Message Recieved

"Wait, what?" I whisper, furrowing my eye brow and leaning into photographer Nick Steffens, "Did he say the chief resigned?" I ask shocked, seeking clarification. Mayor Ralph Becker had just announced the resignation of popular Police Chief Chris Burbank, over his handling of a sexual harassment scandal involving one of the chief's top leaders. 

Becker's press conference

The bombshell caught me, and pretty much everyone in Salt Lake City, off guard. Minutes after the mayor's comments, news came that the former chief would, himself, address the media regarding the shocking news.

Becker's announcement was held atop the steps of the city county building, looking down on the gaggle of reporters and camera operators who were at a safe distance at the bottom of the concrete stairs, more than a dozen feet away.  Becker, from behind a podium, read from prepared remarks, and did not take questions after turning awkwardly towards the heavy historic doors of city hall and floating back into the sandstone structure.

Burbank addresses the media.

Burbank on the other hand, dressed in his customary blue police uniform, casually sipped water as a dozen reporters and photographers too aim at his meticulously shaved head with tape recorders, cameras and cell phones.  the former chief spoke extemporaneously and took a dozens questions after his comments.

Mayor Becker has always seemed aloof, and at times even disengaged, I remember in 2010, in the wake of the Red Butte oil spill which released 800 barrels of oil, polluting the water near homes a blackening the pond at Liberty Park and coating dozens of ducks with black ooze.

The Mayor had just held a press conference at about 5 PM, and afterwards I asked the Mayor's press handler if he would appear live on our news show at 10PM that night.  "Uh," she said reluctantly, "I think he's pretty tired." I squinted my eyes, and pulled my chin in back towards my chest, "Tired?" I repeated her words back to her, in an effort to emphasis how odd they sounded, "This is the biggest disaster of his administration, surely he can find the energy to talk to the city about how the clean up is going."  "I'll check," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.  A few minutes later she returned, "Yeah, he's not going to be able to make  it."  I didn't say a word, I was stunned.

Department of Environmental Quality

Chris Burbank, seems the opposite of that.  In 2006 he was up late as the street swelled with a crowd angry residents,  after the body of kidnapping victim  Destiny Norton was found in a musty crawlspace in the apartment of her neighbor.  The large mob gathered, seething over the way the police department had handled the case.  A riot seemed imminent.  Burbank, headed out into the night and directly into the angry sea of chaotic, emotional people.  He disarmed them with understanding and charm and at the end of the evening, 2 of the people who were most instrumental in instigating the gang,  actually went on TV and APOLOGIZED to the chief for causing problems.

Burbank's image was that of an open and approachable public servant, but that openness did have its limits I always felt.  Chief Burbank was also a ferocious protector of his and his department's public image.  When I started reporting in Utah in 1999, Salt Lake City's Public Relations department under Chief Rick Dinse consisted of one or 2 people.  

Burbank addresses angry Norton crowd (SL Trib)

After he was appointed Chief 9 years ago, Burbank expanded his PR department greatly.  At last casual count, there are at least 5 in the unit, all with the goal of disseminating information, but also, it seemed, protecting the shield.

  After I'd done an unflattering story about the police department, my relationship, which had, up to that point, always been jocular and easy, changed.  A few days after my critical story aired, I called the police PR requesting to do an interview on an unrelated story, The crew sent out 2 officers, one to grant me an interview, the other to video tape my questions.  "What's this?" I asked as the officer dutifully pointed his small handheld video camera at me, "just documenting everything," he said, staring blankly and uncomfortably at the postage stamp sized screen, occasionally glancing up, then quickly diverting his eyes back to the tiny square.  I wasn't exactly sure why they were pointing the camera at me.  Maybe it was a subtle way of saying, "we have this whole interview on tape, watch how you edit it?" Or perhaps the department was telling me, "see, two can play at this game."  Either way a message, no matter how unclear it was, was being sent.

The two hastily organized press conferences called on that historic day couldn't have been more different in tone and structure, and are, in many ways symbolic, of the way the 2 men operate.  One pulls you in close, both physically and emotionally, the other keeps you at a distance, but both have the same goal: Control the message.

Questions, Questions, Questions.

"What's the news doing here?"  Asks a slightly curved older man, as the phlegm rattles deep in his chest and he begins to cough a wet, violent hack.  "Oh," I say, a bit rushed, "just got some questions for someone in here."  "Well," he clears his throat as he climbs off of his well-worn purple bike, "someone's always got questions for folks in here," he drags his green, fatigue colored sleeve across his nose, and gathers up his plastic grocery bags, weary of more questions about the place he calls home.

Park Place Apartment 

People are asked a lot of questions at the Park Place Apartments at 350 East 700 South in Salt Lake City.  Police, and by default, the media, find themselves here regularly.

Over my 15 year in Utah, I've steadied  myself and entered the grey brick structure perhaps, 10 times.  The first time being the most memorable, when a man woke up one morning, snatched up a decorative sword, and began swinging it at people in his apartment.  The violence spilled into the street as the man, latched onto that blade, began chasing people around the neighborhood.

Kilmainham Jail

There are countless cases similar to that one, and it has cast a ghost of sadness that permeates and haunts this place.  You can see it in the tired faces and suspicious body language of the people who live here.  They are weary.  Most are simply trying to survive, and this campus of apartments reminds me of the now shuttered, Kilmainham Jail in Dublin.  My wife Amanda and I spent a couple a weeks there last year, and we toured the place.  Kilmainham, is a notorious "gaol", where Irish freedom fighters, were jailed, and executed on a regular basis.  Prison guards, would house men and children together inside the sickly, unheated halls of the wretched jail.  The corridors where long, and the cells small.

Kilmainham Jail

The halls of the Park Place are equally as long, and illuminated by cheap, incandescent bulbs that give the place an otherworldly glow.  As I roamed the long, lonely halls, lighted in puke green, the hue reminds me of a a woman on a flight I once took to my hometown of Dallas. Our plane was forging it's way into destabilizing turbulence.  As the jet jostled and rocked, I glanced over to the nice little lady next to me.  Her face was putrid with fear and nausea.

I'm here today because a man nicknamed "Ramen Noodle," used to date a woman who lives at the Park Place. She filed for a protective order against Noodle, back in 2009.  I was hoping she might be able to shed some light on the alleged crime spree for which Noodle had been recently arrested.

Park Place Apartments

The door opens slowly, and the small woman on the other side, only allows the flimsy door to reveal a sliver of her face.  "Hi, I'm Chris Jones, from 2News," she is unimpressed as she scans my clothing from top to bottom she's likely suspicious of my tie, and perhaps searching for a badge, or maybe a gun.  She takes a drag from her cigarette, "and?" she responds, as smoke unfolds out of her small apartment.  "I'm looking for Antoinette," I say as I hear the blast of children unleashing holy-hell in an apartment around the bend of the hall. "I told you to be quiet!" bellows the deep howl of a man who has had enough.

The woman, stares into my eyes, "I don't know."  She says, again pulling from her cigarette.  "Does she live here?" I ask.  "Why?" She retorts after a few seconds, and I explain the reason for my visit. "She's not here."  She deadpans.  "Is she working?"  I ask.  "I don't know."  She responds.  "She's at work?" I press, "yeah," the door begins to squeeze closed, "Where does she work?" I say realizing I might be wasting her and my time.  "I don't know."  

Eventually I earn a modicum of her trust and she agrees to calls Antoinette, who explains she stopped seeing Noodle because he roughed her up, and because he "got into drugs and pills," she continues, "he's always in jail," and she says, anticipating my next words, "I don't want to be on TV answering questions."

Eventually I make my way down the sad hall passed an old tube TV resting on the tile outside one of the apartments, to the news truck.  Outside I meet a man pushing a rattling grocery cart filled with cans, he asks "what's the news doing here?"  to which I say, "just asking some questions," As the man shuffles off, pressing his cart forward likely tired of getting questions and little else from people like me, curtly adds, to no one in particular "they've always got questions for people here."

 

Hard Candy and Puppies

"Hard Candy?" came the high pitched offer from Curtis Mullins Sr. who poked me with his elbow and held open his hand with 3 pieces of butterscotch placed carefully in his open palm.  I looked at the portly Southern gentleman in his boxy black suit with bewilderment.  "Hard candy?"  He insisted his already comically high voice climbing a few octave higher, as he thrust the cellophane wrapped treats into my fist.  A funeral seemed like a strange place to get offers of candy from strangers, but after this emotional, long, and difficult week, Curtis, and the small, peculiar and isolated Virginia town of Grundy seemed in a way, like home.

The Mullins, Junior back left

Ethan Stacy

More than three years ago, in the soggy foothills of the South, 4 year old Ethan Stacy was buried.  Just this week, his stepfather, Nathan Sloop was sentenced to 25 to life in prison for the brutal death of his step-son.  I'll spare you the details.

Ethan's dad, Joe, is from a town near Grundy, and wanted to bring his boy home to this battered, nearly abandoned enclave.  Grundy, is a grubby coal town that has endured bad luck.  Since 1929, the burg has been afflicted with 9 major floods, that have all but killed the once proud city, turning it into a zombie town, that wanders, unaware that it is mostly dead.

In 2001, the state undertook a major relocation project, carving out a new existence on higher ground. The "new" Grundy.  Like an empty-nester who downsizes from a large 3000 square foot home into a small 2 room apartment, but refuses to get rid of any of the furniture, is crammed into 13 long acres scratched into the rocky mountains across from the unpredictable Levisa Fork River along State Route 83.

Grundy, flooded 9 times since 1929

Every morning Curtis Mullins Sr. and his extended family, who all live in a house connected to the Grundy Funeral Home, which they run, wake up, and peer across the Levisa into the hollow husk of their old life, a once bustling coal town, that is now filled with abandoned shops, homes and farms.

Curtis had a stroke a few years back, and that has made his voice a high, raspy shrill.  At first his tenor makes you chuckle a bit until you learn the circumstances.  Despite his new voice, Curtis retains his old, authentic Southern hospitality, as he invites me into his home, so his son, Curtis Mullins Jr, "who knows the computer," can burn me copies of pictures of Ethan.  "Do ya wan't some biscuits?" says Junior, a heavier, younger, carbon copy of his father, as his pleasant wife thrusts a pan  into the oven, next to a refrigerator, covered from top to bottom with pictures of grand kids, announcements from the baptist church, and fliers about dances at the high school.

"We'll we hope ya'll have a good visit here," says Junior, as he hands us a CD filled with Jpeg images, and stuffs a biscuit in my hand, "now take this," he insists, "it's chilly out there."

On the day of Ethan's funeral, the already impossible parking situation in Grundy is even more difficult as hundreds of mostly strangers and journalists make their way to the funeral home.  Old men with creased faces and hands blacked by the coal, "visit" and laugh, and tell jokes almost as weathered as their paws, "I'm so broke I can't even pay attention." quips an old vet sporting a 25 year old seersucker suit, and a baseball cap emblazoned with an insignia from the USS Saratoga.

Funeral for Ethan Stacy

I wasn't the only person to whom Senior had offered that "hard candy,"  I smiled gently listening to the eulogy for Ethan, as Mullins bounce from reporter to photographer, in town to cover the funeral, nudging each, and offering them a butterscotch.  The photojournalist from Rueters News Service, a notoriously prickly character, was noticeably annoyed by Senior as the gentle man tapped the journalist on the shoulder, "hard candy,"  Nick, frowned violently and shook his head vigorously.  Senior jabbed him again, "hard candy!" he said his tenor climbing higher, "No!" Nick seethed under his breath to the old man.  Senior jabbed the butterscotch into the photographers breast pocket with a smile, "hard candy," he mouthed triumphantly, and happily moved onto the next guest.  Nick shot an angry glance at his pocket, and a guffaw, then returned to snapping pictures.  After the funeral I noticed Nick editing his photos in his rented SUV.  He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and with it, that little "hard candy," without noticing the irony, he popped the butterscotch into his mouth, and for a brief second, I saw the jaded journalist grin, before his perpetual scowl returned.

At the cemetery where Ethan was laid to rest, I sucked on a butterscotch as I sat in our large satellite truck waiting for the burial to begin.  With a start, a small dog, some kind of a terrier, chihuahua mix, bolted into our truck, and greeted me with tail wagging.  The pooch took a quick look around or truck then jumped out to greet others who were trudging somberly towards the burial plot.

"Who owns that dog?" I asked a Buchanan County Deputy perched near us, "I dunno," he said, petting the puppy's ears vigorously, "he's always here for some reason."

Joe Stacy at son's funeral, with the puppy in tow

I watched as Ethan's father Joe, made the long walk from his car to the final resting place of his son, that little dog sauntered up to his side, tail wagging and smiling as the broken father dragged himself. Joe glanced down for a moment at the happy doggy, and grinned, letting a  subtle laugh escape his mouth for a moment, a temporary reprieve from his darkness, before being enveloped again by the unimaginable fog of sorrow.

The next morning as I purchased a cup of coffee at a convenience story, I pulled out another butterscotch from my suit pocket, and noticed the front page of the local paper, on it a picture of Joe, surrounded by family, and to his side, that ridiculous, amazing puppy trailing along.

It has been several years, and hundreds of stories ago, since I was in Grundy, but I think about it often, and how the town was able to conjure bits of happiness out of tragedy. Happiness, like you might find in a piece of hard candy at a flood, or a puppy at a funeral.

If you like this these stories, I'd love it if you would go to City Weekly's Best of... and vote for it for best blog.  

Baking Up Trouble

Timothy Lawson, is a name dropper.  Constantly evoking the nature of his friendship with former Attorney General Mark Shurtleff.  In fact he did it so much in casual conversation, that his easy use of the AG's name, would eventually, one attorney in the AG's office prophetically predicted, "bring down the whole house of cards."

Lawson was charged yesterday with 6 felonies, including tax charges and trying to intimidate potential witnesses, just to name a few.  The Davis and Salt Lake County District Attorneys alleged that Lawson was a bit of a political fixer.  He would get paid thousands of dollars by a crooked businessman, Marc Jenson, to try and curry favor with Utah's top cop.  Jenson, although serving time in  jail on fraud charges bought by Shurleff's office, was paying for Shurleff, and his deputy John Swallow to stay at a swanky California villa.  Lawson allegedly did all the dirty work, using Jenson's money to pay for Swallow and Shurtleff, to get massages, and gorge themselves on fresh fish pulled right from the Pacific Ocean while the squinted into the soothing West Coast sun.

Lawson, according to charging documents, was quick to throw out Shurtleff's name when he and Jenson, didn't like what someone was doing.  Lawson allegedly told one man that he was Mark Shurtleff's Porter Rockwell, referring to the notorious and colorful "Avenging angel of Mormondom." Rockwell was the body guard for both Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, some historians say Rockwell, was quick to do the bidding of the two men, sometimes violently.  Rockwall was said to have tried to assassinate the governor of Missouri by shooting Lilburn Boggs through a window in his study, Rockwell was arrested, tried and acquitted of all charges.

Unlike Rockwell, it appears Lawson's most active weapon was his mouth.  One neighbor told me, that his son had a playground tiff with one of Lawson's daughters, Lawson allegedly called up this neighbor and warned him to keep his boy in check because Lawson, "Is good friends with Mark Shurtleff."  "Really?"  The balding man exclaimed, shaking his head, as he watched a handful of FBI agents scurry around the exterior of Lawson's expansive, Tudor home.

"He's a wheeler-dealer," the neighbor told me as he walked into his home, looking back one more time at federal agents as they rolled large plastic crates into Lawson's house.

Lawson, is, of all things, a baker.  He apparently does a sizable business, selling gluten-free bakery goods from right inside his home.  He has dozens, if not hundreds of large, yellow food crates stacked high on his front porch, and at least two large cargo trucks, crowded tightly into his driveway.  Even as a simple baker, Lawson found an opportunity to puff up his cream puffs, by making mention of the Attorney General in the "About me" section on his bakery website:

They see him as the “Shield of Truth” against injustice, the voice of the faceless masses and the “Sword of Justice” for the people’s right to live in a free Democracy. To me, he was my dear friend, my sounding board and my confidant that always listened, always cared, and always tolerated me.

It's customary to mention when you started your business and why, but it seems a bit odd to expound romantically about the prudence of the attorney general on a website that sells multi-grain dinner rolls.

"What's going on in there!?"  An older woman says, darting her blonde head into the open front window of our news truck.  "Lawson's been arrested," I say,  as I prepare for my 5 PM liveshot.  "Good!" she folds her arms with satisfaction.  I thought she was excited about Lawson's incarceration because of all the news about he and the AG's office, but that wasn't the case, "Hopefully now we can do something about all this bakery business baloney." The woman claims Lawson has 30 employees who report to his HOUSE for duty everyday, crowding the winding, narrow streets outside his home.  "I have no idea how this has continued to go on," she says, almost shouting.

Lawson has been running this business out of his house for some time say neighbors, and despite repeated complaints to the city, he continues to produce gluten-free sourdough bread and pecan caramel bars from in his kitchen.

Perhaps Lawson's "wheeler-dealing" allows him to continue to run a large bakery in a residential area or maybe he tossed around a certain name to help keep production running, either way, as he sits in jail trying to come up with $250,000 dollars bail, it is clear, Lawson has baked up a batch of trouble for himself, and it's possible, others might get a taste of that as well.

Pain and Generosity

"No really, we can't," I decline politely as photographer Dave Yost and I make our way back in the dark to our news van.  After a few steps Dave whispers to me, "I think she's following us."  I glance over my shoulder, to see a smiling young woman in a sarong dutifully trailing behind us. "Again, really, we can't, you are too kind," I smile to the gentle face holding two heaping plates of food, "I'll get in trouble if you don't take these," she says grinning stubbornly.   Refusing the saucers filled with cake, turkey wraps, and homemade rolls would have been impossible.

The Asiata family, despite their stunning loss, still manage to pile mountains of food onto 6 separate plates and offer them to the three pairs of photographers and reporters who had just invaded their home.

Pita Asiata was killed Monday night when the charter bus he was driving rear ended a large industrial auger attached to a construction truck.  He was killed instantly, sending a shock wave through his close, Pacific Island family.  Perhaps most known to Utahn's, among his 5 children, is Matt Asiata, a University of Utah football star, who later, as an undrafted free agent, made the 53 man roster with the Minnesota Vikings.

The Asiata's have just directed our coordinated horde of journalists into a medium sized living room.  The furniture, we are told, had been removed, and the floor is lined with blankets, for a family ceremony.  Still remaining however, are rows of plaques, pictures, and trophies lining the walls, documenting the impressive sports career of Matt Asiata.  "His blood runs in my veins," says the bulky running back, in a purple Vikings T-shirt, his face punctuated by a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses, to shield his teary eyes, from the gaggle of strangers.

As we pack up our gear, Sega Asiata directs an army of nieces and nephews who are flooding out of the Asiata kitchen armed with plates of food.  "It's our culture," Sega smiles a grin comprised of one part pride, in her Pacific Islander background, 2 parts pain, over the loss of her father.

This is not the first time the Asiata's have fed us today. About 4 hours earlier, I stood on Pita's front stoop, visiting the family unannounced.  "We just want to give you the opportunity to talk about your father," I tell Sega. "Give me a second," she says kindly, "I just want to talk to my family for a minute."  As Dave and I stand awkwardly in the Asiata's yard, a pair of nephews hustle after a baseball, an aunt embraces another family member, and an uncle hauls a casserole dish, into the family living room.

Moments later 3 teenagers pour out of the front door, one with a pair of glass plates teeming with food, another with two chairs, and a third with 2 can's of Coke. My head darts from left to right as we are surrounded by unexpected generosity.  Sega follows, "will you come back at 7?" She asks kindly.  I agree, as I glance down at the giant plate of food, "oh," she says, "take them, give them to the D.I." she smiles, unconcerned about where these dishes, which have likely been part of happier family gatherings in the past, will eventually end up.

I've seen this sort of unabashed kindness many times before in the Pacific Island culture.  Several months ago, I found Myself in a very similar situation, as I stood in the garage of Sgt. Ivan Taufa.  His son Josh, while on an LDS mission, was electrocuted in Guatemala, while fixing a leaky roof for a family.  As Ivan collected himself for an interview, his brother, sat quietly next to a large, red and white cooler, mixing a concoction of watermelon juice and shredded coconut with a large wooden spoon.  "it's called Otai," he nods towards the swirling bath of red and white.  "it's for the family, when they all gather here tomorrow," He then snatches a red Solo cups from a stool nearby and scoops a healthy helping into the plastic and thrusts it into my hand, "Otai," he says nodding.  I take a large swig,  it is delicious.  I gulp down the last bit, then conduct my interview with Ivan.  As I'm leaving, Ivan's brother sloshes another ocean into the cup, and forces it into my hand, "Otai," he says, then gathers me up into his ample frame and gives me a bear hug.

Just moments before interviewing Matt and his sister Sega about their father, I hand those 2 family dishes, back to an Asiata aunt, "We cleaned them," I announce, She looks at them stunned, "you didn't have to do that," she shakes her head, "neither did you," I smile.

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.

Heart of Darkness

Curtis Allgier always has something to say, even when it's not his turn to talk.  As a lawyer with the Salt Lake District attorney's office argues some arcane rule of law in front of Judge Paul Maughan,  Allgier shows his disgust, leans in heavy to his own attorney, and frantically and angrily grumbles his disapproval.  Allgier seems to be at odds with even the most mundane details that leaves the judges mouth, or formulates in the mind of the District Attorney.

Curtis Allgier

As I sit in court I can tell Allgier's attorney is exasperated, every couple of minutes, the tattooed white supremacist  is peppering his left ear with angry, yet muffled proclamations.  The attorney seldom acknowledged his agitating client, as he tries to listens intently to the words of the judge.

Allgier murdered Utah State Corrections officer Stephen Anderson, when the prisoner was being escorted from his cell to the University of Utah Medical Center for an MRI in 2007.  Anderson, who had a reputation as a compassionate guard, who showed kindness to even the most despicable of criminals, was shot twice by Allgier after a brief struggle between the two.

You have likely seen Allgier on television.  His face is littered with prison tattoos, crude graffiti  carved into his skin proclaiming his admiration for Hitler, Nazi's and skin heads.  Every inch of his face is covered with grey ink, likely pumped into his face by himself or an equally "tatted" fellow prisoner.  As I look at him spewing silently into his lawyers brain, it's difficult to even recognize a human underneath  the angry scrawling  the boorish scratches, and vulgar proclamations.

I try to imagine Allgier as a little, toe-headed boy, skipping rocks across a pond, giggling in the school yard with he fellow kindergartners  or snuggling under his mother's arm after a scary nightmare, but I just can't conjure the idea.  To me, Allgier seems as if he just manifested on earth, as a hulking ball of rage, born in orange prison jump suit, and talking, always talking.

Stephen Anderson

He has been talking for the five and a half years since he killed Anderson.  Phoning reporters to do interviews, blurting out invectives to the judge in court, and finally, on the day of his sentencing, he has his grand stage, something he has been seeking since he was jailed after pulling the trigger and killing the father of five.

He talks for 35 excruciating minutes, at times he is tearful and apologetic, at others he is defiant and angry and often punctuates his speech with "s#!+ and "F*(# while the judge patiently allows hims to rant.

I get the sense that he has this grand idea of himself, as if he believes he lives by a special code of honor that the rest of us puny mortals can't even comprehend.  He talks about how he takes care of younger prisoners behind bars, giving advice to the "weak" ones.  He gnaws and snarls about his treatment in jail by guards, then chokes up with tears as he laments over how "great" a man he believes the now deceased Anderson is.

Allgier once wrote me a letter after a story I did about a woman he scammed into putting hundreds of dollars into his prison bank account.  The diatribe was scribbled in black ink on ruled paper, in the hand of a boy.  He punctuated his "S's" with lightening bolts often seen on the collars of officers in  the Nazi Shutzstaffel.  I could see he would go to great lengths to use words that ended in two "S's" for the ultimate affect.

Neo-Nazi Symbol

His long form complaint goes on for pages, and is filled with narcissistic rants about, his "honor," and his "strength."  He even claims his affiliation with the skin heads, isn't about racial hatred but pride in his own heritage, "I have friends of all races," he says.

As he waxes about Anderson, claiming he didn't want "that guy," to die, the judge finally tries to reign in the bluster, and with 10 armed guards surrounding him, the judge in a bureaucratic monotone that is a stark contrast to Allgier's bombast, calmly tells the murderer he will die in jail, Allgier sits, for the first time all afternoon in silence, as the judge has the final word, telling the loud man to be quiet and go to jail forever.

Paradise (Gardens) Lost

"Who designed this mad labyrinth?!" I throw my hands in the air, as photographer Dan Dixon and I continue our exasperating search for apartment 1-114 at a student apartment complex in Provo, Utah.

It's Friday and I've been assigned a wacky story about a college student who rents puppies to other college kids.  It is a far cry from the usual tales of sadness upon which I usually find myself reporting.

Jenna, the puppy whisperer, lives in one of a dozens of colossal student warehouses in this college town that includes three universities.  Branbury Gardens, or  Braebury Terrace, or what ever it's called, has a ridiculous footprint.  The complex is plunked down on hundreds of acres.  You can get an idea of its lunacy from this Google satellite picture.  This is just one of 4 groups of buildings on this property.  The mammoth, coiled snake is splayed out like a giant backward letter "S" There are a dozen different numbers sections inside each section of this serpentine thing,  Jenna is in there somewhere.  Jeennnaaaa!!! Where  are you?!

After 10 minutes of this fruitless searching I call her, "Hey Jenna, we're here at your complex.  Where are you exactly?" After a short pause, she utters, "uh."
That's when I realize even this poor girl, who is forced into this chaos probably cant explain the MC Esher world in which she had been sentenced.

After summoning our inner Magellan, and clicking on our GPS, we stumble upon her little house.

"Man," I say as I shake her hand excitedly as if she holds an antidote to some strange disease I carry, "this place is ridiculous."  As if she's met a kindred spirit, she vigorously agrees, "tell me about, it took me 10 minutes to find my door, when I first moved in here."

M.C Esher sketch, or Branbury Gardens, I'm not sure

Unfortunately our tail chasing won't end.  Jenna and a fellow puppy pusher, must deliver Wesley the Maltese, and pick up Toast, a fluffy brown something, and she will have to do this at two equally as large, equally as insane apartment complexes.

The four of us will drift aimlessly, like a group of Nebraska tourist trying to find a comedy club we read about on TripAdvisor, in New York City. "Well if this is building six, then that must be 7."   We will say to one another, as our lost caravan treks, like Ponce De Leon, searching for the Fountain of Youth.  "Eureka!"  Apartment 145!

Dan shoots a few frames of video, I interview one of the puppy renters, thank them for their time and finally we are free of this absurdity.  We say our farewells, and Dan and I lament about our ridiculous hunt, then as we stand in a gargantuan parking lot, Dan turns to me and asks.  "Where did we park?"

The Dog Whisperer

He literally can not hear my question over the roar of his very large, very ferocious German Shepard. "Whaa?"  he  dribbles, as the distinctive aroma of marijuana drifts carelessly out of his house.  "I said my name is Chris Jones, I'm from 2News!"  His dog, I'll assume his name is Fritz, Rutger or Cujo, continues his wild barking, snarling and snapping.  I remember wondering if he is cursing me in some  obscene Germano-Dog combo language.

Not Actual Dog, added for emotional effect

It's 3:30 Pm, I am in South Salt lake with photographer Dan Kovach, following up on a story from the day before.  A nice woman in a terry cloth robe, with purple hair, tugging mindlessly at her mulberry bangs, points across the street, "He knows the guy you're looking for, he even knows his address!"

The "Beware Of Dog," sign raises my awareness.  I like dogs, but when you spend as much time knocking on doors as I do, evidence of a K9 is always concerning   I was once chased by a Chow in Leaksville, Mississippi, had to hurdle a fence bolting from a Pit bull in Columbia, Missouri, and was bitten on the ankle by a tiny little rat dog of some kind in Nephi.  That little mutt was even on a chain.

 I hear the rattle of the chain lock, then the ca-chunk as the chamber of the dead bolt spins, then silence for easily 8 seconds.  In a blink, the door springs open like the hammer on a mouse trap, and Fritzy, lunges from behind the wooden door, blasting me with a raspy jagged bay.  "Wow," I say but I don't actually say "Wow" I can't say, what I really said, because this is a family blog, well assuming, of course, you haven't read any of my previous posts about prostitution, murder and assault.

Fritz's owner has a lazy grasp (I'm hoping) of the dogs leather collar, the man's face is cold, and straight, punctuated by two moist, squinty red eyes.  His pupils are the size of nickles.  The Shepard, is just yearning to be unleashed, I can see the carnal desire, dating back generations to his wolf pack DNA.  He just wants blood, I was thinking, Hey Fluff, You don't even know me." He doesn't care that I am generally a pretty awesome guy who has a wife, and a mortgage.  (Perhaps he knows I once had a cat)  he just wants to eat my face off.  His powerful hindquarters flexed, his sinuous muscles strained, his front legs elevated off the stained and matted beige carpet, his wolf eyes zeroed in on my jugular.

"That lady says you know the man I'm looking for." I utter, eyes darting between the man's deliberate, prison yard stare, and his dogs chaotic, maniacal struggle to chomp my leg.  The man says nothing, his head wobbles slightly as the dog jerks towards me. "Do you have ID?"  He asks after a ridiculous pause.

This scene is already beginning to wear my patience.  I'm beginning to realize, the dog master, relishes the threat his beast is inflicting on myself and Dan.  He savors, the perceived power he has over another human being.  My guess is, when he has a concern with a neighbor  he raps on their door with his dog on a leash, "Hey Bob," he might say calmly as the wolf snarls, "just wanted to say, your daughter can't park in front of my house anymore."   frankly this power play is beginning to bore me.

I snap a business card out of my pocket, and flash it in front of his glazed orbs.  He studies it, taking it in like he's viewing the Mona Lisa, at the Louvre.  I roll my eyes, wondering if he's going to pull up a chair, snatch a pair of opera glasses from his breast pocket and ponder the art, "What do you think Fritzy? I believe the blending of colors is derivative." His lazy eyes drift slowly back to my face.  He glances at the only strength he apparently has, his rigid, frenzied dog to his left, then smiles, "nice card."

"Alright," I put an end to his dominance and leave.  He stands on his threshold for a few more seconds as we board our news truck and roll away.  About 5 minutes later we find the man's house, and gathered the information we need, as we drive our way back past the wolf tamers house, he is still in his front yard with Fritz, likely waiting for some school children to terrorize.

Little Lessons, From Big Men

He is arguably, one of the 10 most powerful men on the planet, and at 9 PM, in the days before Christmas, I am standing awkwardly in the living room of Senator Trent Lott of Mississippi.

I don't call his press secretary, send a written inquiry or make an appointment, I simply stroll up to his door and rap on it.

Senator Trent Lott

In December of 1994 President Bill Clinton has announced possible military action in the war-torn nation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, and my boss at WLOX, demands that I get an interview with Senator Lott, who is back in his hometown of Pascagoula for the winter recess.  "Um, OK, so you want me to just go his house?"  I question with awe.  I've only been a reporter for a couple of years, and filling this request seems unlikely to say the least. "Yeah," Doug Walker bellows into the phone, "see if he'll talk to ya.  It's a long shot, but what the hell."

Lott is on a fast track in the senate, and will soon be elected senate majority leader.  As I knock on his door, I expect to be confronted on his front stoop by men in drab suits, and dark sunglasses speaking in whispered tones into their sleeves.  Instead  my partner and I Amy are greeted at the door by the senator's pleasant wife, in a bright, festive sweater.

"Can I help you? Patricia Lott answers casually and Invites us into the couple's spacious mansion on Beach Blvd.  The stately  home looks out across a two lane street and into the Mississippi Gulf.  

Lott's house is just a few doors down from his brother-in-law Dickie Scruggs, at the time the richest man in Mississippi.  Scruggs made gobs of money suing asbestos companies and later represented the state of Mississippi in a lawsuit against the tobacco companies.   The state received a jaw-dropping settlement of $250 billion.  Dickie, was featured in the film, The Insider staring Russell Crowe.   A film about tobacco company whistle blower Jeffrey Wigand.

Russell Crowe:  The Insider

Scruggs, despite his enormous wealth, would often allow me to pop, uninvited, into his nondescript offices on Delmas Avenue to interview him about the progress of the mammoth lawsuit, the upcoming movie, or the revitalization of Pascagoula's desolate and abandoned main street.  Scruggs would kindly help me by giving his opinion about the need for new restaurants,  or store fronts, which is remarkable given the fact that he was in the process of hammering out one of the most significant legal settlements in the history of jurisprudence.

Scruggs is later convicted of attempted bribery in 2007 and 2009.  Just in the last two days, he has been released from jail on 2 million dollars bond while he appeals the conviction.  I know many of his family and friends and each believes he is innocent.

Dickie Scruggs

As I stand quietly in Lott's front parlor in my worn Sears slacks and a hand-me-down tie given to me by my brother, I'm pondering the senator's lineage and powerful friends, and wondering how in the world, Mrs. Lott would allow this rag-tag team of fresh-faced journalists into her house to interrupt the few moments she has with her busy husband, just days before Christmas.

I had interviewed the senator many times in the past, but always at pre-arranged events, with red, white, and blue bunting in the background as the senator christens a ship, or announces the addition of new jobs at Ingalls Shipyard, but never had I been in his home, under the intimate glow of a majestic spruce, regaled in pleasant Christmas lights, and ornaments that  have dangled from their trees for decades.  

I imagined him sitting casually in his terry cloth rob, scratching awkwardly as he sips coffee out of a familiar mug and scans the daily papers.  Surreal.

I hear the door jingle open and the senator with his coat over his arm, walks pleasantly into the house.  He kisses his wife on the cheek and quickly and eagerly greets his two uninvited guest.  "I saw the car in the driveway," he chimes happily, "How are you?" Not at all concerned that two doe-eyed kids with a camera and a microphone are stationed in his home.

"Sorry to bother you Senator," I announce reluctantly, "Could we get a comment from you regarding the president's announcement an hour ago.

The Senator furrows his brow, "Guys, all the other networks are not gonna be happy with me,"  Lott is aware, once our station shoots the interview it will appear on Good Morning America the next day, and the other networks will also be clamoring for a response.

Amy and I stand silently, and the senator relents.  As we frame up for the shot, he notices the family Christmas tree directly over his shoulder, "guys," he says pleasantly, "given the nature of these comments maybe we shouldn't put that tree in the shot.  "Of course," I slap my palm against my forehead.  As we re-angle the most powerful man in the senate, the leg of the camera tri-pod snaps, rendering it unusable, and we are forced to shoot his comments "off the shoulder," "Hm, gonna be a bit shaky, don't you think?" Lott, has likely done thousands of television interviews, and knows when a shot is going to look bad, and he can see it in this one.  

 I feel the a damp layer of perspiration glazing my forehead, "I'm sorry senator, It's the best we can do,"  As I begin my naive questions, the small light that is stationed on top of the camera slowly dims away, "Uh-oh," the senator jumps in, "your light.  This shot's not going to be very good." My partner Amy, ring in confidently  "It'll be fine, we've done this plenty of times," to which the senator responds, "so have I," with slight exasperation.  

As Patricia gently shows us to the door, I shake my head at our sad performance, and I vow, internally, to never be embarrased like that again, and always pay attention to the little details.

The next morning as I watch Good Morning America, I see the senators interview.  It is shaky, and dark, and poorly framed, as it is shot by, well, by two beginning journalists, in one of the smallest television markets in America. The senator, who had better things to do than entertain a couple of amateurs, managed, without his knowledge, to teach us a lesson a lesson or two about journalism.

Behind The Wheel

My hands cling and wrestle with the steering wheel, as my little white news car squeals and bends its way around a winding Pascagoula street, reaching speeds of up to 70 miles an hour, a police detective revs up beside me in his unmarked Crown Victoria, and warns me, "DO NOT get too close to this scene Jones, or I will arrest you!"

It is 1996, and both our cars are careening towards the arrest of a teenager who it is believed with another man, to have gunned down a convenience store clerk, just hours ago.

When I slide to a stop at the edge of a police barricade, I see half a dozen officers, guns drawn, their black boots slapping the pavement as they frantically converge on one of the suspected murderer.

No one is manning the perimeter, so I awkwardly snatch my camera from the trunk, as begin to gallop towards a mob of officers, screaming, wrestling and fighting with a wirey teenager as the officers collapse his body to the ground.  His face is planted in the well-manicured grass of a bewildered Mississippian who stands, jaw gaping as police grab violently for the man's flaying arms and wildly kicking legs.

Just as officers click their handcuffs tight around his wrists, their police radios squawk to life, "We're chasing the other, He's on Martin Street!"

One officer quickly gathers up the dirty, sweating teenager and stuffs him painfully into his squad car.   A dozen other officers disperse in all directions as if they've been warned that a hand grenade has been dropped in the middle of the frantic men.  I follow their lead.  I run at full speed towards my waiting car, and fishtail the small Mercury Topaz behind the cavalcade of police cars, lights as their lights dart into the daylight, sirens wailing and squawking through the streets.  As our chaotic, motorized wagon train fumbles dangerously and disjointedly towards a second pursuit, I snatch a cloths from my backseat and try in vain to sop up what seems to be gallons of sweat invading my eyes, filling my ears, and settling in my mouth.  My face is streaked as salty sweat spiderwebs across my body. In Mississippi in August, if you move, you sweat.  If you run, you are awash in moisture, under the oppressive sun, and all consuming humidity.

After driving wildly, and blindly for a few seconds, I spot an army of officers in blue, wrestling a second man to the ground, he screams obscenities  as officers force their jagged knees into his back, and plant their boots firmly on the scruff of his neck, as the alleged murderer fights, then wiggles, then finally relents into submission.  I roll my camera catching the entire melee on tape, as my head thumps with the beat of my heart.

Some time later that day, I can't recall exactly how, but I come across the father of one of the teens.  He slumps on the stoop of a lilting shack.  The white paint clinging loosely to aged slats of wood.

He smells of urine and liquor.  His greasy hair speckled with sprigs of grass, suggesting he may have spent the evening passed out in a pasture  "Well," he slurs carelessly, "if he did it, I guess he's gonna pay."  The man then takes a long drag off his self-rolled cigarette, as the cherry at the end blazes a brilliant red, he drags his palm across the top of his head, extinguishing an itch, then pulling a dead piece of brown grass from his hair, "Huh?" he ponders the sprig between his fingers, then tosses it to the ground.

As police fingerprint the two men, disturbing details are beginning to emerge about the two killers.  They shot the woman with a shot gun AFTER she gave them the money the violently demanded.  According to police she was reading her King James Bible, just moments before the two entered the store to steal her money and her life, and just hours later I would capture two murderers in a violent, mindless run from justice.