During my years as executive editor of the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record between 1973 and 1980, the newsroom staff of 13 became a group of dedicated and determined reporters and editors. The marching orders I gave to a largely demoralized staff upon arriving as a 26-year-old journalist with two years' experience as a small daily editor in Newport were well-intentioned, yet idealistic and naïve.
The newspaper at that time had become content to publish wire-service stories rather than local news across its front pages. What local coverage there was consisted primarily of what I call stenographic "process stories" requiring little real reporting and zero initiative: "Local elementary gets new playground equipment," "Council approves new stoplight," and such.
Directions to the newsroom staff (most older than me) went something like this: "I encourage you to leave this newsroom and dig for relevant news stories. Together, let's tell the readers of Hot Springs the objective truth of what's happening in this community, regardless of whose doorstep it crosses. No friends to favor or axes to grind."
And did those reporters and editors ever respond to the encouragement and support. Imagine shaking a warm soft drink stored away in a closet, then popping its cap. Stories of wrongdoing and shedding light in darkness began regularly pouring across the front pages. Readers responded favorably while wondering what the heck was happening.
The stories ranged from exposing how the local federally supported county hospital refused to accept indigent mothers in labor, to a former sheriff who allowed illegal cockfighting for payoffs on his watch, to reporters placing bookie bets in downtown bars then writing about their winnings, to the municipal court continuing DWI cases until they vanished from the docket, to revealing facts that freed an innocent black laborer from jail.
There also were news accounts saying the then-sheriff, among other things, had (without the court's knowledge) been personally escorting some prisoners quietly from his jail to out-of-town weekend jaunts.
In short, complacency vanished. There were no "sacred cows" to avoid or protect. And 26-year-old Walter Hussman Jr., who'd hired me and was then living in Hot Springs while overseeing the paper's operations, reassured me with words to the effect: "We don't have sacred cows. And I fully support you and the staff doing your jobs."
That's just how Hussman was, and remains today, in his support for First Amendment-styled journalism as the publisher of this newspaper and WEHCO Media communications holdings.
Yes, there were prices to pay for awakening from lethargy. One reporter was beaten up, prompting me to distribute sticks to each staffer with the inscription, "For self-protection while telling it like it is." Yeah, admittedly that was pretty hot-doggish. But it did help boost morale, which was my hope.
We would not be intimidated away from the goal of honest journalism. And I came to care deeply for every journalist at the paper, all of whom became proud to share that philosophy.
I also had my share of warnings and threats. Among my most vivid career recollections is the day I departed the Sentinel-Record for a reporting position with the Los Angeles Times.
On the evening before departing, I'd received an anonymous warning from a caller who told me to take care the next day because the one-term sheriff had blamed our stories and me personally for exposing his unsavory actions--coverage he believed had cost him the election. The caller cautioned that he was planning to get revenge by pulling our car over on the highway near the county line as we departed.
That sounded much like other warnings over the years that hadn't come to pass. So I showed up at the paper to bid the staff goodbye and congratulate my capable replacement, Melinda Gassaway. While I was bidding farewell, a reporter saw the sheriff's chief deputy walking around our car in the parking lot. Suddenly, the previous night's warning seemed all too real.
I decided to call a man I'd come to respect in Garland County, the late Capt. Gene Donham, commander of the local State Police troop headquarters. Explaining what I suspected was about to happen, Donham (cut from the same rugged bolt of cloth as the late John Wayne) told me to wait. Sure enough, he and his lieutenant soon pulled up in an ASP cruiser.
"Stay on my bumper until we cross the county line," Donham said. I asked the staff photographer, David Vann, to follow. The family (and dog) piled into our car and headed out.
Crossing the Lake Hamilton bridge, we saw a sheriff's patrol car speeding toward us. It had been waiting ahead on the highway and was followed by another, then a third. Donham waved from his rearview mirror. Passing the county line, we stopped and shook hands. Vann captured that moment in a photograph now stored in an attic box.
We each have moments that remain vividly etched in our memories, so deeply ingrained they never need a photograph to remind us of that special time. Capt. Gene Donham shielding me and my family from whatever waited on the highway that morning will forever be among my most treasured.
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Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.
Editorial on 02/03/2019