Silencing Sam (20 page)

A former station general manager, whom I adored, was once confronted by a shifty car dealer who threatened to pull his ads unless a fraud story about his dealership was killed.

The GM simply told him he wasn't
allowed
to advertise on their air anymore. “Airing your ads would be a disservice to our viewers.”

Back then, there were enough advertisers that a station could take such a stand. And the deep pockets of advertisers funded good journalism. Now, with the economy forcing a media meltdown and two years out from huge political campaign buys, the few remaining advertisers apparently had more clout.

I certainly had less. Although I couldn't be sure how much
of that slump had to do with the economy versus the Sam Pierce scandal. Either way, I was hosed. And Noreen knew it.

I decided to make one last pitch for the monarch migration trip to Mexico. It was visual and uncontroversial.

“It's the kind of good news that our consultant talked about, Noreen. I know viewers would tune in to see that fluttering wall of orange and black.”

Then my boss reminded me about a reality of local TV news. Foreign travel can only be justified on anchor trips. No big budgets for reporters. Just talent. And those days, it had to be a hard-hitting story, like Iraq or Afghanistan.

“So forget the butterflies, Riley. I want an investigative story, and I want it to lead tonight's ten,” Noreen said. “So get busy.”

The assignment was an in-the-face reminder from my boss that the days of long-form news investigations were over. Newsrooms used to brag about how long they spent on an investigation.

((ANCHOR, SOT))

TONIGHT AT TEN, THE

RESULTS OF A SIX-MONTH

CHANNEL 3 INVESTIGATION

INTO HOW FLOOD CARS ARE

MOVED ACROSS STATE

LINES AND RESOLD TO

UNSUSPECTING CONSUMERS.

Time used to mean quality. Now time meant wasted time. Quick-turn stories were where the profession was headed.

So I shuffled back to my office to call sources and see who had something ready to go that Channel 3 could promote as an
investigation.

I got lucky with an email from one of my favorite lunch spots.
The manager of Peter's Grill sent me a photo he had taken with his cell phone. This picture, he claimed, was worth jail time. It showed a man, perhaps in his thirties, having lunch alone.

“He's the dine-and-dash thief,” he wrote with pride.

So far, the restaurant's most famous lunch guest had been President Bill Clinton in 1995, but that could change if this led to an arrest.

I grabbed Malik and headed on over to the restaurant to get some sound. Because few restaurants have surveillance cameras, the manager had discreetly snapped photos during the last two weeks of all solo male diners—the modus operandi of the culinary crook who'd been walking on the check in Minneapolis restaurants. Click. Click. Click.

Finally, one who disappeared without paying his bill.

“He stuck us with a twenty-dollar tab,” he said. “But he picked the wrong place to chew and screw.”

The suspect was clean-shaven, with brown hair, a suit and tie. A briefcase lay on the table across from his plate. He blended in with the hundreds of other businessmen in the downtown skyways each day. That's why the description from previous restaurants had been so vague. But now, armed with a photo, I suspected identification was not far away.

“I'll have to show it to other places where he skipped out,” I said. “Just to see if they recognize him.”

Peter's Grill had already given the picture to the police. So Malik and I swung by the cop shop for verification that they, indeed, considered this man to be a suspect in many of the recent meal thefts.

Over the past month, police had logged more than two dozen restaurant complaints of filched food, from upscale eateries as well as greasy spoons. And they'd already gotten confirmation from three other dining establishments that this was the same walkout guy who'd hit them. The PIO gave me a tip-line number for viewers to call, as well as a nifty sound bite.

“If we have our way,” he said, “the next meal this jerk eats will be jail food.”

This is where television news excels. Broadcast a suspect photo. Promote it during prime time. Wait for the tip calls. Take credit the following day.

((ANCHOR SOT))

TUNE IN TONIGHT AT TEN,

WHEN CHANNEL 3 BREAKS

OPEN THE DINE-AND-DASH

LUNCH CASE WITH AN

EXCLUSIVE PHOTO OF THE

ALLEGED FOOD VILLAIN.

((PETER'S GRILL/SOT))

HE PICKED THE WRONG PLACE

TO CHEW AND SCREW.

No mention was made in the station promotion about the amount of time we'd invested in the story.

Ten minutes before airtime, I found a surprise in the green room when I went to check my hair and makeup before breaking my dine-and-dash exclusive.

Buzz Stolee was primping for a live interview on
Sports Night,
which followed the late news. Apparently he'd been the star player in that day's basketball game with a last-second three-pointer to win.

“Weren't you watching?” he asked.

“I'm afraid I was working.”

“Bummer.”

We both stood in front of the Hollywood mirror, fixing our hair. Buzz had to scrunch down a little because of his height. I considered leaving, but I didn't want him to think he unnerved me. And I was still hoping he might let something incriminating slip about Sam.

“Hey, can just anyone write their name on this wall?” he asked.

“Anyone who's a guest on our air,” I replied.

So he did. With his jersey number next to it. One more autograph for posterity on the pristine green room wall.

Apparently Buzz had been talking with the Channel 3 sports
team about our encounter the other night. And they'd assured him that hitting on me was worth his while by clarifying the definition of a reporter-source relationship.

“You see, you and me, babe, we aren't working on a story together,” he said. “So I'm not your source. So we could do a little messing around, and you wouldn't get fired.”

He smiled and nodded as if glad to have cleared up that business for me. “So you stick around until after
Sports Night,
we can pick up where we left off.” And just in case I'd forgotten, he grasped his crotch.

“A wink would have been enough, Buzz.”

“Okay then, meet you back here later.” He winked. “See, I can please a lady.”

“I'm sorry, but I already have plans tonight.”

“Course you do, so do I. I'm the team hero. Groupies are waiting for me.”

He then shared his philosophy of plans being made to be broken when something better comes along. He seemed to think that would flatter me.

So I owned up that I was Seeing Someone Special, even though Garnett and I were still on the skids. “And I sort of have a policy, Buzz, of not socializing with celebrities, because you could become news at the drop of your pants. And that could be awkward.”

“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice, “if this is about my … you know. I say we settle things here and now.” He shut the green room door and glanced over at the couch.

“There's nothing to settle, Buzz.” I glanced at my watch. “I'm four minutes from airing my restaurant rustler story. The floor director's probably looking to mic me now.”

“Oh, I get it. You don't want to be rushed.” He winked again.

“No. I don't want to be alone with you. You and me are never going to happen. End of story.”

Buzz looked disturbed. “Endings can be tricky. Sometimes fans think a game is over and leave early. Then the game turns.” He bent down so we were eye to eye. His gaze made me anxious. “You and me are just getting started. Certainly too soon to be talking about ending anything.”

I tried pushing past him to get to the door. But he pivoted and guarded it like we were on a basketball court and my escape path led to the hoop.

“Knock it off, Buzz. I have to get to the set.”

He pretended to be shooting a layup as he continued to block the door with his wide reach. “The buzzer hasn't sounded yet, we got plenty of time.”

I didn't answer, just tried acting bored.

“Get it? BUZZer,” he said.

Because of our proximity to a live television newscast, I wasn't afraid for my life, but I was starting to fear Buzz. Some jocks have a sense of entitlement that comes from sold-out arenas.

“I bet you'd cheer when the BUZZer sounds.” He pressed up against me in what surely would be called a foul.

I weighed whether to kick his shin or knee him in the groin but decided the latter contact would only encourage him to think I was interested in touching that part of his body. Just as I kicked, the door opened and slammed him from behind.

Buzz swore, crunched over, and looked down at Clay Burrel's cowboy boots.

“You two aces okay in here?” Clay asked. “I was just fixin' to check my face.”

“I'm heading to the studio,” I said. “Take all the time you need.”

And as I left, I heard Clay give Buzz a high five and congratulate him on his game-winning shot.

After finishing my set piece, I headed past the assignment desk, the back way to my office, to avoid any lurking sports
guests. On the way, I stopped to thank Clay for his timely intervention.

“The guy's a jerk, and I was glad to get out of there,” I said.

Apparently the simple curiosity of a newshound made him open the green room door. “Never seen it closed before. Wondered what I was missing out on.”

So that night I decided to let first impressions be bygones, be friends with Clay Burrel, and stop trying to steal his headless homicide story. After all, we were both part of the Channel 3 family.

I even offered to buy him a drink, but he declined because he was already going out for a beer with Buzz.

“Sorry, little lady.” Clay smiled as he pressed his index finger against my forehead. “But he asked me first.”

I decided to forget being friends with Clay. Who needed him, anyway? Noreen was thrilled with my dine-and-dash story. So were the police.

Before the newscast even signed off, they'd received half a dozen calls, all claiming to know the identity of the meal moocher. And the best part was they all gave the same name.

John Borgeson was picked up that night and taken to jail.

I got his mug shot in time for the morning news the next day, then did a noon-news interview with a neighbor who described him as a quiet man who had kept to himself after losing his job as a bank loan officer a few months earlier.

A couple of the tipsters were former coworkers of his; others recalled him answering employment ads for their company. Apparently, whenever Borgeson had a job interview downtown, he would steal a meal, purloin sirloin, take steak … I had fun with the script, and viewers called in with more suggestions. David Letterman even included a joke in his late-night monologue.

Noreen gave me an I Told You So lecture. “See, Riley, it doesn't have to take weeks or months to produce top investigations. Let's hit the streets and find some more like this.”

I didn't want to get into what would only be a pointless discussion about journalism's role in “serving the public,” working for the “greater good,” and being a “voice for the voiceless.”

I just nodded and told her I'd do my best. And said a silent prayer that the news profession didn't completely lose its swagger before going bust.

((RILEY, LIVE))

CHANNEL THREE HAS LEARNED

THAT THE MAN KILLED IN THE

WIND FARM EXPLOSION IS ON

THE TERRORIST WATCH LIST.

With one connection, the blown-up body by the wind turbines became a major news story. Enough of the man's remains remained to match his fingerprints to a name on a terrorist watch list.

Authorities released a photo of Lucas Harlan, the dead bomber, taken from an old passport or driver's license. Dark eyes. Bald head. Couldn't tell if it was natural or shaved. None of the farmers I spoke to recognized him. Yet something seemed familiar.

He was an American citizen, thus a domestic terrorist. But he'd also been tagged because he'd traveled to the Middle East about a decade ago and participated in what was now suspected of being a terrorist training camp.

He'd moved around the United States, never staying anywhere long. He often worked temporary office jobs, keeping
under the radar. The Department of Homeland Security was asking anyone with information about the bomber to contact them.

Nick Garnett was on the case, handling questions at a news conference open to all media. I was disappointed not to get a one-on-one interview. He was introduced at the podium by Mr. FBI Guy, who summed up the importance of Operation Aeolus.

((GARNETT/CU))

OUR BEST EVIDENCE THAT

LUCAS HARLAN WAS A

TERRORIST IS HIS DEATH BY A

CELL PHONE BOMB …

NORMAL EVERYDAY

FOLKS DON'T TEND TO BLOW

THEMSELVES UP.

WHETHER HE HAD

ACCOMPLICES … REMAINS

UNDER INVESTIGATION.

The farmers were anxious, and I could understand why. Located in America's flyover land, they'd never had big trouble before because they'd never had anything anyone wanted before. Now, because wind is a valuable resource, they felt like targets. All their bluster about fighting off Islamic extremists was gone.

Some told the wind company they wanted out. But Wide Open Spaces said it was too late. They had signed contracts. They had spinning turbines. They wanted their electricity.

Until now, the wind farm owners had given me the brush-off when it came to doing a sit-down camera interview. All I'd gotten was some walking video of them on-site and a short sound bite saying they were cooperating with the authorities in the investigation of the explosions. But now, with a feeling of mutiny in the wind, they wanted to come across as in charge. So they invited me to tour Wide Open Spaces headquarters.