Peer Accountability...

At the risk of sounding smug, contrite, or any other myriad of adjectives that could be construed to make me sound like I'm tooting my own horn, I'm going to just put it out there: I challenge you to find any other profession more fraternal than that of a television news photographer.

For better or for worse, it is a family, and it has all of the characters:  the whiner, the complainer, the over zealous, the humble genius, the not so humble genius, the snitch, the rookie, the veteran, the young, the old, those waiting to be lead out to the pasture, the brothers and the sisters, in between them all... you have the simple, understood camaraderie that exists between any person charged with making television news for a living.

It can be seen in the candid pictures that news photographers often take with one another.

Like when your fellow glass pusher was nearly mowed down on live tv by a speeding vehicle that was more interested in the RF being transmitted on the side of the road, than with keeping within the boundries of the passenger lane on South Blvd.

Rest assured, your fellow lenslinger will be there to remind you to wear your safety vest the next time you're live near a busy intersection... And he just might make an awkward face in the background of the aforementioned picture.


The subtext all the while, being something like this: "Hey man, I saw your live shot last night. Close call.  Glad you're ok! Remember, if something in fact does happen to you, your wife will collect no life insurance if you aren't wearing this..."

And even that sentiment has further subtext... It's our passive way of acknowledging that one of our own almost became part of the general claptrap we cover.  It's a slightly sarcastic, passive and poignant way of acknowledging your brethren news maker encountered a real pill of circumstances while working.

It's quietly saying "I hope you're alright..." in the middle of the ready room, without actually muttering the words.

 For those slightly older members of my occupational breed, this type of interaction might take place as you quietly recall the glory days of tape to tape editing while you paddle down a central North Carolina rural river.



Either way, it doesn't matter as long as one thing is happening: you're having a conversation. 

Hazards of the TV news job aren't always limited to a run away sedan whose driver is attempting to text their ETA to the bar while driving...

What the general public probably doesn't realize is this: this job can take it's toll on a human being and their lives just like any other.  It isn't all glitz and glamor and shiny lights and fancy cams and "OH MY GOD! YOU'RE THAT MAN/WOMAN ON TV!!!"

Now, again... Not to equate my chosen profession to those that serve the public and save lives, but merely to serve as an example... When police officers and fire men encounter traumatic events at work, there is typically a network of counselors and advocates in place to discuss what they've seen and how it's affected them.  When EMTs have someone flat line on them before they can reach the hospital, an on sight counselor is typically at arms length to discuss the repercussions this might have on their work performance.  Call all of these networks "internal affairs", "trauma advocates", or what you will, they're there.

TV news crews don't have this.  We have our peers, our wives and husbands, and looming quietly over our heads... our next deadline.

What has infamously become known in our business as the "dead baby knock" is an act in which a news crew is expected to visit the home of someone you've never met, knock on their door, and in 3 minutes or less, convince them to go on camera and gush about the most recent tragedy they've experienced.  We've typically lifted their name and address from a police or incident report, and often show up unannounced.

Ever pressed a camera into the face of a fresh widow?  Ever back lit a mother whose estranged husband is accused of ramming her daughter's head into a 2 inch sheet of dry wall?  Ever had a homicide detective tell you "it's ok to get your shots here, just don't step on the evidence or the body."

Ever bent down to tie your shoe and notice a fresh, bullet ridden corpse just 6 feet from where you're kneeling?

News photographers don't have support groups.  They don't have on sight counselors to discuss with them how the events of the story they covered the night before might have kept them up for hours once they got home.  They don't have someone official around to ask, "Are you ok?".

We have our families, whom we generally try to spare from the sorted details of our latest encounter with doom and gloom, and we have each other.  We have those quiet two or three minutes while we're loading a light kit or a tripod into a live truck.  We have a quick exchange while we're moving our camera from an SUV to the cargo area of a satellite vehicle. 

We have those little sarcastic quips that no one else would understand, and if they over heard, would probably consider us to be callous, cold, and unfeeling.  And that just isn't true.

Ask any news photographer you know... The majority of us go home every night and hug our loved ones a little tighter, reflect quietly on the strangers who became familiar during the day, and prepare to do it all over again the next day.

And we do it all knowing that it's a thankless, often unrewarding duty.  And we look out for our own.  And many of us couldn't imagine ourselves doing anything different.

We create emotional moments, 90 seconds at a time.  Hours of work, for 90 seconds, and then it's forgotten. 

What could you do in 90 seconds?

My Father's Eyes

When I lived in Wilmington, NC my wife and I were members of, and regular volunteers at Port City Community Church.

The main pastor Mike Ashcraft, used to tell us on a regular basis, that the biggest problem facing our city, our state, our country, and the next generation was the plight of fatherless children.

Children... boys and girls growing up without their father's present in the most formidable years, to teach the rights and wrongs of being contributing members of society.  This plight knows no prejudice.  It doesn't see skin color, economic circumstances, or even fear of responsibility.

When you do what I do for a living, you meet children all too often who have lost their father to either death or incarceration or sheer flight from responsibility.  Two days ago I was charged with covering a vigil for a man murdered in the neighborhood he was born and raised in.  I interviewed his pregnant girlfriend who openly discussed how she was on the phone with him the moment he was shot.  She heard his final breath and dieing scream for help.

Moments later I would meet the little beauty you see pictured above.  While unaware of her relationship to the late man pictured on her t shirt, the expression on her face as she read over the words scribed on that sign she is holding, simply captivated me.  

I cannot tell you how many of these vigils I've shot in my career.  I can't tell you how many hours I've recorded of family members mourning over the loss of a loved one.  I can't tell you how many widows I've interviewed.  I can't tell you how many fatherless children I've met.

What I can tell you is this, I'm one of the lucky ones.  From the moment I entered this world, my father has always been my biggest champion.

He gave me his name.  He made sure I always had a roof over my head and a warm bed to sleep in.  He made sure we always had food in the fridge.  He taught me how to shave.  He taught me about forgiveness.  He taught me how to accept God's grace and live by it.

He taught me to admit my mistakes and own up to them.  He taught me that the unconditional love of a good woman is hard to find, and something to truly cherish and never take for-granted.  He bought me my first car and my first camera.  He taught me how to be a man.

In the late 70's he met my mother.  A struggling single mom who could barely afford the bare necessities for my older brother.  He would go on to buy him shoes and clothes before he even looked at an engagement ring for my mom.

In his own selfless ways, he displayed compassion and generosity that I believe resides in me.



He made a 7 year old boy his son and married my mother on July 14, 1979.  He has always maintained that even though they aren't blood, Buck is his son as much as I am.

Growing up, the oldest of 3, in rural southeastern North Carolina on the shores of Lake Waccamaw, he began working at the age of 12 at a local grocery store.  He would take food in lieu of a paycheck so that his family would have food for the week to eat.  I carry this lesson of hard work in my heart and go back to it anytime I think I've had a tough day on the job.  He taught me that a strong work ethic pays off and that people do notice it.

My father and I haven't always had the most perfect relationship.  It got pretty rocky in my early  twenties, and we even went a while without speaking.

Through the grace of God, and an insistent mother whom I am quite thankful for, we got our relationship back and it has been better than ever.




I still seek my father's counsel on tough decisions, financial advice, how to handle rough situations at work, and oftentimes I just call him up to shoot the breeze.

Realizing your parents are real people with their own real world problems was one of the toughest pills I've ever swallowed, and also one of the most rewarding.  I've seen my father navigate just about every high and low a lifetime can see, and I've witnessed him come out a better husband, father, and friend on the other side.  I've seen him beat cancer.  I've seen his heart grow.

I know that there is hope for this next generation because in a world plagued by the lack of fathers, role models, and heroes I am truly one of the very lucky ones.  My story of redemption and reconnection with my own father is a true testament to that.

Superman doesn't always wear a cape.  Sometimes he wears a weathered Willie Nelson t shirt and has a beard.  Sometimes he looks just like you do. 

Kristy Rising...

The earliest memories I have of ever interacting with the woman who would one day become my wife date back to 2007.  Small market newsrooms are comprised of a handful of "veterans" just mailing it in, recent college graduates working erratic shifts and wearing a multitude of hats in an effort to prove themselves, and college drop outs who took a job as a PA because working in television "sounded cool". 

I'll let you guess which one I was.

I had Thursday night's off, and anyone who worked for my former employer knew that Thursday was $1 domestic draft night at Hell's Kitchen.  The morning show producer, then Kristy Ondo, could often be found having her dinner at what we affectionately referred to as "The Kitchen", on any given Thursday.  Kristy never imbibed on the watered down domestic brew, because as soon as she left our graces, she was headed to work.

Around her 3rd or 4th visit to The Kitchen on a Thursday, she was about to head out and I asked her where she was parked.  Upon hearing she'd cemented her little Honda in one of the seedier areas of downtown Wilmington, I offered to walk her to car, insisting that "chivalry wasn't dead".

And I was hooked....

Over the next couple of years, Kristy Ondo would become one of my dearest friends.  We'd share laughs, tears, secrets, flirtations, DVD copies of teen soap operas that were once filmed in Wilmington, long walks on the river front during our dinner break, hours upon end at the ocean's shore line at Wrightsville Beach, and every thing in between.

And then the summer of 2009 eventually rolled around.  Kristy Ondo informed me that her contract was about expire and that she would be looking for tv news jobs elsewhere.  Without hesitation I blurted out: "Well, before you leave... I'm going to kiss you."  "What?!?!", she replied.  And again I insisted, "Kristy... I can't let you leave without kissing you at least once.  It'll be one of those things I'll regret never doing."

And a couple weeks later, I made good on my threat to plant one on her.  In the middle of what was probably the worst thunder storm of the summer, we found ourselves stranded in a lifeguard stand on Wrightsville Beach with a couple of luke warm Bud Light Limes.  I told her "I'm not wasting this kind of natural atmosphere.", and I went for it.  It must have done the trick, because she didn't move and she signed a contract extension the following week.

On March 6, 2010 I asked her to be my wife and she said yes.  On September 4th, 2010 we were married in Southport, NC, and she became Kristy Etheridge.

We continued to work together at the same station in Wilmington, and if I knew then what I know now, I would have never taken a single second for-granted when I had the opportunity to work with her as her photographer.

In June of 2011, I accepted a job in Charlotte as a photographer at the #1 station in the market.

To put this into perspective, I was moving from working as a rookie at the #1 station in the town that had quite literally, made me... to the #1 station in the town of my birth.

It was a news junkie's dream come true.

Only a couple of weeks after I accepted my position, Kristy was offered a job at the sister station of the one we'd worked at in Wilmington.

Our life was beginning to take shape...

We found ourselves in Charlotte in August 2011, working for competitors, and eventually feeling the overwhelming shift in market sizes.

We would both come to excel in our roles.  Kristy would quickly come into her own as a reporter in a top 25 market, and would gain respect and notoriety from her peers, as someone who went above and beyond to do her very best, and as someone who made her stories "human."

She also became known as someone who knew how to not take herself too seriously.  Someone who was good at her job, and did it with integrity, but also knew how to enjoy the grind we all ride, along the way.

Her contagious smile would ignite viewers to email her praise, and on occasion, inquisition about the type of shoes she was wearing.  (A story for another day.)

In the following months, Kristy and I decided we would take mission trip to Guatemala. What happened there changed both our lives, but for Kristy, it stirred a longing and a call she had felt for sometime to do something different with her career. 

Through continued months of prayer, meditation, and quietly listening to what we believe as a couple to be God's call to her, she found a new job opportunity.  On March 5th, after almost six years in the TV news business, my sweet, smokin' hot wife will be making an exit from the lights and cameras and taking a job an internet writer / copy editor at the Billy Graham Evangelical Association, the BGEA.

Kristy has always said that the only thing she likes more than being my wife, or being on TV, is writing.  And she's pretty darn good at it.  And I could not be more proud of her.  This leap of faith, and step outside of her comfort zone, is one I only wish I had the guts to take.

Please join me in celebrating with her, in cheering her on, and in being inspired by the soul she possesses.  One that doesn't back down from a challenge.  One that faces fear and uncertainty with assurance that she is protected.  A soul that is truly one of the good ones.

And if it doesn't work out, I'm sure she can always reenter the world of news.

Her former co-anchor would probably vouch for her in a pinch.

Love ya toots...

Something to Someone

Rarely do I have the pleasure of working the dayside shift on a Sunday, but today I traded shifts with another photog at my shop in order to watch tonight's broadcast of the 2013 WWE Royal Rumble with a group of my brethren news makers.  Please excuse that and immediately dismiss it without passing any judgement on me.  Thank you in advance.

Today's story was a toss up - it could go in one of several directions, all of which ended with us doing a live shot at 6, just one block away from where a father of five lost his life to the barrel of a gun.

We had the overnight video.  We had the interview from the sheriff's department.  We had the nuts and bolts.  What we needed was the blue print of the design.  Who was this man? What was his name? What skeletons did he have in his closet?  Why did this even happen?

Reporter Catherine Bilkey and I arrived to the scene of the crime around 10:30am - A small ranch style brick home, resting about thirty yards off of a narrow road in rural York County, South Carolina.  The detectives were still conducting their investigation, and the quiet breeze bounced the yellow caution tape they had roped the property off with.

We found a place to park and I unloaded my gear.  I popped off about ten wallpaper shots to cover the package for later and then we saw her - this dead man's fiancé.  Upon our initial approach, one of the detectives advised that it wasn't a good time.  We obliged and I held back as Catherine approached and offered condolences, all genuine, but also in an effort to persuade her into talking to us.  She wasn't ready...

We found a neighbor who offered some insight as to what may have led to the shooting, and he indeed confirmed our suspicions: this was likely the product of some sort of illegal activity gone wrong.

We did our noon live vo/sot and drove into town to find some lunch and proper plumbing and then returned.  And there she was again.  Just standing along the side of the road, inches from the caution tape, staring... At what I'm not quite sure, but we decided to give it another try, and this time she obliged our request to find out who this man was - to put a face with his name and not just chalk him up to another statistic.

Her name is Channon Forte and her recently deceased fiancé's name was Shannon Jenkins.  The man who shot and killed Shannon is Vincent Bratton.  We didn't probe into the specifics of how this happened, or exactly for what reason.  It wasn't imperative to the story we were trying to tell today - his story.

In a compassionate fashion, Catherine just asked Channon: "just tell me about him", "what was he like?", "what's going on in your mind right now?", "how are you doing?".

Surprisingly enough, she opened up with one liners that news junkies dream of.  With tears in her eyes she choked out things like ""Our son just turned 2 in November. How am I going to explain to my kids that their father is not here?" - "He loved his kids, He didn't deserve this." - "From the day we met, day one, I knew that he was the one."

We thanked her for talking with us and she had promised to email a photo or two of Shannon to us in the following hours.  We parked the truck in our live locale, about a half mile round trip from where the crime had occurred, and as Catherine began logging the interview and writing her script I worked to establish our live signal and just kept mulling over the whole conversation we'd had with her.

Had Shannon been involved in some unsavory activity? Maybe, who knows? We didn't, and I'm thankful for that.  It would have taken away from the raw emotion we'd captured by clouding it with speculation as to what might have been the cause for the shooting.

I worked on editing the package and as I pieced it together, we had all the elements: scene video, neighbor sound, sound with the fiancé - but as I watched this woman cry and weep over her loss, something was missing.  We needed to see who this man was.  Without a word, I grabbed my camera and exited the live truck and hiked my way back to the house where a gaggle of mourning family members had begun to gather.

Channon greeted me and I apologized for interrupting her unfortunate reunion with family, but asked again for the picture.  She'd forgotten, and I can't find any cause for blame there.  Emailing a picture of your recently deceased to an insistent news crew would be the last thing on my mind if I were in her shoes.

She found one for me and I shot it off her phone and returned to the truck to finish editing the story.  Between clips of her tearful sobs, I edited in Shannon's picture and left it up for quite a while.  We concluded the story with a plea from his fiancé: "Turn yourself in..."

Now, in my own naive little world, I'd like to think that maybe our story helped in that, because we found out that shortly after it aired, Vincent Bratton turned himself into the York Co. Sheriff's department.

I'm certain it's just coincidence, but amid the tragedy of today's story, I'm proud of the job we did.  It might appear to some that we just followed the cookie cutter, "that's what you're supposed to do" method of putting together a story like this - but for me, it was a little different.

This woman was gracious enough to give us seven minutes of her time on what is arguably the worst day of her life, and I felt compelled to do the story justice.  To go above and beyond the status quo and inflect some real emotion, into an otherwise typical story, that sadly... I am all to familiar with shooting.

You can view the story here.

Something was different about today and I can't quite put my finger on it, but I do know this: meeting Channon Forte reminded me that everyone is something to someone.  Shannon Jenkins was her something: her fiancé, her provider, the father of her children, her great love.  You cannot watch this story without that kind of emotion and sincerity piercing you in some little way.

Today I learned something about myself as a journalist, but more so, as a person:  the grind we ride hasn't completely hardened me.  I can still feel a little, and those feelings stir an urgency in me to do a story justice when it's otherwise doomed to become just another ninety seconds of television.  I suppose I can thank Channon for that...

Respect Your Elders...

There's a question I ask my self every time I load my fancy cam, light kit, tripod, and various other pieces of gear necessary to make television, into the vacant abyss of a live truck: "Why do I do this?"

The truth is, there is no simple answer.  Sure, I need health insurance.  A steady paycheck is pretty nice.  Unlimited access to local politicians? - Not so exciting, but stick with me for a moment...  I'm going somewhere with this.

My job is different than any other on the planet.  I meet new people every day.  Sometimes, it's on the best day of their life, and sometimes... it's on their worst.  News photographers stick their lenses in the faces of perfect strangers and quietly record history.  It might not be yours or theirs, but it is someones history.  It's a delicate science that even the most decorated scholar couldn't master without years of practice and perfection.  It's an art I will forever be perfecting.

Have you ever pinned a microphone on a mother who just lost her third child to gang violence?  Have you ever asked a homeless guy how he plans to keep warm when the temperature dips below 32 degrees tonight?  Ever wiped fresh soot out of your eyes while a home continues to smolder in the back ground of an interview you're about to conduct with the owner?  These are all things I've done - in just the last six months.

Between the sirens, crime scene tape, flashing lights, and general calamity of the daily grind we ride, we seek moments.  That 10 or 15 seconds you know you've just captured, and you know that it is pure gold in the eyes of the news gods.  For even the most self indulgent of my breed, it's a ego stroke that will surely carry you through the next scene of claptrap that will surely befall you - but that's not the point.  Not even close.

These moments should affect us in a deeper way.  It should make us better.  It should leave us asking ourselves "what about this can make me better at my job, and more importantly, a better human being?"

Now, the following list of guys will inevitably give me a good ration of crap for this next line, but this particular rant wouldn't be complete without it.  These veteran photographers, these seasoned lenslingers, these guys who have been doing it alot longer than I have, these elder brethren of mine... have somewhat managed to master this fine art of tv news photography, and each in their own way. 

Exhibit A: Leighton Grant

He's the chief photographer at my stations' main competitor, and arguably the best friend I have in Charlotte.  He once asked me a question that continually sticks with me: "When is the last time you cried in your viewfinder?"

The implied lesson being that if it's an emotional story, it should move you.  You should be doing more than just hitting record when you interview a person who has just experienced a great loss.  You should regard them speaking to you as an honor.

Exhibit B: Rick Portier

The self proclaimed "turd polisher" is a guy I haven't ever met personally, but in keeping up with his social media rants and recent vow to only post positive updates, it's obvious that the guy has an unbridled passion for what he does for a living.

So much so that he recently published a 300 page novel entitled "Shooter in the Crosshairs".  It's an awesome read. I highly recommend it.

Exhibit C: Stewart Pittman

When the aptly named "lenslinger" isn't rubbing elbows with the folks from American Idol, transmitting RF around the triad, or tossing back Jack & Coke's with yours truly, he takes a break and writes some of the most insightful photog fodder you've ever laid eyes on. 

It's an amazing juxtaposition of scathing sarcasm for the business and raw, personal humanity.  It's a true look at how to NOT let the business break you.

Exhibit D:  Richard Adkins

"RAD" as he's known among his peers, has basically been my mentor for the last few years.  His lessons on the business, the daily grind, shooting and editing, and maintaining sanity while navigating the world of TV news have been invaluable and have shaped the way I approach each day at work.

So what do these four camera jockey's have in common?  They have each, and in their own way, contributed to the answer to my aforementioned question: "Why do I do this?"

Through their own work and lives, they've demonstrated that conditioning and patience is key if you're expecting to make it long term in this business.  They've shown this photog that our jobs are coveted for irrational reasons, but that we should never forget why we started pushing glass in the first place: the people.

So why do I do this? I do it because it reminds me that there is life outside my viewfinder, that there is life outside of my own little world.

Compromising Intergrity

DISCLAIMER: What you're about to read is totally my opinion and not the opinion of anyone else or my employer.

With that said, I'll skip my usual witty introduction and just cut to the chase. 

The publication of this picture is a disgusting example of photojournalism gone incredibly wrong.

If you aren't familiar with the story and need to be brought up to speed, click here.

I'm not going to rant or rave in any direction over this, except to say this: whoever made the ultimate decision to run this photo needs to seriously reevaluate their position as a contributing member of society.

The photographer who took the photo claimed he was firing off his camera flash in an effort to alert the train conductor.  Here's an idea... drop the weapon and give the man a hand.  Pull him to safety perhaps!  The fact that this image was even captured is disturbing.

Being a human v.s. doing your job.  Getting the money shot v.s. witnessing someone die.  Capturing calamity or doing your part when no one better qualified is around to assist.  It's a grind that anyone who yields a camera for a living rides, and we all have our moments.

I had mine on September 22nd of this year when I was headed from one story to the next and came upon this smashed up Corvette on I77.  The guy had hit the concrete wall head on and was bleeding pretty profusely from his face and head.  No one was stopping to check on him and I did. And I waited with him until the EMTs arrived.



Now, at the risk of appearing like a totally self righteous jerk, I offer all of this in an effort to remind anyone who reads this blog, and pushes glass for a living, of one thing:  PEOPLE MATTER.  Never forget it.  Whether it was the publisher, editor, news director, or the actual photographer that chose to run that picture in the NYP, it's basically meaningless.  In my opinion, the guy should have dropped his weapon and organized the looky loos in a collective effort to pull that poor man from the tracks.  And now, publishing the horrific final moments of that guy's life is their burden.  They have to live with it.  I'm not sure if I could.

They could probably use a reminder that Saint Peter doesn't care about your resume, portfolio, or demo reel. 

Classified Misstressinformation

If you've been remotely following any of my social media rants within the last 2 weeks, you know that I temporarily had set up residence in the form of a live truck out side the Dilworth home of Paula Broadwell, the suspected mistress of General David Petraeus.

The first night was pretty effortless.  Cut a file video heavy package and make my way to her home for a live shot at 10 and 11.

Little did I know that my world would shift entirely after those couple hours spent on Mt. Vernon Ave.  It's a big story.  It's a talker.  A major player in a sex scandal was living in our own back yard.  Why not sign up indefinitely for it?

Why not indeed?  The following days spent covering this real life scene from Homeland would find me receiving gifts of popcorn from my smoking hot wife as I watched the drama unfold.

"If you're going to watch a soap opera, you might as well have a snack!" she said.

And snack I did.  On popcorn, nerds candy, and more turkey sandwiches than any man should be expected to consume.

I even scored some pizza that was the product of a poorly planned prank on the Broadwell house while the FBI was conducting a search of their home.




(Editors note: as of publishing this blog, the picture of me holding a pizza box has been viewed 37,336 times on the website Buzzfeed.)

What I didn't expect was the unhealthy obsession I had developed with this story.  After all the time I spent covering it, I had to get the money shot.  The 20 seconds many photogs know too well.  The one shot that makes all the time spent standing in the cold, using a styrofoam cup as your toilet, and aimless hours spent pulling cable and repositioning your lights to make the inevitable bump shot of the house look different than the previous 20, worth it.

And get it, I did.  After countless hours waiting outside her drive way and pouncing on the first sign of life outside her white brick abode, we got the word from a family friend.

"The Broadwells will be home in the next 45 minutes or so. They know you're all here.  Just please be respectful..."



My 16 second clip of the Broadwells unloading their car and their children at their home was picked up by ABC World News, CNN Headline News, and a host of other country wide ABC affiliates that desperately wanted a glimpse at the woman who had spent the previous week in seclusion at her brother's home in Washington, DC.

Her return home provided great fodder for any and all who yield a camera to provide for their families.

Myself included.  I racked up more overtime sitting outside this woman's house than I did during the Democratic National Convention that was recently held in our fair city.




To sum up the entire experience briefly, and in keeping with my mantra that people always matter more than anything else, that family needs time.  Time to heal.  Time to sort things out. Time to put their lives back together.

Being a B list celebutante one day, and then being thrust into the international spot light over a personal indiscretion the next, has got be jarring.  I'm not downplaying what it is that she's suspected of doing, but I honestly can't imagine what I would do if the tables were turned.  And that's a question I ask myself all the time.  If something traumatic happened to me and my family that the news gods deemed worthy of providing airtime to, what would I do if a total stranger approached my doorstep and asked me to talk about it?

I legitimately struggled with the amount and type of coverage this story was given.  But as my mentor Richard Adkins pointed out to me, most of the time if we show up at someone's house, there is a reason.

This theory is rooted in a quote from the movie "Gross Pointe Blank".

"If I show up at your door, chances are you did something to bring me there."

And she did supposedly do something.  Supposedly...

The burden of proof now lies on the shoulders of folks who aren't news photographers like myself, and I thank God for that.

I did my job, and I did it well.  I got the shot.  I spent over 80 hours on the sidewalk outside of her home.  I stood next to the spot where "Dad Loves Mom" is scrawled into the pavement by a pressure washer.  I've seen her husband drop an entire bag of groceries and consequently lose a bottle of good red wine, all because his hands were shaking so much at the sight of our media scrum waiting just feet away, he couldn't hold onto them.  I've seen the sincere shame in her face that is a product of being affiliated with this entire ordeal.

Some folks claim that she is remorseful and attempting to rebuild a foundation for her family and her marriage.  Assuming this is true, and I have no reason to believe it isn't... I applaud her.  Did she do some things she shouldn't have? Maybe.  Only time will tell.

However, if you're an advocate for marriage like myself, you cannot help but want for them to work out.  And I hope that once the dust settles, they will.

In the mean time, I'm sure my residency outside the Broadwell home is far from over.  I'm sure that anytime something breaks in this story, we'll be out there again, live from her front porch.

Sometimes that's just the grind you ride to keep lights on.  But it doesn't stop me from cheering for their marriage on the inside.