Outside The Star-Ledger’s offices
in Newark, N.J., on Thursday afternoon, a man in his late fifties took a drag of his cigarette. Asked if he worked at the paper, he sighed, “I’ll find out in about 15 minutes if I still do.” He turned to stare out at the street. “Get out of this fucking business while you can.”
He disappeared into the building.
"Are you here to pick our carcasses?” another reporter outside the building asked me.