Friday, January 16, 2009
Pencil Me In
Wow. I think I just had a moment.It's Friday at 6:42 p.m. I just filed my story for tomorrow's paper and, technically, I'm off the clock.
I was going through my calendar on Outlook to see what I needed to do for next week, and that's when it happened. I started to think I might have a handle on this whole journalism thing.
So, here's the deal: At the beginning of this month, my paper turned us all topsy turvy and stripped many of us of our long held beats and gave us new topical ones.
You know I was amped, right?
The heavens were shining down on me because I got assigned to the Justice team -- which I'm affectionately calling the Justice League. (Did you know there was a black woman on the squad?) And because I've been covering the Kent County Court system for about 18 months now, they let me keep it.
Huzzah!
Well, not quite. See, before now, I've been covering Kent County kinda halfway. Keeping track of cases, but using West Warwick as my primary beat. Now, I'd be covering Kent County as my primary beat and a suburb called Smithfield as my secondary.
First week comes, I have no clue how to spend my day. I reach out to court reporter friends at the AP -- they give me some advice and I try to work their suggestions into my own routine. I spend a lot of time in Smithfield -- virtually -- and finally get out to the suburb to meet with the Superintendent and Town Manager. Come back with a gang of story ideas. But I still haven't made headway into the courts.
So I start making calls.
I call the Attorney General's office and speak to the PR guy there to get an idea of who I can talk to at Kent County to get the lowdown on cases. I call the police departments in my county to see if they can begin faxing over their weekly court calendars and dispositions. Some agree. I count it a success.
I piddle the rest of the week away, waiting for court dates that get moved at the last minute, and doing interviews for stories in Smithfield. By the end of the week, I'm depressed because here I am, with the chance to do exactly what I want to do, however I want to do it, and I'm falling back on municipal coverage because I don't know where to start. I gave myself until Janurary 26 to get my bearings and figure out what I wanted to do about this beat.
So, today, I sent an e-mail to my boss asking him to set aside some time this coming week to talk to me about what he expects from my court coverage. Then, I add the following recurring events on my calendar.
*Brainstorm Ideas for staff meeting
*Justice League Staff Meeting
*Go to courthouse to research cases
*Check court calendars
They're small, but it seems so big to me. I'm a lister. A planner. I need structure. I know I need to be in the courthouse to find the stories. But the anal retentive in me needs to have that time marked out on a calendar where it says I've set aside this time to do research. Sure, I can go more times, or at different times than when I've scheduled it on the calendar, BUT IT'S THERE. It feels concrete to me. And coupled with the court dates already filling my calendar from other cases I'm following, it makes me feel like I'm actually doing my job.
I like that feeling.
Labels: communication, courts, crime reporting, frustration, organization
continue...Saturday, October 27, 2007
She's so major, they should front page her
Hey guys,Like you probably know, I've been following a murder trial for the last few weeks.
Well, it finally ended yesterday. Here's the story I wrote to cap the trial. Oh, and it ran on the front page of my paper today.
Go, me!
I'm really proud of it and just wanted to share.
Happy Weekend!
Labels: courts, journalism
continue...Sunday, October 21, 2007
Dialogue is our friend
So, I was able to come up with something the other day. Here's what an empty head, a full notebook and a looming deadline will get you.Enjoy.
It's funny. I was talking to a friend of mine about this story shortly after I filed it. We pass our stories back and forth every so often and critique one another's work. I was a little underwhelmed at the story. I wrote it quickly and thought it wasn't that good. He loved it. Well, he thought it was good and told a good story. Said maybe I was too close to the story (which, clearly had given me a hard time) to really appreciate it.
A full weekend later, I think he's right. It didn't turn out so badly.
What do you think? continue...
Friday, October 19, 2007
A quick note
I'm exhausted. Physically and Mentally.After a whirlwind weeklong celebration of my 24th year of life last week, I got thrust into this trial on Monday.
I walked into the office and my boss calls me into the office and tells me to haul tail to the Kent County Courthouse for jury selection. See, in addition to covering the town of West Warwick, I also cover county courts for my bureau. I was a little upset that I hadn't know this was coming down the pipeline, but I headed down to the courthouse and sat through two days of jury selection.
I've been covering the trial ever since. At each break and recess, I call the Web team at the paper and give them an update. After court wraps for the day, I head to the office (or file remotely if I can) and write up about 18 inches for the next day's paper. Yesterday, I crafted this tale based on the testimony of one witness.
Besides sitting on those hard wooden court benches all day, the case is just kind of trying. I have a heart, so to think that someone could hurt an innocent child like this is really upsetting. I haven't been getting a lot of sleep -- not necessarily because of this alone -- so that's been making things rough as well.
Today, I'm writing for tomorrow and after listening to testimony, I have absolutely no idea what I want to write about. I've spent the last 15 minutes trying to choke down cold Chinese food from lunch. I'm too exhausted (or lazy, take your pick) to go to the microwave in the conference room. It's 5:50 p.m. My story? Due in one hour and 10 minutes.
I have no focus. My head is blank.
This should be interesting.
Labels: 24-hour news cycle, burnout, courts, deep doo-doo, writing
continue...Friday, June 29, 2007
Mistrial and Mistreatment
People have no loyalty to a journalist.I think I always knew that, but it's still a slap in the face when someone reminds you.
I've been covering this trial for the last month. Seriously, almost 30 days solid. I've been there ever day, listening to testimony, watching crime scene videos and trying to piece it all together.
My first day on the trial, I went over to the group of people who were clustered together on the other side of the courtroom. Later, I'd find out they were the victim's family.
"Hi," I began. "My name is Talia, I'll be covering this trial for the local paper. Are you..."
"We don't want to talk," an older man barked. "At least not until after the trial. "
I can respect that.
"Okay, that's fine," I said. "But we'll be seeing one another for the next few weeks. We can still be friendly to one another, right?"
One of the women smiled and nodded. Over the next few weeks, I respected the family's privacy. I observed there seemed to be two distinct camps: the victim's immediate family and her husband's family. The husband's family were much more apt to engage in small talk and would often approach me. The victim''s family would stare me down when I walked in a room and I couldn't get a one of them to return a smile. So I chilled and stayed mostly to myself. I spoke when the husband's family approached me and I continued attempts to strike up convos with the victim's family. I even persuaded the father to send a photo of his daughter - the victim - to me to publish in the paper.
I thought we were getting along as best could be expected. Then, the verdict came. Sort of.
After more than three days of deliberation, the jury was unable to come to a unanimous decision. I can't say I blame them - I'd sat through the trial and couldn't come to a decision myself.
Once the jury was dismissed, I ran out of the courtroom and called in a Web update to the desk. Then, I waited to the side in an attempt to catch some of the family members. The husband and his family walked out of the courtroom, and didn't even give me a second glance when I called their names. Then, I saw the father walk out the door and ran/walked to catch up with him. He'd told me just 4 days prior that he'd speak to me once a decision came down.
"Mr. Duffy, Mr. Duffy," I said. "Do you have a second to talk to me."
"Why don't you go find the Stephensons," he said, venom dripping from each word. "You were hanging around with them for most of the trial anyway."
I stood stunned as the elevator doors closed between us. I tried not to take it personally - this was, after all, business - but I'm not going to lie: that comment hurt. But I had a job to do, so I hopped in the next elevator and went outside to try to catch someone.
As I stepped into the muggy air, I saw the Duffy family standing on the steps of the courthouse. The TV cameras were there, but again, I'd been here since day one. I tried again.
"Excuse me, folks," I said. "I just wanted to check to see if anyone would be willing to speak to me." I got blank stares in return. Then:
"Give me your card," a woman said. "I'll talk to my uncle (the father) and I'm sure he'll want to speak later." I smiled, thanked her and handed over my card. As I milled around the courthouse steps, I saw the TV cameras spring to action.
The father was giving a TV interview.
I put my pride aside and squeezed between two television cameras, scribbling notes and straining to hear over the wind and the father's low voice. I know he was hurting, but why choose to share your pain with millions of TV viewers, but not with me. I was pissy. I still am. But I got my quotes.
Afterward, I tried speaking to a few jurors. Of course, they had no comment. So I walked back to my car dejected. I'd invested a month of my life covering this trial and I'd gotten the same quotes that every media outlet in the Ocean State received after only being there for the verdict.
And people wonder why the media doesn't chronicle events blow by blow anymore. Because this is what you get in return.
(Don't get it twisted: I'm still proud of my story and the experience of covering a murder trial, but I am disappointed that all of that work was seemingly for naught because I got the same story that everyone else in the state got -- and they actually were able to have a life over the past month.)
Labels: courts, the industry
continue...Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I object(ivity)!
In the courtroom, I almost lost my objectivity - and my lunch.For the last few weeks, I sat in courtroom 4E at the Kent County Courthouse, chronicling the ups and downs of the murder trial of James Richardson, accused of killing Margaret Duffy-Stephenson in 2005.
I sit across the aisle from the family. A seat behind the defendant has my name on it. I chat with the family members about the climate in the courtroom, and joke that maybe tomorrow, I'll bring my parka.
I'm the only reporter who's been in the courtroom since day one. I sat through the motions to suppress, jury selection and opening statements. I detailed testimony in tight stories for the next day's paper. I made corrections when the family pointed out mistakes.
But mostly, I listened.
I listened when Margaret's coworkers told about how their friend was a great teacher's aide and always willing to help someone. I listened when her husband, James Stephenson III, told us about the last time he hugged his wife. I listened when her father told the court that when he found his only daughter covered in blood at the bottom of the stairs, he reached over and touched her face.
So when the prosecution showed a photo of Margaret's wounds on the projector screen in the courtoom, I almost lost it. My mouth gaped open as I stared at her wounds. I swallowed hard as the medical examiner explained Margaret's killer had cut her throat so deeply her backbone was visible through the hole in her neck. Of the 11 wounds on Margaret's body, more than half were stab wounds.
My stomach started to churn.
I looked at those pictures and no longer was Margaret just another victim in another homicide. She was Margaret. The mother of Robert. A teacher's aide at a local elementary school. The only daughter amongst a gaggle of brothers. That was Margaret's body on the autopsy table.
I glanced over at the family when the pictures went up - instinct. To my left, Margaret's sister in law was visibly shaken, tears streaming down her face. Her husband - Margaret's brother - comforted her.
I glanced down at the wooden pew, almost ashamed for having witnessed the family at such a vulnerable time. I took a deep breath and focused on the notes I was writing. I had a job to do.
After court recessed for the day, I went to my car and stared out the windshield in silence. It was all I could do to hold back the tears.
Labels: courts, the industry
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