Reporting a Story: Edna Buchanan, on Facebook, About Covering a Plane Crash in Miami

The full tank of jet fuel set the street afire. Seeking a good vantage point, I spotted three county homicide detectives on the second or third floor balcony of an aging apartment house. They watched, waiting for the fires to subside so they could recover the remains of the dead. I joined them on that balcony. One was Detective Arthur “Artie” Felton. I knew he was a good cop because he was smart, sure of himself, and never afraid to talk to me. He might not tell me what I wanted to know, but was never afraid to speak to me. The cops who are — either have something to hide or are unsure of themselves and afraid to say anything at all for fear of misspeaking.

The view from that balcony was unforgettable. The Herald city desk had beeped me over and over. No cell phones then. I can’t remember now, but I either stopped at a pay phone on the way up to the balcony or had a walkie talkie type radio I could use to call the Herald’s city desk. They wanted me to provide the exact path the plane took through the city. And they wanted it NOW so a Herald artist could begin to put together a map of its deadly route.

So, as I asked the detectives questions, I tried to map out the precise course the downed plane took. With my notebook and pen in hand, I leaned out over the balcony railing to make out the streets below.

I couldn’t quite read one of the street signs. So I asked the detectives, “What’s the name of …” and the old wrought iron railing gave way. I pitched forward. But something pulled me back. I wore a dress with a belt that day. And in the fraction of second Felton had reacted by grabbing the back of the belt and yanking me back from a sure fall into the burning street below.

As he did, I finished my sentence “…that street over there?”

“Are you crazy?” Felton shouted. “You almost got killed just now!”

I persisted and asked the other detectives to help me accurately identify the streets for the artist.

Then I continued to report. I never felt fear when deadline was coming at me like an avalanche. And I’m pretty sure I never even thanked Artie Felton for saving me. I swear, I forgot it in all the chaos of that day and the pressures of returning to the newsroom and putting the story together. I worked late, went home exhausted. Didn’t see Artie Felton again until I made a routine visit to headquarters days later.

When I walked in to the homicide office, he began to shout again, “You’re crazy! You almost got killed!”

“Oh, yeah,” I thought, and suddenly remembered. I’d forgotten it happened until that moment.

That’s the way it always was on deadline. I was on a mission, had tunnel vision. The light at the end of that tunnel was my story and nothing else could interfere. I never learned that, or consciously decided it would be that way, that’s just how it was, always.

Artie Felton’s shouts of dismay never troubled me either because I had immediately made him as a tough, bombastic guy but a teddy bear at heart. He had a little girl he doted on and often mentioned her and his wife in conversation.

Detective Felton died young several years later. I went to his wake. Can’t remember his age then, it’s been so long, but he was probably in his 40’s. Heart attack I think. I’m not even sure. Wish I had properly thanked him for the years since. Wish he’d been acknowledged in some way. It didn’t matter to him, I know.

I mentioned it briefly in one of my books, I think. If any of you out there have access to a photo of the late Metro-Dade Homicide Detective Arthur Felton, wish you could post it here to accompany this story. Thanks, Artie. There have been so many things I have been able to do, thanks to you. Hope your family is safe and well. God bless. RIP
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