You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The Pisan.
Sure he had the right to tell us he didn’t want to be on TV.
Sure he had the right to decline comment.
But the way he did it, the amplitude, the aggressiveness, the negative energy he put into telling me this, well it just drew me to his duplicitous flame.
It’s rush hour traffic and I’m responding to South Nashville, my 3rd potential story of the young evening.
When a story falls through it is frustrating. Producers just say “Well what else do you have? What else will fill that 90 second black hole in my show?”
I have been in contact with a police spokesperson who confirms the call that initially went out on the scanner as an officer injured and in distress.
That’s a serious call. An officer injured call stops a newsroom and gets its collective attention.
I am now the tip of that spear.
The story is, a man came into a pizza parlor and reportedly asked to fill out a job application. One thing lead to another and according to the police spokesperson, the pizza owner and the man got into a fight. That’s when the man began “breaking up” the joint. The man reportedly left and an officer injured herself while pursuing the suspect.
As we respond to this call at 10 mph through stop and go traffic, I tell my camera man “This can only be a story if the owner talks or they let us have in store surveillance of the fight.”
It’s taking so long to arrive, it feels like Canadian Health care.
By the time we arrive, an hour has passed.
I get out of the car to the sound of glass being swept on asphalt.
I love that sound. It means the story is still all around me. It means there is still a crime scene to immerse myself in. There are possible pictures and possible interviews and maybe I can salvage something of a pizza parlor man defending himself while a metro officer gets hurt.
I walk up to the pizza place. Two women are armed with brooms and dust pans. They are sweeping up what is the remains of the huge plate-glass window that is now broken.
A couple at the door is trying to get in.
The owner steps up and says “Sorry ladies, we are closed.” His accent is not from Tennessee. He is a skinny white guy. He has a thin leather jacket. Underneath I know there is a gold chain in a matted nest of chest hair.
The customers look perplexed and walk away into the darkness.
The man turns to me, like I’m another customer and says “sorry we are closed.”
“Hi we’re with the news,” I say.
I am about to ask him if he might want to talk about what happened.
I see the Metro Police officer still inside taking notes. I see another metro squad car in the parking lot, lights swirling blue and white.
I know that something happened here. I know what my police official told me. I know that an officer was injured and that the owner reportedly fought the suspect and there is glass everywhere.
The owner cuts me off.
He is Italian. He has a tough guy voice like rocks in a jar.
“No story here,” he says with a liar’s smirk. “No story here. I fell through the glass. Tripped and fell. No story here.”
I stare at him. I look at his employees who roll their eyes. I look at the police officer inside finishing up his report.
I wonder if this guy is trying to tell me a joke, to lighten the mood.
I half way expect him to say; “a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar.”
It’s no joke.
He is a gumba, and he is trying to push me out of his space.
“Sir we heard an officer was hurt here. There was a fight. Can we talk to you about it. Are you the owner?”
He keeps nudging me backward away from the police, away from the broken glass, away from the truth.
“No story here. Nothing happened here.”
My sensors are on high alert. I’m all ready agitated from driving 100 miles from two other stories through rush hour traffic to get here.
Admittedly I’m not in the best mood. I’m also a son of a bitch when people lie to me.
Tell me the truth and everything will be ok.
Lie and I’m going to start peeling back your onion.
“No news here. I tripped and fell into the plate-glass window.”
His voice is full of sarcasm and deceit.
I’m amazed I’m getting this much negative energy this fast off this stupid nothing story.
By this time, my photographer has secured his camera and is beginning to focus on the broken glass.
“You can’t shoot that,” he says putting up his hand.
That’s another thing I can’t stand.
Don’t try and tell me what I can do in America.
It’s America. We can shoot what we want. We don’t have to do it on your property, but this is America. Like it, don’t like it, we have the right.
I step close to the animated Italian. I can’t tell if he is from the Bronx or New Jersey or some place East Coast.
I really don’t care. geographically. A liar is a liar.
And there’s a way to do business.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction and he’s coming at me hard. I can back down and slide away quietly.
Or I can do what I do and meet him in the middle.
I step chest to chest. I talk quietly.
“Sir why you lieing to me? I know that you got into a fight with a man. I’m glad you aren’t hurt. I’m sad your window was broken. But it’s my job to discover the truth, and you are lieing. Why are you lieing to me?”
“You have to get out of my parking lot now. You can’t shoot this. I don’t give you any permission to shoot this.”
“I don’t need your permission,” I say.
“Just tell me the truth.”
“I have a wife and kids and a family to feed. This don’t need to be on the news.”
Now I get it. He’s protecting his life, his way to make a living, his family.
“I get that sir. But can you tell me what happened so I can at least tell my station why we’re leaving.”
“I told you no story here. I feel into the glass. Now get off my property.”
I look at this little pushy man. He’s a caricature, a stereotype to me.
“I’ll sue you.”
I actually smile as he says this.
I’m a pit bull and he’s poking me in the face.
I know in my head that I am not going to ever tell this story. I know in my head that there is no story here. Officer gone. Suspect gone. Crazy Owner now looking to sue me.
I’ve been here 90 seconds and this situation is all ready on broil.
Welcome to News, I think to myself.
I tell my camera man to put away the gear and let’s get off the man’s property.
“Sir. why are you lieing to me?” I say again. “Did you fight the man who came into the store? Did he attack you?”
“Nothing happened here,” he says again almost pushing me physically with his eyes.
My camera man closes the trunk and gets in the car.
He turns to the officer inside. “Officer can I tell them not to shoot this.”
I hear the officer mumble something while shaking his head.
“Sir,” I interject. “I’m not going to shoot this. I realize you have a family you are trying to protect. But be advised, you can’t tell us what to do and how to do it. That sidewalk is public property and we can stand there all day long if we need to. All I was looking for was the truth and you’ve been lieing to me since I got here.”
“Give me your card?” He interjects like I’m a cop whose badge number he can demand.
“No,” I refuse flatly. “There’s no story here, remember?”
“What’s your license number?” he demands.
“Who knows,” I retort. “It’s probably on the back of the car.”
“Write it down for me.”
I laugh out loud.
“I’ll tell you what. You want to call someone. Call my station. You see that big number on the side of the car. Call the station. Ask for Ken. Bitch to him. Let him know what kind of guy you are. Don’t forget to tell him you’re a liar.
“Get off my property.”
“yes sir,” I say getting in my car. “Have a good night.”
As my photographer begins pulling out, he turns to me. “What a dick.”
I laugh.
“I hate when people lie and try and manipulate us. I was about to tell him there was no story there when he didn’t want to talk, but I had to find out if the officer was ok. Then he just blatantly acted like a jerk.”
We begin heading to our 4th story of the young evening when the phone rings.
“Hey your pizza guy just called. He says it’s not a story,” the assignment manager tells me on my speaker phone.
My photographer and I burst out laughing. We haven’t shot a frame of video.
“I use to eat here,” my photographer will say. “Pizza’s good. I’ll never go back there again.”
One story not told. One lie unanswered. One customer lost.
Life’s Crazy.