Grievances

by Mark Ethridge

  3) Get the key stuff up high. (When a story comes out longer than an editor has planned for, the people in production don’t read the stories to carefully edit the material to fit. They cut from the bottom.)

  Plus, I adhered to two rules I developed on my own: 1) Use exclamation points sparingly. 2) Adverbs are not your friend.

  At 3:00 p.m., the first page read:

  By Matt Harper and Ronald L. Bullock

  Charlotte Times Staff Writers

  Hirtsboro, SC—Police investigating the killing of a black teenager following civil unrest here failed to question a Ku Klux Klan member who operated a store near where the shooting occurred.

  The store had been firebombed during the protests. The operator had been convicted of beating a black civil rights marcher in another incident.

  Wallace Sampson was shot in the head shortly after midnight on May 5 almost 20 years ago. He was taken by Hirtsboro ambulance to the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston where he was pronounced dead.

  No one has ever been charged in the shooting.

  The shooting happened near a grocery store that had been firebombed the previous night. Store operator Raeford Watson, a former Grand Dragon of the South Carolina Ku Klux Kan, was convicted and served time in prison in a separate case where he was accused of beating and severely injuring a civil rights marcher following a protest in Columbia.

  During a two-week investigation, Charlotte Times reporters reviewed police records and interviewed people in Hirtsboro familiar with the case. Among the people the Times interviewed was Olen Pennegar Sr., the Hirtsboro policeman who responded to the killing.

  Pennegar, now retired, confirmed he did not interview Raeford Watson about the case, even though Watson had a prior civil rights conviction and operated a neighborhood store, called De Sto, which had been the target of the firebomb attack the previous night.

  Watson has since died. De Sto is closed.

  The story went on from there.

  “Okay,” Bullock said. “Let’s show it to Walker.”

  It was 3:00 p.m. The press start for the first edition was just seven hours off and the newsroom was starting to come alive. Reporters and their editors huddled around terminals, haggling loudly about words and deadlines. In the aisles, editors from different sections bartered over the placement of stories and pictures. In the middle of it all, the assistant managing editors, the merchants of the newsroom’s most valuable commodity—space in the paper—held council amidst much waving and shouting. It was a big day in national news, I heard. More pages would need to be allocated there. Features was slow. They could give up some pages. The whole scene reminded me of a Middle Eastern bazaar.

  Yellow legal pad in hand, Walker Burns floated from cluster to cluster, a trail of supplicants in his wake, all begging for a moment of his time. He slipped into my cubicle and Bullock stood guard.

  “Let’s see how you two cowboys have been spendin’ the stockholders’ money,” he said as he settled into my chair and hunched over the terminal. “The byline’s good.”

  “Very funny,” Bullock said. “Just read the damn thing.” We hovered over Walker’s shoulder, reading silently along with him. I read to the bottom three times waiting for Walker to say something.

  “Whatcha think?” I finally demanded.

  “Pardner, I ain’t done yet,” Walker said in frustration. “I gotta move my lips when I read.” He put a little asterisk at the end of the second paragraph.

  “What’s that about?” Bullock asked.

  “I’ll tell ya’ when I’m done.” Walker made another mark at the end of the paragraph about Pennegar failing to question Raeford Watson.

  After what seemed like forever, Walker pushed back from the screen. “Well,” he said, “I ain’t exactly bookin’ my ticket to the Pulitzer Prize awards ceremony yet, but it’s a start.”

  Coming from Walker, that was high praise. Bullock and I beamed.

  “So we’re on for the weekend?” I asked.

  “We got some ground to cover. But if we saddle up and ride hard, yeah. I believe we can get there.”

  Bullock’s face fell. “What do you mean we got some ground to cover? The story’s good. It’s all there.”

  “Fix the lede,” Walker said. “Make it ‘never bothered to investigate’ instead of ‘failed to question.’ It’s longer but it’s stronger.”

  Everyone who edits a story feels like he or she needs to change something but in this case, Walker was right. “Okay,” I said.

  “Your fourth paragraph is weak,” Walker continued. “You got all the facts but there’s no outrage. A thirteen-year-old kid is dead, for God’s sake. The cops don’t care. We’re upset about it. We’re pissed off.”

  He turned to the computer and killed our sentence that began, “No one has ever been charged in the shooting.” He substituted: “Almost twenty years later, the killing remains uninvestigated, unsolved, and unpunished.”

  He pushed back from the screen, looking pleased. “Not bad, if I say so myself. Couple more questions. Did the store that got firebombed burn up or what? Clarify that.”

  I made a note in my notebook.

  “The other thing is, you really point the finger at this Raeford Watson fella. It sounds like he’s the killer but I don’t know if we can be that strong. I mean the ol’ boy’s not around to defend himself.”

  “Or to sue for libel,” Bullock pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Walker mused. “But I’m not sure it’s fair.”

  “Why not?” Bullock argued. “He had motivation and he was in the Klan. We know this guy was no angel.”

  “Did the police ever consider him a suspect?” Walker asked. “It would be even better to say in the lede that police never bothered to interview a suspect who was a Klansman with a history of racial violence.”

  “We don’t know,” I admitted. “The old cop could barely talk. Wasn’t much of an interview.”

  “We can say he was a possible suspect,” Bullock pointed out. “I mean, he’d have to be.”

  “Have we tried to talk to any of his relatives?” Walker asked. “His widow or his kids? We need something in this story that defends this guy.”

  I was beginning to see his point. “Something like I don’t believe my husband would have done such a thing?” I offered.

  “That’s it,” Walker said. “We’ve got a good story about the failure of police to investigate. But it needs an edit and there are still a few holes. Plus, we may have a good idea who done it, but we ain’t solved the murder. And we need to keep on the trail until we do.”

  “We ought to be able to find out when Watson died,” Bullock said. “His obituary should give us survivors. We got all Friday to chase it down.”

  “We can fix the store thing in a heartbeat,” I said.

  Walker started toward his desk. “Plug the holes and we’re golden. It doesn’t solve the murder but it’s a good story. And with any luck, it will shake loose some more leads.”

  “Are you gonna pitch it in the front-page weekend meeting?” I asked.

  “Hell, yes. The top of the front page.”

  The Sunday paper is the biggest of the week by every measure that counts and the perfect place to showcase stories like the one Bullock and I were set to deliver. During the week, the Charlotte Times sells maybe two hundred thirty thousand copies a day. On Sunday, that figure zooms to more than three hundred thousand, boosted by readers who want the color comics, the TV Book, and once-a-week features like the Book section. More readers mean more advertisers and that means more sections and more pages. More pages mean more space for stories—necessary for showcasing investigations like the Wallace Sampson story. Plus, on Sundays, the theory goes, readers have more time to spend reading.

  Even the corporate bean-counters liked Sunday blockbusters. They sold papers—at one dollar ins
tead of the usual twenty-five cents—and the best ones, the “Holy Shit, Mabel” ones, could convert occasional readers into everyday readers.

  Because of the Sunday paper’s importance, the Thursday afternoon meeting where the Sunday front page was planned was one of the only occasions when members of the news side and the business side of the Charlotte Times met to talk about content. The pressroom needed to know how many pages and copies to print. That couldn’t be determined until the circulation department estimated how many single copies it might sell. And the circulation department wouldn’t estimate single copy sales until it knew something about the front-page content.

  Today, the meeting was scheduled for one of the corner conference rooms. From his desk, Bullock and I could see Walker spreading photos on the conference table. “Why is the E.B. in there?” Bullock asked.

  “The E.B?”

  “That new chick they hired from the TV station. She’s one eager beaver.”

  “She’s in there?” I struggled to see but front-page editor Carmela Cruz shooed in late arrivals like a mother hen with chicks and closed the door.

  That night, nervous excitement kept me awake. The next day was Friday, the last day of our two-week sniff, and the first Wallace Sampson story was in the bag. A major investigative story, headed for the front page. No question, it would buy us more time to pursue our reporting. Over and over in my mind I polished the lede and rearranged the paragraphs until I fell into a fitful sleep. When I awoke, I couldn’t wait to get to work.

  When I arrived Bullock was already in his cubicle tracking down the relatives of Raeford Watson for comment, a mini tape recorder attached to the handset with a suction cup. He crooked his thick, sunburned neck to hold the receiver and his stubby fingers pushed the buttons fast and hard, as if force would make the electric impulses move even faster. I snapped on my computer and settled down to polish our prose and input Walker’s changes.

  By late morning, Bullock had located a phone number for Raeford Watson’s widow in Sumter and had left a message on her answering machine. I had finished the rewrite, the top three paragraphs of which now read:

  By Matt Harper and Ronald L. Bullock

  Charlotte Times Staff Writers

  Hirtsboro, SC—Police investigating the killing of a black teenager following racial unrest here never bothered to investigate a potential suspect—a Ku Klux Klan official who had been convicted of beating a black civil rights marcher.

  The shooting happened near a store operated by the Klan official. The store had been subject to firebomb attack during the unrest.

  Wallace Sampson was shot in the head shortly after midnight on May 5. He was taken by Hirtsboro ambulance to the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston where he was pronounced dead.

  Almost 20 years later, the murder remains uninvestigated, unsolved and unpunished.

  “Wow. That’s strong,” Bullock said when he had read it. “Some of that Lucas Harper talent found its way to you after all.”

  We went through the story line by line, leaving a spot for a comment from Raeford Watson’s widow. If we didn’t get one, we’d simply add a line that said she couldn’t be reached.

  It was after lunch before Walker came by to give the story a final edit. Bullock paced and I was killing time talking to the receptionist when the publisher pushed through the double doors and into the newsroom. My stomach dropped.

  The best publishers are ones that come out of the editorial side but ours didn’t. Warren Reich had made his name in advertising. Even though he was now head of the whole enterprise, he was still all about revenue and profit. Nothing could be further from the thoughts of journalists. Having a publisher in the newsroom was seldom good.

  If your name is on his cut list, it’s even worse. Please, I prayed, just let it be a request to do an obit on another fatcat businessman.

  Reich spotted Walker in my cubicle and headed for him. I followed, my heart pounding.

  “Hirtsboro, South Caro-fucking-lina? Where the hell is that?” Reich stood with his arms folded. Walker had gotten out of my chair to face him. Our story glowed on the screen.

  “Down by the Savannah River,” Walker answered calmly. “It used to be in our circulation area.”

  “Well, it’s not now. Jesus, I couldn’t believe it when I saw the rack card. The name of the newspaper is the Charlotte Times,” Reich steamed, emphasizing “Charlotte.” “Not South Carolina. Charlotte. How long did we spend on this thing?”

  “Not long. A couple weeks.”

  Reich stared at the screen. “Both reporters? Two weeks each?” He looked at me. “Piss-poor productivity.”

  “It’s a helluva story,” Walker said. “It’s gonna make some waves. It’ll sell newspapers.”

  “Sure,” Reich said. “In places none of our advertisers care about. Two weeks at what? Six hundred dollars per week each.”

  Actually, it was a bit more than that but Walker said, “Yeah.”

  “Plus, hotel, food, mileage,” Reich groaned. “Hell, this is going to be a two thousand dollar story.”

  “We stayed for free,” I interrupted. Walker and Reich turned around. “We hardly spent a dime.” I made a mental note not to expense the strolling violinists from our celebratory dinner.

  Reich tried a different tack, as if we were all now on the same side. He leaned close to Walker and said loud enough for me to hear, “Look, I know better than to mix business and editorial but the governor called to warn me about this story.”

  Walker was startled. “The South Carolina governor?”

  Reich looked around conspiratorially. “I contributed to his campaign. You three aren’t the only guys with sources. The governor says your guy Bradford Hall is a fruitcake. The governor shoots birds with his old man. Stand-up guy, apparently, but the kid’s another story.”

  I winced.

  “So the governor called you,” Walker said.

  “Given the problems with the public works story, he said he didn’t want us to look bad again. Said he owed the newspaper because we endorsed him last time around. Sounds to me like you need to double check your sources.”

  “We have no sources,” Walker pointed out. “Everything we have, we have directly. We’ve seen the police report, we interviewed the officer, and we’re relying on our own stories for the background on Raeford Watson.”

  He looked at me and I nodded. “Besides, we know all about the problems between Brad Hall and his father. The issue isn’t all Brad, believe me.”

  Reich was smart enough not to antagonize a reporter and an editor in the middle of the newsroom. “What’s done is done,” he pronounced. “But you damn well better be right.” He looked directly at me. “I will not have this newspaper embarrassed again.”

  Reich started to leave. “From now on, let’s stick to stories that have something to do with the lives of our readers.”

  “That’s what we try to do,” Walker said softly. By then Reich was twenty feet away. He stopped in his path.

  “You can put that South Carolina story on the front page for the early editions,” he called back over his shoulder. “But see if you can find something closer to home to replace it later. I want something local for the city edition.”

  Walker watched him until he disappeared through the swinging doors. “You know what the sad part is? If this paper ever did get noticed for an investigation, that asshole would be the first one to take the credit.”

  By 5:00 p.m., Bullock hadn’t heard from Mrs. Watson and we felt safe in packing it in. We agreed to try her again tomorrow, but beyond that, we were done. I was exhausted but already looking forward to coming to work Monday morning to receive pats on the back from my colleagues and even some new leads that the story might generate.

  The Sampson story was a big investigative piece and even if it wasn’t exactly a home run, at least we were on base.
Walker had assured me that Reich was just having a bad day and that we’d get more time to pursue the investigation. And with luck, I’d soon be off the Cut List and maybe even on the projects team full-time.

  I considered calling Mrs. Sampson but rejected the idea. Better to wait until the story had hit and then keep the ball rolling with a follow-up story on her reaction. Without knowing exactly why, I dialed Delana Calhoun, the one person I could trust enough to violate my own Cardinal Rule: Don’t tell anyone a story is going to be in the paper until the press actually starts. There was no answer so I left a message. “Buy the Sunday paper,” I said, then joked, “When we win the Pulitzer Prize, you can say you knew me when.”

  Before I left I phoned Brad. I knew he’d be as excited as I was.

  “It’s good you called,” he said. “I went back to Town Hall on Thursday to go through the last of the files. I found one more of interest.”

  “What’s that?” I asked uneasily.

  “Not long after he reported the firebomb, Raeford Watson suffered a heart attack at De Sto. Olen Pennegar drove Watson to the hospital in Charleston.”

  I felt my stomach sink. The implications of Raeford Watson suffering a heart attack and being taken to the hospital only hours before the shooting of Wallace Sampson threatened to torpedo our story which suggested he should have been regarded as a suspect. Watson would have had to have been one helluva marksman to shoot Wallace Sampson from his hospital bed in Charleston one hundred miles away. I entertained the hope that possibly Watson had been diagnosed only with indigestion, had been released and, still seething at the attack on his property, had returned to Hirtsboro.

  My theory was dashed when a glum-faced Bullock stumbled into my cubicle.

  “We’re screwed,” he said. “Mrs. Watson called back. She says she remembers the day well. Her husband was so upset by the firebomb attack that he suffered a heart attack.”

  “I know,” I said. “Brad found the police report.”