I talked to my news team — two staffers from the Lariat were already headed to (or maybe in) West itself. I was debating my next move. Do I follow them to West? Do I stay in the newsroom and direct coverage? Our writing staff was sparse, and I was the reporter with the most experience. I weighed my options. I knew I was needed in the field. But where to go?
I was already receiving preliminary reports that the road to West had been closed or would soon be. Then my cell phone rang. It was a former coworker, calling to ask if I would be willing to contribute coverage to the Dallas Morning News. Get ready, he said. An editor is going to call you in a few minutes. I didn't have time to compose myself before the phone rang again.
I was floored, but I pulled it together. Like a voice from the heavens, the editor advised me to head to a hospital, that he heard the wounded were being brought to Waco. It was good advice — advice I needed. We left immediately. Luckily, I carried a voice recorder and a notebook and pen at all times.
Long-suffering Kaitlin, who drove that night, went with me. There were several hospitals in the area, Hillcrest Baptist and Providence, from which to choose. I knew that Hillcrest was a local trauma center, and I rationalized more information would be available there. We headed for Hillcrest. I dashed off an email to the editor on the way:
This is Waco-area stringer Caroline Brewton, en route to Hillcrest Baptist, can see ambulances streaking by as we go. Surmise majority of wounded are being brought here. Will send updates as they become available.I arrived in the middle of a press conference. I was clearly the youngest reporter on the scene, though there weren't many there yet. Others were climbing out of their news vans. After he finished speaking, I identified myself to the hospital CEO, Robinson, who I had met before covering a lockdown. I think he only repeated the information he had already given because I told him I was working for the Dallas Morning News.
The white board back in the newsroom, which the editors used to catalogue incoming stories.I was so keyed-up on adrenaline — lots of people were counting on this information — that at first, I didn't notice my fatigue. A Lariat staff photographer, Travis, was dispatched and found me in the press room. The night went on interminably.
Midnight arrived with indecent haste. I was finally starting to feel my fatigue. I needed to get back to the newsroom. We would be up all night editing stories and uploading. I thanked God that Willie was with her Dad that week and not at home, waiting to be let out of her kennel.
We were hearing terrible things, more than 100 wounded, more than ten missing, deaths. I was too exhausted to process it. I'll think about it later, I told myself, there is work to do now. I sent text-emails to the Morning News and to my colleagues at the Lariat so they could update the social media feeds.
An actual reporter from the Dallas Morning News arrived minutes before the last scheduled press conference for the night, relieving me. Even though they offered, as much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn't keep contributing. I couldn't leave the Lariat in the lurch — not when I was editor-in-chief, not when we were so understaffed. They needed me. It was a phenomenal opportunity to write for a major daily, but I couldn't let my staff down. I told my relief that I had to go back to my own newspaper now that they had boots on the ground, and Travis and I headed straight to Lariat headquarters after leaving the hospital.
I barely remember what happened next. I remember furiously cobbling together a story from my information and Rob's — the reporter who was in West itself — and editing a few other stories that were posted to the web, but the sequence of events runs together in my mind. I can't separate it.
I finally left the newsroom at 3 a.m., mind blank, drained and needing sleep. I was too exhausted to process anything.
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