fishwrapper
Active Member
I had one.
We were doing a story on Coach X committing [said felony]. We had everything. Victim's family, documents, couple of witnesses, comments from local municipalities and bureaucracies. We needed Coach X's comment. He knew it was coming.
We call him, and he goes forking ape shirt. I really didn't care. I expected it. And, it really didn't matter what he had to say. We just had to give him an opportunity.
Later that afternoon, we get a document from a previous Freedom of Info Act we submitted. It wasn't terribly important. But, it did give some chronology to the story. So, I pull the story from the budget and from the paper.
So, we spend the next two days reworking the story to give it proper chronology. He calls me several times. He yells at me. Screams at me. Tells me he's going to "own [my f'ing] house." I expected it. Big deal. Go for it, Dude. Good luck.
The last one, the day before it was to appear in the paper, was a real one. You would recognize it if it happened to you. There was pure, unadulterated desperation in his voice. The kind when you grit your teeth. Anger. Pure anger. The Dirtbag was serious.
Me: "We're running it."
Dirtbag: "You're mother [f'ing] dead. And I know where your family goes to church."
(My wife and I had one daughter at the time.)
Me: "You just made the second biggest mistake of your life."
Dirtbag: "What are you going to do about it?"
Me: "Goodbye."
Walked over to the Managing Editor's office. He called the Editor. We all called the FBI.
He lost everything. The Dirtbag pleads to a lesser charge on the felony. But, he pleads no contest to "disseminating death threat(s) over phone lines."
(Nothing about the death threats appeared in the paper. Not until Metro covered the conclusion and complete sentencing was revealed.)
That was nine years ago. He gets out in June, I'm told.
He would have been out a long time ago had he not made that phone call. Dirtbag.
We were doing a story on Coach X committing [said felony]. We had everything. Victim's family, documents, couple of witnesses, comments from local municipalities and bureaucracies. We needed Coach X's comment. He knew it was coming.
We call him, and he goes forking ape shirt. I really didn't care. I expected it. And, it really didn't matter what he had to say. We just had to give him an opportunity.
Later that afternoon, we get a document from a previous Freedom of Info Act we submitted. It wasn't terribly important. But, it did give some chronology to the story. So, I pull the story from the budget and from the paper.
So, we spend the next two days reworking the story to give it proper chronology. He calls me several times. He yells at me. Screams at me. Tells me he's going to "own [my f'ing] house." I expected it. Big deal. Go for it, Dude. Good luck.
The last one, the day before it was to appear in the paper, was a real one. You would recognize it if it happened to you. There was pure, unadulterated desperation in his voice. The kind when you grit your teeth. Anger. Pure anger. The Dirtbag was serious.
Me: "We're running it."
Dirtbag: "You're mother [f'ing] dead. And I know where your family goes to church."
(My wife and I had one daughter at the time.)
Me: "You just made the second biggest mistake of your life."
Dirtbag: "What are you going to do about it?"
Me: "Goodbye."
Walked over to the Managing Editor's office. He called the Editor. We all called the FBI.
He lost everything. The Dirtbag pleads to a lesser charge on the felony. But, he pleads no contest to "disseminating death threat(s) over phone lines."
(Nothing about the death threats appeared in the paper. Not until Metro covered the conclusion and complete sentencing was revealed.)
That was nine years ago. He gets out in June, I'm told.
He would have been out a long time ago had he not made that phone call. Dirtbag.