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."

 

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.

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.

I'd be glad NOT To Talk To You

Tick, Tick, Tick.  I can almost hear the clock literally ticking in my head.  In my business, particularly when your job is to produce news content for the 10 PM newscast, unlike most, the closer you get to 6 PM is NOT an enviable mark of time when you have yet to pin down a story for the day.

Katie Weddington  seems eager to talk about a pretty horrible experience.  She works as a satanic clown at a haunted house in Salt Lake City (Utah inexplicably loves haunted houses, that is another story altogether) On Saturday, a man shuffling through the eerie walls of plywood coated in black paint, with teenagers slathered in latex makeup, synthetic blood, and wielding unchained, chainsaws, allegedly rears back and cracks Katie in the mouth with his fist.  According to charging documents, he turns to his girlfriend and laughs hysterically.  Police say he isn't angry or frightened by Katie's horrifying portrayal of every child's nightmare, a clown barring long, yellow fangs, but rather that he just thought it would be "funny."

I track down Katie's home address and find her affable dad sipping a Natural Ice beer with an equally affable buddy.  He gives me a warm smile, a hearty handshake, and reenacts to me the lively story of his daughter's assault.  He dials up cell phone picture of his baby girl's bashed in teeth, while his wife, calls Katie, and sets up an interview for us near the haunted house where she was assaulted.

Parked in the haunted parking lot, with the second hand moving briskly around the face of my watch, I get a spooky sense that Katie is beginning to waver.  The first call to he mobile rings several times then lands unanswered in her voice mail.  The second call clicks directly to her digital answering service. 

I've seen this before, Katie, might be pondering the affects of being remembered as the gal who got socked in a clown outfit, or perhaps, her bosses, excoriate her that discussing an assault at their place of business for thousands to see is not good for business   To that point, few viewers hold business owners responsible for bad things that happen at their establishments, that are beyond their control.  If a wild-eyes crook steals someones purse when she steps away from her cart that is judged differently than if an elderly man slips in a puddle of water that has been left unattended for hours.

I send her a text message, "Hi Katie, we are here, we can meet you near the pink restaurant "  After a maddening 10 minute wait, my lifeless cell buzzes awake.  "I'm not really interested, I've started my shift," and with that, poof!  End, literally, of story.  I don't blame her, and  don't hold a grudge (Much) I've seen my share of interview success (see last blog) and interview fail (see three blogs ago) so you can't pound your fist for too, long, because frankly you haven't the time.  It's already 6:30, the news will go on as scheduled, and you better begin culling your sources and court records for something meaningful to report.

Somebody That I Used To Know

The mugshots of Anthony Mayhew, are plentiful, and chronicle an adult life dotted with arrests for crimes of varying degrees of severity.  They date back to 1995, and depict Mayhew in a mix of clothing styles and haircuts that morph and change with the trends of the day.

As my eyes dart from one to the other, the crime photos from the early 2000's in particular, tug at my subconscious.  Somewhere in the transom of my brain the neurons are beginning to formulate a question:  "Where do I know that face?"

Mayhew is the man who was shot by Salt lake city police Thursday night outside the 2 News studios.  This after calling the assignment desk at the station, and announcing he has a bomb in his red backpack and is planning on detonating it.  As Mehul Asher, the man picked up the receiver , glances out of our studio that backs up to main street only to see an unhinged man, white dress shirt untucked, arms flailing wildly.  Ninety minutes later, after allegedly moving aggressively towards police Mayhew is shot and killed.  

As television stations dispatch their reporters the day after the shooting, on a familiar yet always frantic hunt for information, I stumble upon an old video, and a blog produced by Mayhew several years prior.  

It is a grab bag of narcissistic grandiosity, in which Mayhew refers to himself only as "Mr. Kenshiro (his middle name) and sees his persona as that of a modern day philosopher, crime fighter.  He claims in his writings to be a world renown expert on, among other things, hand-to-hand combat, surveillance  and interrogation.  It is as if I am reading, a fanciful fantasy tale penned by an 11 year old boy for his creative writing class.

The video is a scripted interview, in which, Mayhew, of course, is the focus, he is asked a disconnected jumble of questions, and rambles about made up philosophy and his contrived work as a "criminal contractor."  His "Job" as he sees it, is to "prevent violent crime from bleeding off into the civil world." 

As the news cast begins to churn to a start, I finally contact the person who assisted Mayhew in producing the video.  Jim Durham is a kind, gentle man, who runs a small video production company and who befriended Mayhew, despite concerns about his erratic behavior  and as others, particularly in Mayhew's family, were beginning to distance themselves from the troubled Mayhew.  

Durham tells me, Anthony asks him to make the video so Mayhew can submit it to a producer in New York for a possible reality show.  Durham knew it was probably untrue, but he dutifully helps his friend.  As I hang up the phone,  The words: "reality show," act as a finger pulled from a dike, and the memories come flooding from the back of my brain to the front.   

Several years ago, an acquaintance of mine asks if I will meet with his friend, a brilliant former criminal, who is interested in producing a television show about crime prevention.  Eric believes my experience in TV news might be helpful.  I remind him that broadcast journalism and entertainment television are two different animals, but that I would be happy to talk to his friend.  Unfortunately I had to cancel that first meeting and I re-schedule for a week later.  

We meet at the Dead Goat.  A gloomy basement restaurant, Eric and his friend are tucked away at a dark corner table.  "Anthony, this is Chris," Eric announces happily as I sit down in the  remote crevice  Anthony is in a tight, grey muscle shirt, he shakes my hand and begins intensely shuffling through a stack of papers, and explains to me that he is a former member of a crime syndicate, but has finally turned the corner and wants to help people avoid becoming a  target of crime.  

His years as a "bad guy," he supposes, makes him uniquely qualified, and he is convinced he has what it takes to helm a reality show.  I'm instantly skeptical of his "organized crime claim,"  I mean really, the mob, in Salt Lake City?  Get real?  None-the-less, I remain and politely listen to his pitch, as he suggest I help him host the show.  I have no intention of being a part of his project, but I quietly sip a Diet Coke taking in his darting banter.  

As each word trips out of his mouth, the intensity in his eyes and body language begins to unleash, as if he is an old Dodge Charger, that has languished in a weedy field for years, uncranked.  As he turns his key, at first Mayhew sputters with fits and starts, then his carburetor begins to rev, spitting chunks of rust out of his tailpipe, until his engine is churning with loud, uneven, bellowing noise. 

Anthony is raving, and for some unknown reason, he's angry, then unprovoked he points his finger at me and says, "and you!  I'm a busy man!" his eyes staring through mine to the back of my head,  "I'm not going to wait around for you as you cancel meetings on me!  I don't have time for that bullshit!"  

"Well," I announce as I slap my hands against my thighs, tug my wallet from my pocket, toss a $5 bill on the table, stand to my feet and say my goodbyes, "OK, thanks guys," I turn and head to the parking lot.  As I march away, I see Anthony return his raving gaze to his worn stack of papers, and I hear the legs of my friends wooden chair grind against the uneven oak floor as he chases me to my car.  

"Hey, I know he seems a little intense, but I think this is a good idea." Eric pleads "Not me," I announce as I continue my brisk walk to my car.  "Yeah," my friend sighs, as he matches my gate, "I'm thinking this might not work out either."  I look at him, "you're right," I warn as I yank my keys from my pocket and drive away.  

That intense, angry, fuming man was Anthony Mayhew, his story to me was verbose and grand, and it turns out, complete fantasy. 

Jim Durham, Anthony's video producer, tells me Anthony never had a real job, and despite his life of petty crime, Mayhew wasn't an expert in crime prevention, or for that matter, anything. 

It must have been 2003 or 2004 when I met Anthony, It appears the fuse was already lit by then.  Eight years later the explosives would finally detonate, 50 feet away from my desk.  

Anthony always day dreamed of being important Durham recalls, and always ached to be on TV, in the end he got his wish. 

Unhappy Endings

The crackle, is reminiscent of a strand of fireworks, being sparked by an impatient teenager anxious to literally get the most bang for his buck.  In the end it turns out the echo is that of an eerie blast of gunfire, as a man, Anthony Mayhew, is shot by officers as he stands on a light rail platform, under a mostly full-moon in downtown Salt Lake City.

Mayhew tells police just moments before the shots are fired that he has a bomb and is willing to unleash it's power.  After 2 hours, according to police, Mayhew approaches them aggressively and reaches into his red backpack, officers see that as a threat, and open fire.

Mayhew, it appears, wants to make his upcoming showdown with police very public.  He phones 911, then calls the assignment desk at 2News where I work, to announce he has an explosive strapped to his chest, and he is right outside our studios.  The 2News set backs up to a window that looks out onto the very train stop on which Mayhew is standing.  He is disheveled, like a businessman caught in a unair-conditioned elevator for hours during a hot afternoon.  Mayhew's white, long sleeve dress shirt was likely highlighted with a tie and sport coat earlier in the day, but tonight it is untucked and the sleeves unbuttoned at the wrists and not rolled up.  The image makes for an even more chaotic scene, as Mayhew waves his arms, the sleeves flap and fly wildly, like an untethered tarp on a speeding dump truck, barreling down the highway.

I've heard gunshots before, but it's always striking to me how different real gunfire sound, relative to the blasts you hear in movies.  On film, the discharge of a bullet, is deep and bellowing, enhanced with metallic resonance, and long, extended, ominous echos.  The real thing is usually anti-climactic.  A simple pop, similar the sound of someone stepping on bubble-wrap, or banging closed the lid of a garbage can.

The aftermath of a crime scene is also very different in Hollywood compared to the real, grisly thing.  Movie effects experts often dish up gallons of fake, bright pink blood, splattered indiscriminately across the set.  The reality is far different, far less distinguishable, and to see actual blood will cause you tp furrow your brow, and search your memory bank for anything you've seen similar in the past.  It's color, the way it pools and coagulates is unlike anything you will witness, and at first glance is a mystery, until your mind is able to connect the disconnected fragments of information and you stumble on the truth with a gentle gasp of realization.

The give and take of a high intensity negotiation between police and an unhinged suspect is also very different as you might imagine.  On 2News at 10 last night, our crew, as well as thousands watched the real thing spill out across their TV screen, as police attempt to calm Mayhew, and take him into custody without blood-shed or violence.

His final moments play out publicly, camera's rolling (it's important to note, 2News cameras did watch the shooting, but did not broadcast it live, or show video tape of it after).  It was a surreal scene, Mayhew, alone, on that train platform on a Thursday night, a night that is usually bustling with bar-hoppers darting from the martini bar to the Micro-pub, instead the street was very much like a scene of a movie, swept clean of humanity with the exception of the desperate man and others clad in camouflage, helmets, body armor, and automatic rifles.  What drove him to this desperate spot, alone, untucked, unsure is, for now, unknown.

Some are speculating that Mayhew wanted to die by "suicide by cop,"  and die very much in public, and who knows, maybe he thought this very public temper tantrum would paint his final moment with cinematic heroics.  The reality is, all it did is create anguish for his family, and those destroyed feeling will not play out in the movies.