The State of the State                                                 

It's our loss when the Capitol pressroom has a revolving door

In the mournful lexicon of the pressroom, some reporters choose to sign on as government 'flacks'

By TOM LITTLEWOOD

Earlier this year — only a few weeks apart — Molly Hall and Dave Urbanek joined a long line of talented, upwardly mobile Statehouse journalists who crossed over into the more lucrative field of the political publicity agent. In the mournful lexicon of the pressroom, they've signed on as government "flacks."

Both are 35 years old, both were among the most seasoned and knowledgeable reporters on a beat increasingly known for its revolving door. Hall, for six years the Springfield correspondent for the CBS-affiliated television stations in Champaign and Peoria, went to work for newly installed Comptroller Loleta Didrickson. Urbanek, for more than 10 years the Statehouse reporter for the Paddock suburban newspaper bureau, was named press secretary to Secretary of State George Ryan.

The recruitment of personable journalists by elected public officials is not a recent phenomenon peculiar to Republicans. And not all the movement is onto a government payroll. (One journalist left the pressroom to take a job in a massage parlor.) Nor is the banishment necessarily permanent. Pete Akers left the Associated Press Springfield bureau in the late 1930s for a position in Gov. Henry Homer's inner circle. He wound up later as editor of the Chicago Sun-Times.

Of course, not all reporters are susceptible. Some of the best of the past — Pulitzer Prize-winner George Thiem of the late Chicago Daily News comes to mind — were too fiercely independent (or too temperamentally contrary) to ever think of becoming a flack. Thiem is remembered for having broken the story in 1956 of Orville Hodge's massive theft of funds in the state auditor's office. The scandal inspired a constitutional reorganization of the state's fiscal controls. The ego stroking that politicians expect from their staff attendants would have appalled Thiem's breed of reporter.

But the disquieting trend is for many of today's best and brightest state government reporters to start over as flacks at the peak of their journalistic careers. And the consequences of this pressroom brain drain for the people of Illinois are not inconsiderable. There has always been a correlation between the quality of a government body and the quality of its news coverage.

Flacks have always been in demand for the same basic reason: Politicians at all levels are baffled by the inability of journalists to recognize their brilliance. They suspect (incorrectly) that there is some mysterious fraternal handshake that the initiated can use to work marvels with their former comrades. It doesn't work that way. Even if they understand the dynamics of making news, press agents are sure to encounter the wary resistance of old friends on guard against manipulation.

The complicated technology of the electronic media makes the quest for glittering public image more mystifying than it was in Pete Akers' day. Experienced television news personalities who know the ins and outs of TV and politics can easily double their pay. All three of the resident correspondents for the downstate TV stations were hired away recently by Republican officeholders. One of the departed, Eric Robinson, was brought on board to help Gov. Jim Edgar with his TV image at $50,000 a year, which is almost exactly twice what his salary had been covering Statehouse news for the ABC station in Decatur.

A big part of the lure continues to be financial, but some of the reasons are quite modern. Molly Hall, for one, finds the day-care arrangements for her year-old daughter easier working regular hours, a concern Thiem never had. Other considerations involve job prestige, opportunities for advancement and news values. Particularly among Chicago metro media, the Springfield assignment is not as important as it was in George

8/August 1995/Illinois Issues

Thiem's era. Chicago staffers are not eager to move to Springfield. Arguing for the space in the paper or the time on the air to tell a complicated story about the state budget or some other intrinsically undramatic side of state government has become an arduous repetitive chore. Editors are convinced that readers and viewers are bored by news of government and politics.

Done well, Statehouse journalism requires an enthusiastic commitment to understanding the endless little details of legislative process and politics. Above all, it requires perspective, what political scientists call "institutional memory," a recognition of the connections between what is happening today and what happened a year ago and five years before that. Knowing where the bodies are buried. Knowing the bureaucratic vocabulary. The penetrating questions that can illuminate the meaning of isolated events, like a Medicaid funding crisis, are more likely to come with experience.

Though Thiem's newspaper is no longer in existence, more reporters are covering the Statehouse now from more different media. The turnover, however, is greater. Not many Statehouse reporters know any governor other than Edgar; fewer still can remember a Democratic governor. The AP follows a senseless policy of rotating correspondents periodically. No sooner does an AP reporter begin to master the nuances of Illinois politics than he or she is packing for Juneau or some other fresh assignment. During one recent 10-year period, seven different AP bureau chiefs were posted to Springfield.

Editors who downgrade Springfield news may soon be regretting it. The mood in Washington is to turn many high-cost responsibilities over to the states. Like it or not, what happens in the state capitals will then assume greater significance in the everyday lives of the people. The need will be greater than ever for Statehouse journalists who are capable of explaining what will surely be profoundly complex changes in the politics of public finance.

Between careers as a Chicago Sun-Times reporter in Springfield and Washington, and as a journalism professor at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Tom Littlewood worked briefly in 1977 as a flack for Sen. Bob Dole of Kansas.