I frankly don’t find anything wrong (with airing the state-supplied video). The health department has decided to go into the public arena and I don’t see where any outlet — radio, television or newspaper — has any option but to cover that story. Like it or not, it is a perfectly legitimate news story.

Using the videotape of the woman which the health department claims shows she’s not in a persistent vegetative state is no different than if they’d used . . . still pictures or simply described her condition using a bunch of doctors.

 

There are some thoughts that television stations should consider: Number one, did they verify the contents of that tape in any way? Did they question its validity?

Secondly, did they disclose to the audience how the tape was provided and under what circumstances?

Thirdly, did they notify the father they were going to use the tape and give him an opportunity to respond?

Fourth, did they consider any alternatives, such as shooting the tape themselves — providing a third party perspective on what happened?

 

The TV stations acted appropriately when they used the videotape. The young woman has a high level of recognizability in the community. The news media are really a conduit for information and our only proper reaction — since the father and state which is paying her bills have made her available to the media — is, ‘Is this newsworthy?’

 

I have this thing about TV stations being all caught up in the visual, instead of content. The story could have been told without the videotape by interviewing people at the hospital.

Each individual should have control over presentations of themselves in public. If the patient is not able to speak for herself, then the request to make pictures should be addressed to the guardian or parent. That it was done without approval, raises questions in my mind about invasion of privacy.

 

For the original article these views reference, see "Whose right is it anyway?"

While both sides say they’re concerned about Christine Busalacchi’s "rights," her right to privacy has been lost in the legal maneuvering. Even the St. Louis media have allowed compelling pictures to overwhelm privacy considerations.

"It was like one of those CNN-Pentagon briefings," said Shane Moreland, news director for KSDK in St. Louis which aired some of the state-supplied videotape. "They called a press conference, showed up and gave it to us."

The "they" in the case is the Missouri state health department which supplied a St. Louis probate court judge with the same 13-minute videotape of Christine Busalacchi given to the media. The state is asking the court to accept the tape as evidence that her condition has improved. As of this writing, the tape has yet to be formally accepted.

All four St. Louis television stations covering the hearing asked for and received copies of the tape. All four aired about 60 seconds of it, each linking the tape to testimony asserting that Busalacchi could respond to comments from hospital staff members and that she could move her legs.

Still frames of the video accompanied many Missouri newspaper articles, and the AP photo of Busalacchi also ran in The New York Times.

"Sure they were smart to bring that with them," said Bill Berra, news director for KTVI. Berra was among those who said his television station had considered and readily dismissed the privacy issue.

"I’m teaching a journalism class . . . and we discussed that tape the night it aired," agreed Michael Castengera, assistant news director at KMOV. "All the students said it was something they would want to see."

The Busalacchi case is the second right-to-die case to reach the courts in the past year. Last summer the U.S. Supreme Court ruled the parents of Missouri resident Nancy Cruzan had to supply "clear and convincing" evidence that a patient did not wish extraordinary medical care before that care could be terminated. Cruzan’s parents eventually produced such evidence, the extraordinary procedures were discontinued and Cruzan died.

The Cruzan decision prompted Busalacchi’s father Pete to request that his daughter’s feeding tube be removed so he could move her from the state-supported Mount Vernon Rehabilitation Center to Minnesota, which has less-restrictive laws governing the provision of extraordinary medical care.

To support his fight, Pete Busalacchi had provided the media access to Christine. She has been videotaped many times, and prior to the early February hearing, her picture had run in Time magazine.

However, the state is attempting to block Busalacchi’s efforts on the grounds that he has already made up his mind to permanently remove Christine’s feeding tube.

It has chosen to fight in what even state attorneys admit is an unusual fashion. Busalacchi’s case is the first time the state health department has attempted to submit videotape as potential evidence in a legal hearing. The department also asserts that because Christine is being cared for at taxpayer expense, state attorneys did not have to obtain either her or her father’s permission to shoot the tape.

That contention is heatedly denied by Pete Busalacchi. (Busalacchi, on the advice of his lawyer, declined to be directly quoted for this article.)

This complicated background in a case that is becoming characterized by charges of bad intent on both sides figured into the coverage.

All the journalists interviewed referred to the previous ready access to Christine as a factor in their decisions. To them, the state’s tape constituted the continuation of an already established pattern of coverage, not something distinctly new.

The news directors agreed that the two segments of the state’s tape which they aired — Christine purportedly reacting to directions and conversations from a nurse and moving her legs — provided no conclusive proof of her condition. "I think what that tape showed was what you wanted to see. It was in the eye of the beholder," Castengera said.

Berra and Castengera agreed the privacy issue was something that "perhaps" should have been addressed after the fact. Only Moreland said his station had considered the question before it decided to air portions of the tape.

"We did apply the standards. It wasn’t grotesque, it wasn’t difficult for people to watch, it wasn’t offensive. And, we didn’t get her permission."

Moreland noted that his station’s report had tried to frame the issue for the viewers. "We did have a health expert on as part of the report . . . who pointed out that because of the camera angle and the sheet over her, you couldn’t tell whether she was moving her leg or whether there was someone else moving her with an arm under her sheet."

While all the broadcasters said their stations had either informal or written policies about airing the identities of rape or incest victims, all also said they believed the Busalacchi story did not raise similar privacy questions. Their reasoning was confounded by confusion over the precise legal status of the tape itself.

Missouri has no laws permitting cameras in the courtroom. Although one of the news directors had helped to draft cameras-in-the-courtroom guidelines in Wisconsin, all acknowledged they had never faced a decision to withhold videotape shot for use as courtroom evidence.

"I saw no reason not to run it," Berra said. "It was evidence in an open court hearing."

"Yes, she is a victim," Moreland added. "But, in our role as window to the world, we felt this was something we had to do."

And, the broadcasters insisted they would have run a story even without the videotape.

"But it would have been a lot lower . . . and a lot shorter," Moreland noted. "The videotape was the story."

While the journalists were unanimous in their views about the privacy questions arising from the story, they appeared far more troubled by assertion that the state had essentially used the media to try its court case in public.

"I don’t know . . . I wouldn’t attempt to answer that," Castengera said.

"It (the state’s use of the media) was the single topic of conversation the day we ran the story and the day after when we did the follow-up," Weber said. "It’s very clear the state has chosen to argue this case in the court of public opinion."

"The tape was definitely a bribe," Moreland noted. "And, we knew it when we ran it . . . It was one of those times when you know you’re being used and you just grit your teeth and do it anyway."

For more about this topic, see "Other views on the Christine Busalacchi case."

I was assigned at The Courier-Journal to take a close look at the woman whose fate had made her an object of intense curiosity and speculation. Two important questions loomed: When a private person becomes an unwitting public figure, how much personal information is necessary and/or desirable to tell an accurate story? When that person is not available for an interview, then who are the primary sources?

Frequently with murder stories, reporters must balance the need to collect information with the feelings of survivors, who invariably endow the martyred loved one with a saintliness that blots out not just the negative but even neutral reality.

These particular survivors presented an especially delicate problem. The Schaefers’ eldest son, a police officer, had been killed on duty during the early 1970s. And Brenda’s mother was in frail health. Her two remaining sons would not permit me to interview her or their father. They said the strain of talking about the case might actually kill their mother, and that their father’s emotional condition was none too stable either.

I wanted to discover the real Brenda Schaefer, to pull from her life incidents, patterns and traits that I thought were key to her story, helping readers understand why they should care about her. In all, I interviewed about two dozen sources. Some of what I learned was less than complimentary. But all was revealing.

Yes, she was a dutiful and loving daughter to her mother. Yes, her employer prized her to such an extent that he eventually sent her fiance a threatening letter, earning himself criminal charges. Yes, even her former husband still thought she was beautiful. I carefully reported all this praiseworthy information, and a great deal more.

However, there was something troubling about Brenda Schaefer. She lacked self-confidence, ambition and direction. She was never satisfied with herself. Despite near-perfect teeth, she got braces as an adult. Despite a marvelous figure, she had breast implants. Despite more than a passing resemblance to Marlo Thomas, she had her nose bobbed.

Toward the end of her life, she became increasingly paranoid, irritable, moody and disruptive, according to co-workers.

After her divorce, she often became involved with men who tended to have serious personal problems and/or checkered pasts. I learned that she frequented pick-up bars, and heard more than I cared to about unsettling family dynamics, her sexual habits and hang-ups.

In discussions with my editors, I agonized about the relevance and propriety of much of the personal information. I tried to put myself in the family’s place and think how I would feel if the story concerned someone I loved.

Was it worth trashing a dead woman’s reputation and injuring people already suffering just to spin an intriguing yarn? I was hardly eager to have the demise from hysteria of an aging parent on my conscience, and even spoke to the mother’s doctor about how the story might affect her.

But in the end, we concluded that some "character development" not only was necessary to tell the story but might help shine a light on the dark path to Brenda Schaefer’s disappearance. Specifically: Did this woman’s habits, mores and associations help lead her into a dangerous situation?

Despite enormous restraint, judicious editing and intense review by lawyers, her family saw the story as an invasion of Brenda Sue’s privacy and a callous assault on their grief.

The first sign of trouble was a phone call from a woman whom I would later learn was Schaefer’s niece. I was out of town when it came, but she told a colleague the story was "tacky."

She accused me of deliberately twisting family members’ quotes. She was most bitter that I had interviewed the missing woman’s former husband, although every remark attributed to him was complimentary. She told my colleague that she hoped the same thing would happen in my family so I could suffer as Brenda’s had.

She eventually called me, demanding to know why I hadn’t interviewed the people closest to Brenda. It was no use explaining that I had indeed talked to three of Brenda’s four siblings – including the niece’s own mother – and that the parents were being shielded from my inquiries. (After being told that Essie Schaefer, Brenda’s mother, made almost daily calls to Brenda’s co-workers to discuss the case, I asked one of them to give me her number. Neither of the elder Schaefers ever called.)

Other family members called the newspaper’s ombudsman, saying the story had upset Essie Schaefer so much that she had to be sedated. One brother wrote to the newspaper that in order to preserve the reputation of The Courier-Journal, I shouldn’t be allowed to write about anything serious.

Such revilement notwithstanding, I don’t believe I would handle this story much differently given another chance. We had spelled out for the reader–in as much detail as I could provide, given the off-the-record constraints imposed by the police–who Brenda Schaefer was and what the events were that led up to her disappearance.

It wasn’t until I read what Paul Broussard’s mother said when she picked up her son’s broken body that I got a familiar feeling at the pit of my stomach. It meant I was nearing the no-turning-back point.

I never knew Paul Broussard. I just read scant accounts of his July 4 (1991) murder in Houston’s two newspapers. It wasn’t until a day later that it was reported as a gay-bashing incident. Broussard and two companions had been beaten by a gang of ten young men from an affluent local suburb as they walked out of a gay bar.

The full impact of his death still didn’t hit me. Then I read his mother’s words. "I don’t understand."

I did understand what happened and it made me sick. Although I had spoken out in my Houston Post column against prejudice toward gay people, I now felt disgusted with myself for not having had the courage to do so more forcefully and for the hypocrisy of referring to gays as "them" instead of "us."

Now I knew that I had to write about Broussard’s death. And it had to be the most forceful column I’d ever written.

I’d always expected that, eventually, I would have to use my column as a forum to speak about hatred toward gay people. And the best way would be to acknowledge that I am gay.

But I hadn’t expected to do so this soon. I had only been writing my general interest column for nine months and I wanted to postpone my "coming out" statement for a while longer. It would have a greater impact after I’d established respect among readers from across the political spectrum, especially if I succeeded in becoming nationally syndicated.

Now circumstances were conspiring to deny me the luxury of waiting. I was halfway through my column about Broussard’s murder when I knew what I had to do. I wrote: "I feel a special responsibility to speak out because I have this forum and, more important, because like Paul Broussard, I am gay."

Unless people like me are willing to risk the comfort and safety of our closeted lives, I wrote, we will never put a stop to the hatred. The column ended: "I didn’t know Paul Broussard, but silence does equal death and I have a responsibility to ensure that Houston does not forget him, or how he died, or why."

I finished writing and hit the computer key that sent the column to my editor. As I sat there trying to hide my tears from coworkers and thinking of the calls I’d have to make that night to to let my sisters and brother know about myself, my city editor called me to his office.

He tried to talk me out of going with the column, repeatedly asking whether I had thought about the personal consequences. When I assured him I had and insisted I wanted to go ahead, he said he’d have to consult his superiors.

He did so, returned and again tried to get me to back off. Again I refused. After a second session with his superiors, the editor came back and told me that I would not be allowed to come out in my column, that I would not be allowed to use my column as a forum for that purpose.

Although I was angry, I agreed to do a rewrite because I felt I had no choice. The way I saw it, it was either that or not run a column on Broussard’s murder at all. So I rewrote.

It was still a very strong column and the response was overwhelming. I received more than 250 letters and telephone calls about it and my editors and publisher got as many, if not more. Almost all the responses were positive.

The column was responsible for helping stir both the gay and straight communities to demand action to stop such hate crimes. But, aside from those who knew I was gay and those who were savvy enough to read between the lines, most readers saw it as a straight man writing sympathetically about a gay issue. And in that sense, it was a lie.

In retrospect, by my not coming out in that column, the focus correctly stayed on Broussard’s death. So, as I said in an interview five days later with an alternative weekly called The Houston Press, my editors did the right thing, but for the wrong reasons.

My editor has since told interviewers that the reason Post management did not want me to come out was that the column that ran was a lot stronger than the original one. But I don’t know how he could have known that when the decision to censor me was made before I wrote the second version.

On August 31, two days after I returned from a three-week vacation, I was fired after nearly 12 years at the paper.

City editor Tim Graham told me I was being let go because of my continued insistence that I had a right and an obligation to respond to questions about the incident from reporters for other publications, including The Houston Press and Editor & Publisher. Editor Charles Cooper later insisted it was because I refused to take editorial direction for my column.

A week later — after several days of intense protests by a number of Hispanic leaders, Queer Nation and a large number of Post reporters and editors, plus extensive coverage on the wire services and in The New York Times and Washington Post — I was rehired.

The irony is that, by refusing to let Houston readers learn about my homosexuality in their pages or in any other media, my editors ended up letting the whole world know about it.

As for me, I discovered that I’m a better column writer than I am a martyr.

The Post’s reasons: Houston Post editor Charles Cooper told FineLine that Juan Palomo’s firing was not because he revealed his homosexuality, but because of a "longstanding difference of opinion" about the focus of his column. The editors wanted less opinion and more hard news. Cooper stated that Palomo declined an offer of switching to an op-ed column, was fired and then rehired after he accepted the offer.

For another view, see "When the media do it for you."

The summer’s end brought yet another major outing — this time of a Pentagon official — accompanied by the ritual wringing of hands as editors and columnists decide whether or not to name the outed individual.

This columnist won’t.

The arguments are familiar and unpersuasive: Hypocrisy and activists’ desire to force an unwilling individual to do something good for the gay community. These may be good arguments why someone ideally should out himself. But journalists who do the outing must have journalistic justifications.

Where others see institutional hypocrisy, I sense a subtle journalistic delight in the irony of a gay or lesbian functioning in a position of authority or esteem. And I find that irony dangerously homophobic.

Where others use the individual’s capacity for creating change as criterion for outing, I say that the news media should be no one’s conscience.

To put it succinctly, the only individuals who should ever be forced out of the closet are elected officials and those running for public office. And they ought to be outed as often as possible.

Outings don’t change institutions; outings don’t benefit individuals. Reporters and editors should have learned that long before the term "outing" was ever coined.

One of the most chronicled outings in recent history occurred in 1975, when a private citizen in San Francisco discovered he was standing next to a potential assassin. Sara Jane Moore raised her gun to shoot President Gerald Ford and Bill Sipple knocked it from her hand. He called his action "instinctive," not heroic. He had no desire for publicity.

Gay activists had other ideas. Leaders from the local gay community gave columnist Herb Caen a tip about where Sipple and his friends had gone to celebrate that night and Caen printed the name of the well known gay hangout.

The activists told local reporters it would be good for the country to know that the hero was gay; it would help break the stereotype. Reporters liked that idea, but they hesitated. Sipple had refused to discuss his sexuality, claiming that his private preference had nothing to do with his public act.

Finally, a charge of hypocrisy tipped the scales. One day passed, two days and still no word of thanks came from the White House. Had Sipple’s sexuality shocked the president into silence? Publically, Ford had presented himself as tolerant of homosexuality.

With a little journalistic pressure, even the hero’s own mother back in Detroit wondered. A local reporter showed Mrs. Sipple the L.A. Times story, "Hero in Ford Shooting Active Among S.F. Gays." She hadn’t known that her son was gay. Now her published response was: "No wonder the president didn’t send him a note!"

Sipple was delighted with the handwritten note of gratitude from President Ford that arrived three days after the event. It hung in a frame on a wall in his disheveled apartment until Sipple’s death in 1989. But it’s unlikely that the presidential note made up for the grief the outing caused Sipple. His mother died in 1979 without ever again speaking to her son and he remained estranged from the rest of the family until his own death.

San Francisco friends said that the unwanted publicity cost the community a caring man who had worked for gay concerns and helped the homeless. Sipple became a despondent recluse. He died of pneumonia at 47, alone in his apartment; his body lay undiscovered for two weeks.

So the outing was no more helpful to the gay and lesbian agenda than it was to Sipple. Sure, people got to know that a hero was gay, but that information was meaningful only in its irony.

News media’s focus on Sipple’s sexuality contributed to the stereotype that there is something unusual about a man who is both heroic and homosexual.

Characteristics such as sexual orientation, gender and race are relevant only if they are thought to carry an element of surprise. Remember the days of black lawyers and women doctors? Stories about homosexual heros and lesbian business leaders reflect the same kind of implicit intolerance.

Mainstream media should not out anyone except elected officials and candidates for public office. I don’t want a homophobic press, nor do I want one that tells voters that sexual orientation shouldn’t matter when they cast their votes. As a citizen in a representative democracy, I decide who best represents me and I can make that decision on any basis I choose. I assume that candidates put forth the picture of themselves they most want me to see and that their opponents try to do the opposite.

So I depend on the reporters in the fray to tell me whatever they learn and I depend on them to tell me without arrows or ribbons. When reporters decide that what they know about a candidate should not make a difference to me when I cast my vote, they are making decisions that belong to the voters. No one has ever suggested that only rational voting decisions ought to be allowed. The reporter’s job is to ensure that no candidate advances to elected office without all his or her discoverable secrets laid bare.

If journalists did this job indiscriminately, we’d all be better anchored in reality. Candidates could spend less time protecting false public images; voters could evaluate people who lead, rather than mythical heros and villains. And news media could spend more time on issues of governance than on the vulnerabilities of those governing.

For the other view, see "When you do it yourself."

As managing editor of the Rushville Republican, I faced the dilemma this January when two young girls were killed in a house fire. Our photographer, Jeff Emsweller, heard the fire call over his scanner and found a once-in-a-lifetime shot at the scene – "that photo" as it became known.

The picture showed a hysterical young mother in windblown nightclothes, being restrained by a police officer whose own intense emotions shone clearly upon his face.

The emotion in the photo was palpable. We all knew it was a hell of a good photograph; we also knew that in a small town like Rushville it would cause us some trouble.

There was not any real doubt in my mind that we should use the picture. We had to. Without a single word, that photo captured the heart and soul of the story in terms that anyone could understand; grief screamed out at us in black and white, grabbing each one of us by the heart.

But it was a decision I felt I could not make alone. About 12 years before, in Landess, Indiana, my grandmother, aunt and three of my cousins had died in a fire. The grief was hard enough on our family; the prying press coverage after the fire did nothing to help. (I remember one TV reporter coolly asking my uncle how he felt hearing his family scream as they died.) For years, my own bitterness over the episode made me give up my childhood dream of being a reporter. I finally did end up working on newspapers, but I swore never to cross the line that would force me to invade someone else’s grief.

But now, from the other side of the line, I knew we had to use that photograph. The photo was too good not to use. It accomplished what any good photo must do: It told a story, without any words. But the deciding factor had nothing to do with the quality of the photograph; it was a moral decision.

As powerful as the photograph was, it just might save someone’s life. If just one person was as moved by the photo as we were, and was motivated to buy a smoke detector, or check their fire escape routes, and that action ended up saving them from a fire, it would be worth all the flak we expected to take.

And we got what we expected. The phones started ringing that afternoon after the paper hit the racks, and didn’t stop. Almost all of the callers demanded to know why we had run such a picture. Some people said it was sick. Some said it was in poor taste. Interestingly, virtually all of the callers the first two days were women. Many of them seemed scandalized at the fact that we had photographed the woman in her nightgown, and most of her thigh was showing.

On Thursday, I wrote an editorial explaining why we ran the photo. The calls faded to a trickle in the next few days, but the next week we got some letters to the editor. To our surprise, they were all positive.

One woman wrote that she at first was outraged by what she saw as "sensationalism in its basest form," but after reading the editorial and realizing our purpose in running the photo, she realized that the purpose had been fulfilled. She had bought an additional smoke detector and staged household fire drills. She had even shown the photo to her young daughter, stressing that one careless match could cause a similar tragedy.

"In dire cases, I feel that motivation by fear is justified," she wrote. "In retrospect, I can see that the Republican’s motivation in this instance paralleled my own."

She was not alone. In the few days following the fatal fire, the Rushville Fire Department sold 23 dozen cases of smoke detectors.

I believe at least part of the credit goes to "that photo" and the impact it had on the community. It grabbed the whole town by the heart, and it scared it. More importantly, it made people do something about what was scaring them.

His clients, Steven and Robin Schwartz, were outraged when the station interviewed their then 8-year-old daughter Alison the day after she, her sister and two friends escaped from a knife-wielding man who threatened them on their way to school. The lawsuit, which was settled out of court in March, contends that KFMB -TV put the child at risk by using her picture and first name on the air.

"(KFMB) didn’t give any consideration to the potential impact of identifying her and broadcasting video of her picture for this fellow to see," said Pederson. The man molested an 11-year-old girl the morning that Alison escaped him on the same wooded trail.

KFMB reporter John Culea interviewed Alison the next day on her school playground. The plaintiffs contend Culea didn’t have the principal’s or any adult’s permission to interview the child; the defense claims that consent was implied because school officials were on the grounds and no one objected.

Station attorneys argue that Alison had already appeared on television in connection with the story. Steven Schwartz was interviewed by another station the night of the incident and was seen holding Alison’s hand, although the child was not identified as his daughter, nor was her name given. The station said Schwartz entered the "limelight" by appearing in the interview, making his family "involuntary public figures." The defense also argues it was a newsworthy story of public interest.

Pederson said putting the father on TV and putting an unauthorized interview of an 8-year-old on TV are two different things. "We’re not talking about an interview for a science fair project," says Pederson. "An 8-year-old does not have the capacity to understand the ramifications of an interview (of this kind)."

Pederson said he hoped the case would remind journalists to give serious consideration to whom they are interviewing and what the impact might be. The family lived in fear that the molester, who was not caught until a month later, would be able to find Alison as a result of the story and come after her, he said.

"I’ve got a problem when we’re dealing with minors, and in a situation where there very possibly could be some impact on them," said Pederson, "There was some impact (here) — there could have been a lot more, let’s put it that way."

The woman’s voice was quiet, but forceful: "Why are you doing this? Why are you making our family suffer?"

Her request: drop a short sequence about her husband’s suicide.

But in television, emotion packs a powerful punch. It may be only a 30-second sound bite, but it’s the climax of your report. Is your story worth the cost?

This case of public good vs. private pain began when I was the investigative reporter at "Newswatch," the Montreal supper show for the Canadian Broadcasting Corp. A distraught woman’s letter asked me to look into the suicide of her brother.

An ex-psychiatric patient, he had returned to the emergency ward of a busy hospital, complaining of depression. The doctor gave him some pills. The man left and killed himself shortly after.

We checked out the story and uncovered a social crisis of frightening proportions.

Two-thirds of the patients jamming Quebec’s hospital emergency rooms were mental patients. Doctors at several hospitals acknowledged sending home potential suicides because there was no more room. "Russian roulette," one doctor called it.

We had government documents with worrisome statistics, frustrated doctors on camera, but — because of the stigma attached to mental illness — no patients or families willing to talk.

We went back to our letter writer. Though nervous, she was eloquent:

"He was searching for help, but where was it? What happened?" she said on camera. "He slipped through the net. That’s not good enough. This is a tragedy because so many others are seeking out help — and they can’t get it."

It summed up our theme powerfully.

Then, a week before going to air with what was now a major three-part series on the "Psychiatric Crisis," I got a call from the man’s widow.

Perhaps unwisely, I had never tried to contact her when we began doing the story. We had most of the details we needed and I didn’t want to intrude unnecessarily on somebody’s grief.

The hospital had tipped her off that we were on the story. She was just as upset as her sister-in-law was over the lack of care her husband had received. Nevertheless, she was furious that her dead husband’s sister had gone public.

"Some of our friends and the grandchildren don’t know it was a suicide," she said, pleading with me to drop any mention of her family’s tragedy.

I debated the issue with Phyllis Platt, my executive producer at the time, and others in the newsroom.

The issue wasn’t suicide coverage.

As a matter of policy, CBC television does not cover bridge-jumpers and similar suicide attempts.

Platt had no objection to keeping the sequence, if I thought it was vital.

The problem here goes to the heart of what makes TV different from print. An emotional quote doesn’t lose its power if the newspaper omits or changes the name of the person telling the story.

But in TV it’s the face, the eyes, the crackling voice that make the quote work as much as the words. Anonymity doesn’t work (shadow interviews are fine for drug pushers and informers, not ordinary citizens).

"We should respect the widow’s wishes," said Sheilagh Kinch, one of the journalists arguing that the sequence was not essential to the proof about a health-care crisis.

Others — including me — disagreed.

"Run it; it’s a good clip," said Tony Ross, a reporter. "The sister wants to get the story out."

Indeed, the sister had come to us. We didn’t approach her begging for a public airing of the family’s grief.

And her letter had sparked a month-long investigation that revealed important public lessons.

Moreover, without a human face on our stories, they’re lifeless. The sister’s one quote could help shake up viewers.

I settled for a compromise.

I explained to the widow that we were not going to mention her husband’s name or the name of his sister or the hospital. The sequence would only be 38 seconds in a seven-minute report.

Viewers saw the sister looking over books about suicide, as we explained the case. Then, in a full camera shot — no disguise, no shadow — the sister delivered her emotional testimony. We never gave her name or other details, never showed a picture of the suicide case.

Was I right?

The widow didn’t think so. She was still upset.

But the report — climaxed by the sister’s emotional plea — accomplished what I had set out to do. The health minister was forced to respond. And viewers reacted.

I got one letter signed by more than 60 people from the Alliance for the Mentally Ill — mothers, fathers, spouses and children who have coped with psychiatric patients and suicides in their families.

They expressed their appreciation for our educating the public about "the needs and the agonizing conditions of the mentally ill. Bravo!"

That probably doesn’t make the widow feel any better. But it convinced me it was all worthwhile.

My advice? There are no fixed ethical rules for TV journalists. The balance between public good and private pain is a delicate one. You have to find it each time you turn your camera on a tragedy that needs to be exposed.

The two Iraqi missiles that tore into the USS Stark in the Persian Gulf on Sunday night, May 17, 1987, were also the fatal blow to my foundering career at the Detroit Free Press.

My assignment was to sit vigil with the family of 20-year-old Kelly Robert Quick, an electronics technician, who was one of the eight Michigan sailors unaccounted for following the explosion. His father’s home was in a rural area near Flint, about 75 miles northwest of Detroit.

I called Robert Quick to ask if I might drive out and visit with him while he waited for word, and he told me no p; please. He hadn’t slept since Saturday night. He had spent all day yesterday giving interviews "for my boy" and he didn’t have anything left to give. He couldn’t control his crying. He said this apologetically, as if he were being stingy or rude – or a sissy. I assured him I understood and then blurted out something dopey and preacherish like, "God bless and protect your son."

YOU FOOL! was the reaction I got from assistant city editor Andrea Ford when I told her. (Or maybe it was YOU IDIOT; I can’t remember which.) OF COURSE he said that. You NEVER give them ADVANCE WARNING. You have to take them BY SURPRISE.

But you see, I knew that.

Andrea continued to lecture me that, "Your job is not to concern yourself with what sources want or don’t want. Your job is to GET THE STORY." Then she added, "Too bad you did that. Now it’ll be that much harder to get in."

I’m ashamed to say I went. I made two chicken-livered passes by the house before pulling in. Quick’s sister and lady friend tried to head me off in the driveway, politely explaining again why Robert Quick was unavailable. But as they spoke Quick appeared at the open door. He was dressed in slept-in-looking clothes and white socks. His face was pouched and blotchy.

"I suppose I could give you a short statement," he said. As if to say, "You drove all this way, and it’s hot, and I know you’re just trying to do your job." He held the screen door open for me to come in.

Why are people so kind to vultures? In 11 years as a reporter I never failed to be amazed when people would react so politely to an intrusion that warranted an "It’s none of your business" or, at the very least, "I’m sorry, but that’s personal." Even when I was once told, "You can either leave now on your own or I’ll have you dragged out of town behind a goddamn cement truck," it sounded reasonable.

Patiently he choked out the story he had been telling for two days: Kelly was a good boy; never gave anybody a lick of trouble. Loved cars and baseball. Wanted to join the Navy like Grandpa (who was now in the kitchen, answering the phone) so he could get an education in electronics. Wrote home faithfully once a month to Mom and Dad at their separate addresses. Found naval sea cruises boring – nothing ever happened.

A reporter from another paper showed up and indicated that since I was in the house, he also had a right to be. Quick said OK, and let him in. Once inside, the reporter ignored the family and began poking around in the back bedroom, as if he were a police officer with a badge at the scene of a crime. In a few minutes he reappeared with a photograph he had found in the bedroom. Could he take it? Thanks.
See Ya.

All the while the phone was ringing every five to 10 minutes. Each time it rang the family all jumped, knowing this could be… it. But it was never… it. It was always the media! Have you heard anything? Is he dead yet?

I think this camel’s back broke when one of those calls was for me. It was from Andrea, angrily demanding to know why I hadn’t called in my story yet; didn’t I know when deadline was? Did I have enough notes for a story? OK, then, begin dictating them over the phone RIGHT NOW.

Was she serious?

When I said I could not tie up the family’s phone at a time like this, she said, "Why not?"

"Why not?"

"Don’t they know?"

"Know?"

"He’s dead."

The Free Press apparently knew that Kelly Quick was dead and the family did not. Moreover, I was NOT to tell them, and NOT to leave the house, because "the officers in the white uniforms" were on their way to inform them. This was the BIG story, the one we couldn’t miss. How the Family Reacted When Told Their Son Was Really Dead.

I told my editor it was time for me to leave the Quick household; I’d call in my notes from a pay phone. She warned me not to leave unless I was "guaranteed" to get back in.

The nearest pay phone was six miles away. Once my notes were dictated, I drove back home – to my home, not Kelly Quick’s. And I never went back to the Free Press . . . except to resign. I knew I would never be able to stomach that situation again.

In retrospect, I would say it’s not necessary to throw away the baby with the bath water. But it is necessary to throw out the bath water, and that’s what I think reporters fail to do, too often.

For the sake of our souls – never mind the integrity of the newspaper – I think we have to screw up the courage to "Just Say No." And I don’t think we should assume we’ll all be fired.

Not long ago, I noticed an editorial by the most recent executive editor of the Free Press, Heath Meriwether, in which he spoke openly to his troops about disaster coverage:

"Show compassion," he said. "If the families don’t want to talk, or allow a photographer, respect that. Put yourselves in their shoes. Treat them the way you would want to be treated in such a situation."
I rest my case.

The deputy ordered the blonde from the car and asked for identification. The blonde, heavily made up with lipstick and rouge and wearing a wig, responded that his name was Mark Whitfield.

If the deputy was nervous, it wasn’t because he had just nabbed a desperate criminal.

Mark Whitfield was a Medina County commissioner – one of the trio of officials who formed the executive authority for county government. He was also the son of Judge Neil Whitfield, probably the county’s most prominent and powerful public official.

The deputy was new to the job but it did not take a veteran to understand the potential for disaster in this situation. He radioed for assistance and the sheriff himself responded. Before the sheriff could get to the scene, one of his top officers arrived and drove Whitfield home to change.

No arrest was made nor any charges filed, even though Whitfield admitted trying to get into the home of a woman he knew slightly. (His attempt had been spotted by a neighbor.)

Instead, the sheriff called the woman and her husband into his office to meet with Whitfield a few days later. Whitfield did not, or could not, explain his actions. He merely admitted the attempt, as well as a similar attempt the previous February. He acknowledged having a "problem" and promised to get psychiatric help.

The woman and her husband agreed not to press charges, provided that Whitfield stayed away from them.

Even though no formal charges were filed, the reporter covering Medina County for the Akron Beacon Journal heard bits and pieces about Whitfield’s "problem."

After considerable prodding, the sheriff confirmed the events, including how Whitfield was dressed that day.

Next, the reporter confronted Whitfield with what she had uncovered. He begged her not to publish the story because of what it would do to his family and to his father, who, he insisted, knew nothing of his problems.

She pointed out that he appeared to be at the mercy of anyone who wanted something from the commissioners’ office. He was a public official with a secret that could be very damaging.

Whitfield wanted the story killed for obvious reasons. The reporter and I conferred over Whitfield’s request, but there was no room for compromise.

The most we could do was give him the weekend to break the news to his family before the story appeared.

Publication was scheduled for a Tuesday. On Monday, Whitfield abruptly announce his resignation from office "for personal reasons."

With Whitfield out of office, was there still a story? No charges had been filed. The facts weren’t in dispute, but were they still newsworthy?

Was it fair to write a story saying the real reason Whitfield had resigned was to avoid public disclosure of his transvestitism? It seemed particularly cruel to reveal now the condition that Whitfield had given up his public career to keep private.

The editor, the managing editor and I (then metro editor) debated through the day whether to run the story as the explanation of the "personal reasons." The arguments in favor of publication were vintage journalistic ones: we had a good story all to ourselves; there was no question as to accuracy; we had put in a lot of time and effort on the story.

On the other side, there was an equally good journalistic argument: it wasn’t fair to do the story now that Whitfield had voluntarily eliminated what we had said was the main reason for the story – his status as an elected official.

The decision was that the story died with the end of Whitfield’s public career.

There was, however, plenty of opportunity for second-guessing. A few years later, Whitfield considered running for Congress. Was the story now news again? Was it fair to dredge up the past?

We had killed the story because Whitfield had stepped out of the public spotlight. If he were to re-enter it voluntarily, then those aspects of his personality that had been fair game in the past would become fair game again.

At least, that was the prevailing attitude, but no final decision was required because the filing deadline passed with no petition from Whitfield.

That wasn’t the end, though. In the mid-80s, Whitfield was identified as the prime suspect in a bizarre case involving the death of his secretary some 10 years earlier. She had been found nude, hanging by a scarf in her bedroom closet.

The investigation that led to Whitfield’s indictment for her murder (he was acquitted) also resulted in disclosure of the transvestite episode. The (Cleveland) Plain Dealer picked up on that aspect of the larger story first, followed shortly by Cleveland Magazine.

The magazine reported our explanation for not using the story. Perhaps it was just my thin skin, but there also seemed to be a suggestion that the elder Whitfield’s influence might have been a factor as well. I guess it was the price to be paid for killing a story that later came out anyway. Our motives could be challenged in hindsight, but nothing that has happened since has altered my belief that we did the right thing in not publishing the Whitfield episode at the time.

The reason we went after the story was our belief that Whitfield’s private life could have affected his public performance. He certainly was open to pressure from anyone who wanted favors from a powerful public official. His resignation did not change what had happened, but it changed our duty to report what we knew.