Reprinted with permission from Blog Detective
When a Blogger Murders the News: A Shot Heard from a Blogger Shooting Blanks
I was intrigued when I read a blogger’s post titled, “A Shot Heard in Far Rockaway is Felt in Fulham” about two distinct shootings on opposite sides of the Atlantic, one in Far Rockaway, Queens, NY and the other in Fulham, a suburban area of west London, England. As I familiarized myself with the story, I found some discrepancies in his version and what actually transpired and I believe it to be a distortion of the truth. In it, he represented himself as a friend of the Queens victim. How sad that a person would accept offers of sympathy from his unsuspecting audience over the death of this friend in light of the facts I will relate here. I looked into the Far Rockaway shooting as he described it and found nothing. I talked to professionals working the field and at the (NYPD) 101st Precinct. I went to news wires and feeds. I tried search engines.
What caught my attention was evident from the start, that he and the victim were friends and the victim had just arrived from Haiti to live the American dream. The blogger didn’t strike me as a person who’s spent much time on that island nation. How did he cultivate this friendship? How did they meet? Queens is not exactly in New Jersey’s back yard, where the blogger is based. Neither is Haiti. Something just didn’t click.
Interestingly, with all of the murders in NYC, I was case specific in my query. Rightfully so. I asked about a Haitian immigrant who was shot in the collarbone, based on the blogger’s description of “his friend’s” senseless murder. The bullet that struck his collarbone careened into the heart, killing him instantly. In reality, the unfortunate gentleman who met his demise in the news account was not a “recent immigrant from Haiti” at all, nor was he shot in the collarbone, unless it somehow worked its way from the eye to the collarbone to the heart. The victim had been living here for years and was from Guyana, not exactly within swimming distance of Haiti. Certainly, he should have known where his “friend” was from and how long he’d been here. I kept thinking it’s not the same shooting, they’re not related, but there was no other incident and his story crumbled.
Was this an unprofessional attempt to elicit sympathy for the overall message of his post calling for a worldwide ban on handguns? If so, he should have done more homework and gotten his facts straight. Although weapons of this nature are legal to buy in America, most used in the commission of a crime are not purchased by the book and ‘Saturday Night Specials’ are next to impossible to trace. So are the bullets. He tied this shooting to one in London. Britain has some of the most restrictive laws in the world that make it virtually impossible to legitimately purchase firearms, which means that both crimes were more than likely committed with illegal guns. The attempt to tie the two together was feeble at best, and because of a lack of solid information based on facts, it diluted the focus of the message. He used a falsehood as a pretext to further his own questionable motive. Was it about the evils of handguns or a cry for sympathy over the loss of a friend?
In the realm of non-fiction journalism, in this case what I would consider to be more of an op-ed piece, writers must not stray from the truth. Embellishment and personal gain are words that should not be part of the vocabulary. The world is filled with distortions and with the tools we have readily available today, all reports of news events will be put under microscopes somewhere, sometime, by someone. Bloggers, especially of this genre, are no different from any other journalist and it’s only a matter of time before a watchdog comes forth to scrutinize and expose what is recorded as factual. Until then, readers beware.
Although I did not know him, my sympathies go to the friends and family of the deceased, Urtez Burnett, and none to the imagination of the author of that post.
Here is a link to the factual account of the Far Rockaway incident: http://guyanafriends.com/eve/forums/a/tpc/f/431601562/m/62510674141
If you or anyone you know has information on this, please call CRIMESTOPPERS at 1-877-577-TIPS or the 101st Precinct Detective Squad at 718-868-3428.
This is an opinion piece about a blog and should be interpreted as such.
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Rick Epstein
Rick Epstein is the Managing Editor of the Hunterdon County Democrat, a newspaper based in Flemington, New Jersey. We are old friends from the late seventies, when I used to sell advertising there and for the Delaware Valley News, a sister publication. Rick writes a syndicated monthly column published by magazines and newspapers throughout the country. He is the author of two books, “Rookie Dad” (Hyperion 1992, ‘93) and “The Right Number of Kids” (McKenna Publishing Group, 2003).
Baby’s First Brush with the Law
Yes, that was my 13-year-old daughter and her two gal pals in the alley between Seventh and Eighth streets, armed with shovels and surrounded by three state troopers, one town cop and an irate neighbor lady. It all started three years ago when Rebecca, Simona and our Wendy wrote a letter to the people of the future and put it into a “time capsule” (a cylindrical plastic pretzel container) along with a few small toys they wouldn’t miss, plus a snapshot of themselves sticking out their tongues. They buried it beside an abandoned garage as a treat for posterity.
But, about a thousand days later, they wanted to see it. So they went into the alley and began digging exploratory holes. An enraged neighbor, Mrs. Fenske, caught them at it, accused them of vandalism and dialed 911. To be fair to her, the new holes, along with some graffiti on the garage wall, did seem to be part of a downward trend for her viewscape.
Four cop cars converged on the scene. “The police were more interested in calming down the lady,” Wendy told us later. “They only pretended to care about the holes.”
Soon the state police went off looking for worse crimes and the neighbor withdrew victorious into her bunker, leaving the local cop to supervise the filling of the holes. He kidded the girls about their “buried treasure” and Wendy interviewed him while she and her accomplices worked. “Are we going to be fined?” (No.) “Did you ever shoot anyone?” (No.) “Did you ever pepper-spray anyone?” (Yes.) “Did you ever GET pepper-sprayed?” (Yes, in training.) “Did you cry?” (Uh, yes.) “What’s the silliest case you were ever on?” (This one. By far.) …
This is not the first time the Epstein children’s Dark Ops have come to the attention of the authorities. Back when Wendy’s big sisters were both in high school, they decided they would walk to school — 6 miles away. At 5 a.m. a patrolman saw two girls with backpacks hiking in the darkness and asked, “Are you running away?”
“No, we’re walking to school,” said Marie.
“Do your parents know?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Marie. I hate when my kids drag me into it. But in fact I did know, and even approved. Although September 11th has created a mood of zero tolerance for shenanigans, why live in a free country if you can’t test it once in a while? When Marie expresses her kookiness in a way that won’t hurt anyone, I’m generally for it.
I even bought her a can of taupe spray paint when she wanted to obliterate a neon-orange curse word that someone had sprayed onto a tree trunk in the park. Nothing beats a good deed done in the dark of night with an air of mischief to it. Luckily the police didn’t catch her and she was spared the burden of crafting an explanation.
Last summer, home from college, Marie was painting pictures on the ceiling of her ‘94 Dodge, which was parked in front of our house. As the day got hotter, she changed into something cooler — in the car. Her act of semi-public, semi-indecency attracted the notice of a passing patrolman. He demanded ID and, once he had assessed the extent of her misconduct, he went away.
I told Marie, “Go ahead and be eccentric, but remember: Police are on the lookout for anything unusual, so don’t be doing anything you don’t want to have to explain to them.” She can rely on the advice because it has been field-tested. Exhaustively. By me. Long ago. My dad would tell me, “You are flirting with disaster. Someday you’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time and Good Intentions will not suffice.” He had devoted a lifetime to staying out of trouble. But Safety did not become my own God until I had children, and I still believe a young person should live a little. But just a little.
So what happens now in the Case of the Outlaw Archaeologists? Will posterity’s guide to understanding girls’ life in 2002 A.D. lie forever in an unmarked grave? “We still want our time capsule,” Wendy said.
“Forget it,” I said. “Your right to dig holes has clashed with Mrs. Fenske’s right to live in a neighborhood that hasn’t been strip-mined by teenagers — and you lost. Besides, that alley is red-hot right now. If you enter the Forbidden Zone, Mrs. Fenske will FEEL it. And when the police come, this time they’ll be mad at you — for defying them and for stirring up Mrs. Fenske.”
I told her that if she’s so eager to discover a repository of forgotten artifacts, she can just look under her bed. I figure she knows the difference between good advice to absorb and a cheap shot to ignore.
***
The Embarrassing Parent
When I brought my 15-year-old daughter to Romeo Smith’s house, his dad greeted us from the front porch. I asked, “So, how’s the basement project going?” Although I tried to sound encouraging, I’d been glad when a flood destroyed his son’s subterranean love nest.
“It’s cleaned out and I’ll be putting up some drywall tomorrow,” he said, “unless the commander makes me work that day.” Mr. Smith is a state trooper.
We stood about 15 feet apart and although his conversation was friendly, his demeanor was odd. He wasn’t making eye-contact, yet he was staring at me. The Hawaiian shirt I wore is exquisite, but no one had ever gazed at it so intensely. I drove away wondering why.
Then I glanced down at my shirt-front and saw a shiny, gold plastic Junior Detective badge. Police officers had been giving them to kids that morning at Community Day, and I’d pinned one on for a joke. At a distance, it looks real.
Wendy later reported that Mr. Smith had asked her what do I do for a living and do I ever pretend I’m a cop. I showed Wendy my badge and she blushed. “Now Romeo’s dad will think you’re a jerk,” she said. She would have used stronger language, but I pay her $3 a week not to curse. (Don’t judge me.)
It was not the first time I’ve embarrassed her.
Whenever I take Wendy to another teenager’s house, instead of just letting her step out of the car like it’s a taxi cab, I go in with her, demanding amiably, “Where are the old people?” And when a parent appears, I say, “Just wanted to be sure you knew you were having a party. Thanks for hosting.” Wendy hates that, but the parents like it (except for being called “old people”).
In hot weather, my inclination is to wear boxer shorts around the house. For comfort and style, you can’t beat ‘em. But I always dress up if I know company is coming. Once a guy-friend of my oldest daughter Marie phoned her and said, “I dropped by today. You weren’t there, so I chatted with your dad. He’s so … informal.”
Marie guessed, “He wasn’t wearing pants, was he?”
My own dad was probably the ideal father for a teenager. If he designed a family crest, it would advise: “Be inconspicuous.”
He never left his room until he was fully dressed, usually in earth-tone tweeds and rubber-soled shoes. (He was a librarian, so he wanted his footfalls to be as silent as moccasins on a game trail.) He never raised his voice, not even when his sons misbehaved. (I could get a kind of low, angry snarl out of him, but only because I was his favorite.) Dad drew the curtains promptly at dusk, as if a crowd of peeping toms lurked in the shrubbery waiting to watch him read the newspaper. His political opinions were kept private. Dad would just as soon put a bumper sticker on his car as he would run shrieking through the Quiet Study Area. He neither wanted to tip his hand nor to be the center of attention. In the receiving line at my stepmother’s funeral, he whispered to me: “I feel like a horse’s a–.”
When my friends came over, he spoke to them just enough to be civil. He did not try to impress them, amuse them or befriend them. I tend to commit all three of those infractions, and to a lesser extent, so does my wife.
Like most kids her age, Wendy wants to appear to be grown up, and even when we behave, her parents are living, talking proof that not so long ago she was a diapered gnome, urping used milk down our backs. She likes to pretend we are only senile servants who’ve been with her too long to fire. She wants us absent; failing that, she wants us invisible; failing that, she wants us silent.
And what do I want? I want my daughter to appreciate me for who I am. Failing that, I want our cat to stop shedding, walk on his hind legs and maybe do some light housework.
© 2007 Rick Epstein. Reprinted with permission of the author. All rights reserved. Please contact me if you’d like more information on Rick or Google his rearend. Actually, you may e-mail him at rickepstein@yahoo.com
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Todd Gendron
Am I Just Alone for the Ride?
Where to start, I have no idea!!! My feelings are mixed, just like the rest of the world. Who I am writing this to is a mystery. I think most of all, I am writing this because I have something to say about the rest of the world as I know it. Which, by the way, I don’t know what that is.
We all have difficulties in the world to deal with. We have people who tell us how to deal with these difficulties, and yet, it never seems to go anywhere. No matter how many drugs you take or how many doctors you visit, they are just blankets of security. To me, it seems that people have lost a sense of compassion with regard to what we’re really all about. Not that I would know, but, I have met my share of people to form an opinion.
I think that people as a whole have something to say, but it never really gets voiced from an individual point of view. Whether it is because they are afraid to speak or maybe they have experienced too much in life to say something. Maybe no one ever told them that it’s okay to speak your mind.
I am one who falls into the category of just sitting on the sidelines and observing the life I know. It has come to mind that life is short and the relationships you form define who you are.
Case in point: You are sitting at work and the only thing you can think of is what you can do after work. Or maybe you are sitting at home on the weekend and think to yourself, “What am I going to do for the rest of the day?” This, my friends, is called a lack of presence in life. Welcome to the world of being single.
If you have read this far, perhaps I am describing you, too. I hate to be the person on the sidelines or the one at the corner of the bar, but, there are more of us than most even know. Perhaps, one of the reasons why a lot of us are single is because we have a fear of commitment and a willingness to grow. Maybe we are just too willing to accept that we don’t want to move on in life. Whatever it may be, I personally have been affected by this just like the rest of the world. I just wanted to know if anyone else felt the same way!!!!!
By the way I have nothing else to do tonight!!!
