AFFLICTING THE COMFORTABLE: JOURNALISM AND POLITICS IN WEST VIRGINIA

13. "I've Got a Proposition"

Chapter 13 "I'VE GOT A PROPOSITION" AFTER ALMOST TWO YEARS of trying to decipher the puzzle of Invest Right, I began to realize that some as yet unidentifiable persons were becoming worried . Just how worried became apparent when I received, first, an offer of a money deal to try to persuade me to drop my investigation, followed by threats of possible injury or death. I knew, of course, the people who approached me. I had known them a long time. But they were only the messengers. What I didn't know was the identity of the party or parties they were representing. These overtures, if you can call them that, acted as a stimulant rather than a deterrent. What the opposition wasn't aware of was that I had been looking for facts with so little in the way of concrete results for so long that my interest was beginning to wane. I would go home in the evening and pull out a large chart I had roughed together that listed the names of the companies I had uncovered and their officers. I would study the various listings long into the night, double checking them against my notes and searching for any clue that might set me on the right trail. Until the offers and threats were made, I didn't realize how important a story I was pursuing. Intuition told me I was onto something big, but so far it was more conjecture than anything solid, let alone reportable. Now I was becoming convinced that Invest Right and its series of spin-offs were all part of a giant scheme to fleece the government and make a small group of people wealthy at the expense of the taxpayers. Throughout most of my years as a journalist my wife and I struggled to make ends meet. Like so many families we had a mortgage on our house, "I'VE GOT A PROPOSITION" 153 tried to set aside some funds for our daughter's education, banked a little each month for our retirement years, took less than exotic vacations, and tried to make each dollar stretch as far as possible. In other words, we were always a little bit broke. But I was no different from most other newspapermen. Even those of my colleagues who rose to positions of prominence and influence professionally seldom died rich. Journalists were like teachers and ministers. Service was their mission, as well as their reward. I had received my first offer of a payoff a year or so after I became editor at Beckley. A big, burly black fellow came to the door of my office one day, stood there a moment, and said, 'Tve got a proposition for you." "What's that?" I asked. "We'll pay you eighty dollars a week if you'll give us the Clearing House number from your teletype machine each afternoon. You just call a certain phone number with this information, and you'll be paid in cash at the end of the week." When he told me what he wanted, I knew right away that he was delivering a message from the people who ran the numbers racket in Beckley. I also knew that they didn't need me to supply the information. A phone call to Charleston, Pittsburgh, or New York would have been a whole lot cheaper. Clearly, although my antigambling campaign was running up against strong opposition, the gamblers were looking down the road and seeing trouble ahead. They wanted to shut me up, and they were willing to buy my silence. I was making seventy-five dollars a week at the time, so they figured I'd jump at the chance to more than double my income, tax free. I didn't even pause to think about it. I told him, "Thanks, but no thanks." IfI had taken that first eighty dollars I could never again have raised my voice against gambling in any form. I had no interest in signing my own gag order. Once you accept such "gifts," you lose your right to express you opinion, as well as your profeSSional and personal freedom of choice. Other offers came my way as the years wore on, but the more creative of them began to surface after I reached Charleston. In those years, the Gazette was often labeled the "fourth branch of government," and with good cause. 154 CHAPTER...