Better Late Than Never

"Reporting live from the Memorial for the Sweat boys, back to you."

It's one of those moments with which every reporter, news editor, photographer, or manager has had to deal.  You are caught flat-footed, the competition is "there," and you are not.

Coleman Sweat, 14

In this case, it is a sober memorial service for two boys, Coleman, 14, and Trevan, 7, the brothers are killed in a freak accident last week, when the pair step onto an icy cornice, that tumbles down a slight incline, some 50 feet to a meadow below, killing both of them.

In our newsroom, filled with mom's and dads, these stories always sting, but we are required to cover them and when Executive Producer Jeremy Laird and I glance at the screen above his desk, we watch as the camera of our competition pans a large school auditorium teeming with mourners we both know, I'm heading to Heber City, more than an hour away.  "It might be over when you get there" Jeremy says exasperated, "but see what you can get."

Trevan Sweat, 7

"There is a camel that is going to show up Brewvies at 7," I exclaim into my cell phone to the assignment desk editor, as Photographer Dan Kovach and I barrel down I-15 towards Wasatch County, "if we don't make it to the memorial in time, maybe I could do that," I suggest, as a backup story.   I'm pretty certain we'll never make it to the sight of the service before tearful moms, and glassy eyed middle school students, hug one last time, then head into the numbing, brutal cold.

As we careen through the first stop light in Francis and the Diary Keen, in downtown Heber, we spot a relentless line of cars slowly marching out of the parking lot of Rocky Mountain Middle School.

"It's over," Dan breaths out, "What do you want to do?" He asks hopelessly.  "Let's go in and look around," I shut my eyes pressing my thumbs against my lids.

As we pass the trophy case, and the "administrative" office we find ourselves pressing through a sea of emotional teens and parents, towards the auditorium, while everyone else is leaving it.  As I step into the empty cavernous box, a few balloons bounce erratically against the ceiling rafters, the seats, usually overflowing with middle-schoolers rooting for their classmates in a messy, yet raucous basketball game are barren, save a few discarded programs and a forgotten woolen stocking cap.

Cornice collapse (Courtesy Deseret News)

A few moments ago, our story was in this room.  Filled, by all accounts, with a thousand people, singing, praying and remembering those two boys, but for me, only the orphaned winter hat remains.

As Dan tries to salvage the story, he aims his camera at the crowd, taking a few frames of video, as the mass of people vacate, drained emotionally by what was a touching memorial.

"Were the Sweats here?" I ask a gentle-faced farmer in a beige Carhartt work coat, and worn but sturdy jeans as he passes by, "They were," he pronounces in his distinct Utah accent, found outside the confines of Salt Lake and Park City, "In fact they were just outside a minute ago," he points his thick rugged index finger towards the back doors of the school, where I see a handful of people lingering and hugging with candles in their hands.

As I push my way through the glass doors, I see dozens of people huddled together, as ice smoke rises from their mouths, holding candles and stomping their feet on the broad expanse of pavement in the back of the school.

Dan takes artful pictures of flickering flames, as I begin to survey what remains of this possible story. "Are any members of the Sweat family still here?" I inquire to a man who has been moving gracefully through the crowd, shaking hands and hugging tearful teens as he heads towards his car, "Sweats?  The Sweats are everywhere," he says kindly, pointing to a throng of men in cowboy hats, and women in boots, "they're all Sweats," he says palm open, "Is Jason here?" I say, asking if the father of the boys is still in attendance.  "The man squints, as his eyes pan the crowd "Let's see," he tallies the faces, "yup, that's him," he points towards a tall man in a black baseball cap, patting other men on their backs and getting embraced by little old ladies who probably knew him since he, "was this high."

As I slowly drift towards the grieving father, I hear his attempts at normalcy  "What weight will ya wrestle at next year?" he asks matter-of-factly to a nervous boy nearly 14 years old.  I interrupt, "Jason, I'm Chris Jones from 2 News, could I talk to you about your boys?" I ask softly, "sure," he says eager to tell me that Trevan had "a strong heart," and just about everyone, "loved," Coleman.

As Dan finishes up with a few pictures of Jason, I hold my chilled fingers over my aching ears, think about how well this dad seems to be holding up, and begin to fashion a script in my head for the 10 PM newscast.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

As the tires lock, the friction of the road against the rubber kicks a dense, blue smoke, and bits of gravel spewing, richocheting and skipping off the pavement.  The lanky middle-aged man with wispy grey hair and awkward glasses, leaps like a Jack-in-the Box from his driver's side door of his late model mini-van, and bounds towards me.  His gate is wide, his arms swinging as if he is a competitive speed walker. "Hmm," I wonder aloud, "why's he in such a hurry?" When he grabs the sleeve of my shirt and wheels me off the porch like a discus thrower, I realize he is in a hurry to assault me.

I was standing on the porch of an historic home in downtown Moss Point, Mississippi.  This antebellum estate, in 1995, was at the center of much debate for this waterfront town nuzzled in the boot heel of the south.  Moss Point town father's wanted to buy it and preserve it, but the owner, who was letting the property rot, was asking for a lot of money.  My job on this lazy, sweltering Sunday was to take a few pictures of the majestic mess for our early news cast.

With my camera in tow, I decide to grab a few pictures from up close, and that meant, on the property, which, of course is a no-no.  This is private property, and I was technically trespassing.  As a young journalist, I was still learning and for some reason had forgotten, one of the most important rules of journalism, "thou shalt not trespass."

When the owner of the home, passing by noticed a gawky young man in a shirt and tie with a camera on his porch, he was not happy.

After he flings me off the weary, drooping wooden stoop, I land firmly on my feet.  The man in his early 60's is spry, he bounds himself from the rotting wooden steps ninja style, and lands on the crumbling sidewalk, knees bent, fists clinched and held high in front of his face, knuckles up, backs of his hands facing me.  Both hands move in circular motion in front of me, like a turn of the century pugilist preparing for a bare knuckle showdown, in a long closed meat packing plant in the Bowery district of New York.  I can almost hear the old timey radio announcer calling the battle, "Jack O'Leary, ready to pummel his opponent with the ol' Harlem Hay maker!"

He lunges towards me as his wife shrieks, "Harvey, No!  Your heart!"  He latches onto my sleeve again, ripping it cleanly at the seam exposing my entire arm from the shoulder down.  If he'd managed to tear off the other sleeve I would have looked like a "Greaser," from the movie "The Outsiders."

I'm shocked that I find myself in a full-fledged showdown, I haven't been in a fight since I was 10, when I got into a grapple with another kid named Chris at Summer camp over the top bunk.  I remember popping him three times in the face, and when he started crying in pain, I began crying, pumped full of fear, adrenaline and shame.

This most recent dust up is quickly breaking down into a farce.  The man, with my blue dress shirt sleeve in his hand begins frantically slapping me with it, then darts his left hand towards my tie and violently jerks it from left to right, dragging my head along with it.  I grasp his wrist, with both hands, and vice grip my palm around the fingers on his left hand, bending his wrist back towards his body, the  leverage forcing him him to his knees, then I reel back with my right fist ready to take what is clearly a clean shot to his nose, when I hear, "Freeze! Police!" as I crane my neck behind me, I see a portly, white haired, Moss Point police officer, lumbering towards the skinny, sweaty mass of testosterone grappling in the blazing, humid, Mississippi sun.  His gun belt is loosely buckled to make room for his ample belly, and as he trips up the curb, he desperately jerks at the leather belt flopping around his waist. As he reaches us, he has both hands on his belt to keep it, gun, cuffs and all,  from dropping with a thud around his knees.

"What IN THE HELL, are you boys doin'?" he blurts in his heavy southern drawl.  "Harvey, Lord, man are you outta yer mind," he scowls at the man,  "and you Chris Jones, gettin' ready to punch an ol' man?  are you fellas crazy." he admonishes both of us.

"He's breaking into my house! He's trying to break into my house!" the man wheezes as his wife cries frantically from behind the couples mini-van, "Bull*&t!" I scream, "this wild beast just jumped on me like a chimpanzee from a tree!"  "God*&^m it boys, retreat!"  I un-cock my fist and let go of his hand, as I feel a warm, slim stream of blood slowly roll down my cheek.  Sometime during our ridiculous rag doll melee he must have nicked me with a fingernail causing a minor injury.

I know this officer.  Let's just say if you put him in a lineup with other officers and asked, "which of these guys likely spends the most time sleeping in his patrol cruiser?" Nine out of 10 people would finger him.
"OK, OK," he runs his fingers through his thick mane of grey hair.  Searching for a way NOT to have to make two arrests and fill out reams of paperwork at the end of his 12 hour shift.

"Chris, you was just knockin' on the door right?" the officer points at me, clarifying the story he just made up, "and Harvey, you was just confused, thought he was gonna burglarize the place right?" He thrusts his finger at my opponent, "It was just a misunderstanding, right fellas?  No harm no foul."  Both of us panting deeply, and dragging the back of our hands across our foreheads, agree, spending the night in jail, would not be a good way to end the weekend.

"Yeah," I say as I dab the blood on my cheek with my index finger "he just got confused."
"Right," Harvey adds, as he wrenches his wrist back and forth, trying to force out the pain, "He's just comin' for a visit, he didnt' mean nothing."

As we shake hands, Harvey hands me my shirt sleeve, "sorry" he says awkwardly as he stuffs the fabric into my hand, and turns towards his bawling wife.  I dab the blood on my cheek with the sleeve then jam it into my back pocket, "Damn, Chris, It's Sunday, I ain't got time for this," the round officer says as he loosens his gun belt and throws it over his shoulder, I'm going fishin' with my cousin in 20 minutes." He shakes his head as he looks at me with a scowl, then his eyes light up, as he remembers, "He's bringing brats!"





 

Getting Real

"There's someone outside who wants to see you," Special Projects Manager Steve Hertzke says, with heightened urgency, "something about a story you're doing tonight?"  he continues.  As I glance out the plate glass windows of the 2News studios, I see him, slim, short and pale.  His stocking hat is pulled down low over his ears, furrowed eyebrows and squinted eyes.  he is angry and pacing, not in long wild strides, but in short controlled steps, three to the left, three to the right.  I know this man.  In fact I just spoke with him, albeit, for a minute or two, just half an hour ago.

The man and his wife are accused of severe abuse of their three children.  Police say the couple's three boys, all under the age of 4 and none of them communicative  have been living in utter filthy for some time.  According to charging documents the man and woman's South Salt Lake City apartment is a ghastly disaster.

Allegations that the children were caked with dirt, their apartment littered with garbage, animal feces, and infested with cockroaches.  Police say a 4 year old boy, who suffers from Autism would often cry for hours on end without being tended too.  "Good lord," is all one neighbor could say about the apartment she was allowed into a month ago when the child was perched on the couple's back porch crying uncontrollably.

On the front door is a yellow placard, plastered onto the heavy wooden entrance, "DO NOT ENTER by order of the Salt Lake Health Department," the apartment has been condemned, and no one is allowed inside.

As Photographer Mike DeBarnardo takes pictures of the yellow, ominous sign, I hear rustling inside, the TV droning and someone crunching on what sounds like potato chips.  "wait," I stop Mike in mid sentence, as I stare at the door and hold my palm up to the photographer, "crunch, crunch," someone, it appears, is gazing through the peep hole, and munching on snack food.

Just a few seconds after I knock, the small man with the pasty face and unkempt facial hair answers, "What?" he says in a short, clipped explosion.  "I'm Chris Jones from 2News," I announce, "why are you here?" he retorts.  "Are you Mike," I ask calmly, "Uh....No." he says confidently,
"Well Mike and his wife have been charged with child abuse," I tell him,
"I haven't been charged," he snaps back.
"well you are Mike then?" and with that he slowly creaks his door closed and locks it.

An hour later I will find Mike and his wife, standing outside my office, cap tugged tightly over his head, backpack hugging his shoulder blades.

I head out to meet him, a photographer on my right shoulder, just in case, he hits me or assaults me, at least the exchange is caught on tape, and Hertzke to my left.  "What can I do for you?" I ask calmly.  "How did you get this?" he blasts, thrusting his hand, red and cold from the elements, towards the charging documents I hold in my hands, "from the courthouse, they are public record," I respond.

"Who called you?"  he quickly follows up,
"No one, I check the courts everyday to see if there have been any charges of significance made,"
"Well this is yellow journalism," he says.
"OK," I respond.
"This is none of your business,"
"OK," I repeat.
"I think this is just plain wrong,"
I interrupt, "I'm not here to debate you on the merits of what we do, If you have a concern about the facts of the story, I'll be glad to talk to you about that."
"yes, the facts are wrong," he blurts, "I'm suing the police for violation of my constitutional rights," he begins to rant, "and my wife is disabled," he continues.
"OK, well if you feel those are the facts, I have a camera here right now, we'd love to give you an opportunity to tell your side of the story."
"No," he quickly interrupts, "I'm not granting any interviews," his weary eyes burrow into mine,
"That's fine," I say,
"I just think you are wrong to..."
"I interrupt him again, "I don't think we have anything else to discuss,"  and we both turn and walk away.

This is not the first time someone unhappy with a story I've done has come to my office to accost me.  Last year an older man in a duster, cowboy hat, Bolo tie and a long, grey groomed beard was angry after police detained him.  He had approached me just seconds after I completed a live report and told me he had every intention of killing a police officer.  I told police and they talked to him.

Another man came looking for me because of a story I did about him being charged by police for threatening to kill professors at Salt Lake Community College after receiving a poor grade on an assignment.  We had to post a picture of him at every door with the statement, "DON'T LET THIS MAN IN."

It is disconcerting at times to see people, whom you know by sight, only from their mugshot, waiting for you at your door.  In the past I have been lucky, that none have tried to hurt me, and at that same time, it a good reminder, that the stories we do are indeed, about real people, not just a grainy, out of focus portrait handed to us by police.

Normal Guy, Normal Day

"I don't know if you want to drive all the way out to Utah County, but, yeah, the Governor will speak with you," Alley Isom surprises me with a "yes," to what at the time, seems like an impossible request.

Governor Gary Herbert, is seething as lawmakers in Washington appear ready to stumble awkwardly and angrily over the fiscal cliff (a term I hope we are never forced to utter again in the news media.)

Deputy Chief of Staff, Ally Isom

In what appears to be the 21st century's version of a press release, the governor unleashes on Twitter, about the leaders in D.C. calling the fiscal cliff negotiations, "unconscionable, and "lacking in leadership."

I decide to call Isom, the Governor's no-nonsense Deputy Chief of Staff, and I leave a message, "Hey Ally, I know it's 7 PM on New Year's Eve, but as you know the Governor is letting Washington have it, I was wondering if he, or someone from the office would be willing to talk about that," I click off my cell, certain I won't hear from her on this night.

Ten minutes later, after a quick chat, I'm headed to the governor's  home, "OK, here's here's his address," Isom dispassionately rattles off the numbers to his house (Unlike other governors, Gary Herbert has decided to live in his own home during his tenure)

In this age of Uber security, and in the wake of horrors like the Newtown shooting, it seems a bit surreal to me that someone is simply handing out the address to the state's top leader to me.

Governor Gary Herbert

As photographer Mike Fessler extends a light stand and anchors it's base in the stubborn, ice-glazed snow, I small talk with Eric, part of the governor's security detail.  He will sit here all night, in his black Crown Victoria, idling in the governor's driveway, scrolling Facebook on his Iphone, while country music eases out of his speakers.  Eric is one of 6 Utah Highway Patrolmen who are in charge of keeping Herbert safe.

The governor's home is large and beautiful, much like the other comfortable, spacious houses that rest on this affluent cul-de-sac.  I chuckle to myself as I recall, Isom describing his home, "It's just a normal house," she says with no irony intended, "He's just a normal guy."

After a few minutes, the governor emerges from his front door, and gingerly taps his way down the icy concrete of his driveway.  He is wearing jeans, tasseled brown loafers and a blue T-shirt covered by an official looking windbreaker, with the state seal on the right arm, and the Governor's name emblazoned over his heart.  I've seen Herbert in this coat before as he boards helicopters or all-terrain vehicles to tour parts of the state devastated by fires, or wiped out by floods.

Herbert, is uncharacteristically grim this evening, not because I am perched at the end of his street at 8;15 on a holiday, (although my presence does have a tendency to bring that out in people) but because of what he sees as a leadership disaster in the nation's capitol.

The Governor interviews with us outside his personal home

After he rants, he furrows his brow and stuffs his frigid hands into his coat pockets, and delicately dances up the driveway, "goodbye," he says without looking back, "thanks Eric," he tosses to his guard, clearly preoccupied by the unmitigated mess on the Potomac, and recedes inside his warm home, I imagine to play with his grand kids, while sipping warm cider by his stone fireplace.

Today as I thumb through my reporter's pad I see the governor's address hastily scrawled on a yellow Post it Note, on another page, the coordinates for the Vernal  Police, on yet another the address of a yogurt shop that had recently been robbed, next to it in blue ink, the words, "aggravated kidnapping, Agg assault.

Governor Herbert may not really be just a "normal guy," as his Deputy Chief of Staff would like to portray, but his address, scrawled among robberies, and beating, is, in my world, amounts to just a another normal day.