Jesus or Superman?


(I have been writing stories about some of the stories I have covered, so far, in my career. Each one taught me something about myself or the profession)

If you want humanity, ask a human question. I learned that lesson in a very embarrassing moment in 1985 while working as a reporter for KCBS in Los Angeles.

It was midday on a Thursday and the Catholic Diocese of Los Angeles issued a press release. A new archbishop had been named and it was a big deal. A bishop from Fresno was going to be the new leader of the church in southern California. The assignment desk called me and ordered me back to the station to prepare for a flight to Fresno to interview Bishop Roger Mahony. He was born in Hollywood and grew up in the San Fernando Valley and would now face the biggest challenge of his life.

Photojournalist Larry Greene and I headed to the airport and landing two hours later in Fresno. We rented a car and heading for the bishop’s office. He greeted us with a big smile. He was one of those people who made you feel instantly comfortable, yet he was all business and he seemed a bit overwhelmed by the media attention. I had prepared the best I could with the limited time I had. We had a great research department at KBCS headed by Lorraine Hillman. She prepared a file of background information about Mahony and his roots in the Los Angeles area. I also read about the controversies facing the church and how they might affect local Catholics. I was ready when we hit the ground in Fresno.

Larry set up the lights and camera in Mahony’s small office while he was out of the room. When he walked in and sat down, the lights came on and the camera rolled. We talked about his background and how he would make the changes some say were necessary in the Los Angeles diocese. We talked about women in the priesthood and immigration. He had just learned of his new job hours earlier and he told me he was just getting his head around his new assignment. He was nice and direct, but there was something missing in the interview. Yet, after about 15 minutes of questioning I said, “thank you Bishop Mahony” and turned to Larry to ask him to turn off the camera. He said “no, not yet”. Larry had one more question. I was shocked! Larry had a great sense of humor and was always pulling practical jokes and I feared this was another one in front of the new archbishop. Larry said, “Bishop Mahony, if Jesus and Superman were in a fight who would win?” It was classic Larry and I was mortified. It turned out to be a brilliant question. For the first time in the interview Mahony’s face lit up. With a huge smile and said, “well, I never really thought about it, but I would have to say Jesus because that’s my job.” His smile was as genuine as his answer. We laughed together. It showed him as a real person and not a religious leader in a black robe.

Larry accomplished what I could not accomplish with my prepared questions. He exposed the humanity in a man who is trained to be restrained and professional. Larry asked a human question and he exposed the real person. If you want humanity, ask a human question. That is what I learned that day.

Archbishop Mahony led the church in L.A. for more than two decades. Every time I saw him, I remembered Larry’s question and Mahony’s answer. It reminded me to break the barrier of what is expected and ask the unexpected.

Don’t Ever Ask a Question!


(I have been writing stories about some of the stories I have covered, so far, in my career. Each one taught me something about myself or the profession)

The advice I got was, “Never ask the Pope a question!”

In 1987, we were preparing for a trip to the Vatican to shoot an 8-part series about the changing Catholic Church. The Pope was coming to the United States later that year, including a stop in Los Angeles. We were working with the press office at the Vatican, hoping to get an audience with Pope John Paul II while we were in Rome. The odds were good, we were told.

One of the rituals when you visit the Vatican as a reporter is a meeting with the Vatican Press Office for an orientation. There are several “official” rules and some “unofficial” rules the press attache’ will never tell you. For instance, you can get access to some secret areas of the Vatican if you make friends with some of the Vatican guards. They are the men who are dressed in the wild costumes and appear to be protecting doors and passageways. They are NOT ceremonial. They are highly trained security agents, but they are also the friendliest people in the Holy City. I worked for CBS News and we had CBS pens and keychains with us. The Vatican guards loved to get the swag to take home to their children. So, when we wanted access to a secret area, we just gave the guards some of the CBS marked trinkets and they worked like magic. We were in.

The major “official” rule, I was told, was how to talk to the Pope if we ever got the chance to meet him. Never ask the Pope a question, they said. So how was I supposed to talk with him? The press representative helping us said Pope John Paul II was very open and friendly, but very busy and always meeting people. So, he said, if we get the chance to be face-to-face with him during an audience or while he is blessing people in Vatican Square, just make a statement and hope it begins a conversation. I call these sport questions. If you listen to a sports reporter talking to athletes after a game they say, “Your defense really stepped it up today.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement and the player or coach agrees or disagrees and goes on to elaborate. You do the same with the Pope.

On our third day at the Vatican, we were privileged to attend a papal mass in St. Peter’s Square. There were thousands of people standing inside the barricades trying to get a glimpse of the Pope. They had been waiting for hours. The Press Office gave us access to the area near the altar where the Pope would walk and bless people lined up along the railing. We were shoulder-to-shoulder with visitors from all over the world. The Pope was their spiritual leader. Some were crying, just happy they were able to get this close to the man they call their “Father”. Larry Greene, the legendary CBS photojournalist, was next to me on the left as the Pope moved toward us along the railing. Larry had the shot and I had the opportunity, but I could not ask a question. I had to get the Pope to talk with me and look directly into the camera. As he got closer, I saw that he was reaching out and touching some of the people. When it got to me, I grabbed his hand and looked directly into his eyes. Larry had the camera rolling and we were both just inches from the leader of the Catholic Church. I said, “Holy Father, we are from Los Angeles, California and the people there are looking forward to your visit in a few months.” He stopped. He smiled and said, “I am truly looking forward to visiting with all of you in Los Angeles. Please give everyone there my blessing. I will be with them soon.” He gave us his blessing, let go of my hand and moved on down the railing. If I had asked a question, I am told, he would not have answered. But, because I made a statement, the Pope was comfortable delivering a message to the viewers I was there representing.

What is interesting, and other reporters will agree, is that when you are in the “moment” and doing your job you don’t think about the consequences or significance of it. We were working hard. We were in a huge crowd. We were trying to make sure we got what we needed to tell the story. I didn’t realize how that moment, holding the Pope’s hand and talking with him, would stay with me and affect me.
I was raised a Catholic and the Pope was always a mythical figure living in a mystical place called Vatican City. Now, I had met him. I tell my friends that there is something special about a Pope because you do feel you are in the presence of something more than just a leader of men.

I didn’t ask the Pope a question. Sometimes you must know the rules and sometimes the rules work for you. And, if you must break the rules, it’s always good to be able to say the Pope is your friend.

Do We Need Political Diversity in the Newsroom?

When I began my career as a journalist we were taught to keep our political views to ourselves. We were entitled to believe what we wanted and vote for the candidate of our choice, but we didn’t share that with anyone. We registered as independents because we wanted to avoid the appearance of bias. We didn’t put political bumper stickers on our cars. We worked in newsrooms that were apolitical because that was our job. There was no need to choose reporters or anchors or producers for their politics.

For decades we have fought for, begged for, demanded, and forced sexual and racial diversity in newsrooms in America. This kind of diversity made reporting better. It was “fair” when all sides were heard and represented. It made us smarter. Today, unfortunately we have strayed from the path of personal objectivity and it may be time to demand political diversity in our newsrooms. I have worked in newsrooms where the room was filled with people who openly discussed their liberal political views and argued against including opposing views in news stories. They dismissed those views and people as “being out of the mainstream” or “just plain nuts”. I have been told by consultants that we should “craft” our stories more for the liberal or conservative view based on audience research. I have also worked with reporters, producers and managers who were open about their conservative political views and they, too, brought their bias to the daily rundown of stories. Maybe, political diversity in hiring would help change that.

It is our fault people don’t believe our reporting. We have let the viewers and readers down. No one took credibility away from us, we abandoned it. This does not mean we have to make apologies for political liars and frauds. It is also wrong for national leaders to call the media the enemy. But, we need to tell the truth and there is truth on both sides of the political aisle. The American people see the media now as having an agenda. Too many reporters are letting a personal agenda slip into their work. We need to admit that. I was always told the appearance of bias is just as destructive as real bias. Look in the mirror. What do you see? Do you think others see you as fair? That is the most important question.

When you understand the history of broadcast journalism, you can understand how we got to this dangerous moment. When broadcast stations began hiring consultants and using research to grow audiences, we started down a road that led us to “shaping” the news to fit the viewers. We were told NOT to cover stories because the viewers didn’t care about it. We knew, as journalists, that the story was important, but we ignored it. When viewers found out they had been misled or left out they began to rebel. That one reason why it is so easy for many to believe we are the enemy.

It is easy to blame the person in the White house or corporate broadcast leaders for creating a climate where viewers are again condemning the messenger instead of the message. The blame and the solution are in our hands. Maintain the appearance of credibility. Demand the same from those you work with. Don’t pretend that what you say on social media on your personal pages doesn’t affect your credibility. The idea of political diversity is sarcasm. We don’t want to see a time when newsrooms are forced to hire 3 Republican reporters and 3 Democrat reporters based on a quota to insure the appearance of fairness. We don’t want to be asked how we voted in the last election before we are offered a job as a journalist. Be part of the solution and start now.

Too Tired to be Scared


(I have been writing stories about the stories I have covered, so far, in my career. Each one taught me something about myself or the profession)

If you have ever been in an emergency landing in a jetliner you would remember it, right? Well, I don’t.

In 1987, Pope John Paul II came to the United States and began a 7-day tour of 8 U.S. cities. I was chosen by KCBS-TV in Los Angeles to travel with the Pontiff and file reports from each city. It was going to be a grueling work trip with long hours and difficult conditions, but it was also exciting. It was not the first time I had covered the Pope. In fact, earlier in the year we went to the Vatican to do a preview series on the Catholic church and I got the chance to meet the Holy Father. That was amazing. (I have another story coming soon about the meeting)

This historic papal trip began in hot and rainy Miami. Each stop had a different theme but each one had the same general outline. The pope would arrive, meet local government and church officials and then hold a huge mass for people who had been waiting in line for hours to get near their religious leader. In all, we would end going from Florida, to South Carolina, to Louisiana and on to San Antonio. Then the trip took us to Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Francisco and finally Detroit. Our KCBS team had a spot on the pope’s media plane, so we were on a tight schedule and traveled with him everywhere. It was in New Orleans that I had an experience I can’t remember, but will never forget.

The stop in New Orleans was a tough one. The Pope had his event at an arena in the suburbs, but our “live” shot location was downtown on the roof of an old brewery. By the time we finished it was long after midnight. We didn’t get any sleep because the flight leaving for San Antonio was leaving in just a few hours. We made it and I collapsed into my seat on the TWA L1011. I immediately fell asleep.
When I woke up in a sleepy haze and looked around the plane it was nearly empty and we weren’t moving. We were still on the tarmac! I glanced to my right and saw one of the other reporters sitting in a seat across the aisle and asked, “Where are we?” She said, “New Orleans.” I was confused. I had been asleep for nearly 3 hours and we were still on the ground in Louisiana and the rest of the reporters and crew on board were gone. We should have been on the ground in San Antonio.

I got up and went to the front of the plane and found some other reporters playing cards. I said, “what are we doing here?” One of them looked at me puzzled and said, “did you sleep through that?” He told me that during take-off from New Orleans the plane started shaking and the pilot declared an emergency. He said, “we made one circle in the air and landed hard. It was an emergency landing!” He told me it would be another hour for repairs before we could try to take off again.

I had slept through the entire emergency landing! I was too tired to be scared. So, now I tell the story about my close call during my coverage of the Pope, but I don’t remember any of it. We took off again heading for Texas. There were many parts of that exciting assignment I remember, but I regret being too tired to remember this one.

(BTW…I also covered the Pope in 1979 while working for WTHR in Indianapolis and again in 1993 while working for KCOP in Los Angeles)

Don’t Confuse Me with the Facts

(I have been writing stories about some of the stories I have told or people I have met during my career, so far. Each one taught me something about life and the profession)

Bill Dean was a character and he told me something one day in the newsroom that I will never forget.

Bill was my news director in the late 1970’s at WTHR in Indianapolis. He was a veteran who began his career working with Al Primo and the original Eyewitness News in Philadelphia. Bill was eccentric. He scoured the newspapers for stories and ads for vodka on sale. He drove a Boss 302 Mustang and he kept the keys in his pocket. In fact, it was the sound of those keys jingling that always told us Bill was nearby. His nervous energy was transferred to the hand in his pocket where he shook those keys constantly. Bill Dean was a gem and he would have done anything for us.

The newsroom was filled with reporters, some veteran but most of us were young. This was my second job out of college and I was honored to work in the 24th TV market in the nation. I had to work hard every day just to keep us with the others who had years of experience. Bill was always there to help me.

It was late afternoon on a Thursday and I was at my desk in the open newsroom. We still used typewriters to compose our scripts and I was struggling to meet my deadline. I don’t remember the specific story, but it was complicated and my notebook was filled with names and numbers. I had to, somehow, distill it all into a TV news story in the next 90 minutes. I was panicking.The newsroom was frenetic. Reporters, producers, photographers and the support team were racing to get the news on-the-air. I was the only one, it seemed, who was sitting still and staring at my notebook. I was frozen, my fingers were on the typewriter keys but they were not moving. Then I heard his voice. Bill Dean had come out of his office and was standing near the newsroom door behind me. He yelled, “Becker! Are you gonna make the show?” That’s all I need, I thought! Now I have the boss pressuring me, too. I yelled back, “I hope so. It’s a complicated story.” Then Bill spoke the words I will never forget and that I share with young reporters. He said, “Becker, don’t confuse me with the facts, just tell me a story!” He turned and walked away.

I took a deep breath and thought about what he had just yelled across the newsroom. “Just tell me a story”, he said. OK, I can do that and I began writing. As I did, the words just flowed and I began weaving in the information and facts I had spent the day gathering. It was a story, not a report. It had people in it and a plot. Bill had freed up my mind to get past the facts and create something that would help viewers understand the issue.

I now consider them magic words of advice. They worked for me that day in the WTHR newsroom, they work for me today and I have had some of my colleagues with whom I have shared this story say those words of wisdom work for them too when they get stuck. “Don’t confuse me with the facts, just tell me a story!” is a quote that inspired me to call myself a storyteller.

The facts are crucial to every story. We must get them right and they must be put in context. But, it is also our job to weave them into the story that viewers and readers can understand and appreciate. That is what Bill Dean taught me with his words yelled across the newsroom.

Frozen By Fire


(I am writing stories about stories I have covered, so far, in my career. Each one has taught me something about myself or my profession)

Once you see something horrible, you can never erase it from your memory. In 1984, I worked for KCBS in Los Angeles and didn’t know that the images and stories of what happened in Mexico that November Monday morning would stay with me forever.

When I got to the newsroom, I was immediately told to get ready to fly to Mexico City. A huge liquified petroleum gas facility near Mexico City had exploded and the fireball created burned through a nearby slum neighborhood. It was horrible. The death toll was rising by the hour.

When we landed, we discovered it would be a 45-minute drive to the disaster zone. The boys selling newspapers on the curb along the way were yelling the headline, just two words, “Fuego Mortal”, or “Deadly Fire.” 40,000 people lived in the town of San Juan Ixhauatepec, a poor suburb of Mexico City and home to the largest liquified petroleum gas plant in the country. Most of the men living in town were either farmers or they worked at the gas plant. As we got closer we were forced to stop and walk. The roads were jammed with people. Some were walking out with shocked and stunned looks on their faces. Some carried knapsacks or blankets tied at the top. Others were walking with us heading into the fire zone. They were scared. They needed to find their loved ones. We came over the top of a Hill and saw the valley below. There was no color. Gray smoke was billowing from the fires still burning at the plant in the distance. The neighborhood next to it was gone except for the walls of charred homes. These were not big houses, they were adobe shacks with wooden doors and plywood roofs.

Police were trying to keep people away, but it was no use. It was imposible to secure the huge area and local officials told us they didn’t know how they were going to get to and identify the dead. This was a huge crime scene, but we were waved on in and that is when the story changed. We didn’t come to the story, it came to us in a very dramatic way.

We started walking down one of the burned out streets. Everything was touched by the flash fire. The trees were black and bare. The cars were gray and gutted. Even the seats were gone. Just springs remained. We walked up to a man sitting on the curb in front of one of the houses. We asked him in Spanish, “Is this your house?” He said no, it was his brother’s house. “Where is he?”, I asked. He said he was inside and gestured me to walk in the front door. There was no door. It had been burned from the hinges. The man followed behind me and my photographer led the way. As we approached the end of the hallway entrance the photographer stopped and turned to the room at the right. I slipped behind him and saw a family frozen by fire. The sofa was just a metal frame and on it were 3 bodies. They were black, charred remains of three humans caught in the conflagration. They had no time to move. The fire came like a flash flood.

I just stood there not believing my eyes. I turned to the man who we met outside and he nodded and said in Spanish, “That’s my brother and his family. They had no were to run.” Back outside again, we kept walking and found children looking for their missing parents. We found women sifting through the black dust looking for mementos. In virtually every house or back yard we saw bodies. They were burned beyond recognition. It was hard to tell if they were men or women. We could tell the children only because they were smaller. The real story I want to share is what I saw in the eyes of those we met wandering the streets here. They were emotionally stunned, just like we were. They were seeing death everywhere and becoming immune to it.

There is no accurate count of how many died in this industrial accident. The initial number was 248 people killed. We went back to the neighborhood several years later to investigate reports that the government buried more than one thousand victims in a hillside nearby. The houses were being rebuilt. The people were moving back in and, surprisingly, the huge liquid petroleum plant was still there, back in operation right next door.

Flying Blind


(I am writing stories about some of the stories I have covered, so far, in my career. Each one taught me something about myself and the profession)

Sometimes it better not to know the risks before you dive into an assignment.

In 1976, I was working as a reporter for WFRV-TV in Green Bay. It was summertime and that means fire season in the millions of acres of forest in the viewing area. A fire broke out in the upper peninsula of Michigan and I was sent to cover it. I got there Ok. I got the story, but I nearly didn’t make it home.

We usually worked in teams at WFRV. The photographer would handle the film gear, camera and lights. I would do the reporting, but this time I was a “one-man band”. The assignment desk arranged for me to fly in a chartered plane that would land at a small airport near the fire and then I would rent a car and get the story. It was going to be my first time in a small prop-driven airplane and I was excited.

The flight to the story was exciting and smooth. We landed at the small airport and I even shot film of the giant smoke plume from the fire as we were turning to aim for the runway. I only had a few hours on the ground to get the story and when I returned to the airport, the pilot was waiting. He was a young man about my age, early twenties with a “flat top” haircut. He was very quiet and very focused on his job. He checked out the plane and went through the safety procedures with me. I was in a hurry, of course, I had a deadline. It did not seem to matter to this young man. He asked me to sit in the front seat with him instead of in the back. He was all business.

As we took off it was sunny and clear, but he told me over the headsets that we might run into some weather as we get closer to Green Bay. It was about a two-hour flight, so I settled in and began writing and organizing my story about the fire. My mind was racing. We had to “soup” the film (develop it using a machine), and then I would edit it using a film viewer and glue. We had to make two reels, one for the video and one for the sound. They would roll at the same time on two different projectors and the director would switch between them to make the story look complete on-the-air. That is why we still call it an “A-roll” and a “B-roll”.

About an hour into the flight, the pilot said, “Ross, would you help me with something as we prepare to land”? I said, of course. He wanted me to take out my notebook and listen carefully to what the air traffic controllers were saying to him. He said, “write it all down, it’s critical”. Outside the window of the tiny 4-seater airplane it was milky white. The clouds had enveloped the plane and it was beginning to rain on the windshield. I looked over at the young pilot and his eyes were as big as poker chips. He was focusing on the dashboard and glancing out the front window even though there was nothing to see. He was flying using the instruments only. Pilots are trained to do that, and I hoped he was good at it.

Each plane has an ID number. The one I was in was N2287B. I had headphones on with a built-in microphone and I was listening for that number. It was my cue to write down the info and make sure we didn’t miss anything. That air traffic controller was our eyes, since we could not see anything inside the plane. “Cessna Nancy 2287 Baker, turn right 15 degrees and maintain heading”, crackled in my ears. I pressed the microphone button and asked the pilot of he got it. He said yes. I glanced at him and he was sweating. He never looked back at me. “Nancy 2287 Baker, you are 3 miles from the runway begin your descent”. The pilot reached over to the throttle levers and began to slow the plane down. He pointed the nose down and I could feel myself slide forward slightly in the seat. We could see nothing out the windshield. It was white. It was an eerie feeling. Then the radio crackled again and this time the tone in the voice was urgent. “Cessna N22877, what is your altitude”? and the pilot answered immediately. The air traffic controller came right back and this time I could tell he was flustered. “Make an immediate right turn and drop to 7000 feet”. The pilot shouted to me over the intercom, “Did he say 7000 feet?”. I said yes, and the pilot yanked the yoke to the right and pulled back on the throttle lever. We turned and headed down, quickly.

Now I was sweating, too. It was frightening. The tone of the air controllers voice is what scared me the most. We were clearly in danger, but we couldn’t see anything. The controller came back on the radio using our call sign and said, “you are on the same path as a jetliner coming into the airport and I need you to keep dropping quickly or you will collide.” What? I heard it! I looked out the windshield and all I saw was fog and rain. I looked at the pilot and he was pale. We both sat there waiting to be obliterated by a jetliner heading the same place we were heading.

It seemed like an hour, but it was only 4 minutes later that we broke through the clouds and fog and saw the end of the runway at Austin Straubel Field in Green Bay. The pilot aimed for the runway. We touched down and began rolling toward the hangar. I was exhausted and relieved. I asked the young pilot, “were your scared”? He looked at me and just shook his head. Then he said something I will never forget. He said, “I trained to fly by instrument, but until today I had never done it for real. That was my first time”! It was my maiden voyage in a small plane and, now I find out, it was the first time my pilot had ever flown by instrument. That is why he asked me to help him. I am glad I didn’t know that while we were still in the air.

When we pulled up to the hangar, I said thank you. We both looked at each other and started laughing. It was nervous laughter. We were glad to be on the ground.

In the few days after my crazy flight, I thought about the times in my career when I was faced with a challenge I had never faced before and I remembered the young pilot. He didn’t fail either. He did it and I was along for the ride.

Running Toward the Danger


(I have been writing stories about some of the stories I have covered, so far, in my journalism career. Each one taught me something about myself or the profession)

When you are covering a story, sometimes you don’t think, you just react. Only when the crisis moment is over, do you have time to reflect on what you did. I had one of those moments while covering the state funeral for President Ronald Reagan.

I was playing golf with a friend in San Diego when I got the phone call. Former President Ronald Reagan was dead. His age and his Alzheimer’s disease finally took him. My news director at KTNV-TV in Las Vegas said, “get home as soon as possible, we have you on a red-eye flight to Washington D.C.” It would be the start of 3 long days of work that would be filled with emotion.

We were set up in our “live” reporting location on the National Mall looking east toward the U.S. Capitol building. We were joined by hundreds of other reporters and photographers from around the world. The former president’s body would be brought to the Capitol and lie in state while thousands filed past the casket. The Capitol police were already setting up the barriers that would form the lines into the building. It was a maze of metal fencing leading to the doors of the building.

It was hot and humid. 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity and, occasionally, we would be drenched by a downpour. We were tired, too. Each day was filled with seemingly endless “live” reports in every newscast we had on the air. In between, we were interviewing people gathering to pay their respects to the former president. On the second day, we had just finished a “live” report for our noon newscast in Las Vegas. It was already almost 4:30 in the afternoon on the east coast. Suddenly, there was a buzz in the crowd of reporters and photographers and everyone was looking toward the Capitol building.

People who had been in line to see the former president were running toward us. They were scared. Hundreds of them were coming at us. Some women were carrying their children. Fathers, too. I grabbed my briefcase and yelled to my photographer, “let’s go!” We took off up the hill toward the building, fighting the crowd like salmon swimming upstream. Something was happening, but we didn’t know why everyone was so scared. I saw a capitol security guard running toward me. I grabbed his arm and said, “what is going on?” He said they are evacuating the Capitol because of an unidentified plane is in the area and it might be a terrorist attack. He turned and ran away. I kept running toward the building. We got to the steps and froze. The police had taken the metal barriers used to marshal people and turned them into a blockade. I tried to call the station in Las Vegas, but our cell phones were dead. The authorities had turned off the cell towers in the area to try to stop the possible terrorists. It was at that moment it occurred to me that while everyone else was running from danger, we were running toward it, along with scores of other reporters and photographers. We kept looking at the sky wondering if a jetliner flown by terrorists was going to slam into the building just like they did on 9-11. What the hell were we doing there? We would be killed! We never really thought about it until we were too close to do anything about it.
There were bells ringing and sirens screaming inside and outside the iconic building. There is a procedure for evacuating the Capitol and it worked. In a matter of minutes, the place was empty, except for a few guards, the body of a former president and about 50 reporters and photographers milling around on the steps outside. We just stood there looking at the sky, but nothing happened.

It was a false alarm. A small plane carrying Ernie Fletcher, the governor of Kentucky, who was arriving for the funeral was preparing to land at nearby Reagan National Airport. The plane had been cleared to land but had radio problems that prevented communication with the air traffic controllers. Air Force fighter jets were dispatched to intercept the unidentified plane and that’s what triggered the chaos, the evacuation and fear of a terrorist threat on Capitol Hill.

As we walked back to our “live” report location about two blocks away on the National Mall, everyone in our group was quiet. I was reflecting on what had just happened. What if this had not been a false alarm? I also found something out about myself and my colleagues. We didn’t even flinch when the people came running toward us, we started running toward them and the story. The potential danger didn’t cross our minds, until later. I was not alone. Reporters, photographers, producers and those who call themselves members of the “media” are first responders, too.

The rest of the time in Washington, D.C. was a blur of sweltering heat, patriotism, tears and pageantry as the funeral for the former president unfolded. I remember standing on Constitution Avenue in a crowd of people as the president’s casket rolled by. At that moment, 3 fighter jets flew overhead as a tribute. I wondered if they were the same pilots who had responded to try to keep us all safe just 24 hours earlier.

“Hail Satan”

(I am writing stories about some of the events I covered, so far, in my career as a broadcast journalist. Each one taught me something about life, the profession or myself)

When an inmate in leg chains is led into a courtroom, it is the sound that grabs you before anything else. I still remember the clanking of the metal sliding across the floor as I covered the trial of serial killer Richard Ramierz, the so called “Night Stalker”.
During the mid-1980’s, someone was breaking into homes in the Los Angeles area raping and killing women. It appeared to be random and that made it more terrifying. People living near freeways were warned to be especially careful. The person doing it was ruthless and brutal and kept getting away. In some cases, the killer would gouge the eyes of his victim. The break-ins all happened at night, so the media began calling him the “Night Stalker”. Police said they had very few leads.

I was working as a reporter for KCBS-TV. We were all covering the sexual assaults and killings and the fear that gripped the city and the suburbs. The “Night Stalker” was responsible for 14 killings over 14 months. Finally, in 1988, police captured Richard Ramierz and when he made is first appearance in a Los Angeles Superior courtroom, I was there. A bizarre case was about to get even crazier.
The day of the arraignment was a media circus. It was the first time the community was going to see the man, police say, who had been terrorizing them for months. The judges in Los Angeles, at the time, allowed cameras in the courtroom and we were there. It would not take long, and there was not much mystery about what was going to happen. Ramierz would be led in and stand behind a glass wall. He would be officially charged with 14 murders and he would be ordered held with no bail.

Some people in the courtroom that day were relatives of the victims. They, too, wanted to get a glimpse of this man accused of raping, killing and mutilating their loved ones. The room was packed and hot and buzzing.We heard the lock on the door to the holding cell bang open and a moment later we saw him. His hair was long and wavy. He looked gaunt. But, it was his eyes that were different. They were sinister. The man we had called the “Night Stalker” looked like someone who Hollywood producers could cast as a frightening killer.
The judge came in and asked everyone to come to order. The clerk began reading the charges and when she finished the judge asked Ramierz, “How to you plead?”. One of his lawyers quickly answered, “not guilty your Honor!” At that moment, Ramierz looked agitated. He raised his left hand, exposing his palm to the packed courtroom and he yelled “Hail Satan!” There was a gasp. The deputies grabbed him and quickly led him from the room and the place was buzzing. I heard people saying, “what was that printed on his hand?”

It was a pentagram. Drawn in ink from a ball point pen. A pentagram is an ancient religious symbol adopted by those involved in witchcraft or devil worship. Richard Ramierz had one on his hand in court while yelling, “Hail Satan!” I heard some in the courtroom mutter, it proves he is the devil.

I remember feeling frightened myself. The fear that gripped the community was real and so was what we had just witnessed in a court of law. A man accused of the crime talking about the devil and flashing a symbol to prove he meant it.
I was also there in the same courtroom, months later, when he was found guilty and sent to death row at San Quentin. This is when, for the last time, we heard those leg chains clanking on the tile floor as he was led in. Occasionally, he would turn around in the courtroom and flash an evil look to the reporters sitting behind him. Richard Ramierz lived up to the name we had given him, “The Night Stalker”.

An Explosion of Emotion


(I have been writing stories about some of the stories I have covered, so far, in my career. Each one taught me something about the profession or myself)

There is no mistaking the sound of an explosion. I was sitting at my kitchen table in my westside Indianapolis apartment and the window was open because it was a hot, muggy September evening. It was quiet in the room. I was writing checks and paying bills after a day of work at WTHR. I was a reporter working for Channel 13 and the big story that fall of 1978 was a series of mysterious explosions in trash bins in the town of Speedway, home of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. So far, no one had been injured, but people were scared. They didn’t know who was doing it and why.

I could barely hear the traffic on the freeway about two blocks from my apartment and, occasionally, I could make out a dog barking, somewhere. Then, there was a muffled boom. I didn’t just hear it, I felt it in the pit of my stomach. It was not a loud boom, but I sat up straight in my dining room chair and froze. It was an explosion and I knew, instinctively, it was another one of the mysterious bombings.

I called the WTHR assignment desk. The night editor had not heard any radio calls, but he promised to check on it. For a moment, I felt the fear we had been talking about during our newscasts. It was an uneasy feeling of being unsafe. Then, my home phone rang again. When I answered, the assignment editor had a different tone. He said, “it was an explosion and this time there are injuries. I need you to go. It’s near your apartment. The police are staging at Speedway High School”. I hung up and ran to get dressed.

I was on the scene in about 15 minutes and it was chaos. Our photographer had not yet arrived, so I parked my car just outside the yellow police tape and headed for a group of people in the parking lot of the high school. Many were crying. They told me a man had picked up a duffle bag left next to his car and it exploded. He was hurt, badly and so was his wife. The freshman football game was over and the parking lot was full of people.

The police were not saying if this “bomb” was connected to the other explosions that had everyone afraid, but there was not doubt what people at the school were thinking. They told me they were terrified. They said they were afraid to let their children play outside. It was terrorism, and no one knew why it was happening.

Carl Delong had his right leg blown off by the blast. He had survived Vietnam, only to face violence just blocks from his own home. The Speedway High School bomb was the last one of the series, but at the time, the people of Speedway didn’t know that. They lived in fear for weeks, wondering when or if another one would explode somewhere.

The rest of this story is a complicated one involving a young man from Indianapolis who was found guilty of setting these explosions as a diversion. Police were closing in on his marijuana smuggling operation and he planted the bombs to try to distract them. Brett Kimberlin was eventually caught, tried and sentenced to prison. I stayed on the story, even traveling to west Texas to see the makeshift airstrip he used to land planes filled with illegal marijuana. He is now free again after serving his sentence in a federal prison.

It was my first taste of what we now call “domestic terrorism”. I heard the bomb go off that quiet, September evening and then I felt the fear of people in Speedway, Indiana wondering if their world would ever be safe again.