No Heavy Lifting

by Rob Simpson

  No way. No freaking way, I thought as I fell back into my seat.

  The next couple of days were a whirlwind for everyone, especially Team Sweden, who partied overnight in Torino, then boarded a plane for a national celebration in Stockholm on Monday. Most of them then had to get back to North America to play for their respective NHL clubs no later than Wednesday, March 1. Many of them actually had a game on Tuesday night.

  Axie and I had a Bruins game to play and broadcast on Wednesday in Carolina. He had an assist in the Bruins 4–3 loss, a blown lead. We chartered home to Boston after the game. I had kind of forgotten about the stick.

  The next day’s morning skate was completely optional, as is often the case before the second of back-to-back games. So I woke up, grabbed my coffee, and made it over to the TD Garden to watch the Atlanta Thrashers skate and pick up some notes on the game.

  After lunch, I ran some errands, changed into a suit, and returned to the rink at about five o’clock. I was standing in the hall outside the NESN studio, across from the Boston dressing room, talking to Bruins defenceman Andrew Alberts. Suddenly, I spotted Axie approaching us from down the hall, carrying a hockey stick. My eyes lit up.

  No way, I’m thinking again.

  “Here’s your stick, Simmer,” Axie said, handing it to me.

  I was speechless, my eyes misty. I fought my emotions and managed to thank him profusely. I grabbed a Sharpie from one of our NESN techs, handed it to P.J., and watched him sign his gold-medal stick.

  ~

  P.J. Axelsson played his last NHL game in the spring of 2009. He retired from pro hockey in 2013 after four seasons with the Frolunda team in Sweden. His left-handed “Made in Mexico” CCM Vector hangs in my office at home.

  This was the call on Swedish TV of Tre Kronor winning gold: “Get the puck out of the ZOOOONE! Jokinen has a great chance! Numminen, shot, YES! Lundqvist. Stand up!

  Another shot! STRONG PLAY by Pebben [Axelsson]. YES!! OH YEAH!!!

  Four, three . . . two . . . one, YES!

  Ladies and gentlemen, Sweden is an Olympic champion in hockey. For the second time in history.”

  The closing seconds on NBC (1:05) found on YouTube: Torino Men’s Hockey Gold

  DUMBASS HAOLE BOY

  Part 1

  “These sexual harassment charges . . . unmitigated lies.”

  U.S. Senator Daniel Inouye, October 1992

  When I left Hawaii for a new set of gigs on the mainland in January 1996, I cried like a baby. I couldn’t help it. As my wife backed out of our driveway on Twelfth Avenue in Kaimuki, the lump in my throat grew to the size of a grapefruit. I tried to be a tough guy in front of her on the ride to the airport, but it was impossible. I teared up intermittently from the time I left the apartment until my flight was thirty minutes out of Honolulu.

  I was kama aina. I was one with the aina. I knew, understood, and grasped the Aloha Spirit. The memories I had, the acquaintances and friendships I had made, and the life experiences gained thanks to residing on the most isolated island chain in the world were irreplaceable.

  Among the many valuable lessons: I learned what it’s like to be a minority. To feel what it was like to be disliked, hated in some cases, discriminated against, and ignored, simply because of the colour of my skin. In Hawaii, whites, or haoles (“how-lees”), are a distinct minority. They’re disliked for a reason, dating back to 1893 when the United States imprisoned Queen Liliuokalani in her own palace and stole the islands.

  I had moments of being discriminated against, and I get it. Tie in the historical equation and it’s even easier to get. Unfortunately, non-locally raised white guys normally don’t. It takes time, education, and growth to understand what makes the locals tick. Elsewhere, white guys are typically the ones doing the discriminating; they’re rarely in a position to be treated as a minority. And they generally don’t get a chance to learn that lesson.

  Over time, I did come to feel welcome, partly because I was on TV. I would eventually become an anchor, first as a weatherman and then as a sports guy. This kind of visibility brought acceptance in this tough, athletic, patriarchal society. Had I been a stockbroker, or a government worker, or any other businessman from the mainland (USA), it would have been dramatically tougher to break through and embrace the true spiritual flavour and tradition of Hawaii.

  When I arrived in Honolulu as a news reporter in November 1991, after a gig in Florida, I was anything but kama aina (“adopted local”). I was completely naïve; the prototypical dumb f’ing haole-boy from the mainland.

  I first realized my lowly status thanks to a cameraman named Peter O’Callaghan, who worked at our station, the CBS affiliate KGMB-TV.

  A week or two after arriving on Oahu, I bought the only car I could really afford, a 1971 Volkswagen Bug, for $600. It didn’t have a paint job; it was essentially the colour of primer, with multicoloured blotches and rust spots, and its front hood (which is the storage compartment on a Beetle) had to be tied down with a shoelace to keep it from flying up and off. The floor in front of the passenger seat had actually rusted through in spots, and you could see the road passing beneath the car. It was beach buggy 101.

  Despite all of the car’s weaknesses, the engine was in tremendous condition. It hummed. Had I been in an accident, it likely would have happened while I was moving along rather nicely. Unfortunately, the car itself would have disintegrated, taking me along with it.

  The cost to insure one’s car in Hawaii has always been ridiculously high, just one example of many filed under “price of paradise.” Had I used a major insurance company such as State Farm or Allstate, I would have paid twice the value of my car each year on insurance. Through a newsroom tip, via the military, I learned about GEICO, which literally stood for Government Employees Insurance Company, but you didn’t have to be a government employee to buy a policy. I had never heard of it and their rates were secretly low. Almost thirty years later, they’re known only by the acronym and have become a national marketing behemoth.

  Lopaka and Lopaka.

  I loved my Bug. I could easily change my own oil — it was like changing the oil on a lawn mower — and I figured if the engine ever fell out, I could run with my feet through the floor and propel it like I was Fred Flintstone.

  O’Callaghan, the rambunctious Irish cameraman, convinced me I should have a name for my car, following an alleged Hawaiian tradition. He also convinced me I should name it Lopaka, or “little smoke.”

  “That’s Lo, as in ‘little,’ in Hawaiian,” he said, “and paka, as in pakalolo [Hawaiian for ‘marijuana’]. See, little smoke,” he finished.

  “Cool,” I replied. “Little Smoke, that’s perfect.”

  This loud and playful conversation took place across the crowded KGMB newsroom.

  A few days later, after making the rounds, bragging about my new car Lopaka, I’d come to learn that Lopaka in Hawaiian actually meant Robert.

  Not only was there no tradition of car naming, I had just named the car after myself.

  This little practical joke was obviously harmless, but not long after, when I crossed paths with the most powerful politician in the archipelago, the fact that I was a dumbass haole boy had much more serious implications.

  The Hawaii Democrats literally owned the state, a political machine so effectively entrenched it would be difficult to imagine duplication. Democrats made up the entire congressional delegation and the party proportions in the state legislature would best be described as a joke. The Republicans generally held two or three senate seats out of two dozen each session, and maybe 10 percent or less of the state house. On occasion, you could throw in a representative from the Green or Libertarian Party.

  At the national level, there was periodic upheaval in Washington, D.C., as the balance of power frequently, and sometimes dramatically, shifted between the Democrats and Republicans in Congress and in the Se
nate, like in 1994 when the GOP took over. But the proportion of Democrats to Republicans in Hawaii rarely saw change. The Democratic domination spanned four decades.

  Among that contingent sat the king — the leader, the demigod, the living embodiment of the Hawaii Democrats in national politics — United States Senator Daniel Inouye (“In-oh-way”). First voted into a D.C. office as a congressman when Hawaii became a state in 1959, he was first elected to the Senate in 1962. Eventually, six years, by six years, by six years, by six years, by six years, by six years, by six years, by six years, by six years, he was re-elected, eventually becoming the second-longest tenured U.S. senator in history.

  It’s no wonder he made a name for himself. He sat in the national limelight during the Senate hearings on Watergate and the Nixon fiasco, and he went on to chair important committees, like the Senate Armed Services.

  At home and around the world, Inouye was a well-respected hero. He grew up the son of Japanese immigrants in the 1920s and 1930s in Honolulu, and while fighting for his family’s adopted country in World War II, he battled valiantly, lost an arm, earned the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart, and later the Medal of Honor for his heroism in fighting the Germans in Italy. He came home, went into politics, and had remained there ever since.

  “Relatively automatic” would best describe Inouye’s re-election chances for November 1992; obviously not an easy hill to climb if you happened to be Inouye’s election opponent.

  Undaunted by Inouye’s credentials, Rick Reed, Republican state senator representing Maui, attempted to climb that hill. Originally a mainland haole, and a former Washington State University defensive back, Reed wore his competitiveness on his sleeve. Apparently, he was fearless and would use whatever means necessary to win.

  ~

  Tuesday, October 13, 1992.

  I had worked at KGMB for just eleven months when the biggest scandal ever to rock Hawaii politics was dropped in my lap. I went from covering a story on a controversial permit for a putt-putt golf course in the morning to covering the biggest political story since statehood.

  I was researching mini-golf legalities when our receptionist, Anita, walked up behind me.

  “Rob, there’s someone here to see you,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Some girl. Says it’s real important,” she answered. “Needs to see you right now.”

  “Never a problem,” I said, standing up, undaunted by the pregnancy innuendos hurled my way by my esteemed colleagues in the newsroom.

  I made my way to the reception area to meet this mystery girl. A thin, almost gaunt, plain-looking woman in her midtwenties nervously introduced herself. Her name was Umeko Walker and she held something in her hands that she insisted I had to see and hear. I led her into a small conference room.

  “No one has sent me. I’m doing this on my own,” she was quick to say.

  (Oddly enough, a few months later in this same conference room, our assignment editor, Brenda, had me sit and listen to another random story, this time from an Australian couple who told me about conditions at a religious commune they had lived at in Waco, Texas. They were heading back home “down under” and stopped in Honolulu to tell their story because they knew of Hawaii residents who lived at the complex in Waco. It was the Branch Davidian compound of David Koresh. We didn’t feel we should cover the story, based mostly on jurisdiction and cost. In 1993, a late-February raid by the U.S. Government led to ten deaths, including four federal agents, and eventually to the siege and fire that killed Koresh and seventy-five of his cohabitants.)

  With that, Walker handed me a couple of cassette tapes and began to describe them. The tapes held secretly recorded conversations between Walker and Dan Inouye’s longtime barber, Lenore Kwock. On tape, Walker interviews Kwock as Kwock describes being sexually molested by the senator. Walker also handed me a transcript of the entire recording.

  My head spun with excitement, then doubt, then

  mistrust.

  Walker denied that she was working for Reed, and insisted on leaving rather quickly, to pass out copies of the tape to the rest of the media. She said she had another tape for me and agreed to bring it, and sit down for an interview the next day. At this point, it was three o’clock. We were approaching deadline and a decision had to be made.

  Bob Jones, the most veteran reporter, managing editor, and interim news director, picked a great time to be out of town and off the islands. That left it up to Jade Moon, former model turned TV reporter and anchor, to make the biggest decision of our careers.

  The tape recordings sounded legitimate. We placed calls to the Reed campaign, the Inouye campaign, and to Kwock’s salon. Both of us leaned towards going with the story, and after just a few minutes of thought, we did. It led the six o’clock news.

  I sat next to Jade on the set and described the situation and played excerpts from the tape. The KGMB audience listened to Lenore Kwock describe being “molested” by Senator Inouye.

  I could feel my adrenaline pumping and could see that Jade’s was also. We had made a huge decision. One that could be career-threatening, if not life-threatening, I really didn’t know.

  We promised more on our late newscast, and I hopped off the set almost breathless. It was the start of a

  sometimes-hellish four weeks.

  The phone calls came pouring in. The Inouye Campaign was in disbelief. Stunned viewers jammed the lines. I couldn’t help but think that somewhere, Rick Reed was laughing deviously.

  After consulting the station’s attorney and having talked to the Inouye camp, our station general manager Dick Grimm, who was every bit his name, pulled the story from the ten o’clock news. I was a little bit pissed off but not surprised. Jade took the decision calmly. It just meant a lot of digging had to be done over the next twenty-four hours.

  The next day, Wednesday, I recorded the only interview ever done with the mysterious Umeko Walker.

  “This is something I did completely on my own,” she reaffirmed. “My own trip, nobody gave me instructions and told me what to do. I just, this is something I felt I had to do. I just feel like it’s an important enough issue, that other women should be forewarned, they should know about Dan Inouye’s history and what he’s done. I feel a deep responsibility to other women, so this doesn’t happen again.”

  By Thursday, her deep responsibility apparently came to an end. Walker fell off the face of the earth. The newspapers and other media outlets tried in vain to find her. We had the only picture, audio, and interview with the “bringer of bad tidings.”

  Her disappearance seemed awfully convenient for Rick Reed, who denied having anything to do with the revelation of the tapes. He claimed the taped conversation was a complete surprise to him as well, that Walker had dropped a copy off at his headquarters on Tuesday.

  However, Reed’s denials became more difficult to swallow as time went by. As it turned out, Walker had allegedly worked for the Reed campaign during the previous summer but had quit over an unknown disagreement. Also, both Walker and Reed had apparent ties to Reed’s Hare Krishna mentor on Maui.

  To get the tapes exposed to the public with the least amount of initial scrutiny, I was the perfect conduit — a novice Hawaii reporter, not well-versed in the political histories of the parties involved. I had interviewed Reed on a few occasions and enjoyed pleasant conversations with him. He knew I was inexperienced in the Hawaii political scene. He also knew the election was in less than a month.

  In order to catch Reed in what appeared each day to be more and more like an intricate scheme, we attempted a little trickery of our own. Three days after the story broke, on Friday, I arranged to meet Reed at a nearby park on the south shore, about three blocks from the TV station. I told him it was to update him on the situation and to get his feelings on the matter, one-on-one.

  I drove there alone in Lopaka, wearing a hidden wireless microphone. We duct ta
ped the microphone’s transmitting unit to the inside of my thigh, inside my pants. A wire ran up my shirt to a small microphone, which was taped to my left shoulder, facing out to the left. When I arrived at Ala Moana Beach Park, I hopped out of Lopaka and sat on the two-foot-high concrete wall that ran along the edge of the roadway. Small waves rolled in and children played on the beach behind me. Our cameraman, Sisto Domingo, sat in his car, parallel parked about fifty yards to my right. His camera sat on his lap, with the attached microphone receiver. When Reed passed in his car, we both activated the audio.

  I sat with a queasy stomach. I pictured getting caught. If he admitted something first, and then saw the microphone, it wouldn’t matter. I could say, “Ha, gotcha,” and walk away. This was legal in Hawaii. But if he caught me first, without having said anything, I’d feel like a diabolical heel not being able to capture the proof I sought. I kind of felt like one anyway.

  Luckily, the candidate parked to my left and sat on my left. I wouldn’t have to switch “seats” as he was talking directly into my left shoulder.

  “How are you holdin’ up?” I asked.

  “Pretty good,” he answered. “It’s really been a bit crazy. I feel bad for Lenore — she’s taking a beating.”

  “Today at noon, she meets the press,” I told him. “At her salon, we’ll get right into it.”

  “Well, it’s bad news, but news people should know about,” Reed responded. He then went on to describe how he would help bring forth the message about sexual assault and its evils. I didn’t know it, but at this point, my mic transmission started to fade out.

  “C’mon man, what’s the deal with Umeko? You guys had nothing to do with this?” I probed, nervous with anticipation.

  Reed would make a statement similar to those he had made publicly earlier in the week.

  “I heard several rumours in the past. I had never heard [Kwock’s] name or the specifics until Tuesday of this past week. And when I listened to this tape when we got it about noon, I was shaken by it and convinced by it.”