and I let it slip through my fingers. A year ago, January 2, 2006 an explosion trapped 13 men underground at the Sago mine in Upshur County, West Virginia. Only one survived.
I was reporting for WDTV, the CBS affiliate in Bridgeport, WV and our local story became international news. Before Sago, I had never covered a story that was put under such a microscope. Everybody was watching. And the networks responded... Matt Lauer, Elizabeth Vargas, Anderson Cooper. Even Geraldo Rivera was there.
It's amazing how easy it is to get caught up in the "bigness" of a story. Suddenly, because all of these outsiders were there, I felt like I had to do a bigger and better job. It wasn't enough to just tell the story to my local audience. I wanted to out-do the big guys - nevermind the fact that CNN's travel crew was larger than my station's entire news operation! And, truth be told, apparently some people in our audience felt the same way. More than one person called in to complain that we weren't providing as many updates as CNN - how dare we!?!?!?!
But late on the night of January 3, and into the early morning hours of January 4, after rescuers had located the body of the only miner to be killed by the initial explosion, my opportunity came. At about 11:40 or so (I'm going by memory... I could be wrong) CNN's Anderson Cooper broke in with a live interview with a relative of one of the miners, saying they had all been found alive. Our newsroom confirmed this through emergency scanner alerts, relaying the same information to the local hospital, requesting the ambulances be sent to the mine entrance.
My job was to go to the hospital and interview family members as they arrived to see their men. On the way, I was to stop and get video of the marquee signs that had been put up in town, particulary one that said, "It's a miracle!." In the parking lot of the hotel where the sign stood, I met a man who was getting out of his pickup truck. He was covered in soot and his hat said MSHA (Mine Safety and Health Administration, pronounced em-SHUH). I waved to him. He approached me and asked, "Did you hear?"
"Of course," I said. "Congratulations!"
"No," he replied. "You didn't. They got it wrong. They all got it wrong. They found 'em. But they're all dead. Only one's alive."
Those words slammed into my soul like a freezing freight train. Even as I type this I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I couldn't believe what he had just said, but the tears in his eyes meant I knew it was real.
I never got his name. He covered his badge and told me that he couldn't be the one to tell me that information but that I was probably the only member of the media who knew the truth.
I was able to confirm his info from Upshur County's Sheriff, a kind-hearted man whom I'd interviewed several times before. He had been stationed at the hospital to secure the area. And when I asked him if he had heard what I'd just been told, I could see by his vacant reaction he had.
I had a worldwide exclusive.
By this time it was probably pushing 12:30 or 1 in the morning. I called my newsroom and our weekend sports anchor answered (that's what it takes to keep up with CNN) and he put me through to my news director, who had been on the clock for nearly two days straight.
When I told him we were wrong, that the miners were dead and only one was alive, I think he was speechless for about five seconds. Who could blame him? His brother is a coal miner. He knows how serious mine accidents are and how seriously the people in our area take them.
"How could we be wrong?" he asked.
"I don't know, but I know we are," I replied. And I told him I wanted to report what I knew and how I knew it.
And what happened next I swear I will never forget. (And hopefully never repeat.) It was equal parts my news director, me, the weight of what was happening and the fear of being wrong that came together and prevented us from telling the truth.
We didn't break in with a report saying everyone else in the media world was wrong: the Associated Press, CNN, our direct competition, etc. All I said in my live cut-in was that only one ambulance had arrived at the hospital and that it was the only one expected to arrive there, and I attributed that information to Upshur County's Sheriff. And while that was true, it wasn't the whole truth. The whole truth came out about and hour or an hour-and-a-half later. And we followed suit, just like every other media outlet across the country, with our tail tucked securely between our legs.
By writing this, I don't mean to overlook the fact that the true tragedy wasn't what happened to me and my newsroom - it's what happened to those men and their families. Their family members were told they could meet their miners at the church where everyone had been gathering for days. The ambulances were supposedly going to stop by the church on the way to the hospital so they could see their loved ones. Those families were on top of the world for hours, thinking there really had been a miracle and that twelve men were alive. It should be a crime for the company to have withheld the truth from them for so long. They knew those men were dead. That only one was alive. They knew and didn't set things straight for so long because they didn't know how to break the news.
But the truth is I was guilty of the same crime. I knew and didn't fight hard enough to get it out. We, as a station, were afraid to be the only bearers of bad tidings. It certainly wouldn't have been an enviable position. Everyone was rejoicing about how wonderful this all was. How would it look to be the only station talking about tragedy? The whole world wanted the miracle story to be true. It happened at Quecreek, why not at Sago?
I know everyone makes mistakes and that the idea is to learn from them and move on. And that is part of what I love about my job. Every day is a different story to tell. Another chance to paint a new picture of a slice of life. And hopefully I will have the opportunity to tell stories for a long, long time. But when you tell one wrong it's difficult to go to work the next day (week, month, year) and feel like it was all part of a personal learning experience. And that's a hard pill to swallow when you're talking about dead coal miners and the loved ones they left behind.
