The Tale of the Untold Story

There I sat, two days after semester’s end, journalistic gumption bleeding out my side from the final, decisive puncture wound in a miserable month of sporadic attacks. “I must deny this request because the information you requested is not a public record,” read the crippling message. The author: a UWM public records custodian with an axe for a keyboard, who just wouldn’t let me write a story on crime.

The sorry tale began in chipper manner, Police Chief Michael Marzion responding rapidly to my original email, sent April 4 of 2014. “I would like to officially request the crime statistics for all robbery, burglary and motor vehicle thefts that occurred around UWM in 2013,” I had typed, a spring in my fingers, open records law at my back. Statutes were cited and prior record releases noted. But the chief played a close hand, promptly deferring me to the university’s so-called custodians.

To them, that same day, I fired my request once more. I was awarded neither record nor response. Aghast, I consulted my assignment-setting instructor, my General, a seasoned journalist and combative practitioner of this particular law. “Wisconsin statute is your shield,” she proclaimed. “Now sharpen your reporting sword, and exhaust all means at your disposal.” Rallied, this open records requesting debutant got militant. Pleasantries be damned, I dropped “URGENT,” in spiky Courier capitals, into the subject box of a stronger worded note. Too, I sought out backup in the shape of ex-UWM custodian Amy Watson. The old ruler replied, but her powers, once wielded so effectively, had evaporated upon a switch in professions. Yet the correspondence stirred the villainous new occupant of Queen Watson’s old throne, Anthony Procaccio, CCed in every note.

My story was already in weakened state, suffering from an empty inbox. With its savior in his control, wickedly Procaccio deceived me, reigniting hope as my deadline loomed. It was April 22, nearing three weeks into my instructor-granted extension. The blustery day started out ordinarily, with poorly-cooked eggs, black coffee and no mail. Alas, that afternoon, as I busied myself with other projects – distraction numbs a wounded soul – the unbeforeheard ping of Procaccio post sounded. At 2:14 p.m., three days hence his legally mandated 10 day response time to an official request (excluding those agonizing silent weekends), the custodian had awoken to his duties. The capitals had spooked him.

“Mr. Bell,” he began, flatteringly formal. “I apologize for failing to respond to your original request.” Oh, Anthony, you’re forgiven! We journalists don’t hold personal grudges. I just want to write my goddam story! “I am currently addressing the issue,” the good king continued. “I will update you as soon as possible regarding fulfilling your request.” I was inflated, revitalized, healed. I already knew the headline thefts at student residence halls earlier in the school year would blow up annual campus crime averages. I just needed to cite an official source, the open record Procaccio was nobly finalizing for me. My General, eager for her tousle-haired soldier to succeed, and committed to the story’s worth, extended the deadline once more to the Wednesday after the final week of classes. So I got to work, the coils of my finger springs retightened, and haphazardly drafted my story around trends I would surely see in forthcoming stats.

And that’s how the story remains: A scattered Word document, never destined to know life outside my hard drive’s dungeon, in the stale company of bad-lit prom pictures and weedy pubescent poetry. A fictionalized lead precedes empty quote marks from prospective interviewees I never met with. No word came from King P in time, fully aware of my story’s due date, his non-communication cutting progressively deeper through my unprotected ribcage.

Wounded, but not quite lifeless, and with the General’s sympathy, I earned top marks for a substitute piece I wrote – a fluffy account of a soccer captain turned basketballer, whose shorts now cover her knees. Then, 48 hours after its submission, following my two further unanswered appeals, on May 9, five working weeks after the original request, Procaccio’s final emailed insult arrived. It included an official-looking pdf attachment with a university logo letterhead disguising the middle finger printed on the page.

“Until such time as the new Annual Security Report has been generated and finalized, I can only provide you with the previous year’s Security Report, which can be found here…,” he wrote, pointing me to the same useless document I referenced in my first message to Chief Marzion and himself. It listed the numbers of robberies, thefts and burglaries on campus in years 2010-12. Regrettably, Your Highness, no timely crime story was ever written using statistics from 17 months prior to its publishing. Had they been of any use, our charming correspondence would never have had to clog up some computing cloud, and my semester stress level would have been lower than my untold story’s current word count. “By denying your request, I am required to inform you that my determination is subject to mandamus (court review) under Wis. Stat. § 19.37(1)(a) or upon application to the attorney general or district attorney under §19.37(1)(b).” How I’d love to take you to court, O ye caretaker of public information, but I’m a broke college student in a scantily-funded department with only words for weapons. “Sincerely,” he signed off, as I choked on my burnt omelet, “Anthony Procaccio, Public Records Custodian.”

I delivered the news to my instructor, who’d marshaled other students through similarly unsuccessful battles. She suggested writing the sword-wielding piece before your eyes on why the hell it is so difficult to produce a crime story grounded in what should be open public record. So with record-receiving virginity intact, faith in law depleted, but avenging-energy abundant, I set about the cathartic telling of the tale of the untold story.