Kansas City, Spring 1933

Matthew Orr had learned that government buildings all smelled the same—floor wax, damp wool, and paper handled by too many hands. The new Jackson County Courthouse at 415 E. 12th Street was no exception, though everything about it felt larger and less forgiving than the modest offices he was used to.

The building was unfinished. Scaffolding clung to its sides, and the noise of construction bled into the hallways. Outside, trucks rolled past in steady succession, beds heavy with ready-mixed concrete. Men moved across the site in work caps and overalls, jobs secured by favors, wages spent quickly.

Orr paused in the corridor, hat in hand. He hadn’t come to admire the place. He had come to make a case.

“Mr. Orr?” a voice called.

Orr turned.

Harry Truman stood a few steps away, spectacles low on his nose, fedora tipped back just enough to suggest impatience rather than carelessness.

“Yes—Judge Truman,” Orr said, his Irish lilt soft but unmistakable, traces of Northern Ireland still clinging to his vowels despite years in Kansas City. “I’m only requesting a minute of your time.”

Truman tilted his head before the smile arrived. “I’d know that voice anywhere.”

Orr blinked.

“I forget birthdays and where I leave my hat,” Truman said. “But I don’t forget the folks who publish newspapers in my district.”

He tapped Orr’s breast pocket, where the folded Northeast News showed through. “Walk. I’ve got five minutes.”

They moved down the corridor past an open room where blueprints lay spread across a table. On the wall nearby hung a campaign calendar, fresh for the year, its familiar face of smiling down over courthouse dust. Orr had one in his office too. Most businesses in Kansas City did, as Tom Pendergast made sure they were widely distributed.

Neither man looked at it.

“How’s the neighborhood paper business?” Truman asked.

“Collecting more debts than dimes, Judge.”

“Good. I know the neighborhood. I also know who pretends to run it—and who actually does.”

Orr felt the tightening in his shoulders.

“I’m here about the public notices,” he said. “The Ten Year Plan. Roads. Utilities. Construction.”

Truman stopped walking.

“You’re looking for a seat at the table, then.”

“Yes.”

“The Big Three won’t like you poaching their dinner.”

“They don’t reach as many people in the daily papers. Folks in Northeast read about their blocks, their churches, and their schools in mine. If you want these projects understood, that’s where they belong.”

Truman studied him.

“You sell ads.”

“Yes.”

“You take political ads.”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to believe county notices won’t turn into sales copy with a halo.”

“They’d run as printed. Same type. Same space. No commentary.”

Truman nodded. “Good. I won’t have this courthouse sold like snake oil. We’re building roads, Orr. Not salvation.”

They stepped into a small office. Truman removed his hat and hung it carefully.

“You know what this costs?” he asked.

“Millions.”

“Four million dollars. Enough to make every ambitious man in Jackson County start calculating.”

He gestured toward the window.

“See those trucks? Same company on every one. That’s politics. But every load gets tested. If it’s short, it goes back. If it’s weak, it goes back.”

He paused.

“I don’t care whose cousin signed the invoice.”

Orr said nothing.

Outside, another truck rattled across the yard.

“I want your paper to work the same way,” Truman said. “No padding. No favors dressed up as civic virtue.”

“You have my word.”

Truman smiled thinly. “That’s what worries me. Men with nothing but their word tend to use it often.”

He opened a file.

“I’ll authorize a trial. A few local notices. If they come out crooked, we’re finished—and I’ll pretend I never recognized you in the hallway.”

“Thank you.”

“One more thing,” Truman said. “If someone leans on you—hard or friendly—to print something you know isn’t square, you come tell me.”

Orr thought of handshakes that lingered too long. Expectations that arrived smiling.

“I will.”

Truman closed the file. “Good. Now get out before someone thinks I enjoy talking to newspapermen.”

Back in the hallway, the courthouse rose under the weight of politics and promises alike.

By Thursday, Orr would have notices to print—small, dry blocks of type.

But he understood now what they carried.

Responsibility, measured carefully.

Tested, load by load.

Just like the concrete.

Looking ahead: Reading Betsy Cochran’s weekly chronicles of her grandmother, Nadine, inspired me to explore historical fiction centered on Matthew Orr and what life may have been like for an Irish immigrant starting a small business in Northeast Kansas City during Prohibition and the Great Depression.
In doing so, he built something that has endured for nearly a century. While the world, our community, and the ways we access information and connect with one another have changed dramatically, we still share many common threads with those who walked the streets of Northeast decades ago.
This summer, we plan to delve into the life of Matthew Orr—even if through the lens of historical fiction—while continuing to watch the Northeast News grow and reflect the community it has served in various ways for the past hundred years.
-Bryan Stalder