Strange Love

"Are you the father?" He inquires with solemn curiosity.  "The father?" I raise my eyebrows, caught off guard by the question  "Aw" I deduce.  For some reason he thinks I'm Robbie Parker, the father of Emilie, the 6 year old Ogden product who was killed by a gunman inside Sandy Hook Elementary last Friday.  "No," I respond simply.  "Oh, I saw you talking to a lot of people," the odd man with the blond ponytail says disappointed. "I just wanted to tell him I'm sorry."  The glass in his frames are thick, so thick that they distort his eyes making him appear cross eyed.  He turns quickly and scoots back among the empty chairs, and mingling strangers to search out "The father."

Robbie Parker at public memorial for his daughter

It is 6 PM, and the atrium at Ben Lomond High School is slowly bulging with humanity.  This is where the public memorial for Emilie Parker will be held.  On a squat stage, a Christmas tree glowing with a pink hue, Emilie's favorite color is being decorated with ornaments made by residents of Sandy Hook, Connecticut.

Principal Ben Smith is directing matronly women with their arms overflowing with boxes and ribbons in different directions.  The school cafeteria is just 2 hundred feet from the tree.  I can imagine teenage boys, in skater sneakers, and hoodies, flinging bits of Wonder Bread at one-another, while girls shriek and whisper, with their fingers darting across the glass of their smart phones, sending off messages into the air.  Tonight the chaotic echos of teens on reprieve, is replaced with hushed tones, and gentle sentences like "It's so terrible," and "how can this happen?"

Emilie Parker

As one of Emilie's cousins downloads a highly produced video montage of pictures of the darling little girl onto a laptop, a curious woman perches herself just off my left shoulder.  I can't see her, but I can certainly feel her.  "Your Channel 2?" she chirps nervously, and she shuffles 4 envelopes in her hands, "I, I, I, I like you," she blurts, diverting her gaze to the cards she holds tightly in her palms, "but, but, but, I like Christina better, better." She is referring to Christina Flores a fellow reporter and anchor at 2 News, "I like her better too," I joke, as she simply stares at me, "do you know the family?" I try to break her gaze, "No, No, No, I, I," she pauses, "I just think, um, its bad," her words gently taper off, "That man!" she returns forcefully, "That man should go to jail!"  I assume she is talking about the named Sandy Hook shooter Adam Lanza, who police say took his own life after the rampage.  I simply add: "yes he should."

For 10 awkward seconds we stand, then she thrust the cards towards me, "this one is for Christina, this one is for Heidi Hatch, and this one is for Jill," she says with a child-like grin stretching across her face.

Remembering Emilie

The cards are for our news team who anchors the 4 o'clock program.  The postage is tattered, worn, the corner frayed and it looks as if they have been carried from place to place for weeks.  "Oh," I say, "that's very kind," Certain I will lose them, I inform the woman, "Christina will be her tonight, would you like to give them to her yourself?"  The news that her favorite will be in the same room causes her to breath heavy, "she'll be here?" she beams as she points to the floor, "Oh, oh, oh!" she hops gently onto her toes with each proclamation, "OK!" and she shuffles quickly away, searching for Christina.

As the school begins to swell, the lights click on and off.  First on the left side of the room then the right, as an unseen tech somewhere test them.  I watch a man dart through the crowd,  likely searching for family members of Emilie.  I've seen him before.  In fact I've seen him many times, at court hearings for high profile criminals, memorial services for fallen solders and candlelight vigils for wounded children.

As Emilie's family begins to assemble inside the school, they hug, and cry, and laugh, first friends approach, Brady Cottle, Emilie's uncle grabs the hand of the mammoth principal, and pulls him in for a comfortable bear hug, then acquaintances meekly approach.  Then strangers.  I watch the faces of the family as these strangers extend their prayers.  I also watch as the Parker's adjust uncomfortably as people they've never met likely makes odd request or peculiar comment.  I see an uncle smile awkwardly, as his eyes dart to another relative, as he tries to pull himself away from peculiar conversation.

As the memorial breaks up and family and strangers make their way to the football field to release 26 lanterns in honor of the fallen victims, I see the man with the blond pony tail and Coke bottle glasses, press his way through the bulging crowd towards Robbie Parker, his lips move as he practices his greeting, "are you the father?" I imagine he will say as he thrust his fingers into the grieving father's palm.

The Sound of Silence

As Photographer Dan Dixon adjusts the light stand, the room is warm and silent.  Randy Parker stares wistfully into his living room as his father and brother study the ceiling, and breath heavy.  "Almost ready," Dan says nervously, concerned that his attempt to capture Randy in the right light is weighing on his patience.  The long, quiet pause is likely the least of Randy's concerns.

The Parkers, Emily far right

Parkers granddaughter Emily was shot and killed by Adam Lanza yesterday in Newtown, Connecticut, and he has graciously agreed to be interviewed by me.

His son Robbie grew up in Ogden, attended Ben Lomand High School where he met his sweetheart Alissa.  They married, had three darling little girls, and moved to Danbury in June of this year.  Randy says the young couple loved the place, they'd recently purchased a charming home along a river bank, and Emily was still chatting about the fun  she had at the Christmas pageant the night before a gunman opened the door of her classroom.

Robbie and Alissa Parker

Randy seems relieved to sit, and say nothing, to hear nothing, to think about nothing.  As he presses his thumbs into his weary, watery, crimson eyes, I imagine him standing in front of his television, hand over mouth, searching for signs that Emily is still alive.  Perhaps a video clip of her hugging her mother, or sitting with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders being tended to by a fire fighter, but the clip never rolls.  Instead he sees pictures like the one to the left of his son and daughter-in-law inconsolable, confused and destroyed. I can imagine the volume of the television, the uneasy hum of reporters on the scene, describing the anguish, the anchors on set in New York, Atlanta and LA, ticking off the death toll, and the commentators, demanding more gun control, or lamenting the lack of God in schools.

While Dan fumbles with his earpiece, Randy seems to be breathing in the silence.  I decide I won't make small talk or offer more condolences, rather I'll give him some peace, let the stillness of the moment act as some sort of respite, to ponder nothing, or everything, without the blaring hate, opinion, and advice spewing from television, Twitter and Facebook.  Eventually I will start asking questions about his chatty, inquisitive, beaming little girl he has just lost, but for now.  Silence.

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.