Extra

At this week’s Republican National Convention (RNC) the U.S. Secret Service is perhaps inadvertently redefining a free press. A.J. Liebling said that freedom of the press is only guaranteed to those who own one. He never met the Secret Service agent standing in the stairwell at the front of the press shuttle bus headed toward the RNC. 

The Secret Service was founded in 1851 to investigate counterfeiting, and then in 1901 after the assassination of President William McKinley the Congress requested that they provide security for the president. Today, the roll of the Secret Service is to investigate financial fraud and “protect both national leaders and visiting dignitaries,” according to their web site. So how does its mission come to include riding press shuttles? 

These shuttles move the more than 15,000 journalists covering the RNC back and forth between the sprawling official media area at the FirstMerit Convention Center on Lakeside Avenue in downtown Cleveland, and this year’s RNC bunker, known as “the Q,” or Quicken Loans Arena. This convention is designated as a “National Special Security Event,” similar to the security arrangements made for presidential inaugurations and State of the Union speeches. The Secret Service, backed by scores of HSI, the Homeland Security Investigations team, appear to be running the security convention show. 

So, how about taking a “secure” bus ride to the Q? 

To get on the media center shuttle a reporter must first be “credentialed” by the Secret Service. It involves filling out an on-line application, which presumably leads to a background check. If you get the badge, you can get on the bus and move through the recently constructed secure zone in downtown Cleveland. If you don’t have this Secret Service-issued press credential, then you must walk to the Q and wait in a screening line similar to an airport security area. 

The Secret Service agent positioned outside of the bus entrance stands in what my coach used to call the athletic stance, upright with knees slightly bent and arms out to the side. His eyes are intense; his greenish-grey suit is without wrinkle. He thrusts his arm out and grabs at my Secret Service-issued press credential. He checks his earpiece and then checks my ID again. Is someone talking to him? About my ID? 

He suddenly looks beyond me as a twenty-something journalist is or was perhaps trying to slip in behind me and get on the bus. “Nobody gets on the bus for the Q “until I say so,” he says. He moves his arm toward the door like he’s shooing away a bothersome fly. I’m in. 

“And don’t sit in that first seat, it’s mine.” 

I sit behind his seat. When we are ready to leave, and about fifteen now on the bus, I ask the agent how long the ride is. “I don’t know.” He in turn asks the driver to set the odometer. He pushes at his ear piece and tells the driver to go forward into the maze. 

The bus snakes through a realigned street that is contained within a recently constructed channel way yielding two narrow traffic lanes bounded by seven-foot high wrought iron fencing. I’ve heard of “secure zones” in Baghdad and Kabul, never in Cleveland. The agent gets up to stand in the stairwell. The bus passengers are silent, constantly checking their cell phone news feeds. The agent touches his ear piece again and gives a flick of the back of his hand toward the driver. 

We pass through checkpoint number 3, then 4. The bus slows and the agent nods at one of the three or four cops or HSI or state troopers who stand guard at each intersection. We exit one segment, cross a major thoroughfare like Superior or Euclid, and then enter another part of the hastily made metal tunnel. The HSI people are usually heavily armed and wear visible bullet-proof vests. 

This ride seems smoother on day four than it was the first day. Tensions ran higher on that first day, stares were sterner with no one knowing what might unfold this week. It’s a much more comfortable glove now. Checkpoints 5 then 6 are passed and head nods are exchanged. 

We are stopped at checkpoint 7. Four state troopers and three police officers stand between us and the next section of metal tunnel. They appear to be directing traffic coming out of the Q because two vehicles cannot fit through the driveway very comfortably. The agent pushes at his ear piece again. 

At checkpoint 8 there is row of 10 motorcycle cops, some ready to engage while others stand with their helmets off trying to stay out of the sun. One is checking out his colleague’s machine like he might buy it. We are now inside of the bounds of the Q, but the snaking fence still appears outside the bus window as we move along at about fifteen miles an hour. 

Checkpoint 9 is passed as the vehicle rumbles over another speed bump. We enter the bottom floor of a four-story garage. The bus winds circuitously through the empty garage passing more uniformed law enforcement. We stop. 

Before I get up I look at the agent. He’s got his right index finger pushing on his ear piece. 

“Okay, everyone can get out here.” 

I ask the driver how far it was through the maze of asphalt and iron. She looks down at the odometer and tells me it was exactly one-mile. 

It seemed much longer. Everyone files slowly off the bus. We still have one more security checkpoint to walk through before entering the arena. Is this what it takes to protect the freedom of the press I wonder?