Mean Girls

Lindsay Lohan star of "Mean Girls."  Photo:  Humza 

A talent agent told me I come off too sweet. "Too 'pink,' not enough flavor," she said. "We need to see the naughty in you."

I can hear my childhood friends roaring with laughter.  I was a mean girl long before Lindsay Lohan.  

The trouble started in 1st grade with a new kid at school.  He  didn't fit in wearing Sunday clothes to school.  He cut in line at recess. I punched him.  He socked me in the eye.

By 4th grade I'd moved on to bullying - teachers. "Hey, guppy lips!"  I taunted one who had a mouth like Mick Jagger.  

Another time Mrs. L. broke down in tears as I led a class revolt against 'the witch.' 

By high school I was hanging out with a crew of misfits who cut class and drank Mickey's in the park. 

Despite the trouble, A's came easy.  "You're going to college," my dad insisted, shipping me off to the Ivy League with the warning, "I don't do bail once you're 18."   

Later as a crime reporter, I confronted killers, gang members, sleazy politicians, with the steeliness of a true mean girl. 

Yet God - radical love - had somehow begun to pierce a hardened heart. 

Too sweet? A friend put it best: "When you're looking for a brand of 'edgy' that is filled with desperation, despondency, depression and dejection and encounter a different brand of edgy filled with love, joy and peace it's difficult to deal with." 

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Kinky. Nappy. Frizzy.

Gabby Douglas. Photo: www.fleurdecurl.com

Gold medalist Gabby Douglas responded beautifully to haters who said her hair looked "unkempt" at the Olympics:  "I just made history and people are focused on my hair?"

I lived in Gabby's Iowa town back when I was chasing presidential candidates through cornfields for the NBC station. I covered politics but that changed the day I was sent to fill in at the murder trial for two teen brothers.

The brothers claimed they had just meant to scare the victim - chasing him with a shotgun - but a bullet had ricocheted off the ground. The courtroom drama was made-for-TV stuff.

At one point, the prosecutor grabbed the shotgun off the evidence table, aimed at the jury and cocked it.  Screams.  People ducking. Banging gavel.

The prosecutor had made his point:  Waving a gun in the air? That's scaring someone.  Pulling a trigger?  That's murder.

"You're on the crime beat now," my boss said after my stories aired to stellar ratings.

On that beat, you quickly see that weapons are more than guns and knives. Sometimes they're words...like the ones hurled at Gabby Douglas.  Meant to crush not the body, but the spirit. 

Someone needs to give her a hair intervention.  

She needs some gel and a brush.  

She needs to represent. 

Kinky. Nappy. Frizzy.  For many Black women, our hair sometimes feels like a crown of thorns.

Gabby doesn't see it that way. "It can be bald or short," she said, "it doesn't matter about (my) hair."

The name of my blog comes from a critic's comment, "Honey, blot your lips!"  We pinned up that note as a reminder to check each other's appearance before going on air.  We learned to turn meanness into motivation and garbage into gold - just like Gabby's done.

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Thrill Seekers. Younger Dates. New Cars.

**post contains graphic content**

Why is it that after doing something you’ve dreamed of for a long time, the thrill fades so quickly? You’re left wondering, “What's next?” 

I didn’t expect to hit that place so soon after skydiving.  My brother thinks he knows why:  “Some people have a mid-life crisis and buy a new car or date a younger person,” he says. “My sister jumps from a perfectly good airplane!” 

I prefer to think some of us are born with an extra adventure gene. Besides, journalists are wired to take risks; our jobs demand it. 

But those risks often come at a high emotional cost and there are few healthy outlets. How do you escape memories? 

...a teenage girl dying naked in the street fleeing the jilted boy who stabbed her...a mom's mangled body as a drunk driver who slammed into her car sits unscathed in his...fathers blown to bits in a freak accident...

...They were repairing a gas main when it exploded.  We were the first TV crew to arrive.

“GET BACK!” yelled police cordoning off the scene. “You’re stepping on them!”  

We'd unkowingly walked into the blast area, trampling bits of flesh.

After doing interviews, I went to take notes.  Something in the brush - a stark, white boulder? - caught my eye.  It wasn't a rock. 

“Commander!" I yelled, "Over here!"  A man's head...the blast area was wider than we'd realized.

Fathers. husbands. sons. How do you forget?  I've watched friends get lost trying - drinking, drugs, eating disorders. 

Without faith and adventure I'd probably get lost, too. 

So yes, I plan to skydive again. Without my brother.  "No thanks," he said, “I don't want my last words on earth to be with some man strapped to my back."

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Most Wanted: Whitey Bulger

James "Whitey" Bulger as a young mobster

I've been mourning my losses.  Well, not exactly my losses but what could have been my gain if I'd been more observant of my neighbors.

The press is reporting that a former beauty queen named Anna will get the $2 million reward for the tip that led to the capture of mobster James "Whitey" Bulger.  Bulger, who ran the Boston Winter Hill Gang, had been on the FBI's "Most Wanted" for the murders of 19 people in the 1970's and '80's.

I walk by Bulger's apartment nearly every day on my way to the beach. The area is unremarkable except for it's proximity to the ocean; mostly 70's apartment buildings along a wide, palm tree-lined street.  

Posing as a retiree, the mob boss had been living "in plain sight," as cops put it, for more than a decade. 

Seems simple "girl talk" brought down the most wanted fugitive who'd been right up there with terrorist leader Osama bin Laden.  

"Anna had befriended Bulger's girlfriend after the two women took an interest in a stray cat," says writer Randy Economy. 

Anna turned in the 81-year-old Bulger and his girlfriend after seeing them on a TV report. She's now $2 million richer and certainly the heroine of a future movie.  The TV crews are gone for now but I'm sure they'll be back when a deal is struck. 

During the raid on Bulger's place, the FBI found a tidy nest egg stashed in the walls of his apartment, along with an arsenal of weapons.  Forget Bingo - wonder what else those retirees across the street are up to? 

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Going Back

Sometimes a writer starts a story with no idea how it'll end. Like a painter, you start mixing colors - words, images - with no idea what they'll look like on the canvas.

Such is the case with this blog. I started blogging after meeting a TV producer who wants to do a show about journalists. I thought this blog would be a good way to archive some of the stories I've covered in case she might want to use them in a TV series.

Then an earthquake hit 3,000 miles from Hollywood. No red carpets. No stylists. No paparazzi.  A make-believe TV show would have to wait. 

Instead of a newsroom, the base of a mango tree became my office. Armed security for escorts. Broken, dry ground for a bed. 

I was afraid to go but I had to. I get why CBS reporter Lara Logan vows to return to reporting despite being gang-raped in Egypt; sometimes nothing can keep you from doing what you're meant to do...

I was a grad student the first time we were attacked on a story. A deranged man tried to smash our gear to the ground. We weren't hurt but we learned the camera is a magnet for nuts - and to keep an eye out for a rock if you need to defend yourself.

I thought about getting a gun permit as my assignments got more dangerous (growing up on Army bases, we were taught how early how to use weapons), especially while covering the murder of a young mother.

Two masked gunmen had burst into the offices of a gang prevention program yelling, "Give us your purses! Give us the money!"  

They shot mom of three, Christina Clegg, as she sat at her desk.

The crime was made to look like a botched payday robbery but who pumps five rounds into a mom at work?

"Get off the story," neighbors warned me, "They'll kill you, too."

I eventually got enough facts to air exclusives about a suspect police refused to name. He threatened to kill me after we ambushed him, cameras rolling, at his lawyer's office. 

I looked over my shoulder for months until police had enough evidence to arrest him.

Bastard husband. 

Grover Clegg is serving life in prison for hiring his own brother to kill his wife.  For insurance money.

And so I go back. to disaster areas. and war zones. and inner cities. Because sometimes all it takes to see justice prevail is a mic and a camera. 

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Freely

On Tuesday, I will get up and choose what clothes to wear.
Somewhere else in the world a woman will be forced to cover her face, hair and skin in black cloaks.

On Tuesday, I will wear a gift--a necklace bearing a cross.
Somewhere a man will be executed for revealing his faith.

On Tuesday, I will drive to my appointments.
Somewhere a woman will face imprisonment for breaking the law by driving a car.

On Tuesday, I will make dinner with friends.
Somewhere a woman will be murdered for talking to a man who is not her husband; an "honor killing" her family will say.

On Tuesday, I will go to the store by myself.
Somewhere a wife will remain trapped inside her house, forbidden to travel, get an education or go out alone.

On Tuesday, I will dream about my wedding night.
Somewhere a girl will be subjected to genital mutilation; later, even while still in puberty, she will be forced to marry a man who may treat her worse than his livestock.

On Tuesday, I will flirt with my neighbor.
Somewhere a woman will be stoned for a suspected "sexual indiscretion" that she may never have committed.

On Tuesday, I will watch kids play in the park.
Somewhere children will be gang-raped and tortured; "spoils of war" soldiers will say.

On Tuesday, I will go to my polling place.Somewhere a man will die fighting for his voice to be heard.

On Tuesday, I will say a prayer of thanksgiving.
Somewhere from behind bars prisoners will pray for freedom.

On Tuesday, I will Dress. Drive. Work. Play. Dream. Love. Pray. Vote...freely. Please vote on Tuesday.

© 2010 Shay Holland

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Justice of the Heart


A friend sent me a casting notice for a movie about a serial killer based on true events. I never imagined the possibility of auditioning for the role of a TV newscaster would reveal the ending to a real life case.

Friends have suggested I write books about the murder cases I've covered but the idea never appealed to me; maybe because there aren't any happy endings.  "You go on but you can't forget the things you saw," said my mother.  Can't forget the victims - or the killers.

No Movie Script
I wish it had just been a movie when my TV station sent me to cover the murder of a nurse named Martha Bryant who'd been attacked driving home from work.  The horrific killing rocked a quiet Oregon town. 

I can't forget police describing how the killer tried to rape her: "When he realized she was of no use to him sexually due to her injuries, he executed her."  Shot her point blank in the head in the back seat of his car.

Police began to suspect a soft-spoken family man who lived nearby. My cameraman and I went to his house to interview him but workers were tearing it down.  Someone had torched it. 

"Found this," a worker handed me a charred slip of paper, "don't know if it means anything."

Chills ran through me after one glance. It was a search warrant showing cops were looking for possessions of a dozen women in the man's house. 

If my hunch was right, police thought he may have killed before. Many times.

Phone calls confirmed the women listed in the search warrant were either missing or dead. The trail of possible victims ran from Florida to Oregon. 

I went on the air with the exclusive report that a serial killer might be at work. Police asked a judge to have me arrested for illegal possession of the warrant because I refused to reveal how I got it.  

Until now.

Cesar Barone eventually went on trial for Martha's murder and more. I sat behind him at the defense table every day in court.  During a break, he spoke to me for the first time. "Can you do me a favor?" he asked. "Can you check on my dogs?"

I never aired his comment; seemed too cruel to the victims' families.  Never aired his wife's story either; she'd met Barone a decade earlier through a personal ad.  She had no idea she'd fallen in love with a serial killer.

No Hollywood Ending
Today I learned Barone is dead.  Died on death row at 49 still insisting he was innocent (crime writer Anne Rule wrote a book about him but he never gained the notoriety of his former Florida cellmate, Ted Bundy).

I wish it had been a movie and the director would say, "Cut!" but there's no tidy Hollywood ending for Barone's wife and kids or his victims. 

But maybe life scored justice in the end:  Barone died of a cancerous tumor wrapped around his heart.

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Katie, Come Home

I don't usually make New Year's resolutions but sometimes I make wishes.  This year I wish Katie would come home.

I started blogging because of Katie - her and others whose stories I've covered. I decided to record some of them in case I wanted to use the material to write a TV show about journalists.

Sometimes I feel like Haley Joel Osment's character in the The Sixth Sense. "I see dead people," the boy tells a shrink (Bruce Willis). While I don't actually see dead people, I can't forget names and faces, like Katie's.

Katie Eggleston, a recent college grad with surfer girl looks, was excited to start her first job at Allnet in Portland. It was the last day anyone saw her.

Police found Katie's car near the airport with her purse inside.  Investigators somehow concluded she'd run away with a lover.  I didn't get it - what 20-something woman runs off without her lipstick?


Katie's missing person's flyer

Still, cases grow cold quickly without solid leads. I kept in touch with Katie's parents as tips surfaced but eventually lost contact.

I recently found an old letter from Katie's parents. "We want to let you know how much we appreciate the straightforward reporting you did regarding Katie's disappearance," Katie's mom had written me about her missing child.

I knew I had to tell Katie's story again.  Maybe one day someone will come forward with a clue that sheds light on her disappearance.

A while ago Katie's friend posted a message in the paper in case she's alive: "Katie, it's okay, you can come home now."*

So that's my wish. Katie, come home.

*Bend Bugle, 5/4/2001 

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Mercy

I wanted to be honest in my blog so some posts like this one deal with violence, sex, drugs.

Second Chances
I'm trying to remember the name of that TV show about a girl who encounters God in the people she meets. Something like that happened to me recently.

I was at a Hollywood lounge to meet a friend and ran into a guy who'd tried to pick me up the first time we'd met - clumsily fueled by too much booze.

He was apologetic this time so we started talking. He thought that given my background as a crime reporter, I might be interested in helping him write new parole legislation.

"You honestly believe most criminals can be rehabilitated?" I challenged. 

"You don't?" he countered.

Jaded as it may seem, there's only one story I covered where I felt the criminal deserved another chance...

why did you kill that kid?
It was my first time inside a prison. I felt vulnerable stripping off my coat, purse and jewelry in front of security guards. Sounds of clanging metal bars.  Inmates cat-calling as guards led us to a cell for supervised visits.

My photographer and I were shooting a sweeps series about juvenile crime.  Prison officials had agreed to let us interview one of the state's youngest inmates ever to be sentenced as an adult.

Guards brought him to the room in leg and arm shackles. I was shocked. He couldn't have weighed more than 120 pounds.  He looked about 14.

We didn't have much time so I got straight to the point, talking the street language we both understood. 

"What gang?" I asked. 

"Crips," he said.

"Why'd you kill that kid?" I asked. 

"'Cuz he shot my dog," he answered.

I didn't have any more questions.  We both got it. His unspoken words had told the whole story:  That kid killed the only thing that was mine. 

Street justice.

I stayed in touch with Anthony the next few years on the pretense he was a valuable source into the gangs I covered. Really, we were becoming friends.

One of Anthony's drawings about his life in prison

Anthony would draw to pass the time in prison. Sketches of cops handcuffing a boy. A pregnant girlfriend. Christ on a cross. A tearful boy becoming a man behind barbed wire fences.  

Images of his life. 

My stories with Anthony caught the attention of a college that thought he could qualify for a long-distance program for artists. Anthony gave me some drawings to say thank you.

making peace
Years later I wonder if I failed Anthony. I'd been one of his only advocates. When I quit the crime beat, I quit on him in a way. Sure, he owed something for the life he took but..."he shot my dog..."

"You have to make peace with your past," the man's voice broke into my thoughts. "Most of us who deal with criminals have to accept the fact that justice isn't always clear."

I think that man was Mercy. He was telling me it's ok not to know if Anthony deserved to live or die for his crime. Mercy doesn't even the score. Mercy clears the scorecard and forgives the past.

Anthony, I hope you made it.

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Atonement

Long before Hollywood, my sights were set on a network news job in New York. I had no idea when I started writing this blog that moving into the present would require revisiting my past.

Soon after starting my first TV news job at a small NBC affiliate, I was assigned to cover a hostage standoff. Swat teams were negotiating with a man holding five children and a woman. Police thought the crisis would end quickly after the man, a family acquaintance, let one of the kids go.

As the standoff dragged on, I started drafting a script so I'd be ready to go on air as soon as it was over. A gunman has just released four children and a woman that he's been holding hostage in this house...I wrote, trying to get my headline just right.

Hours passed. Things grew quiet. The phone line went dead. After nearly a day with no response from the gunman, swat teams got ready to storm the house.

I don't remember exactly how we got the official word: "They're all dead."

The man must have herded the mom and kids into the basement and shot them before killing himself since no one heard any gun shots.

Escaping to one of the TV station's soundproof editing suites, I screamed, "No! That's not the ending I wrote, God!"

The murders pierced my heart with a pain I'd never known before. Somehow I felt responsible - not that I thought I was God and could script outcomes - but I'd expected the kids to come out alive, not in bodybags.

I had to meet with my producer but first I made a vow: I would never hurt like that again. Not for anyone. I willed my tears to dry up. From then on I would pursue justice armed with a news camera and a heart of stone.

Maybe I was trying to make atonement for those children's lives. Whatever the case, in time I, too, would become a hostage. Trapped. Unable to feel deeply. to cry. to love.

I opened the newscast on cue.  Six people, including four children, are dead tonight after a tragic ending to the hostage standoff we've been following.

I learned that day that a human life is worth a minute and 45 seconds on the nightly news.

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Concealed Evidence

Funny how your past intrudes into your present in the most awkward ways. This post might seem morbid but it's not meant to be; in my heart is something redemptive but I can't fully articulate it.

Recently I was with some friends from college and we started talking about the Yale grad student who was found murdered in a campus lab. The murder at a sister Ivy League school left us speculating on a motive and whether the attack was premeditated.

"The killer would have come up with a better plan to get rid of the body if he had planned it," I spoke up. "He would have known blood stains are hard to clean."

Awkward silence. You could tell everyone was trying to figure out why I knew so much about hiding dead bodies.

As a crime reporter, I had spent hundreds of hours at murder scenes, talked to countless homicide detectives, interviewed dozens of victims' families. I was the first journalist invited into a Parents of Murdered Children meeting after covering a story about a girl whose body was found ditched along a California highway. She'd met the wrong person...

Back to the conversation about the Yale victim. She had been working on cutting edge medical research; she was getting married in a few days. 

As our group sat 3,000 miles away discussing her fate, it struck me that maybe there's a reason I've spent so much time covering horrific crimes. I don't know what it is yet but maybe there's something redemptive in those places of darkness.

Concealed evidence. 

Maybe our pasts hold clues about our destiny until we're ready to step into something greater.

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