PARTING SHOT War of the Words

In this issue, there was supposed to be a story about Eddie Chiles. 1 was supposed to write it. You’ll notice it isn’t in here. 1 hold four people personally responsible for its absence: Bob Woodward, Carl Bernstein, Mike Wallace, and Geraldo Rivera. In their pursuit of Truth, in their quest to uphold the public’s Right To Know, these four reporters, and the many lesser talents who have followed in their investigative footsteps, have created a phenomenon that is making my job next to impossible. And almost unbearable. It’s called Fear of Journalists.

Several weeks ago, a freelance writer was assigned by this magazine to write a story on Eddie Chiles, the Fort Worth oilman-right winger-baseball owner of growing renown. For various reasons, including Mr. Chiles’ shortage of time and general reluctance, the story didn’t work out. But the subject seemed too good to pass up: the story of an intriguing 69-year-old man suddenly dealing with the public limelight. 1 decided to take up the cause.

Tuesday morning. I call the offices of the Western Company in Fort Worth. Mr. Chiles is out, but 1 explain my mission to his secretary and ask that he call me back. “Well,” she hedged, “I’ll give him your message. But he’s awfully busy, you know.”

Wednesday afternoon. 1 call again. Mr. Chiles is in. He answers and I restate my mission. “Well, David, I’ll tell ya,” he begins in his engaging country grandpa voice. “I just frankly don’t have the time to pursue this thing with you.” However, he finally agrees that we can meet the next day at a Dallas luncheon where he is being honored and discuss the situation.

Thursday noon. Eddie Chiles is greeting assorted well-wishers. I introduce myself. “Oh, yes,” he says, gravely, pulling me aside. “David, I’ve been thinking about this and I’m going to have to say no. I’ll tell ya frankly, I’m just a little suspicious of what ol’ D Magazine has in mind.” That’s what I want to talk to him about, I explain. “Tell ya what,” he says. “Call me at home tonight and we’ll see.” Progress.

Thursday evening. Eddie Chiles answers his phone at home. “1 sure enjoyed your speech today, Mr. Chiles,” I begin, diplomatically (and truthfully – it was funny as hell). “Aw,” he says, “I’m really not much of a public speaker. I’m just an ol’ oilfield hand.” We chat. He’s friendly. The only thing that he, a wealthy right wing oil baron, and I, an impoverished apolitical magazine editor, have in common is a foolish love for the Texas Rangers. But I instantly like him. He invites me to have lunch with him on Monday. Real progress.

Monday morning, 8:15. I’m awakened by the phone. It’s Mr. Chiles’ secretary. He can’t meet me for lunch because he’s in Los Angeles.

Tuesday morning. I call Mr. Chiles. He’s tied up. Ten minutes later he calls me back. “David,” he says, his voice still courteous, “let me be brutally frank. I never wanted to do this story in the first place. Look, what have I got to gain? I don’t want the press. 1 don’t need the press – good, bad, or indifferent. So I’ll tell ya what, let’s just call off the dogs.” End of story.

I don’t blame Eddie Chiles. He, and I, and the story, are all victims of the same disease: Fear of Journalists. The disease has fomented an unhealthy kind of war, The War Between Those Who Write and Those Who Get Written About. Eddie Chiles and I stood there on different sides of the battle 1 lines and couldn’t find a place to cross.

If it can be pinpointed, the war began with Watergate, followed by Woodward and Bernstein’s success with All The President’s Men, and the resultant film. Suddenly journalists had become detective heroes, and suddenly, in the trade, a stinging piece of investigative reporting became a ticket to media notoriety. The news media began creating their own stars – themselves. Woodward and Bernstein’s work was brilliant; the public’s right to know is a cornerstone of journalism. And yes, Geraldo and Mike and the others do turn up important stories. But too often, increasingly often, the style has become more significant than the substance. Nail-’em-to-the-wall journalism has undeniable entertainment value (as the Neilsen ratings will attest), but it has had some distressing public repercussions. An attorney told me a bar joke the other night: “Know what the definition of a bad day is?” “No, what?” “Answering a knock at your door at eight in the morning and finding Mike Wallace and a camera crew on your front porch.” Funny and not so funny.

The worst manifestations of the syndrome, though, are those that have filtered down to the grassroots of media, to localized journalism. It must sometimes appear to viewers that every Joe Reporter on every local television news staff in the country is trying to be the next Mike Wallace, out trying to nail the county janitor for painting the courthouse bathroom with a $1.39 paintbrush instead of the $1.59 paintbrush prescribed in the county janitorial budget (“The question looms: Where’s the other 20￠? This is Bill Beagle, Channel 2 News.”).

To so many public professionals – high profile politicians, businessmen, lawyers – the media have become less watchdog than hounddog, constantly sniffing around for even the slightest scent of misdeed. The result is an extraordinary playing of war games. “Okay, Mr. Attorney, can you tell me what kind of mouthwash your client uses?” “No, Mr. Reporter, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that.” “M-m-m. Can we go off the record on this then?” “Okay. Off the record, my client doesn’t use mouth-wash.” “M-m-m.” “But he does use Right Guard deodorant.” “Is that off the record too?” “No, that’s on.” The exaggeration is not extreme. Many stories require more time laying the groundwork and establishing the pre-story parameters than the reporting and writing combined.

But the worst, and increasingly common,result, is the story subject who simplydecides not to play the game at all. When theworst expectations overshadow any conceivable positive outcome. When an EddieChiles asks, “What have I got to gain?” AndI can only answer, “An interesting storyabout yourself.” And he doesn’t buy that.And there’s nothing more I can tell him. Andit’s nobody’s fault, really. But it makes memad too, Eddie.