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AJC New Office Photos

The AJC’s next digital expansion comes at the cost of more newsroom jobs

Atlanta’s paper of record cuts 16 in shift from dead trees to digital content.

A look inside Atlanta’s halls of power

We take a look behind the scenes were the strings are pulled and the wheels are turned
Kevin Riley

43. Kevin Riley

When Riley took over as editor of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution in early 2011, morale at Georgia’s largest daily newspaper was in the toilet. Falling ad revenue had forced his predecessor to pare the newsroom by almost half, to 230.
John Kessler

One Last Bite: The AJC’s John Kessler on leaving Atlanta

John Kessler is leaving the AJC at a time when newspaper budgets are shrinking, institutional knowledge is expendable, and the traditional restaurant critic is being treated more and more like a quaint anachronism.

Atlanta’s true Olympic legacy: Not brick, mortar, or granite

Between three syllables uttered on September 18, 1990, everything changed in Atlanta, and so did our city’s place in the world.

Bill Campbell: He could have been the one

Most notable was a little-known young lawyer—a janitor’s son from Raleigh, North Carolina, who’d worked briefly in the antitrust division of the U.S. Department of Justice before being elected. He was earnestly pushing (though getting nowhere) for the city’s first comprehensive code of ethics. His name was Bill Campbell.

Celebrating Celestine Sibley’s centennial

“Child, what are you up to?” Instantly recognizing the voice behind me, I froze midway into shoving the crumpled dollar bill into the brown interoffice memo envelope. It was the morning of October 3, 1995. In Los Angeles, the verdict was about to be read in the O.J. Simpson trial. And on the eighth floor of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s Features Department, I was collecting up the office pool. As the department’s unofficial class clown/kid brother and a writer for the paper’s Peach Buzz column (the copy desk lovingly referred to me as Buzz Boy), this was in my job description. The voice behind me belonged to Celestine Sibley, a newspapering icon and state treasure. Red-faced, I explained to “ma’am” what in the hell I was doing (I never, ever called her Celestine. I had grown up reading her, after all). She toddled off and I assumed she was on her way upstairs to demand that the publisher fire me and then tie me to printing presses in the basement and use my blood to pump out the afternoon’s Extra edition. A minute later, Celestine handed me a dollar and said, “Put me down for a guilty.”

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