Reporter’s Notebook -- James Meier

As are most days, Monday, Sept. 10, was a long day and I needed sleep.

Being that I start work at the Pilot at 11 a.m., I set my alarm clock for

9 a.m. With that done, I looked forward to nearly nine hours of

uninterrupted sleep.

While asleep, the phone rang. I knew 9 a.m. hadn’t arrived since my

alarm clock failed to ring. But I suspected it wasn’t long off.

Further, I suspected my mother waited on the other end of the line.

Living on the East Coast with my father, she sometimes can’t wait till

noon, her time, to call me. No offense to her, but I let the answering

machine get it.

My head returned to my comfy pillow so I could resume my precious

sleep. Of course being an always curious reporter, my ears remained wide

open: “ . . . blah blah blah, attacked, blah blah blah, bombed . . .” My

eyes opened. Huh?

I looked at the clock: 7 a.m. “What the heck? She certainly knows

better than that.” I rushed to the machine. The message had finished. I

played it back.

“Jim, I know it’s early but wake up! Jimmy, wake up if you can hear

me! (long pause) Jim, it’s your mom! Jim, the United States is under

attack! The New York World Trade Center is being bombed. The Pentagon is

being bombed. (sigh and pause) Call me later. Bye.”

Now, I know my mom and often she exaggerates. So even though she

obviously caught my attention, I wasn’t ready to accept her message as

absolute fact just yet. I flipped on the tube.

By this time, the attacks were easily more than an hour old. Two

planes had crashed into the center’s twin towers, one of which had

already fallen, and another airliner struck the Pentagon. Between my 200

TV channels, a good 30 or so were showing live or taped footage.

Within the first five minutes, I watched the second plane crash into

the south tower. Meanwhile, the first tower burned, a billow of deep,

black smoke streaming perpendicular to the buildings.

“What? This is happening? There’s no way. How? Who? Why?”

My journalistic instincts came out naturally. I pretty much knew the

“when” and didn’t need to ask that.

“Ring!” Again, the phone. This time I answered it. My sister, who

lives in Long Beach, told me to wake up and turn on TV. My mom had told

her to wake me up. It was a brief conversation and I called my mom

directly after and then a friend immediately after that.

Once the second tower collapsed in front of my and millions of others’

eyes, I sat on my bed dumbfounded. The questions ceased. What more could

I ask? Those on television who had watched the events unfold in front of

their eyes had few answers themselves.

I grew a little sick, a sick I really couldn’t and still can’t

explain. I’m sure a similar feeling overcame many others that morning.

I stood up. I actually needed a break from television. It had come to

that. I took a shower no shorter than any other. It was going to be a

long day. While showering, I wrapped my brain around the events.

“What is today? Tuesday. And the date? Sept. 11, 2001. Sept. 11. What

does that mean? 9-11. 911. Hmm. Whatever. Coincidence. But Sept. 11, what

the heck is that?”

I thought back to 1993 and remembered some Middle East peace accord

that had taken place between Israel and the Palestinians. President

Clinton helped broker that one, I recalled. But I had no idea whether or

not that was Sept. 11.

I couldn’t think of anything else so I moved on to other questions.

“Who would do this? It obviously was purposeful.”

Saddam Hussein came to mind. So did the guy who led the attack on the

USS Cole and the World Trade Center earlier in the ‘90s. Osama bin

Laden’s name wasn’t readily available, but he seemed like an obvious

suspect. “Who else would do it besides those two?”

By 8:45 a.m., I was again glued to the tube, but fully dressed and

ready to get to work.

Work! Rarely does work escape me, but those television images were and

are hard to pry myself from. I told myself I’d watch another half-hour of

attack footage and jam off to work.

“Ring!” It was work. “Want me in?” “Yeah.”

And with that said, I rushed to work.

Already, reporters had arrived about an hour earlier than usual. A few

stories were hashed and reporters hit the phones. We paged a few more

reporters who, too, rushed in. We held an unusual staff meeting, hashed

out a few more story ideas, divided them up and went to work.

We knew Sept. 11, 2001 was going to be the biggest, busiest, most

exciting and saddest day in our journalistic lives. And hopefully, we

thought, no other day would top it.

With all of that said and done, sleep no longer rates as precious. And

if that phone ever rings again while I’m sleeping, both my ears and eyes

will stay open. I just hope I never hear those same words.

* JAMES MEIER is the assistant city editor and editorial page editor.