Getting Real

by Gretchen Carlson

  In twenty-four hours I was doing a live shot outside the penitentiary, reporting that he was dead, and “for his last meal he requested pizza and chocolate-covered strawberries.”

  A lot of my reporting time was spent on the streets of Richmond, where there was an escalating crime wave during that period. It got to the point where we usually didn’t cover murders unless three or more people died.

  I used to send my mom tapes, and I’d wait anxiously to hear her review. She’d watch them and call me. “You know honey,” she’d say, “it would be just great if you could smile a little more. I’d like the world to see your personality, because you’re funny and you have such a pretty smile.”

  “Mom,” I’d protest, “I’m covering murders. I can’t say three people died with a big smile on my face.”

  She’d sigh. “I just want people to know who you are, because I don’t feel like they’re seeing who you really are deep down.”

  I couldn’t fight her charm offensive. I just said, “Mom, that’s why I’m killing myself, so that one day I can get a morning show where I can be personable. You can come on during the cooking segment and show me how to do it.” I was teasing her, but I thought if she really knew what I was doing in Richmond every day, she’d have a coronary.

  The danger I faced didn’t always come from the streets. Sometimes it was on the inside. One day I went out with a cameraman I didn’t know very well to cover a story in a rural area, quite a distance from the city. Before the interview, he helped me attach my microphone, reaching up under my blouse to clip it to my bra. This was a normal thing. I didn’t think anything of it.

  We did the interview, and then we got back into the car for the long ride back to the station. I was relaxing against the headrest, thinking about the story, when he spoke.

  “How did you like it when I put that microphone under your shirt?” he asked. “I was touching your breasts as I was putting the microphone on.”

  I sat up straight, thinking, “Oh, God.” Suddenly I was terrified. We were in the middle of nowhere and I was in the car with a lunatic. For a moment I actually thought about opening the door and rolling out of the car, like you see in the movies. I wondered how much it would hurt.

  He kept talking in a low, seductive voice about my breasts and his feelings, and I was seriously frightened. I didn’t know what he was going to do. I’d been harassed before, of course, but this was different. It was ominous and scary. When we stopped for gas, I thought about calling the station, thinking it might be a matter of life and death. This was before cell phones. But I got my panic under control and decided against it. I was very conscious of being new to the job and not wanting to be pegged as a troublemaker or a hysteric. I held my emotions in check and continued the painfully long drive back to the station, pressed against the passenger-side door as far as I could physically get from him.

  By the time we got there I was a basket case. I was pale and shaking. The assistant news director immediately saw that something was wrong with me. He pulled me into his office and asked, “What’s wrong with you? What happened?” I said, “Nothing. I’m fine.” I wasn’t, of course. I was terrified. Terrified I would not be believed if I said anything. Terrified that I had joined a profession of predators. Terrified that I would jeopardize my career if I ratted out my harasser.

  But my boss, God bless him, kept pressing me. I really didn’t want to talk about it, but he was extremely intent on making sure I told him what was wrong. I finally caved. It turned out there were other issues with the photographer, and the station let him go. Like so many young women who are the victims of harassment, I worried for months that I had invited his advances in some way—that I had done something wrong, which was not the case.

  In the years since, I have always felt great compassion for women who are caught in the vise of a sexual harassment scandal. Even though we have laws against it and HR departments to handle it, a woman—especially if she is young and just starting out—can never be sure that reporting harassment won’t hurt her career. Had my boss not pressed me to talk about what happened to me, I probably would have said nothing and been alone with my misery and shame. And even then I was worried that people would find out and blame me. I cling to the hope that with more and more women in the workplace, we can teach younger generations to be respectful, and also encourage young women to speak up when they’ve experienced abuse. One positive sign is that many companies provide sexual harassment training to their employees. Mine does. Nobody particularly enjoys going to those training sessions, but they are an important demonstration that the issue is being taken seriously in the corporate world. And, of course, it’s not just women who attend those sessions. Men are a big part of the process. It shouldn’t be solely up to the woman to figure out how to deal with being harassed.

  I believe that the harassment problem will continue to dissipate as a younger generation of men comes into the workforce. I understand this in a personal way. One of the main reasons I feel it is so important for me to have a career is not only to be a good role model for my daughter, but also for my son. Part of putting an end to harassment involves educating boys to be completely accepting of women in the workplace so that they grow into men who model that respect.

  We talk a lot about creating opportunity for women. I believe this conversation is 50 percent about men. It’s not only about women having the confidence to stand up, raise their hands, and sit in the front row, but also about men’s perceptions about women’s capabilities. And that starts when they’re young boys.

  Less than a year after I started at the station, Wayne left to join a regional cable start-up, and he was replaced by a woman named Joyce Reed, who became my first mentor in the news business. There weren’t a lot of women news directors then, but Joyce was a powerhouse. Before coming to Richmond she had been a news director for stations in El Paso, Kansas City, and Springfield, Missouri. Joyce had great physical presence. She was tall and slender, with long curly hair and a strong personality. She was a career woman through and through, divorced with no children. And she had a reputation for being “tough.” A lot of the men in management positions at the station were nervous. There was a whispering campaign that she might fire all the men, which seemed a little silly, but paranoia was high.

  I was excited about Joyce coming in as news director. Tough didn’t scare me. I always liked having a boss who actually paid attention to detail and had high expectations. And she quickly saw how hard I was working and handed me a great opportunity. One day she called me in and announced, “You’re going to be the political reporter now, covering the governor every day.” I was thrilled but scared. The guy who’d been handling the political beat had been doing it for twenty-five years. His Rolodex was a mile long. I would be starting from scratch and I’d have to hit the ground running. Truth be told, most of the political reporters in our state were older white men, so there was extra pressure.

  Maybe Joyce recognized that experience wasn’t the only value—that there was something to be said for sending out someone young and hungry. Maybe she was trying to create more of an edge. Whatever her reasons, I was grateful for the opportunity, and I loved political reporting. But it was hard work because I was under the gun to prove myself and not make too many mistakes.

  At first lawmakers would regularly refer to me as “honey” and “sweetie.” I would politely correct them, saying my name was Gretchen. Eventually they got it. I guess we were learning together—me how to be a political reporter, and them how to work with a woman in what was typically a man’s role.

  In this position I discovered my love of political and investigative reporting. I saw that I would have a chance to dig beneath the surface and discover information no one else knew—to be first with the scoop. It was a rush.

  Without a doubt the biggest political story I covered was a scandal involving Governor Douglas Wilder and Senator Chuck Robb, both of them men w
ith higher political ambitions. It was no secret that Wilder was angling to challenge Robb in the 1994 Senate primary, and the two had an ongoing feud. The ensuing scandal landed in my lap early in my time as a political reporter, when three of Robb’s top aides were fired for allegedly recording Wilder’s phone conversations. A grand jury was empaneled, and every reporter in Virginia, including me, was on the story, trying to get to the bottom of the wiretapping question. As I followed the case, it was more for me than just wanting a scoop that would elevate my position. I found that I loved the investigative process of trying to solve a mystery. It consumed every waking moment. I was cultivating sources in the district attorney’s office and with the FBI, and at one point it looked like it was all going to come together when a guy straight out of the “Deep Throat” playbook contacted me and said he was connected to the person who knew the truth. Not only that, but he was willing to be fitted with a microphone and have a conversation with the source. It was high drama! We met him at a mall in the Richmond suburbs and wired him with all our fancy equipment, and off he went. And we never saw him again. He stole our microphone! One minute I thought I was going to break the case wide open, and the next minute I was left with a red face. In the end, nothing came of the story and it faded from the news.

  Joyce never gave me a hard time about my failure, assuring me that these things happened. I know she saw that special passion in me that makes a good reporter. She trusted me to do a good job and she raised my cachet in the newsroom, especially among those who were suspicious about having a former Miss America in their midst. I always pitched stories at the morning meeting, because pitching stories is the bread and butter of reporting. Joyce would say, “Everyone should be pitching stories like Gretchen.” She helped me build a reputation for seriousness. But I also learned some important lessons about succeeding as a woman. Working hard and being smart were not enough. I had to call on other qualities, like humility and compassion and talking about we, not I. Maybe men don’t feel that same pressure, but for women these qualities are like a secret weapon.

  As I gained more experience, Joyce started tapping me to fill in as an anchor, mostly on the early morning newscast. I was literally a one-woman show—the scriptwriter, the producer, and the anchor. I had to be at the station at 2:30 in the morning. I drove there and let myself into the empty newsroom, where I finalized my scripts for the show and then did my own hair and makeup.

  On air, while delivering the news, I had to run my own teleprompter with my hand. I also timed the broadcast to do the local news cut-ins during the breaks from ABC News and Good Morning America. Thinking back on it, I almost can’t believe that they left everything up to a twenty-three-year-old without having an executive producer on hand. I was terrified most of the time, but I got through it without making any noticeable mistakes.

  After I survived the broadcast, I breathed a sigh of relief, went to McDonald’s, and ordered a big breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and sausage. Then I went home and slept.

  Being in charge of the early morning newscast allowed me to stretch myself to do something outside my comfort zone. Looking back, I see that having big challenges early in your career stays with you so that every time you come up against a new challenge you can pull up the memory and say, “If I could do that, I can do this.”

  • • •

  The fame I achieved as Miss America seemed long past. Now I was striving to make my way in the world. But one man never let go of the image of me as Miss America, and he began a reign of terror that would last for years.

  One day Constantine Kargas showed up at my parents’ house in Anoka. He was a big man, carrying a large black garbage bag with his possessions. My mother and a cleaning lady were alone in the house that day. When Mom answered the door to find this large stranger on the porch, she was polite. “Yes, may I help you?”

  He identified himself and said, “I’m here to pick up your daughter Gretchen.” As Mom gaped at him, he explained that we were leaving together to get married. Mom’s first thought was that she had to call Dad. She asked Kargas to wait and closed the door. Then she called Dad at Main Motors, and he called the police before he rushed home. Mom stayed inside and waited, and she was nervous. She didn’t know if he had a gun. The cleaning lady locked herself in the bathroom. Dad arrived shortly, and he was standing outside the front door with Kargas when the police car arrived. The officers gave Kargas a warning to cease contact and sent him home to Wisconsin on a bus. Since he had no money, my dad even paid for his bus ticket.

  I thought he was one of those weird Miss America superfans, and I didn’t think too much about it until I started receiving letters from him at the station. He wrote about how much he loved me and how we were destined to be together. He wrote that he had everything planned for our life together. The letters were not threatening, but they were creepy. Their tone was overly familiar—as if we had an ongoing relationship where I had professed my love to him too. Now his appearance on my parents’ doorstep took on an ominous cast. One day I happened to notice that the postmark on a letter sent to me at the TV station was Richmond. I felt pure terror. How long would it be until he found out where I lived?

  Around that time my mother visited me, and while we were walking down the street she was mugged and punched by a bunch of teenagers who stole her purse. That was horrifying enough, but when we got back to the apartment I suddenly realized that she had my key in her purse, and it was marked with the name of the apartment complex and my apartment number. I had to move the next day.

  Several months after my mother’s mugging, the Richmond police called with a frightening story. Kargas had been walking down the street in Richmond when he was mugged. In a videotaped interview the police asked him, “Why are you in Richmond?” He said, “I’m here to pick up my friend Gretchen Carlson. We’re going away together.” He told the police that he had moved to Richmond to be near me.

  The police brought the videotape to my apartment, and we sat on the couch and watched it. I was shaking as I saw Kargas’s face and heard him speak for the first time. This was my stalker, and I felt the madness in his calm insistence that we were a couple.

  “What can I do?” I asked the police officers, desperate to find a quick resolution. Unfortunately, there wouldn’t be one. The officers explained that since Kargas hadn’t threatened me, there was not much they could do. They gave me a printout of his face from the video, which the station posted at the security desk. There was little chance he could get to me at work. But what about the rest of my life?

  From then on, every time I received a letter, I looked for a threat, hoping he’d cross a line so we could bust him. But he was smart enough or lucky enough to avoid any language that could be construed as menacing, even though the very nature of his contact was a menace. I had dark visions not just of being killed, but of being kidnapped and whisked away to another destination.

  It’s hard to fully describe the constant fear and sense of helplessness that comes with having a stalker. Every time I received a letter, a paralyzing dread overcame me. It may have been the cost of being in the public eye, but I wondered if the cost would be my life. I was well aware of the story of the actress Rebecca Schaeffer, who was murdered by her stalker in 1989. Robert John Bardo had been stalking Schaeffer for years before he showed up at her door with a gun and shot her in the chest. This story of obsessive love eventually turned into one of obsessive hate, the common pattern of stalkers. After the murder, there was a lot of talk about how it could have been prevented—how Schaeffer might have been protected. But as I found out, there is no easy protection from stalkers. Until someone actually commits a crime, the police can’t take any action.

  I went home for a visit, and Dad wasn’t taking the threat too seriously. Mom said to him, “Do you want your daughter to end up in a box?” I’ll never forget her saying that. We all looked at each other in shock. This was deadly real.

  I was outraged that
there was virtually nothing that could be done to stop Kargas. This was a man I’d never met, had never spoken to, had never encouraged in any way, yet he had insinuated himself into my everyday life. Did I have to be kidnapped or killed for anyone to take action? Could I ever again feel safe? Kargas was clearly mentally ill, but that was no comfort to me. My dad even reached out to his family. His mother said he had been in medical school at Duke when he began his downward spiral. She cried on the phone, “I can’t control him when he doesn’t take his medicine.” Great!

  For a time my parents considered hiring full-time security guards for my apartment in Richmond. But then I received a good job offer from WCPO, the CBS affiliate in Cincinnati, and I moved. It was a great professional opportunity, but I also thought I might escape from my stalker by moving to another city. I was heartsick when I received the first love letter from Kargas shortly after joining WCPO. There would be no escape. In fact, Kargas was obviously getting impatient for us to start our life together. In one letter he announced that our wedding date was scheduled for June 30, 1994, and we would be traveling to Greece for our honeymoon. One day a dozen roses and a box of candy arrived for me at work, and the florist verified that the sender was Kargas. He wasn’t even trying to hide his name. He later called Cincinnati Bell and tried to get my home phone number.

  At this point, law enforcement was taking notice. In Cincinnati, while doing news stories, I became friendly with a prosecutor in the DA’s office, and he was more proactive. He gave me an alarm I could wear around my neck that would call 911 if I pressed it. It was hooked up to my phone and it only worked if I was within one hundred yards of my apartment. The idea was that if I got out of my car and he was there, I could press the alarm and the police would know it was him. But what if he was there with a gun? What if he grabbed me and put me in a car? The alarm was better than nothing, but it didn’t make me feel safe.