DaleRussell's Blog

It was twenty years ago that I missed Thanksgiving dinner with my family. I didn’t care. I was right where I wanted to be: in prison.

Not only was I locked up, but I had to talk my way in. So many trying to get out of prison and all I wanted was in.

Journalism is a strange way to make a living.

It was 1987, and Cuban detainees had, seized more than ninety hostages, and taken control of the Atlanta Federal Pen. They said they would rather die than be deported back to Cuba. For eleven days , Fox 5 (then called Eyewitness News),along with thousands of other journalists from all over the world flooded the area with Winnebago’s, live trucks, tents, and cameras.

I remember it was very cold and at times raining; there was no food available and we worked 15-16 hour days.

It was great. At least from a reporter’s perspective. We knew it was terrifying for the hostages and their families. We are often eyewitnesses to unfolding tragedy.

Then, the Cubans decided they wanted an outside witness to view their negotiations with FBI. They picked a reporter from another TV station. It was, the best we could tell, the luck of the draw. The inmates happened to watch the other station that day.

That was not so great. Our bosses went nuts. All the bosses did. When you get beat and think you can recover, you do what we do so well in our industry. You whine. You complain. You demand a level playing field. As former reporter Jim Kaiserski used to say: “the only difference between reporters and puppies is at some point, puppies stop whining.”

But it worked. The FBI implemented a fair, we’ll take turns being witnesses program. Everyone would have a chance. Until Thanksgiving.

It was the second time the Cubans asked for witnesses. It was not Fox 5 ‘s turn. We, by luck of the draw, were down the list. But, when the FBI agent came to the media area and asked for the other TV station, no one was around. I had spotted him walking across the street and rushed to the intersection. I knew it wasn’t our turn, but you never know.

“Where is WSB?” he asked. “They’re not here.”

I said, “we’re next on the list, I’ll go.”

The WSB photographer showed up, but no reporter. The FBI agent barked: “I’ll take the photographer, let’s go”

“Wait,” I argued, “you have to have a reporter. Photographer’s get the pictures, but you need a reporter who can describe the action for people.”

He thought for a second. The pressure was on. The Cubans wanted a witness right away.

“No,” he answered and turned with the WSB photographer and headed back towards the prison. I wanted to die.

“Wait,” I screamed as I watched the gold letters FBI on his jacket disappear across the roadway, “that won’t work.”

He turned and looked at me with that shut the hell up look. “They have ¾ inch tape.” That was the size of the videotape their cameras recorded, it was the newest, latest technology. Fox 5 had ¾ inch tapes, the older, videotape.

“So?” he asked.

“We have ¾ inch. Half of the TV stations out here used ¾ inch, the other half use ½ inch. You need both so we can feed this to all the stations.” He looked at the row of maybe 50 TV satellite trucks. He thought for only a split second.

“OK,” let’s go.

 “I need my photographer, too.” He stared at me with a look every parent recognizes: you are really pushing it, pal. So, photographer Ira Spradlin and I and our antiquated, out of date, ¾ inch videotape headed into Prison.

 It was Thanksgiving . No turkey. No family. No warm fire place. Just a cold, steel bar encrusted, room, with angry Cubans and FBI agents arguing about how to end the hostage negiotionas. I was in heaven. I even snuck away to a telephone and reported live from inside the Prison on the status of the negotiations. My wife later told me: “even without you at the dinner table, I still had to listen to you run your mouth.”

On Decmber 4th, twenty years ago the Cubans released the hostages. It was a Thanksgiving to  remember.

A final postscript. The truth of the matter is I didn’t tell the FBI agent the entire story. Our tape deck was a different size from the other TV station. What, I failed to mention was that we fed our stories to all the other stations through a satellite uplink. It didn’t matter what size the deck was.

I’m glad he never asked. I’m not sure what I would have said. After all, all I wanted was to go to prison.