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told them about a feature I wanted to write on how Bill Clinton had taken on a larger role in combating climate change, essentially co-opting the environmental movement from Al Gore, who’d become something of a liberal tree-hugging cliché then. My editors wanted it for page one. Before I knew it, The Guys scheduled a special Clinton Foundation panel in New York. Clinton and Gore sat onstage together in a ballroom at the Sheraton Hotel to discuss working together to combat global warming. Charlie Rose moderated. “We do talk a lot, about everything, but especially about all this energy business,” Clinton said.

      CBS News called the discussion a “high-profile reunion.” But I suspected The Guys had thrown the panel together solely to kill my story. And it worked. I never said they weren’t good.

      Hillary, meanwhile, was such an avid Times reader that over the next couple of years I’d hear that she’d complained about a story’s placement in the print newspaper. “Why wasn’t it above the fold?” or “Did we get two columns?” The Guys informed me she’d been enraged when she saw that my story about the debut rally of her 2016 campaign, a logistical feat in the middle of the East River on Roosevelt Island, ended up on page A24. I explained that I preferred the front page, too, but the rally had been so late that we’d missed the page-one deadlines. “And almost every other paper in America managed,” one of The Guys replied.

      The Clintons theorized that Jill Abramson, the first female executive editor of the Times, had a personal vendetta against Hillary, something about them both being powerful women at the top of their fields. This “Jill vs. Hill” rivalry was fiction. I saw how much Jill respected Hillary, always had, but she also loved a good story.

      This primal instinct to tell a Good Story, the story that people read and share and talk about breathlessly on cable TV, goes back to the dawn of man and always requires tension. The charcoal scrawls of the Stone Age rarely portrayed human-interest stories. The ancient Greeks didn’t do puff pieces. Tension means the subjects of the Good Story (in my case the Clintons) often don’t think it’s good. They think it’s a heaping pile of bias ordered up by compromised, click-obsessed editors and written by unscrupulous reporters with below-average IQs. They think it’s Fake News from the Failing New York Times.

      If I wanted to thrive on the politics desk, I would need to do more than feel-good pieces like the ones I’d written on Bill Clinton’s charitable work in Africa and on Chelsea taking on a more public role as an NBC News special correspondent. I would need Tension. “You’ve gotta break some eggs to make an omelet,” David Carr would remind me.

      MY FIRST FRONT-PAGE story on the beat was about Hillary giving paid speeches for $200,000 a pop to the scrap-metal-recycling expo and the National Automobile Dealers Association in which she offered Mitch Albom–style wisdom. (“Leadership is a team sport.” “You can’t win if you don’t show up.” “A whisper can be louder than a shout.”) My second was an investigation, cowritten with my colleague Nicholas Confessore, about mismanagement and dysfunction at the Clinton Foundation.

      When Dennis Cheng—the foundation’s top fund-raiser, whom I got to know on the Africa trip—heard from a donor that I was working on the story, he supposedly said, “Amy? But I thought she was our friend.”

      Another source likened the Clinton Foundation story to punching the biggest, baddest motherfucker in the prison yard in the face on my first day of a four-year sentence.

      “At least they know who you are now,” he said.

      “Yes, and they could also shiv me in the shower.”

      Carolyn Ryan, the paper’s politics editor and my new no-bullshit boss, made a name for herself at the Boston Globe and had New England newsprint in her blood. She’d led the Times’ metro desk’s coverage of New York governor Eliot Spitzer’s rendezvous with a call girl, a scandal that ended his career and won her reporters a Pulitzer. Carolyn, who had an infectious guffaw, a mischievous smile, and the spunk required to stroll around the Times’ newsroom in a Boston Red Sox hat, was such a straight shooter that even after her reporters’ coverage led to his ouster, Spitzer sent a video message wishing her good luck on her new job leading national political coverage.

      At first, it was just me and her and a handful of political reporters scheming up stories that she would then edit and pass on to the copy desk, a grizzled group of editors who saved us from ourselves, scanning our stories for factual errors and slang that didn’t fit the Times stylebook. (For years, hardly anyone “tweeted” in the Times. They “wrote a message on Twitter.” There was no “email,” only “e-mail.”) Copy editors then passed the story on to the slot, another collection of editors (named after the old days when newsprint would be whizzed through a slot to the printing press). The slot editor would give the story a final read before sending it into the abyss until it arrived on doorsteps the next morning.

      But the seedlings of the story always began with a reporter and editor talking. Carolyn had a more innate sense of what people wanted to read and a more natural ability to get the best out of her reporters than any editor I’d ever worked for. Talking to her set every brainstorming session off on rollicking tangents that included gossip collected in the congressional dining room, on the Washington softball field, and while waiting for the Times’ vending machine to spit out some stale Twizzlers. Unsubstantiated tidbits—particularly involving Bill and Hillary, Elizabeth Warren, and anything related to New York politics—would cause Carolyn to leap across her desk with a “No way!” and “We gotta get that in the paper.” And once the first draft was written, Carolyn’s editing style was like an episode of Antiques Roadshow. In minutes, she could squint her sea-blue eyes at the screen, sweep her yellowy bangs out of her face, and weed through two thousand words of crap, pulling out a priceless treasure of an anecdote buried in graph fifteen.

      The Guys hated the kind of memorable details that Carolyn and I both gravitated to. They could forgive us for writing about potential conflicts of interest at the Clinton Foundation and Teneo Holdings, the shadowy advisory firm cofounded by Doug Band. Doug had a thinning hairline that made him look both older and more dignified than his forty-one years. He’d meet Times reporters for lunch at Il Mulino and slap twenty-dollar bills into the host’s palm, a practice I’d only ever seen in Mexico City. Doug started in the White House as an intern and became Bill Clinton’s closest aide in the post–White House years, parlaying his role into a profitable private-sector gig. One of the ’08 Guys used a Downton Abbey reference to sum up Doug’s position in the House of Clinton: “Doug forgot that he lives downstairs.” The Guys welcomed negative stories about Doug. He was the perfect scapegoat for all Bill’s questionable behavior, as if the forty-second president were just a lovable St. Bernard. He wouldn’t care about making money and about swanky hotels if it weren’t for that Doug Band guy … The most astute mind in American politics reduced, in their spin, to slobbery obedience.

      But they could never forgive me for the Yorkie.

      I had a detail about the foundation purchasing a first-class ticket for Natalie Portman and her beloved dog to fly to one of its Clinton Global Initiative gatherings. Carolyn loved the Yorkie. She wanted to make it the lead.

      “It’s a fucking Yorkie, Amy!” Outsider Guy yelled as I stuttered trying to explain why this was a critical detail that showed the charity’s glitzy overspending. “It weighs like four fucking pounds. It’s not like it needed its own seat on the plane.”

      A year later a conservative super PAC sent around an anti-Hillary fundraising plea: “The Clinton Foundation—which pays to fly her around on private jets, flew Natalie Portman’s Yorkie first class.”

      Carolyn emailed me, “I knew that Yorkie would be back.”

      I STOPPED THINKING of The Guys as individuals. There would be departures and firings and new hires in the Clinton press shop, but they were all the same to me, a tragicomic Greek chorus hell-bent on protecting Hillary and destroying me. “You’ve got a target on your back,” The Guys always told me, like the drumbeat of failure foretold.

      They called the Times’ politics team a “steel

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