Police and FBI agents, some with guns drawn, scurried around the parking lot of a Minneapolis convenience store late one afternoon just before Christmas 1986. They were in the midst of a drug bust following a lengthy undercover investigation.

Dispatchers at WCCO-TV and the Star Tribune heard the police radio traffic and sent crews to the scene. To WCCO photographer Gary Feblowitz and Star Tribune photographer Tom Sweeney, it was the stuff of spot news: a routine event worth twenty seconds on the evening news or a picture inside the morning newspaper.

"Give up your camera or you’re going to jail," an agent told Feblowitz at the scene. He had little choice but to comply. The FBI also took Sweeney’s camera and film.

The routine story suddenly turned into a major constitutional confrontation between the media and federal law enforcement.

I was assignment editor the night the cameras were taken. The first I heard of the story was a report that Feblowitz was being "hassled" by police at the scene. Moments later, he radioed that the FBI had taken his camera, an unprecedented action in the Twin Cities.

For years we had operated under a "gentlemen’s agreement" to avoid identifying undercover agents whenever such identification would threaten the life of the agent. That night, we later learned, the suspects in the drug bust had allegedly put out a murder contract on one of the agents. Had the FBI tried to make an agreement about masking the agents’ identities, we would have cooperated.

The twenty-second story on a routine drug bust was now part of a two-minute piece on how the FBI had trampled on our First Amendment rights. And in our haste to get the story on the air, we may have bargained away some of our journalistic prerogatives and violated our most cherished standards.

My main objective was to get our tape back for the 10 p.m. news, now less than four hours away. We called the Minneapolis police, the FBI, the federal Drug Enforcement Administration and the U. S. Attorney’s Office.

Less than an hour and a half to air time, an assistant U. S. attorney returned our calls with an offer. With our lawyer on one extension and me on the other, we negotiated for the release of our tape. The prosecutor said he would give it back if we allowed federal agents to watch us edit the story to ensure that we did not show the pictures of any undercover agents. He also wanted us to return the tape to him so that we didn’t inadvertently use their pictures later.

We said "yes" to the agents coming over and "no" to giving back the tape. We had a deal, an uncomfortable one at best. We now faced an ethical dilemma. We’d never let agents into the editing room before, but we reasoned that we wouldn’t show undercover agents’ pictures anyway so there was no harm. We may have been wrong.

Twenty minutes later, and one hour to air time, three law enforcement agents a DEA agent, a county sheriff’s deputy and an assistant U. S. attorney walked into the newsroom carrying our camera and tape. A very unlikely mini-cam crew.

The atmosphere in the editing room was tense. There were several arguments. The agents contended that virtually any officer not in uniform was undercover.

At three minutes before the 10 p.m. news, our editor completed the piece, electronically masking any undercover agents. (A similar scenario took place at the Star Tribune where federal agents examined negatives. Editors decided, however, that no picture was worth running).

Looking back, I’m not at all sure that the compromise we made with the federal authorities was worth it. We had little choice if we wanted to get our tape back, but we may have set a bad precedent of allowing government influence in the editing process. Early in the negotiations, the idea of agents in the newsroom seemed far less onerous than it turned out to be. By the time they arrived, the agents acted as though they were in charge of the story.

Immediately after the incident we tried unsuccessfully to get the U. S. attorney’s office and the FBI to say they wouldn’t take our cameras again. We were concerned that local police agencies would follow the lead of their federal brethren and try to prevent us from covering news events in public places. Although the FBI argued that the 1986 confiscation was a one-time incident unlikely to be repeated, we did, in fact, have problems with several local police agencies in the following months.

Ultimately, we filed suit in federal court to get a definitive ruling on our rights at news scenes. So far U. S. District Judge Donald Alsop has sided with us and the Justice Department has not appealed.

Our court fight, despite the length and cost, has been worth it. But a better solution, obviously, would be media and law enforcement cooperation during tense, fast-breaking news events. The time to make agreements is before or during the event, not afterward in the editing room.

I’d suggest that other stations and newspapers take a hard look at their own policies and what they’d do to avoid federal intrusion in their newsroom. And I’d suggest that journalists consider whether there are some cases in which the principle is more important than airing or publishing the story.

I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach the night federal agents were in our editing room. I don’t want to feel that way again.

He was dubbed the "Canal Killer," and in the summer of 1975 in South Florida this faceless murderer grabbed the headlines. The deaths attributed to him also touched off a classic confrontation between police and reporters on whether a story would compromise attempts to catch the killer, now believed by investigators to have been the serial murderer Theodore Bundy.

Beginning in June the bodies of six young women surfaced in or along drainage canals in Dade and Broward counties; speculation was rampant the deaths were related. Two victims were sexually mutilated so badly the medical examiner’s office said the murderer was similar to "Jack the Ripper."

At the time I was a reporter with the now-defunct Miami News. I was asked to join another staffer, Rick Abrams, to search for links between the killings.

For several days, we visited murder scenes looking for witnesses, clues, anything that would shed light on the deaths. One clue was a victim’s car found with a flat tire. Eventually, we learned another victim’s car also had a flat tire. Both vehicles were parked in shopping centers.

Focusing on this information, we worked out a scenario for those two killings; the killer flattened a tire on the car of a victim and awaited her return. He then offered help to get it fixed. We didn’t know that police had worked out a similar scenario and located a possible witness.

According to Ralph Page, spokesperson at the time for the Dade County Public Safety Department, the witness was approached by a man when she had a flat tire on her car. He "made the hair stand up on the back of her neck," said Page.

Fearful for her safety, she fled. But she provided a partial description of a man that investigators hoped might lead to a suspect or help snare someone in stakeouts at shopping centers. Police had not publicized that incident.

Rick and I knew we had a story. We also believed that if we published it the killer’s ruse would be unworkable; no one would accept help from a stranger to fix a flat. The killer would be forced to invent another scheme to attract victims. When we asked police for comment, Page asked us to hold the story and argued that publication would jeopardize efforts to catch the killer since he would change tactics.

Though we did not know it, Page, now a television reporter, sought permission from supervisors to tell us of the possible witness. Ironically, the witness’ observations had nothing to do with the case, according to Capt. Marshall Frank, who was then a homicide investigator on the case.

What to do?

It was a tough choice. The police argued that they had a good chance of catching the killer, but declined to say why. We believed the public was better served knowing the killer’s methods.

In addition, Rick and I and our editors faced the "what if" questions. What if we didn’t report the story and a woman was killed in the ensuing days? What if we ran the story and ruined any chance the police had of catching the killer?

We decided to run the story. Faced with that decision, police confirmed the connection between the two killings, quickly making it common knowledge.

And the killings? As far as anyone knows, they stopped; no one else was abducted by a man offering help for a flat tire. Though five or six young women were murdered in the area in the following six months, none appeared related to the canal killings. The canal murders remain unsolved and it’s unclear whether we compromised a promising police investigation.

"There’s a chance that (you) did," says Page, who believes the murderer was Bundy, who was executed on Jan. 24 for the 1978 slayings of two sorority sisters in Tallahassee and a 12-year-old girl. But those were well after the Dade County authorities thought they had a chance to catch the canal killer.

Capt. Frank also speculates that the canal killer was Bundy because those murders "were his MO (method of operation) entirely." He says Bundy may have killed over 100 women, and says the halt in the murders after Bundy’s arrest in August 1975 strengthens the contention that Bundy was the Canal Killer. Still, Frank says, it’s "entirely conjecture."

Frank tried to question Bundy but the convicted killer refused to him.

It’s unclear whether our decision was a good one, whether it saved lives or merely forced a killer to new killing fields. But the story illustrates the difficulties faced by journalists caught between the public’s right to know and the sometimes legitimate need of officials for secrecy.

Page believes he could have persuaded us to hold the story if he had been allowed by police to fill us in on what they knew, why police believed their stakeouts of shopping centers would catch the quarry. I wonder if he’s right, particularly in light of the belief that it was Bundy.

On the other hand, if we had not insisted on reporting the story and another young woman’s body had surfaced in one of Dade or Broward’s muddy canals, I think I would have felt like an accessory to murder.

When George Bush came to Owensboro, Ky., in late September 1988, thousands of people turned out to see him. One of them was carrying a gun.

Two days after Bush left, someone mailed a letter from Owensboro to the White House. The writer warned: "Either Bush drops out of the presidential race or I will kill him."

Three photographs from the Bush rally accompanied the letter. The writer made a chilling point: "At the time I was taking these pictures, I had a .45 pistol concealed in my belt. I could have easily pulled the pistol out and killed him where he was."

About a week after President Reagan received the letter, Daviess County Sheriff John Bouvier came to our offices and met with City/Sports Editor Gene Abell.

The conversation went something like this:

Bouvier: I need your help on something, and you can’t print anything about it.

Abell: If I can’t print it, don’t tell me about it.

Bouvier: You have to help me on this, and you just can’t print it.

Abell: Look, it’s our policy not to go off the record with anyone. Can you at least give me some IDEA of what this is about?

With that, Bouvier simply handed Abell the letter. That was that; the letter WAS the story and so much for our policy. We were privy to the story without really wanting to be.

Now that we were "in on it," Bouvier told Abell that the Secret Service wanted our help. Using the three snapshots that had accompanied the letter, federal agents thought they had figured out precisely where the suspect was standing. All they needed was a photo of the crowd to see whether they could isolate their suspect.

Now what? Do we show them our film? Do we insist on a subpoena?

Abell tracked me down at an editors’ conference in Lexington, Ky. We talked, we worried, we rationalized. We told each other and ourselves that this was a matter of national security, a matter of life and death for the vice president. Abell also reported the developments to John Hager, the Messenger-Inquirer’s editor and co-publisher.

That day, we decided to allow the Secret Service to review our slides, in the presence of David Cooper, the paper’s director of photography. We also decided that we would not write a story. We reasoned that we wouldn’t have known about the letter if the sheriff hadn’t dropped it into our laps.

For the next seven days, our newspaper – and other newspapers and television stations – cooperated in the Secret Service investigation of the death threat.

As each day passed, however, we became more and more uneasy as we asked ourselves some basic questions: Is this news? If it is, why aren’t we treating it that way? If we do, can we answer some sticky ethical questions? Such as:

• Was this truly a story? Death threats against the president rarely get much attention. Some papers, I’ve heard, refuse to print such stories, for a variety of good reasons.
• Even if it was a story, we wouldn’t have known about it if the authorities hadn’t told us about it. Did that matter?
• Both the sheriff and the federal agents insisted that publication would hamper and perhaps wreck their investigation.
• The Secret Service told us, most passionately, that publication of this story could bring about Bush’s assassination by somehow goading an obviously unbalanced suspect into action.
• The authorities argued, too, that they had solicited similar cooperation from newspapers and television stations throughout the area. Everyone else was cooperating fully, they said, why won’t you?

Such compelling arguments left me bewildered.

John Hager and I both called friends and associates in the business. We got some conflicting ideas, but the best advice I received came from a journalism professor and from the managing editor of a southern newspaper. Their message was: Our job is to write and print stories in timely and responsible fashion, not to assist in criminal investigations, nor to anticipate the actions of madmen. If publication hampered the investigation, that wasn’t really the newspaper’s problem, they said.

We decided to prepare a story, although we hadn’t decided to print it. By then, the paper had developed its own sources. We learned, for example, that federal agents had interviewed local photo finishers to find out who had printed the suspect’s pictures. Officers also had interviewed a variety of private citizens who had taken pictures at the Bush rally, including high school yearbook photographers.

Reporter Dan Heckel asked various authorities for comment.

Sheriff Bouvier was vehement. David Ray, Secret Service special agent in charge of Kentucky, was angry. "I just hope it doesn’t cost anyone their life," he said.

We waited. Sitting on the story became a game of sorts. Ray claimed the Secret Service was close to isolating a suspect and needed our cooperation for just one more day. We waited. The next day, they needed just one MORE day. And so on.

Five days after the sheriff had come to see Abell, I was tired of waiting. I had convinced myself that continuing to suppress the information served no real purpose.

The Messenger-Inquirer printed the story Oct. 14. Under Heckel’s byline, it played on top of page one as a sidebar to a Bush campaign story. From a source, we had obtained a copy of the threatening letter, and we printed a reproduction of it with the story. Heckel’s report included quotes from me that explained our actions to readers.

On the night of Oct. 17, a 21-year-old Owensboro man was arrested at home and charged with threatening to kill George Bush.

Did our story hinder the investigation? Did it compel a sick man to harm someone else? Did it have any of the consequences the police had predicted?

None of the above.

According to testimony, the suspect was turned in by someone who read about the case in the newspaper.

He is one of four federal judges in the Western District of New York, which encompasses Buffalo and Rochester. For nearly a dozen years she was his court reporter, the official transcriber of courtroom proceedings.

According to her, she also was his mistress and was fired when the 72-year-old judge’s wife learned of their affair.

According to her, the judge assaulted her, ripped her blouse and laid bare her bra and breasts in a Buffalo cocktail lounge.

Do you go with the story? Is it even a story?

I made the final decision when my station, WIBV-TV in Buffalo, faced that situation recently.

It started when a source tipped me that the court reporter had tried to obtain a warrant for the judge’s arrest, but was rebuffed. Not so, the chief clerk of the court told me when I checked. She had visited the warrant clerk, left without a warrant and planned to return, the chief clerk said.

I waited to see if the warrant was issued. Then another source told me of the blouse-ripping incident. This very reliable source said the court reporter was having trouble charging the judge with a crime simply because he was a judge.

My source told me how to contact the court reporter. She seemed glad of my call and spilled detail after detail of what she said was her affair with the judge, her firing and the incident at the bar.

But as best I could figure (and I’m a lawyer), she was not being denied justice. Instead, she and the judge had been instructed to appear at a pre-warrant diversion hearing. That not-for-public-record hearing would determine whether sufficient evidence existed to merit criminal charges. (These hearings, which lessen the burden on City Court, settle minor disputes behind closed doors.)

For the first time I told my boss, News Director Tim Larson, what I had learned. We decided to hold off on a story until I did some checking. Here’s what I found:

• The bartender at the cocktail lounge told a source of mine the court reporter’s blouse had been torn while she was with the judge, but his back was turned when it happened. They often had been together at the bar and sometimes argued, he told my source. He refused to talk to me.
• Although the court reporter had summoned Buffalo police to the bar, no report had been filed. She charged cover-up. The police said it was treated as a domestic squabble and no official report was necessary.
• The judge was not talking.

We decided to wait for the pre-warrant diversion hearing. Without supporting facts of wrongdoing by the court, the police or the judge, her accusations were not sufficient for a story.

The day before the hearing, I interviewed the court reporter on videotape for nearly an hour. She had pictures of the judge, fully clothed, in her apartment. She had pictures of herself in her torn blouse.

She said she had lost her job because of his wife, but when I probed she said the official reason was that she had authenticated as correct a court transcript that contained errors. (Clerks serve at the pleasure of the court; the timing of her dismissal may have been odd, but the reasons for it were not.)

She told me she and the judge had sex often, sometimes in his chambers on lunch break. She said he drank alcohol when he was on medication and that made him a "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

Did she think his ability to function as a judge ever was impaired? I asked. Sometimes he was impatient with lawyers or mean to them, she replied.

The day of the hearing I stationed a photographer outside the hearing room to get footage of the judge and the court reporter. A reporter for a competing station walked by as we videotaped and a reporter for Buffalo’s only daily newspaper talked to the court reporter.

At the hearing an assistant district attorney heard both sides and ruled that there was insufficient evidence for criminal charges. The judge reportedly admitted ripping the blouse, but claimed it was an accident.

Larson told me it was my call.

In my 16 years as a print reporter and seven in television I always have believed strongly in the public’s right to know. And I kept thinking that at least two other news outlets might use the story and we would be left out in the cold.

But I also wondered if, in this case at least, a line should be drawn to separate a public person’s private life from public scrutiny.

We didn’t use the story, deciding it was a domestic dispute like hundreds of others that occur daily in our viewing area.

True, a federal judge was involved, but his ability to do the job he had been doing for nearly two decades wasn’t in question.

I don’t know if I made the right decision, or if there is a "right" decision.

WKBW-TV led its newscast that day with "shocking" information about the judge. The BuffaIo News ran the story the next day on an inside page under a two-column headline. Both named the judge.

They are known as "Enough!" coupons and they have been popping up in newspapers across West Virginia. Readers can fill out the coupons with the names of suspected drug dealers and users and return them to state police.

It was Williamson Daily News Editor Wally Warden who approached West Virginia State Police about the "Enough!" campaign. Warden had heard about a coupon program started by the Clinton (Iowa) Herald last fall and thought a similar campaign might work in his small town of Williamson in rural Mingo County.

Warden explained, "The only hesitancy I had was that we didn’t want to he perceived as an arm of the police department. We tried to keep the emphasis on this as something the police want you to do, rather than the newspaper wants."

The first coupon ran in the Daily News in February, followed by three more. By June, state police had received almost 400 tips. A Mingo County drug raid around that time resulted in 43 arrests, about half the people had been named in "Enough!" coupons.

This success convinced state police to promote the "Enough!" campaign statewide. Information and camera-ready coupons were mailed to editors around the state, drawing a mixed response.

"It’s totally inappropriate (for a newspaper to do this). I just don’t think we should be promoting a state full of informers," said Charleston Gazette Editor Don Marsh. Marsh added that trying to be both watchdog and participant could lead to serious conflict.

A Beckley Register-Herald editorial called it a "Snitch Coupon" with a huge potential for misuse and abuse. Editor Bill Byrd said, "It’s one thing to promote a teddy bear program for injured children . . . those types of soft pieces on crime fighting, but it’s another thing to print a coupon and ask people to clip it out and mail it to their local police."

But the editor of The Logan Banner, Richard Osbourne, ran the coupon without hesitation. "As a community newspaper, we should do our part to help in fighting drugs in the community."

Tom Goldstein understands this "civic-mindedness" but doesn’t believe it’s an appropriate role for journalists. Goldstein is dean of the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California at Berkley, and says a newspaper should be able to be critical of their police, but thinks "that critical edge is blurred when you are cooperating so closely."

Agreeing with Goldstein is Lee Wilkins, associate dean for undergraduate studies at the University of Missouri’s School of Journalism. Wilkins wonders if newspapers could be more effective by writing about the drug problem and keeping a critical eye on the way it is handled by police, in the courts, and in the schools.

But Ted Glasser, associate professor of communications at Stanford University, said, "Frankly, I don’t see anything terribly awful about this." He equates the "Enough!" coupons with any anonymous tip line the police may set up.

Editors in other states may soon be facing the decision whether to publish "Enough!" coupons. West Virginia State Police say they have gotten requests for information from Connecticut to South Carolina, and from as far away as the Virgin Islands.

The nice thing about armchair debate over ethics is that no one ever dies.

But once theory hits the street, reality sets in. There’s no time to contemplate the fine points.

That was the case July 18 when an Oakland Press photographer’s ID card was used in a ploy by an undercover cop to keep the attention of a man holding a butcher knife on an elderly widow.

Since then, there has been much tongue-clucking and indignation from theorists over, in the words of one, a "horrifying" ethical violation of our "craft."

Our involvement in the episode was criticized by Richard Cunningham, a university "ethicist" in New York as a "terrible disservice" to journalism.

Another purist, FineLine contributing editor Deni Elliott, advised from her Dartmouth tower that the hostage situation shouldn’t have been covered at all and, because we tolerated police posing as press, we damaged the "professional integrity and credibility of journalists."

Rubbish.

Here’s what happened.

A few hours after his release from jail, Tyras Brandywine randomly selected the home of 76-year-old Jennie Miller who lived alone in a quiet Pontiac neighborhood. He forced his way inside, grabbed a 10-inch butcher knife, sliced her hand to the bone and threatened to kill her. He tied himself to the terrified woman.

Police talked with the man through a smashed-out living room window. There was a shotgun in the house, but the intruder fortunately didn’t know that.

Keep in mind this was a nut who could kill a little old lady at any second. Keeping him calm and talking was the key to keeping his hostage alive.

Brandywine told cops he wanted to talk to a reporter. Reluctant to let a reporter close to the house, they decided to have an undercover officer pose as a reporter to buy time, and hopefully, save lives.

Police asked our photographer Doug Bauman for his company ID card which Bauman gave, thinking they wanted proof of his identification. They later explained they intended to use the ID to convince the man that he was talking to a reporter. Bauman had no problem with that.

The charade worked for awhile. Then he wanted to see a camera.

The cop asked Bauman to come nearer to the house in clear view of the man, to further convince him that he was talking to a reporter.

Assured by the photographer that he would not be in any danger — he was given a bullet-proof vest — I OK’d his involvement in the ruse by radio and went to the scene.

Brandywine stayed near the window talking with a cop and looking at the photographer stationed with his camera a couple hundred feet away.

As he talked to the supposed reporter at the front, other cops crawled into a utility room through a side window.

The man was calming down. It looked like a resolution was at hand.

Then suddenly for some reason he became agitated. He grabbed the woman and held the knife at her throat.

The cops crowded the window, warning him. Then two shots and he was dead within minutes. The woman was carried out, shaken but alive.

How much discussion went into allowing the ID to be used and permitting the photographer to join the act? Very little. There simply was no time.

Seconds were ticking. The woman was bleeding. The attacker could finish the job in an instant.

We could have refused to give up the ID. We could have launched into a debate over a cop impersonating a reporter. We could have cried foul from afar over the "horrifying" subterfuge being perpetrated on the public. We could have left the scene, ignoring the event.

We could have watched as Jennie Miller was carried from her home in a body bag.

Certainly, after twenty-five years in the business I had qualms — ethical, legal, you name it — about a cop using a photographer’s ID. And God only knows the issues that went through my head during the minute or two I had to consider allowing the photographer to work with police.

There has been some discussion in our newsroom. Most of the staff is comfortable with what happened, including the photographer involved. A few have reservations, arguing it was our role to cover the event, not become involved in it.

I told them that IDs and press credentials are not to be surrendered willy-nilly, I also made sure they understood they should talk to editors about situations involving ethical issues. But when the book can’t be followed, as in this case, they have to use their best judgment.

Interestingly, no one suggested that we should have stayed away. Said one staffer, "Does anyone really think that guy would have walked away if the press wouldn’t have shown up? He wasn’t interested in press coverage. He wanted to hurt someone. Damn it, it’s a story."

And, as I told a Detroit News writer later, the bottom line is the woman is still alive.

Maybe the press helped.

It was a tantalizing proposition. The detective said he could put me on the inside track of one of the biggest stories of the year. All he wanted was a look at my notes from an unpublished interview with one of his primary suspects.

Maybe we could work a deal, he said.

The detective was investigating an alleged baby-selling operation based in Northwest Florida that might involve leading attorneys, pastors and anti-abortionists. The suspect I had interviewed, Ms. C., was known for regularly parading in front of local women’s clinics, shouting anti-abortion epithets at all who entered.

There was a good chance my notes from the interview with Ms. C. could help the investigation, the detective said. In exchange, he would give me an exclusive entree to the investigation and take me along on any arrests that might be made.

My inclination was to leap at the proposition. I wanted that exclusive and I wanted to help stop any baby-selling that might be taking place. But I was uncomfortable.

Where does cooperation end and collusion begin? The Pensacola News Journal had no written policy on reporters’ notes and I had never been confronted with such a suggestion.

Let me think about it, I said.

I was working on another story when I got wind of the baby-selling allegations. The piece focused on a local church’s solicitation of couples interested in "uncomplicated" adoptions. The drive infuriated child services officials who had three-year waiting lists of qualified adoptive families. The solicitation, I discovered, was a ruse to fatten the mailing lists and coffers of an anti-abortion group.

As I investigated the story, a child services worker mentioned Ms. C. "Why don’t you ask the police what they know about her and illegal adoption," asked the worker. "She has made offers to a few people we had in here, and some were so tired of waiting, they turned to her."

In our subsequent interview, Ms. C. admitted she approached people interested in adopting about the babies of unwed mothers she had "rescued" from abortion. "But I always tell them to go through an attorney," she said. "If they need one, I know a couple of lawyers who can help them."

Ms. C. lived in a comfortable home which she opened to pregnant women who needed a place to stay. Although she had no visible means of support, she promised her "girls" three square meals a day, a roof over their heads and prenatal medical care. Further, she would help "facilitate" the adoption of the baby, she said.

Caring attorneys and prospective adoptive parents helped Ms. C. with her living expenses, she said. Sometimes the families of the unwed mothers would help with food or money "contributions."

The details she revealed to me could assist the police investigation, I believed. If an arrest followed, the story would be powerful. Without my information, the detective seemed to have a weak case at best.

My supervisor, then-Features Editor Virginia MacDonald, shared my enthusiasm for the exclusive as well as my reservations about sharing my notes.

We talked to our managing editor, Fred Palmer (now deceased), who, after considerable thought, said he thought reporters should not help make the news, but should stick to breaking the news. The information I had could be gathered by detectives if they did their job and I could still get the story if I did my job, he reasoned.

I was torn. I hated the decision, but I understood it. I had serious reservations about making deals for news. But, if that woman was involved in selling babies, I wanted her to face a jury. And, I wanted that story.

Palmer checked with then-Executive Editor Kent Cockson, and we all agreed no notes would be parlayed. I was expected to use my sources and resources to get the story.

The baby-selling story never broke. No arrests were made. No corroborating sources would go on the record – no investigators, no child services workers, no adoptive parents, no unwed mothers. I could not even get official confirmation that the investigation existed.

I will never know if my notes would have led to the arrest of Ms. C. She still prowls the clinic parking lots, bellowing through her bullhorn.

But the dilemma had an effect on the newsroom. Days later, a written policy was posted in the News Journal that makes all notes used for a story the property of the newspaper. Further, reporters and editors are forbidden to share notes under any circumstances, nor show copies of stories in advance of their printing.

The policy should make reporters’ jobs a little easier. I know it would have mine.

More than two months ago, The (New Bedford, MA) Standard-Times began publishing photographs each day of people arraigned in court on drugs charges. We call it, "Drug Watch."

Real people, standing before the judge — accused drug pushers, runners, buyers. Heroin, cocaine, crack. Mothers . . . click. Fathers . . . click. Sons, daughters . . . click, click.

I announced in a Page-One column on November 14, 1990, what The Standard-Times was doing, and why. The phones started ringing off the hook with that day’s publication.

"The best thing The Standard-Times has ever done," is the comment heard over and over again.

It has been the biggest public response I’ve seen in my 30 years in journalism. And it has been overwhelmingly favorable, easily 3-or-4-to-1.

Reaction has not been all positive, however. Although well in the minority, those against Drug Watch voice sharp, intense criticism. An ACLU lawyer says it violates journalism ethics to photograph people only accused of crime. A defense lawyer fears the collapse of a defendant’s right to a fair trial. A colleague says it’s bad form, that he would publish photos only of those convicted.

A journalism educator charges that drug pushers and users are really victims, and the photos unfairly hit on victims of crime. Journalists, he argues, should protect victims, not parade them publicly.

All these arguments cause me to wonder where these people have been for the past 50 or more years of journalism.

But first, clarification on exactly what we are doing that’s new, and why we decided to do it.

We have always published a daily account, a log of sorts, of all serious criminal cases appearing before the local courts. These include people arraigned, the charges against them, and eventually the resolutions of the cases, whether guilty, acquitted, whatever.

What’s new with Drug Watch is separating drug cases from the rest of the court docket and including photographs. Beneath the photograph, called a mug shot, appears the name of the person and status of the case. A picture, if available, appears when the suspect is arraigned and when the case is disposed of.

Our photographer is assigned to the morning court session when most arraignments occur. We photograph each person appearing before the judge on drug charges.

To understand why we do this only for drugs requires a peek into New Bedford’s history. Though economically depressed a decade ago, not even those neighborhoods with 2-3-and-4-family tenements could be called blighted or slums. Proud owners kept their properties fit and freshly painted.

Standard-Times reporters, on extensive special assignments the past year or so, have shown all that is changed. Block-by-block, reporters discovered neighborhoods were surrendering to the infestation of drug dealers.

Law-abiding families were forced to leave these areas in fear for themselves or their children. Low-income families, accustomed to paying $300 to $400 a month rent, couldn’t compete with the $1,000 to $1,500 per month some absentee landlords could get from drug dealers.

Where only a few years ago no blighted area existed in the city, we now published photos of burned-out and boarded-up buildings; of streets where children played with used hypodermic needles; of public parks where no one but drug dealers dared to linger.

The war involving drugs had arrived, and the newcomers clearly were winning.

Following these disclosures of just how bad the situation had become, Standard-Times Publisher Orren Robbins held a series of meetings called the Greater New Bedford Public Forum on Drugs.

This forum explored the gravity of the growing decay, discovering how drug-related crime was at the root of severe housing, education, safety and economic woes in these neighborhoods.

Extraordinary measures were required in a variety of areas, including education, law enforcement and treatment to address the spreading menace to the community. Among these measures, we reasoned, was the need to further increase the public’s awareness of the seriousness of the drug problem.

Over time, the idea evolved that publishing photographs of those accused of drug crimes is one way to heighten public awareness. So far, it has worked.

Now back to the journalism ethics issues.

Coast-to-coast, newspapers each day publish photographs of people accused of crime. Each community has its local examples of cases that don’t gain national prominence. A person accused of kidnapping, of murder, embezzling from a school account, molesting a child, a drunken driver accused in a fatal accident, etc.

I’ve not heard the ACLU, defense lawyers, journalism educators and others claim that these photos irreparably damage these defendants’ rights to a fair trial, or that this violates ethical standards.

The sheer numbers of these cases — perhaps several thousand-fold across the country — that do result in fair trials render this argument lame.

Just recently in our own community, a 14-year-old girl was killed by a sniper’s bullet while riding on a school bus on a highway. When the three people accused of being involved in the crime were arraigned, their photographs appeared in every newspaper in the region.

In my mind, publishing photos of people accused of crime is not an ethical issue. It’s done all the time. Rather, it’s a question of news judgment; that is, which cases warrant the extra effort and news space.

Numerically, no crime in our area comes even close to the number of people accused of drug-related crime. The crime of drugs has become so insidious that far more households are directly affected by drugs than by murder, kidnapping or rape.

In my reasoning, we serve our readers well to bring to their attention those involved in drug-related crime, just as we do those involved in embezzling town funds, or rape or murder.

By their own reaction, our readers overwhelmingly agree.

For another view, see "Fairness: a casualty of the anti-drug crusade."

A picture is worth a thousand words, the saying goes. A "mug shot" of an alleged offender under the caption "Drug Watch" speaks volumes. For people who see the photos, those pictured are forever linked to drug use.

It doesn’t matter if The Standard-Times later prints that charges against the photograph’s subject have been dismissed or the person has been found not guilty — the damage has been done. And what are the chances that everyone who saw the initial photo will see the follow-up telling how the case was disposed of?

Like the teacher who has been falsely accused of molesting a student, the person falsely accused of drug use may lose his or her job, home and reputation. The newspaper cannot evade responsibility by claiming that such things shouldn’t happen. They do.

There’s no indication that The Standard-Times makes any effort to protect or help innocent people who have been harmed by the photographs. They’re just casualties of the drug war, I suppose.

I worry about news column crusades and the arrogance of editors who think they can know the bad guys.

James Ragsdale, editor of The Standard-Times, said (see "Newspaper joins war against drugs") that drugs were the cause of so many of New Bedford’s social ills; others might well argue that drugs are only a symptom of the problem. The drug story is a myriad of political, economic and societal factors that goes far beyond what happens in court to a particular individual on a particular day.

Citizens don’t need to know what people in court look like; they need to know why they are there. Why haven’t law enforcement attempts been successful in New Bedford? What works in other communities? What educational and social service facilities and workers have failed to meet the needs of those at risk for drug involvement? Why not list those agencies and run pictures of those failing to do their jobs?

Citizens need all the information that they can get to understand the drug problem. They can’t get the story when journalists turn vigilante.

Newspapers that print pictures of alleged drug offenders give the court a good opportunity to tell its story. Even without such journalistic cooperation, it’s easy for the powerful institutions to get their word out. Judges, lawyers, detectives and politicians move in the same social circles as journalists. They speak the same language.

Voices of the powerless are less easy to get and more urgently needed. The system won’t tell us what is wrong with it; but those harmed by a troubled system can. Those dependent on social services may not be as savvy as those who dole those services out. But, these voices won’t be heard at all if newsrooms act to destroy their trustworthiness with those who have the most reason to be suspicious.

Whether or not there is direct cooperation between police stations and newsrooms in these types of stories, the appearance of collusion cannot be overcome. How is someone with a story of abuse by the system to trust that the newsroom buddy won’t pass the word on to a police station buddy?

Getting drugs off the streets and out of the schoolyard may be the most noble of causes, but journalists can’t do their job and the police department’s too.

Newsrooms shouldn’t take on drug dealers and prostitutes; they shouldn’t urge readers to return coupons describing suspicious characters.

The police officer’s job is to get the bad guy off the street. The journalist’s job is to help people understand why this is or is not happening. News column crusaders fail at both; printing the pictures of those arraigned doesn’t help do either job.

Becoming involved in a police chase is a heck of a proposition for the average citizen. But what if you are a journalist with a camera rolling and the suspect turns out to be a drug dealer wanted for the attempted murder of an elderly woman?

And you’ve got about one second to make your decision?

It was just before 1 p.m. on September 1, 1988. Some chatter about a stakeout on our police scanner prompted photographer Tim Flanigan and me to check it out.

I took the wheel and he got his camera ready in case it turned into anything. By the time we got there, the stakeout was a foot chase.

The first thing we saw, and videotaped, was a shirtless, shoeless man running fast between houses; the police were well behind.

We moved a couple of blocks ahead, hoping to get an arrest on tape.

What we got was the suspect running straight for our unmarked news car, with the pursuing officers losing ground.

And then came the question — to myself as much as Tim: "Do I stop him?"

This is where the Role of the Media seminar is supposed to freeze the tape and consider all the other questions before tuning in for the ending.

• Is the reporter there to observe, no matter what?
• Is the obligation only to the story and the audience and not the police?
• Does the obligation to the audience include being a good citizen and intervening?
• If he does intervene, does the reporter endanger himself, the police or the public, or does he make the situation worse?
• If he does nothing and the suspect gets away, may he use the tape of the escape?
• May he use the tape if he helps in the capture?
• Whatever the outcome, how will the community react?

Any of these could spark lively debate without any right or wrong answers being reached. But I needed the right answer fast.

I decided to stop him. To be honest, I didn’t know why the police wanted him.

The first thing you hear on our tape is my voice asking Tim: "Do I stop him?"

Then I’m jumping from the car and running toward the suspect with my arms outstretched, a technique I picked up while working my way through college as a campus police officer.

Apparently the suspect thought I was a plainclothes police officer. He looked up, saw me, stopped, threw up his arms and said "I give up." And a few seconds later the cops caught up and arrested him.

Now came the editorial decisions.

We had a terrific story, a scoop. The savage beating of the elderly woman during a burglary attempt had been the lead story for two days. But how could we separate that from my involvement?

News Director Al Volker, Executive Producer Juli Buehler, Assignment Editor Randy Lube and I watched the raw tape and tossed out ideas.

Everyone endorsed running the unedited tape with the sound full, including my question to Tim. Volker suggested I do the story from the news set to make it more personal and to give one of those "No, kids, don’t try this at home" disclaimers.

I wanted the copy to explain that it was one of those split-second decisions that could have gone either way and that I just did what I thought I had to do.

Buehler wondered if that wasn’t going too far. But I insisted that it was the only way to let people know that it wasn’t a publicity stunt. And I figured they would believe our story only if it was true and they heard it from me.

So we did it my way.

We were lucky. The successful capture made most of the decisions that came after rather easy.

The public reaction was very positive. I received awards from the local CrimeStoppers and the county crime prevention association and a letter of appreciation from the Green Bay police chief, which the mayor read before the City Council.

The suspect, David Pleau, is in prison, serving time after conviction on the attempted murder charge.

My own feeling is that my reaction was the right one for me. In my mind, there is little difference between jumping in front of a fleeing suspect and a story that points the finger at those guilty of environmental pollution, or graft, or murder.

In any case, the action serves the public interest. And that is what this business is supposed to be about: serving the public.

In this case, it was just a little more dramatic and a little more direct.

Spend time in jail or on the pages of the local newspaper. A Pensacola, Florida, judge offers that option to those convicted of DUI and other misdemeanors such as shoplifting or soliciting prostitutes.

Since January, at least six people have chosen to place a two-inch ad in The Gulf Breeze Sentinel. The ad contains their name, photograph, and a statement: "I pled no contest/guilty to . . ." The statement is completed with the type of offense.

Escambia County Judge William P. White, Jr. believes the ads act as a deterrent, and points to a drop in DUI arrests since the first ad appeared in the Sentinel.

But effective or not, is it appropriate for newspapers to accept such ads?

The Pensacola News Journal says "no" and, when asked to run them, refused. An editorial explained that the newspaper didn’t want to be "a vehicle for court-ordered public humiliation."

Sentinel editor Duane B. Cook, whose paper has been publishing the ads, says he isn’t concerned about the "public humiliation" aspect because the same information appears regularly in newspaper police logs and court records sections. "In many cases they’re not even convicted," says Cook, "And yet the stigma is left from having been in the arrest report."

Using ads as punishment is not a new idea; so-called "guilt" or "apology ads" have been popping up in papers around the country for several years.

In 1989, The Providence (RI) Journal-Bulletin carried an ad by a convicted child molester who never served any jail time for his offense. The judge ordered that he place the ad as a condition of probation.

The Vero Beach (FL) Press-Journal has been running DUI conviction ads for about three years. But the paper runs only DUI ads because their county judge hands down the ad punishment only in those cases.

Press-Journal general manager Darryl Hicks considers running the DUI ads a "service" to the community because it points up the problem of drunken driving. But Hicks said he probably wouldn’t run ads for convictions on shoplifting or soliciting for prostitution.

As the courts continue to develop alternative sentences, Judge White thinks more papers will have to deal with the issue both as a news judgment and possibly on a legal front. White says he would not rule out issuing an order to the News Journal to show cause why the paper shouldn’t be held in contempt for refusing the ads.

Not yet faced with that challenge, News Journal publisher Denise Bannister maintains, "We are not changing our position."