For a number of years I worked as a metro columnist at a bustling city newspaper. For a time, my cubicle was located next to the investigation desk of the paper, where, unlike those assigned to more modest beats, reporters were allowed to take deep dives into weighty issues — often for months, even years.
This was the prestige position. The spot where reputations were made. The place where Pulitzers could be won (and almost were). More than any of those piddling advantages, though, it was the place where journalists could mete out some much-needed “justice.” And I soon noticed that nearly every angle this crack team chased down was propelled by . . . let’s call them poetic truths. Things that liberals know are true even if they can’t necessarily prove them.
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