The Public Has a Right to Know

In the 1980s I worked for a newspaper in northern San Diego County. The Escondido Times-Advocate was a small paper but it was well-respected because some terrifically talented people worked there. Many were drawn by the magnetic editor Will Corbin, who was straight out of central casting. Once, when I misused "prodigal" in a story, he threw a dictionary at me. (OK, to me. But still). Another time I was crying in his office doorway because a story I had written about a corrupt public hospital official had resulted in her firing. He said "If you wanted to make friends you should have gone to work for Welcome Wagon" and slammed the door in my face. (OK, near my face. But still).

The T-A was an afternoon paper. Working for a PM meant getting up early to make the 10 a.m. deadline.

Early and I are not friends.

Will had been tipped that local dignitaries were in secret talks with the US Olympic Committee about locating a training center in Escondido. The city already had Lawrence Welk Village mobile home park and Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap. (Escondido, by the way, means "hidden" in Spanish.) But the training center would put Escondido on the map. The map of San Diego County.

I was assigned to attend a 7 a.m. meeting in downtown San Diego about the training center. The paper was holding a spot on A-1 for a story. It was a 45-minute drive from our apartment so I got up at 5 and got dressed and drove to a donut store for an extra large coffee and a cinnamon roll. I was extremely nervous. I did not want something thrown or slammed in my presence for failing to get the story.

I made it to the conference room just as the assorted government officials and chamber-of-commerce types were filing in. I marched in right behind them and sat down at the big table. Introductions began. There was a city councilman and a county supervisor and a car dealership owner and others of that sort.   I had the feeling they all knew each other and were just waiting to find out who I was. When they did, they didn't look happy. In fact, a nice-looking older woman said "Please leave now."

I couldn't believe my luck. I was getting kicked out of meeting! Every reporter longed to get kicked out of a meeting so you could make the speech about the public's right to know. The speech was printed on the back of these pocket-size press freedom primers we all carried around. Many reporters never got to make the speech their whole careers!

Excited, I stood up and cleared my throat. "I believe the public has a right to be represented at this public meeting!" I said, doing my best to imitate Jimmy Stewart in "Deadline USA." "The public has a right to know what's going on!"

It took less than 30 seconds for someone to politely point out that it wasn't a public meeting. I could tell they felt bad about bursting my self-righteous bubble. If anything came out of the discussion, they said, someone would definitely give me a call.

Outside, I ducked into a restroom. I was crestfallen and tired and I didn't want to have to call Will and tell him I was a flop.

I looked in the mirror.  My cheeks were coated with cinnamon and sugar from the donut. There was a coffee spill on my shirt.

I looked down. My fly was open.

They never built that Olympic training center in Escondido, which, to this day, remains hidden.