Chapter 9 - THE PULITZER
Spring came to Chicago with a sudden, warm breeze off the lake, melting the last of the dirty city ice.
On an April afternoon, the newsroom of the Chicago Herald was unusually quiet. Everyone was gathered around the main overhead monitors near Marcus’s raised platform desk.
It was 2:00 p.m. Eastern Time—the moment the Pulitzer Prize winners were announced live from Columbia University.
I stood in the back of the crowd, my hands jammed into the pockets of my navy blazer. Marcus was standing right beside me, chewing nervously on an unlit cigar.
"If we don't win this, Carter," Marcus muttered, "I’m personally burning down the Columbia journalism school."
"Relax, Marcus," I laughed softly, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The screen flickered, and the administrator stepped up to the podium. He read through the categories for National Reporting, International Reporting, and Breaking News.
"And in the category of Local Reporting..." the presenter paused, adjusting his glasses. "...for relentless, courageously documented investigative work exposing multi-million-dollar public housing fraud and systemic political corruption in the city of Chicago... the Pulitzer Prize goes to Emily Carter of the Chicago Herald."
The newsroom erupted.
A deafening roar of cheers, screams, and clapping echoed off the high ceilings. Marcus threw his arms around me in a tight, bear-hug that nearly lifted me off my feet. Champagne corks popped instantly, spraying foam across the worn linoleum floor.
"You did it, kid!" Marcus shouted over the noise, his eyes wet with tears. "You damn well did it!"
My phone in my pocket began to vibrate continuously. Messages flooded in from former colleagues, high school friends, sources I had interviewed, Judge Vance, Megan, and Dad.
Dad’s message came through with a picture attached.
He was sitting in his small apartment, holding a glass of apple juice, smiling widely at the camera. His text read: “I always knew you were extraordinary, Emily. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it out loud. Congratulations, my sweet girl.”
A few minutes later, another text arrived from an unknown number.
I opened it. It was a photo of a newspaper clipping from the early evening edition.
It was from Ryan.“I put this on the bulletin board at the auto shop today,” he wrote. “Told all the guys my sister just won the biggest award in journalism. They didn't even care that I used to sell cars. Love you, Em.”
I walked away from the celebrating newsroom crowd and stood by the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Below me, taxis buzzed through the streets, people walked along the sidewalks, living their complicated, messy, beautiful lives.
I looked down at my phone one last time.
May you like
There was no text from my mother. No call.
And for the first time in my life, I realized that I didn't need one. Her silence no longer had the power to make me small.
