by Catherine Hedgecock BLUNDERS, DEADLINES, AND CROSSBOWS Published August 19, 1996 Other Columns by Catherine Hedgecock	I hate to make mistakes, especially at the office. I'm one of those people who can anguish for days over ordering too many paper clips or forgetting an appointment. And, the stupendous, bonehead mistakes -- the ones that blow a deadline or lose a client -- are a major drag, worthy of several months, a whole season maybe, of forehead slapping. But you know how it goes: everyone -- even a perfectionist like me -- occasionally blows it big-time. Then what to do? Sometimes the path is clear. One time I got sued; that was easy. I slapped my forehead a few dozen times, then turned everything over to the lawyers. But other mistakes are harder, especially those that affect someone you work with and care about. Those kind really get me. They're the ones I remember long after the self-flagellation season is over. My first blunder of this type occurred when I was a young reporter at a Central California newspaper. The town had more than its share of crimes, and some were pretty bizarre. One of the strangest involved a real estate agent who was going to show a vacant house to a potential buyer. Instead of a client, he was met by a killer who shot him with a crossbow, stuffed him into the trunk of his car, and dumped his body along a mountain road. Needless to say, this was a big story. The police were swarming over it. Readers were calling us with questions and theories. Conversations on the streets, in offices, in bars and diners, were dominated by the latest turn of events in the case. The newspaper devoted not just one but several reporters to the story, and I was glad to be among them. Soon the police arrested two young men, and rumors began to leak out that they were hit men hired by a third party. It was so outlandish that we weren't sure if there would ever be another arrest. We interviewed people, wrote up what we knew, and waited. Finally, there was another arrest (although all charges against this man were later dropped). We worked in a fury to get all the stories ready for the next morning's paper.
Bylines are what journalists really work for; paychecks come second.	In the midst of this, my editor asked me a question: Did a certain reporter deserve a byline on any of the stories. This was no small matter. Bylines are what journalists really work for; paychecks come second. The reporter in question was out of town and unreachable. I said no, I didn't think he had contributed to any of them, and I turned back to what I was doing with a deadline looming ominously. The next day, the paper came out and blew away the competition. We were all proud of our work. But by then it had begun to sink in that I'd made a big mistake. The reporter who was out of town had done a lot of the footwork and writing that made these stories great. In the heat of deadline, I had either forgotten or ignored his contributions. I, on the other hand, had my byline plastered everywhere.
I did the hardest thing: I admitted my mistake.	When my colleague got back to town, he was crushed and furious. He felt we had appropriated his work and left him behind in ignominy. Purposely. No one would ever know the work he had put in. He couldn't even send out the stories as examples of his work if he tried to get another job. He wouldn't look at or talk to me. I felt like a back-stabber and a glory hog. No big story or dozen bylines was worth that (at least not to me). I wanted to explain everything away or pretend it never happened. But neither was going to work. So I did the hardest thing: I admitted my mistake. I wrote a memo to my editor taking full responsibility for the reporter not getting the credit he deserved. It wasn't my job to keep track of everyone's bylines, but I had been relied upon in a heated moment, and I had blown it. I put the memos into the mailboxes of my editor, his two supervisors, and the reporter and left for the weekend.
The feelings of betrayal were soothed by my apology.	When I got back Monday, things were better. The reporter's face had lost its frown. He appreciated my memo. He accepted my sincerity. The lost bylines were less important than the feelings of betrayal and humiliation, and those were soothed by my apology. He went on to write many great stories, with bylines. I went on to make fewer blunders like that. And I learned a couple of things: Take responsibility for your mistakes, and never answer an editor's question in the midst of a crossbow murder story. Catherine Hedgecock is a freelance writer and editor in Berkeley, California. She has written for USA Today, Knight Ridder newspapers, GNN, and other publications. She has won first place investigative reporting awards from California Newspaper Publishers Association, Gannett newspapers, and Best of the West. Ms. Hedgecock is currently writing a mystery novel. © 1996 Catherine Hedgecock, All Rights Reserved