Veteran journalist Michael Schroeder, who worked at The Wall Street Journal, BusinessWeek, and The Detroit News, was killed Sunday in a car accident in Florida. He was 72, and in my experience, he was one of the most decent people in journalism.
I was a major beneficiary of that decency.
Schroeder, as he was widely known in the news business, was responsible for giving me my career break and the opportunity to work as a journalist in the United States. Although my first meeting with Schroeder happened more than four decades ago, I remember every detail of that moment as if it were yesterday.
It was mid-afternoon on a Friday in January 1985, one of those dreary Detroit overcast winter days when one could easily develop a case of the blues for no apparent reason. I had just had lunch with Doron Levin, then an auto writer for The Wall Street Journal, who agreed to meet with me while I was visiting Detroit from Montreal, where I was a business reporter with the local English-language publication. Over lunch I shared that my dream was to work as a reporter in the U.S.
Levin walked me over to the Detroit News, and urged me to look up Michael Schroeder, who he knew from their days when they both worked in Pittsburgh. I was wearing tattered jeans and a sweatshirt and said that my attire was highly inappropriate for someone seeking employment. Noting that I had just waxed on about my dream to work in the U.S., Levin pointed to the Detroit News building, and said if I was serious, I’d seize the opportunity and look up Schroeder.
My options were to leave Levin with the impression I was full of BS or go find Schroeder.
I walked into the building, headed over to reception, and told security that I was there to see Michael Schroeder at the suggestion of Doron Levin.
Security made the call, and to my surprise, I was told to go up to the third floor where Schroeder would be waiting at the staircase.
What’s Your Beat?
To my disappointment, Schroeder didn’t take me into a private conference room but instead into a windowless corner of the Albert Kahn building, where reporters were crammed together, wires and cables snaking into computer workstations.
Schroeder grabbed a chair and pulled it up to his workstation. I immediately launched my spiel, doing my best to tune out the half dozen or so reporters within easy earshot.
In the mid-80s, most U.S. publications were facing economic pressures and virtually every publication I applied to had a hiring freeze. I figured the News did as well, so I began emphasizing that I had previously worked at The Toronto Star, then one of the most competitive newspapers in North America.
The News and The Detroit Free Press in those days were engaged in a bitter battle to put the other out of business, and I wanted to assure Schroeder that I understood the importance of scooping the competition.
Schroeder let me go on about my virtues, and when I ran out of steam, asked his first question.
“What beat do you cover?”
“I cover banking and finance,” I replied, assuming that for a publication based in the Motor City it wasn’t likely a much-needed specialty.
“We’re looking for a banking reporter,” Schroeder replied, explaining that was his beat until his recent appointment to assistant business editor.
Schroeder asked if I had any work samples to show him. I told him I did, but they were at the place I was staying in suburban Southfield, about a 20-minute drive.
It was about 3 p.m. Schroeder said he had to leave sharp at 6 p.m., but if I could return with the samples before then, he’d gladly review them.
I assured him I would.
Rendezvous With Southfield Police
The reason I had my writing samples was I had flown to Toronto for a job interview and then rented a car to drive to Detroit, where I had agreed to speak to my nephew’s elementary school class about being a journalist.
I was staying at the home of my Uncle Jerry and Aunt Ceil, and in my haste to get into the house, I tripped the alarm. Within minutes, I was facing two skeptical Southfield police officers who found it strange that I had a Quebec driver’s license, was driving a car with Ontario plates, and claimed to be a family guest.
Fortunately, my uncle was reachable and vouched for my story, but the incident cost me nearly an hour. With Schroeder’s 6 p.m. departure looming, I quickly changed into a suit and gathered my clips.
Then it started snowing, further slowing me down. I made it back to the News just after 5, and Schroeder told security to let me back upstairs.
Reviewing My Clips
My clips were tucked into plastic sleeves in an artist’s portfolio case. Schroeder opened it and began reviewing them with considerable intensity, giving nothing away. After what seemed like an eternity, he closed the portfolio.
“There’s some impressive reporting here,” Schroeder said.
We talked for a bit about why I wanted to move to the U.S. and what the News’ banking beat entailed. I wanted so badly to move to the U.S. that it hardly mattered. I assured Schroeder I was up for the job.
Schroeder then went into the glass-walled office of Liz Spayd, the News’ business editor, and closed the door. They spoke for about 15 minutes.
Schroeder came out and said he had to leave, but he wanted me to meet with Spayd. It was a quick conversation. Spayd made it clear it was entirely Schroeder’s decision whether I got hired.
The following week, Schroeder called me in Montreal and asked me to return to Detroit to meet with the News’ executive and managing editors. They too made it immediately clear that if Schroeder wanted to hire me, they’d support his decision.
After my meetings, Schroeder offered me a job. I asked about getting a temporary visa to work in the U.S.
“Our lawyers say they can handle it,” Schroeder replied.
Are You Jewish?
From the get-go, Schroeder made clear he wanted me to succeed. He gave me the names and numbers of his contacts and an overview of the key industry players. To his credit, he never told me how to cover the beat or insisted I pursue the stories he had planned before getting promoted.
On the Friday afternoon after my first week, Schroeder said he was heading to a local bar called the Golden Galleon, where News reporters gathered after work. Sitting across from me at a long table was a reporter named Allan Lengel.
“Hey, Starkman, are you Jewish?” Lengel asked.
“Yeah, I am,” I shot back, taken aback. “Is that a problem?”
“Easy,” Lengel replied, putting up his hands.
I later learned Lengel’s parents were Holocaust survivors, and that he was curious whether I was what he saw as a rare Detroit News Jewish hire. Lengel became one of my closest friends.
The Queen’s English
My first week at the News was among the most stressful of my life. While the paper had the standard three-month probationary policy, if I didn’t make it, I’d not only be out of a job, but I’d also have to return to Canada. I was careful to mind my Ps and Qs.
Unfortunately, I didn’t do as well with my Os and Rs.
After submitting my third or fourth story, Schroeder called me over, clearly agitated about the copy he was editing.
“Let me tell you about American English,” Schroeder said. “If a word ends with the letters O and R, in almost all instances there isn’t a ‘U’ between them. Stop with the Canadian spellings!”
To this day, whenever I write a word that ends in “o” and “r,” I think of Schroeder.
Moving On
Schroeder moved on after Gannett completed its acquisition of The Detroit News, first joining the Washington bureau of BusinessWeek and later The Wall Street Journal. Success never changed him. Lengel shared that when he moved to Washington to join The Washington Post, Schroeder hosted a dinner to introduce him to the Beltway journalism circuit.
When Schroeder retired, he moved to St. Petersburg, bought a boat, and pursued his love of fishing. When I spoke with him over the years, he said he didn’t miss journalism and was happy with his quieter life.
Schroeder leaves his wife, Gen, his daughter Laura, 43, and his son Jeff, 41.
I was struck to learn today that Schroeder’s children are about the same age as he was when I first met him.