One Helluva Week In Florida

This article was written by Florida-based radio correspondent Peter King

Now, I'm not comparing this past week to THAT. But if you were a reporter here in the Sunshine State, you might be thinking along similar lines, journalistically speaking.

In the eight days that began February 1, 2007, we had four national lead stories unfold in Florida. In my time here, this has never happened (not counting long-term stories like the election recount, the 2004 hurricanes, the 2000 election recount, Terri Schiavo or Elian Gonzales, all of which stretched on for weeks and months).

The first week in February had heads spinning and wondering, "What could possibly happen next?"

Wednesday, Jan. 31, and Thursday, Feb. 1

For me, the week actually begins Wednesday, as I drove the 230 or so miles from my home in Orlando to Miami for Super Bowl XLI, check into my hotel, get my credentials and start reporting. Piece of cake.

Except added to that was a self-imposed goal of interviews for the eventual demise of Fidel Castro, which meant Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning trips to the University of Miami in that city's legendary traffic. No problem. Mission accomplished, followed by Thursday drives to impoverished Liberty City, then to the home of a local business professor for stories on the Super Bowl, its economic impact, and the disparity between the super-rich attendees and super-poor who live in cars and trucks.

Then back to the media center in Miami Beach for Thursday afternoon news conference (or "newser") with the "Field Generals," the NFL's pioneering African-American quarterbacks. I'm armed with a request for a Q and A for one of our talk shows with Doug Williams, the first black quarterback to play in the Super Bowl. Mission accomplished. Again. And then, back to my hotel to cut tape for Friday morning packages.

For the second night in a row, it's fast food in the room instead of attending one of the posh and expensive media bashes that are so prominent during Super Bowl week.

Friday, Feb. 2

As I wake up, I see that tornados have hit north of Orlando in Lake and Volusia County. The death toll is two. I call my wife, who assures me she and our home are fine. So I move on to the media center and get on with my work.

The Super Bowl Coach newsers are done by 9:30 a.m. and as I'm cutting sound, the phone rings. It's Constance Lloyd, my boss, who tells me the tornado deaths have jumped from two to 14. I have to head back north as fast as I can. It takes an hour, as I need to wrap up the stories I'm writing and cutting, then get some equipment from my hotel. It's back up I-95 to pick up a satellite uplink at home. Then another hour on to Volusia County-Deland, where the twister has trashed many homes.

The tornados have been the lead story all day and the death toll rises to 20. I'm in Deland by 5 p.m. but cannot go to stricken areas without a police escort. Editors are breathing down my neck for SOMETHING.

Plus, as in all natural disasters, communication is spotty at best. Fortunately my handheld satellite phone works and I can at least tell them what I face. When I can get to stricken areas, my cell phone works and I can phone in live on scene descriptions ("ROSRS" or radio on scene reports) — enough to last for several hours worth of newscast and updates.

At 7 p.m., it's back home (another hour) with a stop for dinner to go (a Publix supermarket calzone) and an hour's work to send back more tape via computer and email.

Saturday, Feb. 3

Up at 7 a.m., on the road to Paisley in eastern Lake County by 7:45 a.m. Thirteen people died there. It's at least an hour's drive but I call in with some details and info that can be used on the air immediately.

I get to Lake Mack, a mobile home community that is trashed. I phone in immediate ROSRS and wait to be allowed past a police roadblock. It happens, I get my interviews and more ROSRs, and head back to the car to set up the satellite link to feed to New York good quality sound.

It takes several minutes for the transmitter to find the appropriate satellite and give me the "ready for call" icon. But the call won't go through, and I can't get our satellite guru on the phone for help. I'm frustrated because satellite quality would make my sound sing. Fortunately the cell phone works, and I can feed that way. Even though the audio quality is lower, it gets the job done. Later I find a Dunkin' Donuts where I can get coffee and e-mail the sound — high quality and all — and then it's back on the road again. To Miami.

Saturday night, Miami, Feb. 3

The second drive south in four days sends me to the house of my college roommate, Marty Gould. Marty, his wife Stephanie (both ex-newsies) and I enjoy Mexican takeout and watch a replay of the Jets win over the Colts in Super Bowl III. A nice respite from the horrors of the day in Deland. I leave with the Goulds' last trash bag, which they generously give me in case I need to cover my equipment tomorrow night at Dolphins Stadium. The forecast calls for rain.

Sunday, Feb. 4

At 9 a.m., I got to the media center to pick up game-day credentials. The NFL insists on separate credentials for the week preceding the game, so it means another long line and long wait. Except there is no line, no wait and my credentials are in order. For the first time in my short Super Bowl history (this is my fifth), the NFL has awarded me a coveted stadium parking pass! God Bless the NFL! It means I can come and go on my time, and not have to worry about taking the shuttle busses and running on their schedule! Did I mention how much I love the NFL?

By the way, the one media party I can attend — the Sunday morning media brunch — I have not been invited to. It doesn't matter, because I am giddy about the parking pass. And also happy to have run into a former co-worker from 20 years ago at the media center. This may be a first for a reporter: saying that free food does not matter.

It's been raining and I've filed stories on that. By 1 p.m. I'm on my way to Dolphins Stadium, in my own car, in the rain.

I'm at the stadium by 2 p.m. Everything falls into place. This can't be happening! Past history has told me to expect the worst. Bad — or no — phone lines, equipment malfunctions and Internet crashes at my workspace. None of this happens. The lines work, the WiFi works, the equipment works and I even hitched a golf cart ride up the ramp to my seat. There's a media lounge nearby with food, drink and, yes, popcorn for the taking.

When the game ends, New York wants plenty of material and the copy editor wants to know when I'll be back in my hotel room to file some more. Arrgh! I do get there by 1:30 a.m. or so, and file morning packages. I am asleep by 3 a.m., awake by 8 a.m. or so and I'm on the road by about 10:30 a.m. Five hours later I'm home, in time for a 7 p.m. appointment with our accountant to do our taxes. Tomorrow and Wednesday are supposed to be off days. The news seems very far away.

At 8:30 p.m., on the way home from the tax man, I'm on the phone with a friend when a reporter pal, Rory O'Neill, calls to tell me something incredible has happened. A NASA astronaut, Lisa Nowak, has been arrested. In Orlando. For attacking a woman who was said to be dating an astronaut Nowak was in love with.

There's more. The 900-mile drive from Houston wearing a diaper. A disguise. A duffel bag with weapons. Other weird stuff. He's got to be making this up. He isn't. I've covered space since 1994, and for CBS News since 1996. And though there have been some strange stories out of NASA, I can guarantee that no space reporter has had one quite like this. No has one WANTED to cover one like this.

My friend Rory is an occasional CBS News stringer, and has filed for us, since I am supposed to be off for two days. But knowing this could be the lead story in the morning, I call New York and tell them my time off is OFF… and to have the morning crew call me before the first broadcast on which I'm needed.

Tuesday, Feb. 5

The phone rings at 6 a.m. The voice says, "We want you to open the 7." It's the lead story. I open our hourly newscasts at 7 a.m. and 9 a.m. (I get to be the first voice out of the top of the hour tone and sounder that signal the start of the newscast.) It's the lead on the 8 a.m. World News Roundup, too, and at 9:15 a.m. I grab what I can and head to the Orange County Courthouse where Nowak is due for her first appearance. Or is it the Orange County Jail? Desk assistant Dustin finds out it is the jail and calls me moments before I am to take the State Road 408 exit that leads there.

The bad news is that I've missed the court appearance. The good news is that the hearing was available by the satellite, New York has it, and I can concentrate on what's ahead of me. And what's ahead is that Nowak will bond out on charges of attempted kidnapping, battery and more, sometime in the next few hours.

Allen Moore, an old friend, gives me some details on her overnight accommodations and periodically updates the media. A former Orlando radio reporter, it's his time in the national spotlight.

At about 11:30 a.m. he tells us she'll be coming out soon, and we are to clear a path for her exit. We all wait by the door, some of us looking through tinted windows to get a glimpse of her coming through the inner door. At 11:55 a.m., I'm on the phone with New York waiting to give the word that she's out, so we can get it on the noon newscast.

Suddenly, Allen comes out and says, "Breaking news!" She's not getting out. Orlando police are filing an additional charge. Attempted first degree murder! OH MY GOD! An astronaut accused of this is unheard of!

I start yelling into the phone: "She's not getting out! They're charging her with attempted murder! You've got to put me on the air!"

I have no script. I'm flying without a net. It's something I've done before — and the anchor, Nick Young, talks to me, throws my earlier story out the window and we get it right on the radio! And better yet, an e-mail from my big boss, Harvey Nagler, a few minutes later tells me that our competition not only didn't have it, they got it totally wrong, running a canned piece saying Nowak was out of jail. True confession: this kind of stuff happens in our business. But it's always better when it happens to someone else.

The stake-out lasts through a 4 p.m. hearing. Nowak comes out at about 5:20 p.m., a jacket over her head. She is escorted by her boss, chief astronaut Steve Lindsay, the bail bondsman, and the woman who will outfit her with a GPS device Nowak must wear at all times. I file more stories and go home to file a last round before calling it a night. I know that I'll be on the radio Wednesday morning and plan accordingly.

Wednesday, Feb. 7

Nowak leaves town this morning. It's still the lead story, but with her out of Orlando, I don't have to stake out anything, anywhere today. I'm on every hour all morning, and like yesterday, I've been doing countless two-ways — one-on-one interviews with various affiliates.

I interview a former astronaut about the situation. I file this new package by about 2 p.m. I'm about to call it a day when NASA announces a 3 p.m. newser! For the sixth straight day, my work day will extend beyond the 12-hour mark. No matter. I watch, cut and file stories on NASA's reaction. By 7 p.m. or so, I'm done, Nowak and the story are now in Houston, and for the second time this week, I look forward to a couple of days off.

Thursday, Feb. 8

Ahhh, a day off. Sleep in, relax, enjoy leisurely morning coffee. Do some errands, laundry, and time with my cats. I get to see my wife off to work.

Biggest job today? Cleaning out my poor Honda CRV, which is a mess of empty water bottles, food wrappers, newspapers, a tangle of mangled equipment cables and stuff just piled on the back seat and rear compartment. I put everything in its place, bring a bunch of stuff into the house and unpack my duffel bag and start a load of laundry leftover from the Super Bowl. It's 3:40 p.m. when the phone rings …

"Connie wants to talk to you," says Ingrid, her right-hand person. The boss again. OK, it's probably something about the Cuba interviews or my time off. No such luck.

Apologetically, she says "I may need you to go back to Miami. Anna Nicole Smith collapsed and was taken to the hospital unconscious." And I'm rolling my eyes and saying to myself, "This is news?" Then, she says, "We think she's going to be OK but standby."

I turn on the TV and it's on. She may be dead. Ingrid e-mails me that she IS dead. I think Ingrid is pulling my leg — she has been known to do that — but it turns out that she is not kidding. Less than an hour later, I'm back on the road again, driving back south for the third time in nine days. Anna Nicole Smith has become the lead story on our newcasts — and every cable network — but not on the big three evening newscasts.

It's feeling like 2000 again. I spent most of the first four months of that year going back and forth between here and Miami to cover the Elian Gonzales story. And many times, as I was on my way home, I was told to turn around, or to plan on going back south the next day.

But this is different. Four separate, national lead stories in this state in about a week. It hasn't happened in my time here, and I'm guessing it's never happened before. Another reason why I'm fond of saying, "If you can't make a living as a reporter in this state, you must be brain dead." All the weird stuff happens here!

On my XM Radio, in between CBS Radio hourlies, I hear one of the cable network's coverage of the unfolding story. Nobody has much in the way of factual information, so they toss out whatever they can and hope it sticks.

One commentator who had interviewed Smith many times describes her as "not the smartest woman" in the world but very nice. He recounts a party during which Smith was so inebriated, "it was embarrassing." This is the same host who, upon the death of CBS News correspondent Ed Bradley, told viewers he'd seen Bradley a few months earlier and "thought he looked like a guy who was about to 'buy it.' "

By 9 p.m., I'm checked into a hotel in Ft. Lauderdale. The hotel check-in is a nightmare. I get to the room and unpack before I notice there is no phone. Turns out not all the rooms have phones, so they move me next door. Newsmen need a phone.

By the time everything is in place, 45 minutes have elapsed. I still have to file a morning package, using sound from an earlier news conference (someone else has recorded it in New York and e-mailed to me). It gets the job done, and after watching the 11 p.m. news. I let everyone know that the medical examiner will do the autopsy at about 9 or 9:30 in the morning. It's time to sleep.

Friday, Feb. 10

Wake up call at 6 a.m. The first thing I discover is that someone has misinterpreted my late night message and mass mailed a note to radio and TV news that a medical examiner's newser will happen at 9 or 9:30 a.m. I correct them and get on with business. I open the 7 a.m. broadcast. Lead on the 8 a.m. World News Roundup. Open again at 9 a.m. And after the West Coast feed of the World News Roundup at 10 a.m., it's off to the medical examiner's office for another stakeout.

What a scene. Southwest 31st Street in Dania Beach is lined with cars and live trucks, but I find a space less than five minutes' walk from where I need to be. With a folding chair and the equipment I need — plus a bag of munchies and four bottles of water — I set up next to one of about three dozen TV cameras and get ready for the long haul.

For the first time in what seems like weeks, the "beast" (we affectionately refer to filing our stories as "feeding the beast" who is always hungry) is not hungry for anything from me. That's because the autopsy has begun, there's nothing new to report here.

The real news is breaking on the West coast, where a judge has ordered Smith's body preserved until at least Feb. 20. And in yet another bizarre development, Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband says he might be father of Smith's daughter. When desk assistant Rosanne Ramkarrin tells me this, I say, "You must be making this up!" She's not.

Anna Nicole Smith's mysterious and sudden death has really taken on a life of its own. More and more TV crews are showing up, and each sound man or videographer adds his or her microphone to an increasingly top-heavy mic stand that looks as if it's about to topple over. By my last count, there were between 30 and 35 mics on there, plus one mini-disc recorder belonging to CNN Radio. Photographers snap away as each new mic is added, just in case they all come down in a tangled mess. They don't, but it makes for good conversation.

The waiting is interminable. I use a variation of a line I've used in the past. If the Medical Examiner comes out and sees his shadow, we'll have to wait six more weeks for autopsy results. Although I was just trying to get laughs, that statement actually turns out to be prescient.

At 2:50 p.m., we're told the newser will happen at 3. The time slips to 3:25, and in another amusing incident, the medical examiner's spokesman places a podium close to the building. About 100 reporters and camera people converge and protest, since our mics have been set up for hours … and the yelling goes back and forth for about five minutes. The media win.

The newser is about a half-hour long, and the medical examiner tells us there were no drugs in her stomach but toxicology and chemical results will take another three to five weeks. And then we all go file.

For me, it's the light at the end of the tunnel again, and that's confirmed when Constance tells me I can go home that night or in the morning if I'm too tired. I opt for the latter.

I file my last stories for the night and morning, and go downstairs for a real meal. In spite of its shortcomings, the hotel has charm, and the dining room is handsome — and serves me a wonderful piece of swordfish from Singapore. A Corona tastes like vintage champagne. As I relax and visit with an Iowa couple at the next table, it occurs to me that this is the first conversation in a week and half that I've had with "real people" (other than my wife).

Saturday, Feb. 10

Being somewhat superstitious, I held off on packing my equipment until realizing that the desk was not going to call me to file or to do live shots. Armed with a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, I start the trip home, making two more stops for coffee and gas along the way. And then, suddenly, I think of Lisa Nowak, who wore a diaper because she wanted to drive the 900 miles from Houston to Orlando with no pit stops. I wonder how she did it without stopping for coffee.

And, as worn down as I feel right now, I think of the bumper sticker on my neighbor's car, a quote from Jerry Greenfield of Ben and Jerry's fame: "If it's not fun, why do it?" The bottom line is, being a reporter is fun, and I can't think of anything I'd rather make a career of.

Postscript, Feb. 11

How sweet it is to wake up, enjoy the Sunday papers, Osgood on TV, hanging out with my wife and cats with no phones ringing. And I think about the "thank you" e-mail that my "big" boss, Harvey Nagler, sent me during Friday's stakeout. Especially this final line: "I would suggest you take a couple of days off, but every time you do, another blockbuster story takes place."

Tomorrow, I will take the cat to the vet, get my car's oil changed and get my hair cut. And I'll take a "power walk" around my neighborhood for the first time in nearly two weeks. Paradise! Unless, of course, the phone rings ...

By Peter King