Agents, Guns and Carrots

"Excuse me!" comes a shout from the back of the large Bluebird bus, the kind of bus you rode to fifth grade, or to summer camp, "Is there a reason we are stopping?!" the woman with the "Decision 2012" baseball cap bellows to an unusual man with a clipboard and a mustache you would find only on "The Simpson's" Ned Flanders, or in a novelty bin at costume shop.

First on the bus headed to watch Air Force One arrive at HAFB

The mustached man answers gently, "we're waiting for a security escort."  The woman who is a member of the national media pool who regularly follows the president when he travels, loudly pounds on the screen of her smart phone, and jabbers at some nameless producer back in New York, "It's ridiculous, we're just sitting here just waiting, I don't know when we are getting out of here!"  

I thought her loud protests were odd, the bus had only stopped for a couple of minutes when the she started to squirm restlessly.  Granted we did have to get off a previous bus because the military driver couldn't get it to move.  My guess is, she's been traveling with President Obama for some time, and is likely growing exhausted with security, badges, Secret Service agents with their shortly cropped hair gazing sternly at her as they pass a grey handheld metal detector across her body every couple of days.

The president, for the first time since he was elected came to Utah last week, and with him lumbered the most awe-inspiring cavalcade of trucks, buses, guns, agents, cars, black suits, shaved heads, and pre-screened, photo opportunities I'd ever seen in my 20 years as a reporter.  

In Salt Lake City, the Sheraton Downtown had become a fortress.  It was surrounded on all four sides, by dozens of buses, and dump trucks, the building was swarming with men with short hair, and black suits and uniformed members of the military, some of them, with machine guns drawn, were jogging here and there around the unspectacular 6 story hotel.  The White House and a hotel spokesperson hilariously wouldn't confirm if the president was staying at the unassuming hotel.  I had an image of the manager of the Sheraton, standing at the front counter, while he talks to a reporter on the phone, "I cannot confirm or deny if the President is staying here," as he's being frisked by a Secret Service agent while bomb sniffing dogs tugged at his pant leg,.

My badge

On an uncomfortably chilly evening, I stand in line with as many as 50 other journalists, as a Secret Service agent shuffles through a  pile of media badges, asking curtly, "Name," I glance over and see a black and tan German Shepard jutting his nose into my satchel, which I'd placed in a line of backpacks, camera bags, and purses, piled on after the other in the patchy grass and dirt.  The dog's nose burrowing deep into my business made me nervous, not because I had anything to hide, at least I don't think I do, but because I had a Tupperware container filled with pepperoni and cheese.  I was already hungry, and I could imagine the overworked K-9 gobbling up my dinner leaving me with nothing but a Ziploc filled with baby carrots.  The dog and
its handler finally moved on from my bag, and I exhaled with relief as another agent goosed me with a grey wand.  It bleeped, and wailed while the serious looking officer floated the device over my hips and across my outstretched arms.  

As Utah Dignitaries streamed onto Hill Air Force Base to meet the President, I noticed 2 distinct moods coming from the guests, the Democrats, like Salt Lake City Mayor Ralph Becker appeared giddy, while the Republicans, including Governor Gary Herbert, Sen. Orrin Hatch and Congressman Rob Bishop looked like football fans being forced to attend the opera.

When Air Force One rolls giantly down the tarmac, it is impossible not to be impressed, the 4,000 square foot flying fortress has two kitchens large enough to feed 100 people.  It also has a complete operating room to take care of any medical emergency.

The president hopped off the roll-away staircase and gave the Governor an enthusiastic handshake, then a few minutes later was working the rope line shaking hands with soldiers and base personnel who'd been invited to meet him.  As the President slowly reached for outstretched hands, his presidential limo, which is actually a sturdy black, muscular SUV, rolls slowly beside him, mirroring his movements, with a Secret Service agent perched on the open back passenger door, both hands clutching it, ready to slam it closed as soon as the president steps inside. I was busy reporting the unfolding visit live, so I didn't get to take much else in, but I did notice, the governor marching grimly behind the President, not used to playing second fiddle and waiting for the cheers and smiles to simmer down so Obama and the leader of the state could finally step inside the sleek black car.

Air Force 1 arrives at HAFB

As the massive motorcade, some 20 vehicles long, whisked the Presidential entourage to an "undisclosed" hotel in Salt Lake City, Congressman Bishop heads back to his car. "Congressman!" a gaggle of reporters try to wave him over to the bank of awaiting cameras.  Bishop, with his distinctive shock of white hair, seems reluctant to talk about his brief visit with the President, but we persuade him to talk to us anyway.  "Supposedly I'm on a round table with the president in the morning," the congressman tossed nonchalantly, "Do I think he'll listen to me? No? but anytime the president comes to your state, no matter who it is, Utah will show him a good time."  Bishop begins to walk away, "What do you think the traffic will be like in Salt Lake?" I ask only half serious, he smiles, "I don't know, I'm going the other way, so that's your problem,"  he jokes.

The next day its more security, and a scheduled speech by the President, With a flurry a freshly waxed SUV pulls up urgently among the Solar panels, and a few minutes later, under the eye of soldiers dressed in black cargo pants and holding sniper rifles, and scopes, the President casually sauntered to the podium, gives an unremarkable, 7-minute speech, shakes a few hands, and just like that, is gone.

Me: Near, but not on AF1

The storm is over, so I slump into a white folding chair anchored in dirt, and reach into my satchel to find that bag of baby carrots I hand't eaten the day before. Just then Congressman Bishop walks past, and I hold out my baggie filled with tiny carrots. He peeks in, selects his favorite and plucks it out. As he eyes it, I hold up a container of hummus and offer it to him, "No thanks, just the one," he squints, instantly regretting the refusal, I suspect.  "Well," I joked, "you can't take gifts anyway." He smiles, "do I have to give this back?" He grins, and tosses the carrot in his mouth as he walks away.  I thought to myself, "what would have happened had I offered the President a carrot?"  My guess is, it would have included the Secret Service, a black and tan German Shepard, and maybe another hand held metal detector.

"Shoe less" Mia Love

Mia Love isn't wearing shoes.  The mayor of Saratoga Springs, Utah, a woman who is on the precipice of knocking off 6 term congressman Jim Matheson, to take her seat in one of the most vaunted chambers in American politics, is barefoot.  Love knows I am coming.  The mayor has just been tapped by the Republican National Committee to speak at the nominating convention for Mitt Romney in Tampa, Florida, and our assignment desk has arrange for me to show up with a camera at Love's new and spacious Saratoga Springs home.  She is dressed like a congresswoman might dress, Orange power blouse, brown power suit, but no shoes, and no socks.

Mia Love speaks at the Republican National Convention

Love is an indefinably disciplined candidate who seldom, if ever veers off script.  Even in casual conversation, she, sometimes with awkward adherence, will not drift from her talking points.  "Man this must be exciting, and nerve wracking as well," I attempt to make small talk as photographer Matt Michela sets up lights in anticipation of our interview   Love, isn't going to break from character, "it's an opportunity to talk about real issues that affect real Utahn's," she recites, unwilling to express giddiness  fear, or awe, about the surreal world in which this once unknown mayor from a tiny Utah town has now been thrust.   

During our interview  Love is confident, energetic and bold, if not repetitive.  The answers I hear today, do not vary significantly from the quotes she's given to other newspaper reporters and TV journalists in the past.  

When I ask her if race, (Love is black, the daughter of Haitian immigrants) may have been a factor in her selection as a speaker at the Republican National Convention, she pulls out a soundbite I've heard before, "Saratoga Springs does not have the highest bond rating in the state of Utah because I'm black," she repeats.  I understand her reluctance to veer from script, at the time, she is 15 points behind the incumbent  and she certainty doesn't want to utter a gaffe that would end up destroying her then slim chance of knocking off Matheson in November.

"What do you think about Todd Akin's comments?" I ask, referring to the Missouri Republican, who had just made that infamous "legitimate rape," statement that was exploding into a full-fledged media disaster for his run for the US Senate race in the "Show-me State."  

It was a question the mayor hadn't received in the past, and one for which she was not prepared, "Well we don't know what happens in a person's personal life," Love wanders, searching for an answer, before shutting down the meandering word grasp and finally concluding, that she doesn't adhere to Akin's views.

Congressman Jim Matheson

As Matt removes the lapel mic from Love's collar, I flopped down casually onto her large leather sofa, "We might be sending someone to cover your speech," I  announce, to which a man with a shaved head,  and oddly ornate button-down shirt whose been standing nearby, silently texting and emailing on his smart phone, finally interject curtly, "who?"  Probably Decker," I say benignly, referring to our eccentric, political reporter, Rod Decker, a surly  disheveled  yet thoroughly entertaining, and wildly competent reporter.  Decker is a Utah institution, he  doesn't delivery his stories as much as he bellows them into his microphone, peaking the VU meters on the control board back at the station.  "We've got nothing to say to him," announces the bald man.  "Listen," Love says, eyes burrowing into mine, "if you are fair to us, you will get your access.  If not..." Love trails off, leaving the rest of her  sentence a mystery for me to interpret as I will.  

"Well," I say to the woman who may be the next representative from Utah's 4th District, "You'll find, if you win, some stories will be positive, some stories will be negative, but in the end, the coverage will even out and be fair overall."  Love just stares at me, unconvinced  unmoved, and silent at my answer.  

"well," I slap me palms together, "it's nice to meet you mayor, good luck in Florida." I turn and head towards the large, heavy oak front door of her home. "What time will this be on?" she asks, "Four, Five and 6 PM," I answer.  "OK," she moves in closer, eyes locked on mine, "I'm going to watch them all," she warns, "each and every one of them,"  her eyes squint, then she smiles, "have a good day," she announces as she rustles her bare feet across the pile carpet and escorts me to the door.

It's a Dirty Job

"Well, ya best tuck them jeans into ya socks if ya don't want vermin to get up them pants," the Moss Point Police detective rolls out in his long southern drawl,  as he adjusted his breathing apparatus over his mouth.  For me, a cub reporter, with maybe six months worth of experience, it is the most daunting piece of instruction I have ever received, and I quickly and nervously do the same as my teacher.

It is my first job in television, at WLOX-TV in Biloxi, Mississippi in 1995.  I am technically the bureau chief, of the station's Jackson County office.  I am in charge (by default) of the two-man operation, that includes myself and another, just as green, photographer/reporter.  Together we are eager, but not very experienced.  The two of us are stationed in a tiny little office in Pascagoula, the space is about the size of the guest room in your home.

Shipbuilding in Pascagoula.

Pascagoula/Moss Point/Gautier.  Those are the primary towns we cover.  It is a tough little community, weathered and shaped by the muggy summers, and perched on the rock of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.  At one point the stubborn, blue collar towns prospered, because of a strong shipbuilding culture, that helped families build homes, buy modest boats, and make weekend trips to Bozo's Fish Market for a bag of Crawfish, seasoned in a secret Cajun concoction, but those boom days are over, and Jackson County is forced to limp along.

Pascagoula is built for functionality, not beauty.  The city has weathered too many hurricanes in the past to waste time building expensive, ornate structures.  The tallest building in town in a bank, it is five stories tall, of which the top two floors are utilized for storage. The Gulf Coast economy, is usually at the mercy of government spending of warships and aircraft carriers, making this a boom or bust environment.

The place is run, literally, by tough, good ol' boys.  The Sheriff, DB, "Pete," Pope, was a portly power broker, and he was more politician than lawman.

Former Jackson County Sheriff Pete Pope

 His piercing, blue reptilian eyes framed by his stark mop of white hair, and his checkered sports coat accented with a pair of hand-made cowboy boots was terrifying for me, as he would summon me into his office-lair, either schmooze me or more likely, excoriate me for a story I wrote that angered, a man whose soul was born mad.  He was one part southern gent, 2 parts Boss Hogg.

He once warned me that he had a machine in his office, that alerted him whenever a recording device was operating in his presence, his ominous pronouncement told the kid reporter, that I better never think of trying to tape any of his rangy rants.  It wasn't until later that I learned that, "machine," never existed.

He was sheriff  but his political power was immense because, to borrow a cliche, he knew where all the bodies were buried and so did the body buriers, and that made him more like the king of his own tiny sovereign, southern nation, than the bureaucrat in a county department.

County Commissioner Tommy Brodnax, wasn't a power broker,  he was more like the people he represented, a former shipyard worker and a stout fireplug of a man, with stubby limbs punctuated by thick, brawny forearms, and round, beefy fingers, weather worn and streaked with scratches, scars, and finernails caked with soil from his garden, and grease from his tractor.  He was quick to pick a verbal fight with fellow commissioners, and physical ones with just about anyone else.  He was once arrested for punching a man in the face during a dispute over fallen tree branches.

Jackson County Commissioner, Tommy Brodnax

He relished in harassing me about my green reporting skills and unseasoned on-air presence, that included a terrified face accented by no expression, what-so-ever.   Whenever I'd fumble into a county meeting, awkwardly juggling a camera and tri-pod, he'd interrupt the proceedings, no matter how important, to announce, in his high pitched southern accent, reminiscent of billionaire and former presidential candidate Ross Perot, "hey everyone, here comes stone face!"

As a young reporter you do as you're told, and that means you are on call, 7 days a week, 24 hours a day.   On this muggy August night, my station issued beeper buzzes abruptly alive at 1 am, waking me starkly with a gasp back to consciousness.

I am ordered to the end of a desolate  dead end street, in Moss Point, a small town just north of Pascagoula.

Moss Point isn't exactly the best run town in Mississippi, in fact it's the opposite. At one point the Moss Point Chief of Police, out of sheer incompetence, had his permit to carry a gun revoked by the state's top police agency.

One cost saving measure enacted by the city council, led to a state of utter calamity.   In an effort to save money on the restoration of weathered, dulling street signs, the city concocted a scheme that may have literally lead to houses burning to the ground, and residents dying while waiting for an ambulance.

The town leaders decided NOT to buy new street signs, but rather to pull all the old signs down, then repaint them. Unfortunately , instead of repainting, for example the "Oak Street" sign with the words "Oak street," the parks and rec. department  stenciled, without much thought, over that sign, with the words , "Main Street." instead of Oak.   They did this all over town, all the signs. That was fine for a while, but  after a few months battered by the blazing Southern Mississippi sun, the cheap store bought paint faded, and the signs began to read a mish-mashed combination of the two, think "OaMakin Street."

The fire department, and ambulance service found themselves racing around the city searching in vain for a burning house or man in cardiac arrest, only to get garbled, maddening guidance from the disastrous Scrabble-like street grid.

Somehow, no thanks to Moss Points, illegible signs, I fumbled my way to a modest home surrounded by Moss Point officers, blazing flood lights, and a cacophony of critter wranglers.

After a welfare call from a resident of a house nearby, concerned for the safety of an ailing, immobile woman inside, police force open the door, only to find it barricaded by rotting garbage, cat feces, and carelessly discarded soda bottles.  It was a clean freaks nightmare, and a hoarders dream.

after rescuing the sick woman, and arresting her daughter for neglect, police had the unenviable task of removing dozens of feral cats from the home, collected over years by the two women.  The pair only took in a third of that, but the wild animals spent the next few years breeding with each other, creating a inbred cat version of "Lord of The Flies."

The cops, totally unaware, or unconcerned with protocol or the law, invite me to come in , "Hey there Jonesy, ya wanna check this out, brother, git yur camera and follow us in!"  The boys outfit me with a breathing apparatus and duck tape to strap my loose clothing to my body.  "Why am I doing this?" I ask as I peel long strips of tape off the giant, metal roll, "Roaches, boy!" one officer belts out with a laugh as he blows a wet, brown mouthful of spitting tobacco onto the city sidewalk, "roaches!"

As he scoot the rotting door open, I recall the sucking in and out of air through our masks belting out a Darth Vader-like pant.  The house doesn't have electricity, hasn't for months I'm told, and is lighted by flashlights and a flood light only.

The putrid stench of ammonia is overpowering, and I take it all in despite the protective gear over my face.  disintegrating garbage is 2 feet high and blankets the entire ground below me, I crunch and crack over the foul flooring, shuffling through waste, as tin cans crush, and tumble away as I push, like a canal boat icebreaker through the ocean of cardboard, food, and animal waste.

The garbage is everywhere, the floor, the shelves, inexplicable even the ceilings.  It is stacked in structurally defying mountains that line the halls.

The black insides of the house are revealed only in pieces when the darkness is broken by the faint flashlights, fumbled by disgusted police officers.

The flood lights reveal a tired, pea-green sofa, that appears to be made of wax, as the left side breaks down into what looks  like a melted mess of mushy fabric.  The sight defies my eyes, "what the hell?" I say with mouth agape.  "The cats have been peeing there for years," chirps the lead investigator  "Looks like they just went and melted the thing."

A dirty farm hand, in overalls, and a dingy CAT Diesel hat, called by police to help with the wild felines, stops the army of police officers and reporters, and warns, "Ok, this is where it gets bad," "Oh," I belt, "now it gets bad."

He wrestles the bedroom door open, and 4 or 5 of us shoe-horn ourselves into the back living space, someone closes the door behind us, and I find myself, squeezed on all sides, mountains of muck to my back, sweaty cops to my left, and the low guttural hum, of hidden cats echoing throughout pitch black room.

"Yall, ready?" he screams as he slaps his gloved hand to the left side of a stained mattress laying on the floor, "NO!" I yelp in pleading tones.  I remember the word just jump out of me, unprovoked, like a frog off a lily-pad, startled by a rock tumbling into his pond.

"Too late!" he hollers, as he overturns the bed, jerking it up on its side, revealing the wooden underbelly of the box springs. In the chaos, I see something, but the darkness makes it hard to make out.  It appears to be a sea of life is pulsating inside the box springs, and as the lights are directed to the bed, I see a wall of undulating cock-roaches, thousands of them, crawling and racing for safety as they are shocked into movement by the first light they have experienced in months, maybe years.

I have little time to catch my breath, because a dozen wild cats, who also inhabited the darkness under that bed are springing from their black, musty home.  They hiss and shriek as they bound up the walls, their claws scraping and propelling them higher up the grimy surfaces towards the ceiling of the room.  As they hit the acoustical tile, they rebound, like mangy, infected, overfilled basketballs towards our heads.

I feel like I am storming Utah Beach, as German soldiers try to repel me with gunfire and cannon fodder.

The farm boy, and police trip and stumble over one another, half of them desperately dodging the airborne cats, the other half trying in vane to catch them, clawing at the frightened, feral animals.  The chaos is more than my mind can handle, I jab at the door knob, my hands slipping and fumbling with it as I try to escape.  I finally jerk the door open, and fall out the portal, I'm darting my way out of the surreal disaster, when I notice the flood lights cast a sickly light on the homes living room, and catches a roach perched proudly on that melted couch, he appears to have his head lifted high, and smugly watches me as I scamper, terrified out of his home, the light casts his shadow against the dirty wall, and his dark outline makes him appear 3 feet tall, and for a young reporter struggling to learn the ropes, that roach and that job seems to be just a little to big for me.