Sally Kalson (3:03)

So when I first met my husband, I told him that dating me was going to be an occupational hazard. I have been at the Post Gazette, the morning newspaper here in Pittsburgh, since 1984, and I have an unusual dual role there. Most of the time, I'm a reporter, and my job is to find stuff out and put it in the paper. And I've covered all sorts of things. I covered a war. I've covered judges and murder trials and feature stories. But one day a week, I get to pop off about whatever's on my mind. It might be political commentary, it might be social satire, or it might be a personal story from my own life that I hope will resonate with my readers. There's a line between those two functions. If I cover something as news, I don't write a column about it, and vice versa. Well, when I became a mother in 1990, it opened a door to a whole new realm of material for me. And it was great because I could write anything I wanted about my kid and motherhood, and she would never know, right? So it was just like a bottomless pit of material. Then she got older, and she became literate, and suddenly I had to think about her life as her life, not just material for me, and I had to respect her privacy. So. So anytime I wrote about her, which I still did, I would run it by her and make sure it was okay. And she always said yes because she's such a great kid. And there was a similar thing with my friends. We go out together, we talk, we tell each other stuff, and they have to be able to trust that what they tell me is not going to wind up in the newspaper. They don't want to begin every sentence to me with, this is off the record, because if they did, none of us journalists would have any friends. Well, I had some friends in the early 1990s. I made them through my daughter's child care center. They were new to Pittsburgh, didn't know many people. They had this sweet little girl who had the same unusual first name as my daughter. They slept in adjacent cribs, and as they grew up, we became friends with the whole family. We did things together. We went to the zoo. We went hiking in the Woods. We watched the fireworks on the 4th of July. We shared meals, and we traded babysitting. We really liked them. We had a lot in common. We were both older parents of only children. We were political progressives. We found them to be very funny and smart and entertaining. And one day in 1994, they came to us and said, we're leaving. Tim, the husband, has a new job, and so we think it's best for us to go. So we thought. We were sad about losing them. Tim and Joe, that was the wife. But we said, okay, well, we'll miss you. But their departure date kept changing, and during this period, they became more and more distraught. And then one day, I ran into Joe in front of the daycare center, and she locked her keys in her car. And she looked at me in so much frustration, and she just said, we have to talk to you guys. You need to get a babysitter and come over. Well, this could not be good. So we did get a sitter. We went over that night. We walked into the living room, and for the first time, their shades were drawn. They sat us down. They handed us each a drink. Tim said, what we're about to tell you is off the record. We are not who you think we are. This is not something you want to hear from anybody. You know, we are living under assumed names. Some years ago, we got involved with the Puerto Rican independence movement, and we got caught up in an FBI sting operation to transport explosives across the country. During the process of this, we discussed a bug in the car. So we went underground. We're on the FBI's 10 most wanted list. Our pictures are in the post office. We've been featured on America's Most Wanted four times, most recently a couple of weeks ago. But we don't want to live that way anymore. Our daughter is four. We have to assure her future. We want to become politically active again, so we are turning ourselves in. We've been working through our lawyer to cut a plea agreement, and it's taken longer than we expected, which is why the departure date kept changing. They had finally cemented the deal with the prosecutors. Tim would not be charged so he could be a daughter, a mother to their daughter. And Joe would plead guilty to one count of conspiracy and serve up to five years in prison. To say that we were stunned is to understate the case. The people we knew, or thought we knew, might have gotten involved in some civil disobedience. But transporting explosives, these white Anglo Saxon Protestant folks getting involved with the Puerto Rican independence movement, it just Was it defied belief? And then I realized upstairs, fast asleep, is a little girl not very different from my own. She has blue eyes and wispy blonde hair. She can write her name beautifully. She can work a jigsaw puzzle in record time. She drew funny pictures of rainbows and houses with white fluffy clouds over them. And she was smart and interesting and fragile. And she was about to lose her mother to a jail cell for God knew how long. And she had no idea what was coming. I did not see this as a story. I saw this as a tragedy. As a journalist, I would have had a thousand questions. But as a mother, all I could see was a family holding on by their fingernails, getting ready to fall and hit the ground hard. I didn't feel curiosity. I just felt sick. We asked if there was any way we could help them get ready to leave. They said yes, you can write a letter to the judge telling him about the people you've come to know and asking him to weigh our good points against the bad. We said we would do that. They left. So the day that they're supposed to surrender, I'm sitting in the newsroom and I'm reading the wires and I'm waiting for the story to come over. Because when it does, I expect to go over to the city desk and say, these are my friends. This is who they are. This is what I know. I'm waiting and I'm waiting, and the story doesn't break and it doesn't break. And I realize I'm waiting for somebody else to break the story. That would have been probably the biggest story of my career up to that point, that I knew I was not going to tell anyway. I got tired of waiting. I went home. Then on comes the 11 o'clock news, and there it is. Fugitives found living in Pittsburgh. At that point, I could have called the newsroom to tell them what I knew. Maybe I should have, but I didn't. And when I try to figure out why, I think maybe it was because I thought it was too late for them to use anything. But maybe it was because I just couldn't face what was coming. People in the newsroom were not going to be happy to know that I had sat on this story for two weeks. So the next day I went in. I told my boss, John Craig, that I had known about this and had done nothing. I said I decided not to impede the story, but I also wasn't going to break it. He understood why I did what I did, but he was still disappointed. And he said, you know, it's going to be tough for you out there in the newsroom. People are going to feel that you didn't do your duty for this paper. We could have had that story before anybody else. I said, I know and I'll just have to live with it. And I went back to work. I told my colleagues what I knew. As it happens, they had done a fantastic job. The next morning, there it was in the paper right after the 11 o'clock news. They had every detail that I could have given them. They did their customary terrific work, ferreting out all the details with no help from me. And there I am sitting in the newsroom and I feel daggers coming at me from all sides. And I couldn't really blame people I didn't know. If I were in their positions, perhaps I would have felt the same way. So I look back on this time now, 17 years later. Jo did her time in prison. She did about two and a half years and then she was on parole. And then they had a joyous reunification of the family. Our daughters are now college seniors. They're both doing great. Our friendship has continued, albeit long distance. I'm still at the newspaper and I think back on this and, and I think, did I do the right thing? And I realized that all of us have. We think we know where our lines and our boundaries are. But until we're tested, we can never know for sure. If I had it to do over again, I think I would do it pretty much the same way. But I really, really hope I don't have to find that out. Thank you.

Dan Kennedy (14:11)

Sally Kalson was an award winning journalist who wrote for the Pittsburgh Post Gazette and numerous other publications over the course of her career. All of us here at the Moth were saddened to hear the news of Sally's passing this last September. She'll be missed and she was grateful. Greatly beloved by all of us here at the Moth. The Moth main stage is returning to Portland, Oregon. That's going to be Monday, December 15th. For tickets and a list of all of our upcoming tour stops, visit themoth.org.

Sally Kalson (14:44)

Our podcast host, Dan Kennedy is a writer and performer living in New York and author of the new novel American Spirit. Available now.

Dan Kennedy (14:53)

Thanks to all of you for listening and we hope you have a story worthy week. Podcast audio production by Paul Ruest at the Argo Studios in New York. The Moth Podcast and the Radio Hour are presented by prx, the Public Radio Exchange helping make public radio more public@prx.org.