How I learned not to call Ackerman at home

By Dwight Ott

School Superintendent Arlene Ackerman's recent punishment of teacher Hope Moffett reminded the NAACP's Jerry Mondesire of "royal vengeance." His comment made me think of my own run-in with the woman one writer dubbed "Queen Arlene."

A few months ago, knowing Ackerman's prickly relations with the press - and knowing my success interviewing everyone from Philadelphia Mayor Frank Rizzo to the convicted former Camden Mayor Milton Milan - a Philadelphia Tribune editor asked me to talk to the superintendent. The idea was to present more of her side of the story.

At the time, The Inquirer - my former paper - was running a take-no-prisoners series of investigative stories about Ackerman's handling of school security contracts. Ackerman said she was only trying to cut through an old boys' network and help minority firms compete for the work.

I had an open mind on the subject, and I was looking forward to interviewing the superintendent. But the interviewer was about to become the interviewee.

It started when I tried to sidestep Ackerman's public-relations people. Going through them had gotten me nowhere, so I decided I had to talk to Ackerman herself.

I saw my first chance as Ackerman arrived at a School Reform Commission meeting to a tumultuous standing ovation from a roomful of supporters. I darted over to Ackerman and quickly introduced myself as she smilingly acknowledged the applause. I told her I had been unable to get through her PR people to set up an interview.

At that moment, I felt someone grab my arm. It was one of the superintendent's spokeswomen trying to haul me away. By the time I turned back, Ackerman had already taken her seat at the commission table.

Ackerman's flack didn't wrestle me to the floor, but she had demonstrated a physical form of public relations that I had never before experienced. (Later, another Ackerman rep would block me from interviewing a district employee in the hallway, saying, "Oh, no, we don't do that here.")

Frustrated in my efforts so far, I sought the advice of a community activist I know. It was on a Sunday night, and my source was very agitated. She said the word on the street was that Ackerman's car and possibly her home had been vandalized. I swung into action and tried to find out more.

I tried Ackerman's PR people, then the radio room at police headquarters, and then the police district. Nothing doing. Then I made a really high-level contact and managed to wangle Ackerman's home phone number. Feeling I had no choice but to call "Queen Arlene" at home, I steeled myself and dialed it.

She answered quickly, and she didn't seem a bit flustered. I identified myself by name and publication. I told her I was calling to verify a story I had heard about her car and possibly her house being vandalized.

Then Ackerman got quiet. I tried to smooth any ruffled feathers by empathizing with her. I told her I understood the pressure she must be under. And I told her I had heard rumors that a former city superintendent had been threatened by goons when he tried to give minorities more access to contracts.

But if there was any way for her to get even quieter, she did. I told her again that I had been unable to get past her PR people for an interview.

All I remember her saying was, "You'll have one tomorrow."

That was music to my ears, though I had already missed my first deadline. Minutes later, as I basked in the glow of my success and tinkered with my notes, I got a call from the spokeswoman I had been unable to reach before.

"I see you called the superintendent at home," she said. I told her that I had no other option. Then she asked, "What's this I hear about threats on the superintendent's life?" I said, "No, no. She must have misunderstood. I asked her about vandalism of her car and tried to verify the story with her."

I shook my head and went back to tinkering with my notes. The phone rang again. It was the Philadelphia Police Department. They wanted to know whether and why I had called the superintendent at home. I explained. Then they wanted to know if I had made threats on the superintendent's life. I sensed that this was going in the wrong direction.

Bright and early the next morning, I called Ackerman's office hoping it was only a misunderstanding and that the superintendent was still planning to talk with me. I spoke to one of the flacks, who acted as if nothing had happened and said she would check with the superintendent.

Shortly thereafter, two plainclothes Philadelphia police detectives showed up at the door of my house in South Jersey. I let them in, confident that I had nothing to hide (though my wife was horrified).

My ensuing chat with the police took about an hour, over the course of which they questioned me extensively and asked to use my computer - which, having nothing to hide, I also allowed them to do.

As a 33-year veteran of hard-charging journalism, I thought I had seen everything: I've been sued, held in contempt of court, and threatened by an ex-con. But when the episode was finally over, it began to sink in that I had just been accused of threatening the life of a public official - and extensively interrogated by the police - simply because I had the audacity to call her at home.

I almost never agree with Jerry Mondesire. But when I saw his comment in the Daily News a week or so ago, I wondered if I, too, had been singled out for "royal vengeance." In any case, I had certainly learned to watch myself around the queen.