One of the curses of reaching the age when I look forward every month to receiving my AARP Magazine is that everything reminds me of something—a condition that is evident by the over use of the phrase, “Did I ever tell you about the time that I……” or words to that effect. Some friends would describe my condition as being a first class bore.

My good fortune in 30 years of muckraking was the opportunity to dig into a variety of subjects. My four Peabody medallions represented four widely disparate topics—a prosecutor’s ties to gamblers, the mafia, televangelism and the corruption of a top insurance regulator. I also received major awards for exposés involving numerous other issues, prompting me to declare myself an expert on whatever subjects I was reporting. Indeed, a requirement of investigative reporters is to act like you know what the hell you are talking about.

Anyway, I had a couple of “Did I ever tell you about the time” moments in recent hours. Last night, I watched Smash His Camera, an excellent HBO documentary about the legendary stalking career of paparazzo Ron Gallela. The title stems from a remark by Jackie Kennedy, who eventually filed a successful lawsuit to keep him at a distance from her and the children.

Early in my investigative reporting career, I often stalked targets of my stories. Ambush video was sometimes a substitute for good journalism, and on occasion my judgment was skewed. As I write in Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, I had a moment of truth about my abuses.

Mugging the widow of a murder victim caused me to re-think the propriety of sneak attacks. Prominent Miami Beach criminal defense lawyer Harvey St. Jean was murdered in 1975 in a parking lot near his office. An imprisoned Colombian drug smuggler was suspected of hiring a hit-man to murder the attorney. St. Jean had collected $120,000 from the Colombian, ostensibly to  bribe a federal judge. It was an old trick. Lawyer promises to fix a case he believes is winnable. Lawyer loses. Lawyer tells his client the judge reneged. When St. Jean lost, the client demanded a refund. The attorney made the fatal mistake of ignoring him.

The murder didn’t end the disgruntled client’s demands. St.Jean’s law partner received a letter stating in effect, “It’s up to you to settle the account.” He was scared out of his wits and went into hiding.

Showing extraordinary persistence for a man suspected of ordering the murder, the Colombian filed a handwritten claim in Probate Court seeking restitution from the lawyer’s estate. The petition alluded to a bribery scheme and identified St. Jean as a conduit for a payment to an unnamed “third party,” presumably the Judge. The widow took the claim seriously. She agreed to meet the suspect at the Dade County jail where he was awaiting transfer to a federal penitentiary.

In a trade-off of information, I told a homicide cop about the crudely written probate claim. In turn, he tipped me to the date and time of the jail house meeting. When Mrs. St. Jean arrived in the parking lot accompanied by her attorney, the cameraman and I leaped from our undercover van.

“Why are you meeting the man who arranged your husband’s murder?” I yelled. The lawyer tried to shield her. But I continued my wretched questioning. “Are you planning to return the money your husband stole?”

Later that day, I was embarrassed watching the film. It softened my approach to ambushing unsuspecting targets. I had begun developing qualms about the tactic a few weeks earlier when I stormed the office of an unsuspecting target, lights ablaze and shouted questions as he cowered behind his desk. Viewing the film, I wondered about my reaction under similar circumstances.

This is not to suggest that I became a diffident, goody-two-shoes reporter. But private citizens have a right to refuse interviews. Public officials are different. I have no misgivings about waylaying stonewalling politicians and bureaucrats with a camera. Nor do I exempt miscreant private citizens at the vortex of important public policy issues.

Since I defined what public issues were important, it was easy to abide by the new code. And later in my career, I ambushed a few people, who fell into a gray area of “Did they deserve it?”

Despite my “born again” attitude about ambush interviews and the use of undercover video techniques, I had fun stalking targets of my reporting—especially the mafia characters I write about in the book.

Among the mobsters I stalked during my Miami undercover follies was Anthony (Tumac) Accetturo. His nickname was taken from One Million Years BC―a low budget movie featuring a club-wielding caveman of the same name. The moniker was appropriate, given Accetturo’s Neanderthal-like appearance, and his alleged penchant for wielding baseball bats to collect loan shark debts. An intelligence document described him as having “more power than any other organized crime figure residing in south Florida.”

Tumac’s reputation caused my camereman and me a bit of trepidation. According to a New Jersey report, cops once annoyed him by spying on his activities from an undercover van. To express displeasure, he set fire to the vehicle—with the cops still inside. They escaped unharmed. Still, the incident was unsettling, especially during our first stake-out of Accetturo’s home in an upscale Broward County neighborhood.

We parked the snoop van a couple of hundred feet from Tumac’s residence and climbed into the rear compartment. A neighbor apparently saw us and called the police. Minutes later, a patrol car arrived and I crawled into the driver’s seat to display news credentials. 

“We’re filming the Mafia,” I whispered. The cops were laughing as they drove away.

Seconds later, Tumac and three henchmen walked outside his residence and stood in the driveway. Either intentionally or unwittingly, they were posing for the camera. And in a very animated conversation, the three men kept pointing to our vehicle. I thought I detected a distinct odor of smoke.

Ah, for the good old days. The New York Times reports today that BP representatives are blocking the access of news people from several public areas damaged by the Gulf oil spill disaster. Don’t ask me how I would have reacted to such blockades.

Did I ever tell you about the time……….?”

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.