Files

CHAPTER 1: A ONE-WAY TICKET In 1986, I found myself in a war in Nicaragua, reporting on a bizarre scandal that would shake the White House, 2,000 miles away. But let me back up. How does a small-town reporter end up with a front-row seat to history? The truth is, I had two things going for me: stubbornness — and luck. Woody Allen once said 80 percent of success is showing up. I wanted to be a war correspondent. There were wars in Central America. So I showed up. It wasn’t easy. The Associated Press had already turned me down once when I sought a reporting job in Madrid, telling me to get two years at a daily before I could even dream of foreign work. I scraped my way onto small Texas dailies, sleeping in my car before one interview. By the time I left the second newspaper, I had little money to show for it but I emerged with a wealth of journalism experience. I then won temporary AP jobs in Wyoming and Los Angeles. But the foreign assignment I craved never came. So in 19...

In this age where journalists are seen as the enemy or disbelieved as biased, no matter how much work we do into producing factual reports and avoid taking sides, something very unusual happened yesterday. I was in a cigar store in Bend, Oregon. I went into the walk-in humidor. The aged tobacco gave off a welcome, cedar-like smell. Row upon row of cigars confronted me. I rarely smoke cigars so I don’t have any favorites. After a while, the owner, a hefty guy with curly gray hair and beard, came in and asked if I needed any recommendations. He reached into one of the cigar boxes, produced a stogie and said it was from Honduras. I commented that I used to live there. Then he produced another one, from Nicaragua. I said I used to Iive there too. “Wow, you get around,” he said. “I was there when there was a war on,” I replied. “Thank you for your service.” “I wasn’t in the military. I was a journalist there.” “Still, thank you for your service,” he said, looking me straight ...