Chapter 4: The Stalking Media

Wednesday, September 27, 2028 (continued)...

I live on the outskirts of Pacific Beach, a suburb of San Diego. When I arrived home from the Lottery Office, vehicles were everywhere; including a couple parked across my driveway. As I drove past my home, one of the reporters spotted me. I was able to park my car and exit it, before I was surrounded by reporters.

Shoving microphones in my face, the reporters shouted their questions. My repeated reply as I forced my way through the hoard of rude people was, “No Comment”.

With a constant litany of “No Comment”, I made my way through the reporters and past the cameras that were documenting my efforts at escaping the crowd and avoiding being harassed. Eventually, I was able to reach the front door of my home, unlock the door, and escape the crowd. It was a chore to shut and lock my metal security screen door with the reporters trying the follow me into my house. Once that was done, I closed and locked my front door.

My telephone rang almost non-stop due to reporters trying to interview me, so I disconnected it from the wall. Ah, silence! Well at least the noise level dropped by over half.

Next, I headed to the bathroom to look at my cheek. An errant microphone had hit me in my face and the minor abrasion showed signs of blood that had stopped bleeding; it had also rammed the inside of my cheek against my teeth, and I was spitting saliva and blood into my vanity sink.

Now the reporters were pushing my doorbell button almost non-stop. I moved my kitchen stepstool to where I could climb up and reach the doorbell unit. It only took me a few moments to remove the battery from the doorbell silencing that noise source. Next they started knocking on the screen door, but that noise was deadened by my closed front door.

My next stop was my home office, I always called it my Study, where I disconnected my other telephone and powered-up my computer. I could just barely hear my bedroom phone ringing. The closed door muted that noise almost totally; I would unplug it later.

As I had made my way from my car to my front door I’d noticed some of the flowers and plants in Ruth’s flowerbed had been trampled, probably by the horde of reporters. I had a home video/audio surveillance system, and I wanted to archive the video segments that showed who had tromped through Ruth’s flowerbed destroying her landscaping. Someone was going to get a bill for the damages.

My study can be a bit dark at times and I noticed my window’s curtains were almost fully closed. So while waiting for my computer to boot, I stepped to the window and pulled the curtains wide-open to let more light into the room. Staring back at me through the window was a camera lens. The assholes were in my backyard! They had trespassed on my property by unlatching my gate and going into my backyard, so they could film me inside my home. Wait a minute! That gate is locked! The only way to get into my backyard is to climb over my fence.

Pulling out my cell phone, I dialed nine-one-one. When the operator answered, I said, “This is Carl Simmons. There is a gaggle of reporters in front of my house. They assaulted me when I got home, and now they are harassing me by constantly knocking on my front screen door. They have tromped through my landscaping destroying some of my plants. At least one of them has climbed over my fence into my backyard, and he is filming me through my study window, as we speak.

“I want the police out here to move the media off my property and to keep them off. I want the people in the backyard arrested for trespass, peeping into my windows, and any other charges that apply. I would also like for the whole gaggle of idiots to be run off for loitering, but that is probably expecting too much.”

After I responded to the nine-one-one operator’s questions, she said, “Sir, I have dispatched a patrol car to assist you and take a report of damages. If the people are still in the backyard, the officer can arrest them. He should be there within the next ten minutes, so stay indoors with your doors locked.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

I would have to wait and see what the police would do. If I leave the curtains open, the asshole with the camera will probably keep filming me until the police arrive.

Since the computer monitor did not face my study’s window, I called up my surveillance video and started reviewing the stored video clips. I saved the clips of the reporters walking through my landscaping and the clips showing three reporters going over my six-foot fence. I was especially happy to archive the clips showing them pressing their faces to my windows to see the inside of my house. I got an outstanding shot of the camera operator as he filmed me in my study. The security video also provided a good shot of the faces of the other two reporters when they climbed over my fence to get out of my backyard.

Next, I went on-line to find out what the penal code said about peeping into windows and filming the inside of a private residence without the owner’s permission. I was interrupted by a brief wail of a siren; the police had arrived fast.

I was in the process of explaining to the cops there was a trespasser in my backyard. As I pointed to the fence, a camera and hand came over the top of the fence followed by the trespasser. He had no sooner hit the ground and started for the sidewalk than he was face-to-face with two of San Diego’s finest and in handcuffs a few moments later. I would be happy if the scumbag was locked up and the key thrown away. Unfortunately, the officer told me the worst he would get is probably six months in the county jail and possibly a fine.

I showed them the video clips from my security system, made a statement, and gave them copies of the clips for follow-up charges. When they asked about signage to inform the public they were being filmed, I told them the sign was out front above my mailbox slot. I was told that a detective would review the video clips and determine if they were adequate for a charge of Malicious Mischief or Trespassing in regard to the activities of the other reporters. If so, the evidence would be forwarded to the DA for determining what charges if any would be filed. The detective would be in contact with me within three business days, and if appropriate, I could also file a complaint against the culprits. I had been hoping otherwise, but it was starting to look like Steve had been right about what I could expect from the media and our legal system.

I wanted the police to escort me to my car when I was ready to leave. I suggested that they talk with me and do their paperwork while I got cleaned up and changed clothes. After all, they had to do their reports sometime. They agreed. It took them longer to do their reports than it took me to change, so when they were done, they escorted me to my car. On the way to my car, I detoured to point out to the officers the sign I had posted on the front of the house just above my mail slot; a legal requirement if you wanted to use any recording made on your property for legal action in a court of law. Once in my car, the officers cleared the reporters out of my path, and I left to join Steve and Karen for dinner. Enroute, I made sure no one was following me, and in spite of everything, I arrived at the Cook’s Place a good ten minutes before they did.

Steve and Karen looked like an older couple that naturally belonged together. It was easy to spot the signs that said they adored each other.

“I see you found the place, Steve.”

“Yep, my GPS system is a good navigator.

“Carl, this is my wife Karen, and Karen this is Carl Simmons.”

“Nice to meet you, Karen. I hope you aren’t too upset with me for ruining your dinner plans.”

“Not really, Carl. Going out to eat is nice every so often. Our girls weren’t coming over tonight, so the timing worked out nicely.”

“Now that you mention it, Steve did say you had three adult daughters. Do they all live in the area?”

“Well, our youngest, Abby, has an apartment in downtown San Diego, and Carla and Tami share a house in Mira Mar with their three kids.”

“Oh ... Steve didn’t mention grandkids. What about Abby? Does she have children also?”

“No, she’s still single. Personally, I think she is sort of picky when it comes to men. Of course, she says that she is different from her sisters and wants to wait for the right guy.”

“I get the impression that you suspect Abby is waiting because Carla and Tami’s marriages didn’t work out for them.”

The public address system cut in with, “Simmons ... party of three ... your table is ready.”

“That’s us.” I said.

As we reached the hostess’s podium, the less attractive of The Cook’s Place’s two beautiful hostesses met us with menus in hand, and said, “This way, Mr. Simmons.”

These two hostesses were one of my three primary reasons for eating here; outstanding food and service were the other two. Following a tall, graceful brunette to my table was heaven on earth for me. My wife Ruth and I had eaten here frequently before her death. She used to tease me about my losing my focus somewhere on the way to our table. Hey, I’m a man. I look at other women, but I don’t touch them; at least I didn’t until Ruth died. Since Ruth’s death, a date with one of these two ladies for coffee crossed my mind on a few of the occasions I brought a lady here for dinner.

My Goddess stopped at a round table in the middle of the floor and said, “Nancy will be your waitress tonight, Mr. Simmons. Have a pleasant evening.”

“We will, Bea, and thanks for seeing that we were seated so promptly.”

Steve and Karen sat in chairs next to each other, so I sat down opposite Steve with Karen on my left.

“You were telling me about Carla and Tami, Karen.”

“They both married their college sweethearts, Carl, but things didn’t work out for them. Their husbands weren’t what you would call stay-at-home men. They liked to wander. They didn’t seem like that type of person to us when the girls were dating them.”

“Yeah, that is one of society’s problems now-a-days, Karen. Young men don’t seem committed to the concept of marriage. We think of it being a permanent relationship and you are supposed to spend your time with your wife and kids; not out with the single guys who are still chasing women.

“Speaking of society’s problems, it appears that you were right about me being a target for the media, Steve.

“A couple of them tramped through Ruth’s flowerbeds and I found one of their cameramen in my backyard filming me through my study window.”

“That’s not right, Carl. What are you going to do about it?”

“I checked the video feed from my security cameras, so I would know who to bill for the damages to my landscaping. I called the cops when I saw the cameraman in my backyard, and they arrested him. They caught him red-handed climbing back over the fence. Besides, I have videos of him and his cohorts doing their thing in my backyard, and I gave the cops a copy of the video clips.”

“Don’t be too surprised, Carl, if all they get is a small fine and pay for damages.”

“I thought the guy with the camera would do jail time. The cops said he could get up to a year in the county jail, but would probably only do six months.”

“That’s true, Carl. He could get up to a year, but the way things actually work is the Judge who hears the case has to get re-elected, and that means the Judges need to keep the media happy. You will never hear anyone admit to that, but some shyster lawyer will get the reporter off with a few hours of community service and a small fine, which his TV station will pay. That is what usually happens.”

“Then they are basically impervious to our legal system.”

“It’s the shits, Carl, but for all practical purposes, they are above the law. You can bring charges, they will go to trial, and the end result will be a slap-on-the-hand.”

“So, you are saying that I just have to take it.”

“No, not exactly, Carl. You can always sue them. They will typically settle out of court if the settlement is less than the cost of going to court. If you go to court, they will fight tooth and nail to defend themselves and the Freedom of the Press.”

“I was planning on going home after dinner. However, the harassment I suffered the short time I was at home was bad enough. They would probably keep me up all night by pounding on my door. If it’s going to be worse tomorrow morning, I may not be able to make it to my car.

“I think I’ll get a room for the night and then just drive by my place tomorrow morning to see what it is like.”

“Be careful, Carl. They know what your car looks like. They may block your path and trap you.”

“Thanks, Steve, I hadn’t thought of that. Oh well, I’ve been putting off an oil change, tune-up, and some other work, so I suppose I could have my mechanic do the work now. If his loaner isn’t available, I can get a rental. That way they can’t find me through my car.”

“True, but remember that if you use a credit card to make any purchase, they can trace you back to where you used it. They can do that even if all you do is to use your card as a security deposit for your motel room, since the motel will submit estimated charges to your credit card company.”

“I didn’t think of that. Thanks, Steve.”

I used to know all of The Cook’s Place’s waitresses and busboys when Ruth and I dined here regularly. Since Ruth’s death, I seldom eat here; so I noticed they must have a high turnover rate. I didn’t recognize the young lady who took our orders, her nametag said Nancy, and there were several other staff members moving around the room who are strangers to me.

“Do you work, Karen?”

“No, not now. I used to be an editor at the paper where Steve and I worked; however, I quit when Tami was born. My Mom raised me to believe that kids needed a full-time mother. About the time Steve and I got married, my mom finally decided that I didn’t need a mother any longer; although there were times she reverted back to that role. Once Tami was born, she became a full-time grandmother. Don’t get me wrong; I loved my Mom. However, if she wasn’t telling me how to live my life, she was telling me how to raise Tami. Then Carla and Abby showed up and she decided it was her job to hone my mothering skills. To be truthful, I sort of enjoyed those times with my Mom. She was irritating at times, but looking back, they are some of my fondest memories of her.”

“I take it she has passed on?”

“Yes, we lost her when Abby was eight years old. That was a really sad time in my life, but Steve and the girls were there for me, so I survived it.”

“What would you think, Karen, if Steve went back to work as a reporter and he had to be on the road at times?”

“I don’t know, Carl. I’d have to think about that. Do you have something in mind?”

“Yes. I was thinking this afternoon that the media is essentially treating me the way Steve described earlier, and I will want a bit of justice; however, revenge might be a better word to use.

“From what Steve told me, I would probably lose an Invasion of Privacy lawsuit, and if they can get away with trespassing on my property, I doubt there will be much of a chance for me in a court of law.

“However, two things occurred to me this afternoon that I have never heard of anyone trying. The first is filing Stalking Charges against the reporters. They staked out my home and were just waiting for me to show up. It’s the same thing as hunters in a deer blind and I’m their deer. To me that is the epitome of stalking.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Carl, but you would lose. My ex-employer’s legal counsel looked into California’s Stalking Laws and from what I was told, you would lose.

“It sounds as if you would have a chance of winning if you read just the legalese of the law. However, if you read the definitions of the terms used, you would discover a few things that protect the media from such a charge. For instance, the law specifically excludes activities that are protected by the Constitution. The media would just invoke their Constitutional Rights under the First Amendment and your charges would be thrown out of court.”

“Oh well, I sort of figured there must be something I was missing since no one has tried it in the past. I guess I’m left with the second option that occurred to me this afternoon. I need to give that idea a good bit of thought for I can’t do it without help.”

Karen asked, “What were you thinking of doing, Carl?”

“I was thinking about starting an on-line newspaper.

“My grandmother used to say: That which is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I don’t like the media’s people harassing me, and I don’t want them invading my privacy. So far, I haven’t seen anything they have written or said about me, although I suspect they will do so starting tonight or tomorrow. If they follow their usual pattern, in less than a week, my private life will be plastered all over several newspapers’ front pages.

“I don’t like being harassed and I don’t want my personal life made public; but I’m basically helpless. I got to wondering how the people in the media would feel if someone were to publish exposés that made their personal lives public? That thought led me to think of starting an on-line newspaper. I know enough about the law to know that if I did something like what I’m thinking of maliciously, I could be sued for Slander and I would lose.”

Steve interrupted to say, “Err, Carl, I think you mean Libel. Slander is verbal and Libel is written.

“Yeah, I get those two mixed up. But I decided I could define the paper’s editorial policy as: The public has the right to know what type of person is providing them with their news. I may have to tailor that a bit so it comes across as me doing my readers a public service, but it is essentially what I thinking of doing.”

Steve asked, “Then you intend to go after the reporters?”

“Sort of. In addition to the reporters, I’m thinking of doing exposés on the owners, managers, and editors; everyone directly involved in defining and preparing the articles. I will target everyone that has anything to do with determining the content that is printed, televised, and broadcast on TV or radio. Right now, I ‘m not sure about editors, especially if they are only checking grammar and readability. There are undoubtedly many media people that don’t fit my idea of being responsible for the content of the newspaper articles and the TV and Radio programs. I don’t think it would be right to intentionally target those people, but they do make it possible for the others to do business, so I may change my mind.”

“Hmm, that is an interesting idea,” Steve said. “Do you have a specific target in mind?”

“Yes, I do. As the reporters ganged up on me this afternoon, they crowded around me and shoved their microphones in my face. In addition to pushing me around, one of them hit me in the face with their mic. I think I will end up with a bruise on my cheek. It was difficult to make out the details on my monitor, but if I blow it up, I should be able to tell who was holding the microphone.