Great story behind it …
In the spring of 1995, Catherine Mayhew, my editor at The (Nashville) Tennessean, finally became fed up by my nonsense. I was an awful features reporter who botched names, botched dates, never made follow-up calls. I was sloppy and lazy and awful, and she decided upon a solution.
“I’m moving you,” she said, “to the police beat.”
The police beat was the worst. It was all facts. It was sitting by a scanner, waiting for news. It was checking in with the police chief, chasing leads, hard news, more hard news, more hard news.
“That’s the point,” Catherine said. “You need to shape up.”
So I was banished. I worked late nights, waiting for the big robbery, tragic fire, nearest murder. It was pretty dull stuff—every so often something happened. Mostly, though, my life consisted of writing 200-word briefs off of police releases. I wasn’t happy.
One day, however, Catherine came to me with gold. “How do you feel about tagging along with the police on an undercover prostitution sting?”
Uh … what?
Turns out the Nashville Police Department was troubled by the upswing in hookers, and wanted to get the word out that it was taking action. Hence, two days later I drove out to a fleabag motel in an awful part of town. I was introduced to Sue, the undercover female officer who was disguised as a whore. I was introduced to Bob and Steve and Ed, the three officers positioned inside the motel room (where Sue would enter with the customer). Initially, I sat down in an across-the-street surveillance vehicle, where I watched the action on a monitor. After a while, someone said, “Do you wanna go in the motel room?”
I’ll never forget the experience. I crouched down in a dark bathroom with the three officers. When we heard Sue enter the room (“C’mon, baby. Don’t be shy …”) we pounced! Wham! The looks on the faces of the men were priceless—and, oddly, heartbreaking. In a moment, their lives were forever changed. Marriages—presumably over. Jobs—presumably gone. I’ve never solicited a prostitute or cheated on my spouse, but I certainly understand sexual urge. Not to that degree, but … well, yeah. It was sad.
One man, in particular, was crushing. His name was Richard Harrington. He was 34. When he opened his wallet, alongside his driver’s license was a photo of his wife and kids. “I’ve never done this before,” he said, shortly after offering $20 for oral sex. “Never.”
I was 22. Excited. Nervous. Sad. Energized. I rushed back to The Tennessean office to write my story. My editor, a nice man named Ted Power (not the ex-Reds reliever), asked if I had good stuff. “I do,” I said. “Definitely.”
After about an hour, I sent in the piece. Ted read it, in silence. He approached, tapped me on the shoulder and said, “We need to talk.”
“Jeff,” he said, “I get what you’re trying here. I appreciate the effort. But we’re a family newspaper in the heart of the Bible Belt. You just can’t use this lede.”
“Why?” I said. “It’s true.”
“That’s fine,” Ted said. “But we’re not starting off a story with, ‘All Richard Harrington wanted was a blowjob.”