nora ask you to come?
- Well, of course not.

I thought that we could...

Well, this is rather personal,
Mr. Hutcheson.

In as much as it concerns my wife,
I hope it's not too personal.

- You're making her very unhappy...
- Want me?

Oh, Luggerman. I want a report on all
Rienzi's investments, legit and otherwise...

Dummy corporations, everything. Real
estate, manufacturing, investments...

- Whatever you can dig up.
- You got a starting point?

Try the tax reports. Charlie in the
governor's office might give you a hand.

- Right.
- Make it thorough.

So I'm, uh, making her unhappy,
Mr. Shafer?

Let her alone. You're confusing her,
making her feel guilty.

Her responsibility to you is over.

- Well, then why are you here?
- I'm only trying to do what's best for Nora.

Well, that's not only ridiculous, but
insulting. You're not that much of a prize.

Ed, here's the... Oh, excuse me.

What have you got?

- Sally bought some government bonds.
- When?

- Five months ago.
- Sally or Rienzi?

In her name. 40,000 worth. And
it took some doing at this hour,

But we've got a checkup working
in every bank for saving accounts.

- Safety deposit boxes?
- That too.

That's all we've got.
Okay.

Look here, Frank.

Sally as a high school girl, model
for Wharton's department store,

Showgirl, kept girl,
missing portion, the river.

Now if we can plug up this hole between
Wharton's department store and the river,

Fill it up with Rienzi...

Goodbye, Mr. Shafer.
I can't wish you good luck.

- You know how it is.
- There's something you ought to know, Mr. Hutcheson.

- Yes?
- Jim Cleary on one.

- Yes, Jim?
- Nora and I are getting married tomorrow night.

Ed? Ed!

I thought it best not to delay
any longer. You know how it is.

- Ed?
- Yes, yes. Go ahead.

Here it is, just what
you've been looking for.

Yeah. Rienzi's your boy, all right.

Showgirl in a musical
produced by Al Murray.

The show was backed by Rienzi
over three years ago. Frank.

Oh, it's the only show Rienzi
backed. He insisted Sally be in it.

I'm with Al Murray now.

He says that Rienzi used to send a car
around for her every night after the show.

- Hold it.
- Yep.

- Switch this call to rewrite. You hear that, Cleary?
- Okay. Yep, yep.

Oh, Frank.

On the Willebrandt story, uh,
kill the part about Wharton.

Use Cleary's story for a lead-all.

Throw in Sally's face.
No nudity.

- Miss Barndollar?
- Yes, sir?

I want a complete check
on Lewis Shafer,

Runs the united advertising agency.

- Shafer.
- Yes, sir.

- Yes, sir?
- Anything from Thompson yet?

No, sir.

Mr. Schmidt?

Mr. Schmidt?

- Don't move.
- I just wanna...

Shut up!

Take your hat off.

Sit down. No, over there.

Put your hands on the table.

Relax, Herman.
I'm here to help you.

- Who's with you?
- Nobody.

What's the pitch?

My name is Thompson.
Reporter, sports, for the day...

Don't do that!

Sports, huh?

What'd you write today?

"The question of televising
next season's baseball games...

was discussed at a heated session
of the hot stove league yesterday".

What do you want?

Do you mind putting that thing away?

How did you find me?

You know a lot of people
in the fight game.

They owe me favors.
I collected a few.

All right. Get to it.

Why did Rienzi... kill your sister?

Did he?

Then who you afraid of, Herman?
Why the hideout?

That won't get you anywhere.

I phoned your address in to
the paper. They know I'm here.

By the next edition,
Rienzi'll know where you are.

We're your only chance, Herman.

Let me take you to the paper
and you'll be safe.

Sooner or later,
Rienzi'll get to you,

And you'll wind up
in the morgue beside Sally.

As long as Rienzi is free,
you're a dead pigeon.

Take your time.

Rienzi won't get his copy of the
day with your address until morning.

I have carefully read
the last will and testament...

of the deceased, John Garrison.

I find nothing therein
to prevent the sale...

of the publication enterprises
known as the day.

Your honor, Mrs. Garrison, wife of
the deceased and one of the heirs,

- Would like to address the court.
- Mrs. Garrison?

Sir, I object to the sale
of this paper to Mr. White.

Your honor, Mrs. Garrison has agreed...

But this request for sale was
signed by you, Mrs. Garrison.

I've changed my mind.

Mrs. Garrison's daughters have
not, and they constitute a majority.

My husband would not have wished for
this paper to be sold to Mr. White.

- How do you know?
- Your honor, I object to cross-Examination...

until the witness has
completed her statement.

You knew the paper was
being sold to Mr. White.

But I did not know it was going
to be rubbed out of existence,

Which it will be if
this contract is approved.

What happens to this newspaper after it has
been sold is of absolutely no concern here.

Is Mr. Crane the lawyer and the judge?

This is a cheap display of
sensationalism and conspiracy.

- Would the other heirs care to reconsider?
- No, sir.

Would it be all right, Mr. Crane,

If they answered for themselves?

Mrs. Alice Garrison Courtney.

- Do you still wish to sell?
- Yes, sir.

Mrs. Katherine Garrison Geary.

Yes, sir.

In that case, the paper may be sold.

- Then I'll buy it.
- A contract already exists.

But, your honor, Mrs. Garrison
has priority of purchase.

- I'll raise Mr. White's offer.
- Your honor, I cannot see that my client's interests...

I don't see why you should object
to my daughters receiving more money.

That's what they're selling
out for, isn't it? Money?

Will the counsel kindly step up here?

- You can't do this.
- I can, I want to, and I'm going to.

What good will it do?

You'll be happy to know that
stupidity is not hereditary.

You've acquired it all by yourselves.

You're making us sound like fools.

- Well...
- What changed your mind?

Have you seen today's paper,
and yesterday's?

Loyalty changed my mind, a principle
evidently lacking in the present generation.

You haven't got the money
to buy the paper.

- I'll get it.
- You're crazy.

No, just ashamed. Ashamed for
me, for you and for your father.

I'm not going to let this paper die.

If that makes me crazy,
I'm good and crazy.

All right?

I should have required time to
consider Mrs. Garrison's request.

Counsel will be notified
when this court will reconvene.

- Sir?
- Mr. White?

Any delay, even 24 hours,
will wreck the value of the day.

People will not buy a dying
paper nor advertise in it.

Now the staff of the day
will become demoralized.

No newspaper can function
under this handicap.

Thank you, Mr. White.

However, I must preserve decision.

But... if the current high standard
of journalism in the day slackens,

Or any act of neglect threatens
the well-Being of this newspaper,

I shall be forced to make an
immediate decision...

based upon the current contract.

- Mr. Hutcheson? My name is Hansen.
- Yes?

I'm, uh, Mr. Rienzi's lawyer.
He's waiting to see you in his car.

- Why?
- It's personal business.

- A ride?
- No, sir. A drive.

How do you do, Mr. Hutcheson?

- I give you a lift someplace?
- Why?

- I'm a sociable type.
- They're expecting me at my office.

- Okay, lippy.
- Okay, what?

- Just okay.
- I wondered when and how you'd get around to this.

- Yeah?
- Yeah. I expected something a little more poetic.

Drink?

- Now that's rather poetic.
- What'll it be?

- Nothing.
- Not a drinkin' man?

No, not in an armored car.

- I think I like you.
- Why?

Imagination. I like a man
with imagination.

You're a good newspaperman,
they say.

You're not bad at your trade either.

You got two Pulitzer prizes,
they say. Are they worth much?

In cash, about $500 a piece.

- Your kind of imagination is worth more.
- I agree.

- But you're a hothead, they say.
- Who's "they"?

Friends.
I got friends everywhere.

I'd like for you to be my friend.

- I got a friend.
- Not like me.

Is that a proposal or a proposition?

- What do you got against me?
- You're not my type.

You ever meet me before,
do business with me?

Well, maybe you got
the wrong impression of me.

What kind of an impression
would you like me to have?

My family reads the paper.

It's not nice, what you print.

I got a nice family. Sometime
I'd like for you to meet them.

No point in that, unless they're
the ones that almost killed Burrows.

- Burrows?
- Never beat up a reporter, they say.

It's like killin' a cop on duty, they say.

Never drop girls in the river,
clothed or unclothed, they say.

What have I got to do
with reporters, or girls?

- I'm in the cement and contractin' business.
- Capone was in insurance.

- You got a sense of humor, friend.
- Then why don't you laugh?

- Very funny.
- Tomorrow's newspaper will be even funnier.

Ah. That's the Rienzi I like to see.

This where you start shooting?

What are you supposed to be,
a little tin god?

You gonna save the world?
A hero or somethin'?

There's only one kind of
martyr friend, dead ones.

Show me a martyr, I'll lay you
4 to 1 he winds up out of the money.

My lawyer says
I could sue you for this.

- Well?
- What you're tryin' to do has been tried before.

Nobody could ever make it stick.

In that case, you got
nothing to worry about.

Thanks for the lift.
I can't say I enjoyed it.

Cops, tax collectors, politicians,
citizens' committees...

They all got an angle.
What's yours? Name it.

What do you want? My prizes
are worth more than pulitzers.

I know. I got a look at Sally's fur coat.

Wasn't that Herman Schmidt
just went in?

Yeah.

Okay, from the beginning.

First, let's see the money.

He said you'd pay for the story.

Five grand.

- $1,000.
- How far would that get me?

Out of the country, after you
testify against Rienzi. Yes or no?

- Well, he said you'd protect me.
- These days, accommodations in jail are hard to get.

However, I'll use my influence.

- Well?
- All right.

Get some sleep, and on your way
out, have 'em send in $1,000.

- In cash!
- In cash.

Okay, you got the floor.

- Where do you want me to start?
- Sally and Rienzi.

Well, they liked each other.

- Liked?
- Well, you know.

- Rienzi pay her bills?
- What else?

- For everything?
- She was worth it.

That's what i like: family pride.

Larry Hansen kicked in for the apartment,

Her fur coat, some cheap
jewelry, maybe her car too.

But Sally bought $40,000 worth
of government bonds in her name.

Rienzi pay for that?

I guess so.

- You're a liar.
- Sally used the $200,000 Rienzi gave her to hold for him.

What $200,000?

- Why would a guy part with that kind of scratch?
- Hot money.

- The city bank says your sister rented a safety deposit box.
- She gave it up a month ago.

- On the same day she moved out of her apartment.
- Why?

All right. It's true. He gave
her the money to keep for him.

When he wanted it back, she
was scared he'd make a break.

She said as long as she
kept the cash... he'd stick.

Didn't work out that way.

I don't feel so good.

- Have this typed. More coming.
- Yes. Mrs. Garrison wants to see you in the dome.

- Well, stall her.
- Here's that $1,000 you wanted.

Uh-huh.

- Uh, Al, this camera in there.
- Yes, sir.

- What did you say?
- Are you married, honey?

- Cleary...
- Later, baby.

Get hold of the governor. Ask him if
he'll appoint a special grand jury...

to investigate
the last election.

Some of the names
that'll come up.

- We supported a few for office.
- A newspaper has no political party.

We support men for office-
Some good, some bad.

Mr. Hutcheson, Mrs. Willebrandt's on here.

If the governor won't act, uh, get the
chairman of the state senate committee.

Yes? Hutcheson.

Oh, hold it.

Uh, go ahead, Willebrandt.

Sally? What about her?

Where'd she move to?
What hotel?

When did you find out
Sally was dead?

Well, I- I read
about it in the paper.

She was dead three days
before the papers got it.

Your mother says you left the house
last Saturday and didn't come back.

- Sally was killed that same night.
- So what?

- I leave the house lots of times. For weeks sometimes.
- But not to hide out.

You were afraid of Rienzi. Why? You knew
he was going to Sally's place last Saturday.

- I didn't even know where she lived.
- Hold it. Shoot.

Sally was moved from
her apartment on maple avenue...

by the intercity storage company
four weeks ago...

to the Leroy Hotel, registered under
the name of, uh, Bessie Schmidt.

Never left her room. She had only two visitors.
Your mother and you.

You were there Saturday night.

- I don't remember. Maybe I was.
- Why did you go there?

Well, I, uh...

She phoned me. Yeah,
that's right. She phoned me!

The desk clerk says you phoned her
from the desk, 1:30 am

He could be wrong!

Yeah. That's right.

Somewhere out there,
Rienzi's waiting for you.

Either you tell the truth, or I'll turn
you loose. No money, no protection.

Okay.

- Throw him out.
- Wait.

Rienzi wanted his money.

They couldn't find out
where she was living.

- So you showed 'em.
- Why'd you do it?

- What did Rienzi promise?
- Well, he got me my job.

I owed him some money.
I couldn't pay him.

He said the favor
would square us.

All you had to do was put
the finger on your own sister.

I didn't know what they
were gonna do. I swear it.

- Who went with you, Rienzi?
- I went alone.

- So she wouldn't be afraid to let you in.
- They came later.

- All you did was open the door for them. That's all.
- Who's "they"?

- Lefty Smith, Whitey Franks and Kid Jones.
- They belong to Rienzi?

- Except whitey. He hires out.
- You let 'em in. Then what?

Well, they asked her
for the money.

She wouldn't give,
so whitey, he hit her.

Then Lefty.
She began to scream.

She hollered for me
to help her.

Then whitey, he shut her up.

I got scared. I couldn't watch what
they were doin', I ran into the bathroom.

I beat it out of there.
That's all I know. Honest.

- Yes?
- Mrs. Garrison's still waiting. What'll I tell her?

I'll be right up.

The word was out Rienzi wanted me.

They was afraid I was gonna sing.

If I stay for the trial,
they'll get to me.

You don't know them.
In jail, no matter where...

Soon as that's typed,
have him sign it.

We won't have time
to get this all in the bulldog.

We'll get the text of the
statement in the second edition.

Count it. Count it!

And have this office fumigated.

- Mr. Hutcheson? About Lewis Shafer
- Oh, yeah.

- Uh, that information you requested.
- Uh-huh?

Uh, Lewis Shafer, age 42,
born in Baltimore,

Only child of John and Harriet
Shafer of the chemical fortune.

- Was he ever married before?
- No, sir.

- Ever get pinched? Was he ever arrested?
- No record, if he was.

Alcoholic? Swindler?

Maybe he's a fiend.
You know, he looked like one.

Check his army record?
Maybe he's a spy.

Got the silver star
and the purple heart.

- That's a rotten report.
- Yes, sir.

Eddie, two things.

Rienzi's started his libel suit. We were
served with the papers half an hour ago.

- Second?
- Judge Mckay is gonna hand down a decision tonight at 9:00.

- Because of the libel suit? We'll be ready for him.
- And another thing,

That one percent you were
promised when we sold the paper?

Well, Alice and kitty
have withdrawn it.

- What took 'em so long?
- Uh-huh.

You were wonderful today, baby.

- Oh. Mr. Blake and Mr. Green, this is Mr. Hutcheson.
- How do you do?

- How do you do?
- How do you do, sir?

Their banking firm has offered to lend us
the extra money to meet Mr. White's offer.

- Pending a few facts, of course
- Of course.

Try to remember Rienzi's exact
words when he asked you...

to bring the three hoods
to Sally's hotel room.

We can get that...

Got a warrant here
for Herman Schmidt.

We're not finished yet. We
want him to sign the statement.

- It'll only take a few minutes.
- Come along, Schmidt. You got no right to take statements.

- As long as it's not a police state, we have.
- Sorry.

- Whitey!
- Shut up.

Take him out the back way.

I didn't tell him anythi...

Whitey, I didn't tell 'em anything.

And that doesn't include
the higher cost of newsprint.

- How's that?
- It keeps going up. Right now, it's $110 a ton.

In 1942, it was $50 a ton.

Takes talent to get the news, think it
through, write it and back it up with research.

Without good reporting,
you haven't got a paper.

- That extra four percent...
- Might make it dangerous venture.

A free press, sir, like a
free life, is always in danger.

That's why I hid out, 'cause
I knew somebody would get me.

- Listen. You gotta believe me.
- Ah, shut up.

You do believe me,
don't you?

I like the proposition.

- Barring unforeseen complications, I think...
- Ed, it's for you.

Yeah?

Give him a description of what
that so-called police look like.

Yes, Captain.

When's the press gonna grow up
and stop playing detective?

Can't you tell the difference
between a hoodlum and a cop?

- In this town?
- Yes, sir.

Captain.

Got the address?

Now see that Mrs. Garrison
gets home all right.

What about Schmidt's confession?
We run anyway?

Without his signature? That
judge would surely close us down.

You made a mess of it.

I told you
I don't want no violence.

Not yet, anyway.

There's a time and place for this
kind of thing. This is stupid.

No. No.
Run away from what?

I'll talk to them myself,
personally.

Get 'em down here
to my office, all of 'em.

Sure, now. Right now.
You too.

And find Sally's old lady, Mrs. Schmidt.
Bring her in. I wanna talk to her.

And this time,
don't foul it up.

No paper ever did a better,
faster, more thorough job.

All we needed was that one
bit of evidence, and we had it.

Why do you think we hung the
whole thing on Rienzi's case?

'Cause we were sentimental about
a dead girl and a mink coat? No.

No, we had something big,
big enough to save our necks.

Rienzi in the liquor business,
the financial department dug that one up.

Distributed for two of the
biggest name brands.

Rienzi's brother runs
a wire service for race results,

Transportation, a loan agency for
bookies, real estate, hotels, nightclubs.

Slot machines, et cetera, et cetera.

Years ago, my husband tried to do a
story like this on a man just like Rienzi.

No, I figured with a story like this
to tell, they'd never close us down.

Well...

We showed 'em how a real
newspaper can function.

And now, we're licked, baby.

Put a head on this, will you?

My husband always said if it was a
worthwhile fight, didn't matter who won.

Some good was sure
to come out of it.

- That Rienzi's wine?
- Uh-huh.

- Pretty good.
- The best.

- Well, you're quite a girl.
- Yeah.

Guess they made 'em different
in your day.

- Yeah.
- More durable.

More pliable.

Girls these days have stuff, but
they're... brittle, break more easily,

Don't roll with the punches.

Plenty of gall and no guts.

- Meaning Nora?
- Uh, meaning Nora.

There will now be a respectful silence
while we feel sorry for ourselves.

- Well, she had no right to walk out on me.
- Why not?

- Well, because.
- Because it inconvenienced you.

Because she's my wife.

You wouldn't have had a wife if that
newspaper had had beautiful legs.

Sure, sure.

- You never walked out on John.
- Who said so? Twice.

- You must've had a pretty good reason.
- The best.

The bride always likes to think
she's indispensable,

Even in the morning.

I woke up, and he was gone.

Gone back to the paper,
to do the Lusitania story.

- I walked out.
- Ah, but you came back.

Two days later. He didn't
even know I'd been gone.

- But he loved you.
- Passionately,

But between editions.

He had time to change the face
of journalism, fight for reform,

And crusade for a thousand lost causes,
but he had no time for his family.

So I took my two daughters and
left this big, beautiful mausoleum.

- Why did you come back?
- Well, we needed each other.

It was I who did
the adjusting, though.

It wasn't Alice or kitty
or John.

He needed a son
to carry on the paper.

And they needed a father
to love, not a bulldog edition.

- Enter me.
- Spittin' image.

- And what did you want?
- To be useful.

Well...

To newspapers.

To editors like you,
a publisher's delight.

Don't blame Nora.

Unless she wants to come back,
it won't work. If she stays away...

I can look for a newspaper
with nice legs.

Court convenes in
about half an hour.

- You gonna be there?
- Maybe.

- Will you marry me?
- You're too old.

You go through old lady
Schmidt's house? Top to bottom.

- Well?
- Nothing.

- Mrs. Schmidt, you find her?
- Not yet.

- Got anybody at the house waitin' for her?
- Inside and out.

Don't bring her here. I don't
want none of your boys around here.

- Now or anytime. You understand?
- I understand.

And don't phone me,
here or at home, any of you!

- Would it be better if we left town for a while?
- No. We stay put.

- Suppose the grand jury indicts?
- Leave 'em indict!

- Larry'll take care of things.
- I'll try.

That's right. You'll try.
I don't want no panic...

if there's an investigation
or even a trial.

We been through this kind of thing
before. We're still in business.

Our story's printed
in the paper. So what?

Tomorrow, it's old news.
Next week, people forget.

But if they keep printing?

- They won't.
- But if they keep us in the news until the trial,

- If they heat up the public...
- You take care of your end. I'll handle the paper.

- Hutcheson won't handle easily.
- He's got nothing.

With Schmidt out of the way,
what's he got?

- That won't stop him.
- And he won't stop us!

Tomorrow, he won't even have a paper.

Courts'll take it away from him.

And if they don't, we'll
take him away from the paper.

Maybe they all need an example.

Yeah, that's what they need.

- You better find Hutcheson.
- You wanna see him?

No.

Mrs. Garrison? How are you?

Please rise.

His honor, the surrogate.

Please be seated.

I'm a little bit worried about him.

Regarding the sale and purchase
of the publishing company...

herein referred to as "the day"...

I've made a careful study
of the existing contract...

between the heirs of the late John Garrison
and Lawrence white publishing enterprises.

I can see no reason why this
contract should not be enforced.

Therefore, unless further evidence or
argument is presented to alter my judgment,

The court is prepared
to render its decision.

Mrs. Garrison,
do you have anything to add?

Do you want to say anything?

No statement, your honor.

Your honor, before you decide,
may I say something?

If your honor please, I don't think
this gentleman is one of the heirs.

He's not here as amicus curiae, and I'm positive
he's not here in the interests of Mr. White.

Whom does he presume to represent?

Well, sir, I'm trying
to save a newspaper.

Which is not yours
in the first place.

That is true. The day consists of
a big building. I don't own that.

It also consists of typewriters, teletypes,
presses, newsprint, ink and desks.

I don't own those either. But
this newspaper is more than that.

We're all aware
of what a newspaper consists.

I'm not so sure about that.

The Day is... more than a building.
It's people.

It's 1500 men and women whose skill,
heart, brains and experience...

make a great newspaper possible.

We don't own one stick
of furniture in this company.

But we, along with the 290,000
people who read this paper,

Have a vital interest
in whether it lives or dies.

This is highly irregular procedure.

So is the murder
of a newspaper!

Aren't you carrying this
a bit too far?

The death of a newspaper
sometimes has far-Reaching effects.

- Meaning your own pocketbook in this case.
- In this case,

Meaning some unfinished business
called Rienzi.

If you read the day,
you'd know what I mean.

- I don't care to discuss Mr. Rienzi.
- This newspaper does!

This doesn't concern us
here today.

It concerns the public
every day.

A newspaper, as Mr. White will agree,

Is published first, last and
always in the public interest.

Yours is not
the only newspaper in town.

Right now, it's the only
newspaper willing to expose Rienzi.

- Your honor.
- An honest, fearless press...

is the public's first protection
against gangsterism,

Local or international.

Mr. Hutcheson, though
a surrogates court is informal,

There are certain rules
and procedure.

May we have
your decision now, sir?

As one of your 290,000 readers,
Mr. Hutcheson,

I rule that... you may proceed
with your statement.

Thank you, sir.

But let's try to keep this from
becoming a personal matter, please.

Well, a newspaper's a very
personal matter, sir.

Ask the people
who let us in their homes.

I've read the day
for more than 35 years.

Before that,
I sold it in the streets.

However, here
we're only concerned...

With the legal aspect of the
sale and purchase of property.

What happens after
Mr. White takes possession...

Is outside of the
jurisdiction of this court.

Well, in whose
jurisdiction is it?

Just a moment. Since when is it immoral
for someone to legally purchase a newspaper?

I don't care if Mr. White buys and runs
two papers or 20 papers or 100 papers.

Some of the best newspapers in
this country are part of a chain.

But I do care when he buys a
newspaper to put it out of business!

Because without competition, there
can be no freedom of the press.

And I'm talking about
free enterprise, your honor,

The right of the public to a
marketplace of ideas, news and opinions.

Not of one man's or one leader's
or even one government's.

I...

Well, I guess
that's all I have to say.

The existing contract is valid,
made in good faith.

As of tomorrow, November 14th,

The Lawrence white publications
will assume control of The Day.

Court adjourned.

Well, thanks for trying.

- There'll be another day. Goodbye, Ed.
- Goodbye.

Here you are, Mr. Hutcheson.
I have the city desk.

Frank? Here it is.

Lead-off for the morning edition.

"The day, after 47 years of daily
publication, was sold last night."

Ed, get back here
as quick as you can.

Yeah, well give it to me
over the phone.

I'll be right there.
Five minutes.

Would you care to state who
killed your daughter, Mrs. Schmidt?

- Was it Rienzi?
- Some of his men?

I come to see boss.

Did you know your son
was working for Rienzi?

Was that Hutch?

Do you think
we ought to call the police?

I'm worried about her.

Paper's been sold.
Write a new lead.

Coffee.

Have you been to
your home yet, Mrs. Schmidt?

- Where you been?
- I speak to boss.

Mrs. Schmidt wandered in,
on her own, looking for you.

Won't talk to anyone else.

Mrs. Schmidt, the boss.

How do you do, Mrs. Schmidt?

- Your name, please?
- Hutcheson.

I am mother to Bessie.

Oh, uh, about your son...
I'm very sorry.

I do not come for that.

Sit down, please.

Here.

My Bessie, she comes to me
and she says,

"Here, mama. You keep this.

Something happens to me,
you do not have to worry."

This is Bessie's diary?

She says what happens to her
and this Mr. Rienzi.

- Yes, sir?
- Get Captain Finlay over here right away.

And tell Allen we're getting
out the final edition as usual.

Yes, sir!

Why didn't you go
to the police, Mrs. Schmidt?

Police?
I do not know police.

I know newspaper.
This newspaper.

For 31 years,
I know this paper.

I come to America.
I wish to be good citizen.

How to do this?
From newspaper.

It shows me
how to read and write.

My Bessie dies, you do not say
bad things of her.

You do not show
bad pictures of her.

You try to find...
who hurt my Bessie.

Good. I help.

I think what to do.
I go on subway.

I ride all day.
I think. I come.

By doing this, you may be
in danger, like your son.

You are not afraid.

Your paper's not afraid.

I am not afraid.

Hello, Mrs. Hutcheson.
Or is it... Mrs. Shafer now?

- Where is he?
- In the press room.

- Has he lost the paper yet?
- Yes.

What's he gonna do?

Get out the last edition, and
it ought to be quite a paper.

- But then what?
- Look for another job, I guess.

Is it Mrs. Shafer?

No.

- Hello, Alex.
- This is it, huh?

Yeah. Looks like our last one.

Phone, Mr. Hutcheson.

Yes? Who?

Well, put the call through.

- Hutcheson?
- Hello, baby.

How am I feeling? I hear Mrs.
Schmidt come in to see you.

That's right. That's right.

There's some loose cash here
belongs to you, $200,000 worth.

Uh-huh, and there's
something else too.

What diary?

Who's gonna believe what a
little tramp writes to herself?

Wait a minute!
Don't hang up!

Here's some advice
for you, friend.

Don't press your luck.
Lay off of me.

Don't print that story.

What's that supposed to be?
An order?

If not tonight, then tomorrow.
Maybe next week. Maybe next year.

But sooner or later,
you'll catch it!

Listen to me! Print that
story, you're a dead man!

It's not just me anymore. You'd have to
stop every newspaper in the country now,

And you're not big enough
for that job.

People like you have tried it before,
with bullets, prison, censorship,

But as long as even one newspaper
will print the truth, you're finished.

Don't give me that fancy double-talk!
I want an answer. Yes or no?

Yes or no?

Hey! Hutcheson?

That noise.
What's that racket?

That's the press, baby,
the press,

And there's nothing
you can do about it. Nothing.