By early 1968 news coverage out of Washington had not improved, and the Times was facing a presidential-election year. Since (Tom) Wicker was certain to be away from the capital more than usual, gathering material for his column, the moment seemed ripe to name his replacement (as Washington bureau chief). This time New York didn't take a broad survey of Washington's opinion. Instead, (Publisher) Punch (Sulzberger), in consultation with his top editors, tapped James Greenfield, a former executive with Continental Airlines and assistant secretary of state in the Johnson administration who had come to the Times seven months earlier as an assistant under metropolitan editor Arthur Gelb. Greenfield's chief attributes were that he was loyal to the paper's New York commanders, yet knew his way around the capital, and that with no desire to write, he could devote himself full-time to running the bureau. He was also something of a Trojan horse, a way for A. M. "Abe" Rosenthal, who was frequently mentioned as a possible future managing editor, to plant his own man in the all-important Washington bureau and at the same time eliminate Wicker as a rival for managing editor. That particular element of the political arithmetic seems never to have occurred to Punch, who endorsed Greenfield and set the wheels in motion for his appointment.

In the first week of February, Punch flew to Washington to personally inform Wicker. Over dinner at the Metropolitan Club, he told him in almost apologetic tones of the decision to replace him. Wicker was shocked: he knew that New York was dissatisfied with him, but it was the first he had heard that his removal was imminent. "Turner told Punch everything had been worked out," said Stuart Greenspon. "Then he went down there and [found out] ... Turner had done zilch [to prepare the
ground]."

Jeremy Gilbert / The Poynter Institute

The next morning Punch returned to New York, shaken but unbowed in his determination to carry out the Greenfield appointment. Wicker in the meantime had spent a sleepless night, furious at being bullied by New York and getting trumped by his rival Rosenthal. When he arrived at the bureau, he typed up his resignation and tacked it to the bulletin board. As the news raced through the office, correspondents heatedly vowed to resign in protest. "The idea that New York was going to impose
some New York guy on the bureau was a red flag," said Wicker.

When Turner learned what had happened, he placed a frantic phone call to Wicker and talked him out of resigning. To protect the Times, Wicker agreed, and that afternoon he flew to Claremont, New Hampshire, to report on the New Hampshire primary while his wife, Neva, on her own recognizance made two indignant phone calls to complain about how her husband had been treated, one to Scotty Reston, and the other to Carol Sulzberger, who rose up with protective fury. "[Neva and I] were just not going to let this go by," said Carol. "Tom is a friend, and if you're a friend of mine, you've got me forever."

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A few days later Scotty injected himself into the situation. Just three weeks earlier he had warned Punch that "a smooth transition to Greenfield is out of the question, and a stormy transition may be more costly than it is worth." Now that his prediction had come true, he made a point of going to New York, using the excuse of a Council on Foreign Relations meeting. Hearing that Scotty was in town, Punch popped by to see him. Reston's displeasure was apparent before a word had been uttered. "Boy, you're really upset by the Greenfield thing, aren't you?" Punch said with a tone of forced joviality.

In reply, Scotty conveyed the impression that he might resign if the Greenfield appointment went through. Punch was not entirely sure what Scotty's true intentions were, but he felt distinctly uneasy. If he stuck with Greenfield, he risked losing Reston and perhaps other valued Times reporters in what had the potential to become a mass mutiny. If he reneged, he would appear weak, his word would mean nothing, and his top New York editors would feel betrayed. In short, he felt that he was in a no-win situation, a position he particularly loathed.

"...that afternoon Scotty met again with Punch, telling him in no uncertain terms that installing Greenfield was the worst idea since Eisenhower had chosen Nixon as his vice president."The next day Wicker arrived in New York from New Hampshire, prepared to demand an audience with Punch and Turner. Finding most of the newsroom out for lunch, he adjourned to the Century Association, where by coincidence he bumped into Scotty. The two fell into an intense conversation, and that afternoon Scotty met again with Punch, telling him in no uncertain terms that installing Greenfield was the worst idea since Eisenhower had chosen Nixon as his vice president. "If you do this, you're going to have a nasty scandal," he said. Rather than face that, or possibly Scotty's resignation, Punch relented. He summoned Wicker, who was elsewhere in the building at the time, and told him that he had decided to retain him as bureau chief.

At 4:30 p.m. Punch called Turner out of the afternoon news conference and informed him that he couldn't go through with the Greenfield appointment. When he returned to the meeting, Turner couldn't hide his extreme frustration and annoyance. As the conference was breaking up, he asked Clifton Daniel and Abe Rosenthal to remain behind. "Gentlemen," he said. "I have bad news for you. The publisher has reversed his decision on the Washington bureau." Neither Catledge nor Daniel nor Rosenthal -- Greenfield's three principal supporters -- had been consulted in advance. "I was madder than hell," said Daniel. "I was absolutely livid with fury."

After Rosenthal had unsuccessfully tried to place an angry call to Punch, he strode into the newsroom and, in a windowless cubicle, told Greenfield what had happened. Greenfield was stunned. He had never campaigned to be Washington bureau chief and, indeed, had been surprised that the Times wanted to put a neophyte in such an important slot. Times colleagues had already begun congratulating him on his new job; Newsweek had scheduled an interview with him for the next day. Now the publisher had rescinded the promotion and had not even had the courtesy to deliver the news himself. Under the circumstances, he decided there was no way he could remain at the Times. Greenfield submitted his resignation on the spot and minutes later stormed out of the building without his sweater.

"Two days later The Washington Post gleefully published a story about the contretemps, including the cheers that had erupted in the Times' Washington bureau when it became known that Punch had reversed himself."That night the news of Greenfield's resignation made the NBC radio and TV news. Two days later The Washington Post gleefully published a story about the contretemps, including the cheers that had erupted in the Times' Washington bureau when it became known that Punch had reversed himself. "We've won," one staffer had crowed. Indeed, the vanquished forces in New York were left to stagger home and bind their wounds as best they could. Far from unifying the paper, the incident further balkanized it. "I'm sorry all this has happened, but I hope we'll be able to work things out in the future," Wicker told Catledge hours after the incident. Turner stared back, stone-faced. "Well," he said, glowering, "we'll see about that!"

In the ensuing days, Punch scurried around trying to mollify the New York staff. Turner pointedly ignored him, finally succumbing to Punch's argument that their years of friendship should not be held hostage to a single event, but Clifton Daniel was not so quick to call a truce. For almost two weeks he refused to meet with the publisher, fearful, he told Punch, that "one of us might say something we would live to regret." When he finally agreed to a conversation, his angry denunciation of Punch for the Washington bungle was so shrill and so loud that Turner and the other editors could hear his voice through the closed door. "He lectured Punch like he was a schoolboy and Clifton was the headmaster," said Sydney Gruson. Punch never forgot the dressing-down; it was an error that would eventually cost Daniel the executive editorship.

Over the next several months, the wounded parties tried to recover their dignity and reestablish their authority, but newsroom morale was severely shaken. No one knew who really ran the news side of the paper. Though he declined to take much blame for the debacle, Punch admitted that "the Washington thing was sloppily handled from top to bottom." Iphigene, too, was worried that the Times had lost not only face but its inner compass. "Where are we going?" she demanded of Punch not long afterward.

In a series of private memos he sent his mother starting in the winter of 1968, Punch tried to come up with an answer. As he contemplated where the Times stood and how it should change in the future, one thing became clear: it was time for Turner to depart. The Greenfield episode had undermined Punch's confidence in his top editor, and at sixty seven, Turner was not as sharp as he used to be. He nodded off in meetings and occasionally drank more than he should have. As executive editor, he had largely failed in his main mission: to unify the daily news department and the Sunday department. On the personal side of the equation, Turner had never quite made the leap from Punch's avuncular mentor to respectful subordinate.

"...bringing Scotty to New York would remove him as the effective potentate of the Washington bureau, giving the Times a chance -- finally -- to centralize authority at West Forty-third Street."Before he could remove Turner, however, Punch had to decide on a replacement. Clifton Daniel, the managing editor, would have been the obvious choice, but he had burned his bridges permanently with Punch. Iphigene weighed in on the side of Scotty. If anyone could restore the paper's stature, serve as a symbol of its values, and salve its internal injuries, she argued, Scotty Reston could. Furthermore, bringing Scotty to New York would remove him as the effective potentate of the Washington bureau, giving the Times a chance -- finally -- to centralize authority at West Forty-third Street. Scotty was reluctant to take the job because he liked Washington and didn't want to leave. But in the interests of the paper, he agreed; his only condition was that he could continue to write his column.

Now all that remained was the painful task of telling Turner. "It was hard because he was as close as anybody in my family," said Punch. "But it was the right thing to do." Unfortunately, Punch handled the announcement of the impending change as ineptly as he had the Washington episode, confiding the news first to Sydney Gruson, one of the paper's great gossips, in the certain knowledge that it would trickle down to Catledge in a matter of hours. The strategy was meant to prepare Turner and spare Punch pain, but the next day, when Punch informed "the Professor" that he planned to install Scotty as executive editor, Turner was shocked. Remarkably, in a newsroom full of secret-tellers, no one had informed him. "I was ... somewhat hurt," Turner said later. "Quite a few people here knew about it before I did. ... I thought at least [Punch] should have discussed it with me."

As it turned out, Punch had not discussed the matter with another person who had felt slighted by the omission: his father. Several days after Punch and Turner's discussion, Arthur asked Catledge to come to his fourteenth-floor office. When Turner arrived, he spied Punch, clearly embarrassed, furtively hovering in the corridor outside the chairman's door; upon entering, he saw Iphigene, who hugged him and greeted him warmly as a new Times director -- the compensatory plum Turner had been given when he was fired. Arthur sat in a wheelchair behind his desk and offered Turner a glass of sherry, and for a fleeting moment the two recaptured their old camaraderie. Then Arthur looked down, gathered himself, and in a voice thick with emotion said, "I just want you to know this is not the way I wanted it."