Not too long ago, I read an article about a formidable news writer. The quote that caught my eye was from her editor who stated, “She’s the best investigative reporter in America. Not the best female investigative reporter.” 

She’s. The. Best. Investigative. Reporter.

Since bursting onto the scene, about the same time I graduated from college, this investigative reporter broke a lot of stories of abuses of power, political corruption, and threats to democracy. She’s also the author of four New York Times bestsellers. 

I read the article with keen interest, placing myself in her shoes, because once upon a time, that’s who I wanted to be…not this woman in particular but rather the best investigative reporter in America. I wanted to follow the trail of extortion, depravity, and injustice. I wanted to overturn rocks and shout truth from the rooftops.

Just last week, a friend of mine chuckled when I told him what I aspired to be all those years ago. He said, “I cannot imagine you as an investigative reporter, asking the tough questions.” 



“I cannot imagine you as an investigative reporter, asking the tough questions.” 



He hasn’t known me very long, only a couple of years, and he’s only ever known me as a pastor’s wife, graphic designer, and an author, in that order. I guess I could see his point of view. Still, I disagreed with him because if there’s anything I do know how to do, it is how to ask the tough questions to get to the truth.  My kids can attest to that.

I very clearly remember my younger self, that resolute, unwavering, hungry, young reporter with an ear to the pavement attending for the next big story. I started my journalism career with two big investigative stories. The first was when I was in college in Central California. The story was about a state university fraternity initiation incident that was subsequently covered up by the fraternity. I heard about the incident from a member of a different fraternity on my campus. As soon as I heard the news, I headed to the editors of our campus daily newspaper. They eagerly greenlighted the story. I interviewed everyone who would talk, I dug deep, and I uncovered the truth. After a couple of weeks of research and editing, I submitted my story and awaited its publication.  

Only my story was never published. Some lawyers got involved, and the story was killed. It surfaced two weeks later on a network morning news show. I can still remember the day I saw it. I was sitting in my apartment eating breakfast and watching the news before I headed off to my broadcast news/editorial lab when the story broke—or at least when a carefully constructed version of the story broke. It was the first public telling of this incident. Other networks and print news outlets picked up the story within days. It was everywhere. And yet, none of their stories—six inches on page eight or 45 seconds in the afternoon news cycle—were as thorough as the story I wrote.



"Other networks and print news outlets picked up the story within days."



I marched into my editors’ office with questions they could not answer other than to say that the story was killed by the publisher. In the end, however, the truth was told. And if I am being honest, that was the point of the story, after all. All of the publicity over the incident helped to pave the way to the reform of that fraternity's hazing policies. Even so, I wished it would have been my story that received all the attention.

The other investigative story I wrote during my internship at a paper in Seattle a few months later. I received a tip about a couple who were attempting to complete renovations on a home on an island in the Puget Sound. The story doesn’t sound that sexy from that description, but there was a story. This couple purchased a foreclosed home and acreage—with what they believed was a clear title—with the intent to turn it into their dream home. As soon as they had the keys, they moved into the home and began renovations. Two years later as they had just begun the final phase and ripped out their kitchen, they were ordered to cease all construction.

There was a dispute over who actually owned the land. In fact, there were two land disputes, one from the heirs to the former owner and one from the federal government, both claimed they were the rightful landowners. To further complicate the matter, the county government insisted the title was clear and insisted the couple continue to pay property taxes. The federal government insisted that the land was held in trust since 1919 and therefore exempt from taxes. Another federal government agency stated the property was not eligible for sale when it was sold some 21 years later in 1940. 

Once all the demands were put on the table, three government agencies began, in layman’s terms, to contend over the status of the land and investigate where a potential mistake was made. The only thing that they all agreed on was that the federal government would have the final say on whether to litigate, return the property to whom they deemed the rightful owners, or drop the matter entirely, and the federal government promised the dispute would be resolved soon. Eight years after the cease order, the couple had exhausted all their resources regarding the land claims, and still, it had been eight years of no forward progress, no information, and no release. The couple said, “We can’t finish it, we can’t own it. We can’t sell it, and we can’t repair it.” 



"When I got involved, I did a lot of research and a lot of talking to the lawyers..."



When I got involved, I did a lot of research and a lot of talking to the lawyers representing the couple and the individual government agencies. I also talked to the Office of the Solicitor in Washington D.C., a state representative, the leader of an indigenous tribe, the title company that issued the clean title, and anyone else who had any information at all about the land dispute. The investigation took several weeks, and just a few days after my newspaper published the story, the land disputes were finally dropped. The mistake, as it were, was found on a single piece of paper buried deep in the county courthouse archives that showed the land had been released from trust and legally sold in 1940, some 40 years and two owners before this couple even considered purchasing the island acreage. Until I got involved in the story, no one had been able to locate the document. They weren’t even really looking. 

As as soon as I got the news, I called the couple to celebrate with them. The victory was bittersweet. The couple, now destitute, was free to finish building their dream home. 

The reason I wanted to be a reporter was that I loved telling stories. I wanted the hard-hitting stories. I wanted the fight. I wanted to be on the front lines. I wanted to change lives.

Only that didn’t happen—certainly not the way I thought it would happen.

Throughout the intervening years, I’ve often pondered the road not traveled. I finally decided that there was no point in asking what if, because what if didn’t happen. What if is a human construct. Humans always want to know why, and that’s one of the reasons there are still journalists and investigative reporters. 



"Throughout the intervening years, I’ve often pondered the road not traveled."



These last few years, the media has come under fire for “fake news” and biased news stories, as though it were a new thing. Of course, these accusations are not new to this century. There have always been fake news and biased news stories. One need only to pick up a supermarket tabloid or research Yellow Journalism of the 1890s to understand that sensationalism has always been around.

The truth is, most reporters want to report the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Where we get off track is when the truth becomes more about selling papers and magazines, getting more viewers and advertisers, and pushing the publisher’s or producer’s agenda over the facts. Reporters may go into a story looking for corruption. And in that quest to expose whatever corruption there may be, reporters, or their editors, may become overzealous and expose only partial truths to create dramatic headlines and exaggerated stories. 



"It’s our stories. You tell your story, I tell my story. We listen to each other..."



There will always be stories of injustice and corruption that need to be told, but I’ll leave that to the barracudas. I’m not sure I have that zeal any longer. I still have a fire for justice and truth-telling, but there’s a different truth I want to tell. I want to tell stories that make people laugh. I want to tell stories to encourage and build faith. I want to tell stories that create hope or wonder. You see, everyone has a story to tell— not just the corrupt—and I want to help to tell those stories, those everyday stories. I want to help other people tell their stories, after all, that’s what connects us as humans. It’s our stories. You tell your story, I tell my story. We listen to each other. We learn from each other, and together we grow stronger. 

TO TELL STORIES

BY KAT GROSHONG