5 Control your message. Like many in difficult situations, Denise became overwhelmed and didn’t know how to manage the court of public opinion, traditionally or digitally. As a result, all of the “haters” spoke for and about her, unchallenged. And when the drumbeat of negativity or rumor persists without balance, the fictions become fact. It is imperative to quickly control your message from the onset of any crisis. In this digital world, anyone can broadcast an opinion quickly, with conviction. You must do the same, with credibility and balance!
3
When You’re the 8-Point Buck
Ed Norris’ fall from grace was as swift and stunning as any in recent memory.
The worst moment, he told me, came in the middle of his six-month sentence in federal prison, as he lay on the floor of a sweltering cell in Atlanta he shared with two other inmates.
“I’m wearing pants that are too small, a shirt that’s five sizes too big, I had two different colored sneakers on and I’m holding a newspaper rolled up in tape against the door with my feet to keep the rats out,” he recalled.
“Two guys in the bunk are smoking meth or whatever. I started to laugh uncontrollably. I’m thinking: I can’t believe a year ago I was the Colonel of the Maryland State Police! How the fuck did they ever get away with this?”
Ed was hardly the first public servant to be unceremoniously drummed from office. But the story of how Maryland’s top crime fighter landed behind bars made international headlines, pegged as yet another cautionary tale of a powerful figure brought down by greed and a lavish taste for the good life.
Over drinks and dinner at a Baltimore chop house one evening, he told me his story:
Built along the lines of a chimney, with a prizefighter’s mug and an inherent love for chasing bad guys, Ed Norris seemed born to be a cop.
He was the son of a New York City patrolman and a rising star in the NYPD when then-Mayor Martin O’Malley lured him to Baltimore in 2000 to be deputy police commissioner.
Within months, he had ascended to commissioner, eager to help the young mayor fulfill his campaign pledge to get crime under control. Norris vowed to bring Baltimore’s infamous murder count under 300 for the first time in more than 10 years, improve the sagging morale of the 3,200-member police force, and root out corrupt cops.
He quickly backed up the brash talk.
Emerging as a larger-than-life figure, he swaggered around town in his crisp uniform, black leather jacket and shades, head shaved smooth as a cue-ball. Tales of the new commissioner leaping from his cruiser to personally slap the handcuffs on drug dealers abounded. So did stories of his epic carousing at upscale bars and restaurants.
He shook up the department, changing beats and firing senior officers. He made cops used to day shifts work nights, because that was when the criminals worked. He made going after dangerous fugitives a priority. He was a cop’s cop.
He seemed to show up after every police shooting. If the shooting was justified, he’d huddle with the shaken cop and say, “Good job,” letting him know the new commish had his back.
When the media arrived, Ed Norris would step in front of the TV cameras and say: “This officer did what he was sworn to do. We should all be proud of him.”
His fellow cops loved him. How could they not? Criminals feared him. He fought with the City Council and ticked off some in the community with his tough tactics, but also developed a reputation with others as a New York hothead and showboat.
But for many in Baltimore—the city O’Malley called the most violent and addicted in the country—Ed Norris was a genuine civic hero.
Crime fell dramatically. So did the homicide count. The papers took to calling the young mayor and his top cop “Batman and Robin.” For the first time in years, there was a sense the city was a better, safer place for its citizens.
“I was the greatest thing since Cal Ripken, Jr.,” he laughed.
A couple of years later, it all began to unravel.
It started with seemingly innocuous questions about an off-the-books expense account.
The Baltimore Sun reported that Norris used the little-known supplemental fund for expensive dinners at steak houses, weekends at the opulent W Hotel in Manhattan, Orioles tickets and assorted souvenirs.
“They started beating my brains in with this,” Norris recalled. “They tried to misrepresent this as taxpayer money. It wasn’t. It was a fund that originated in pre-Depression Baltimore that was put together by police for widows and orphans.
“It was the commissioners’ discretionary fund. They could use it any way they wanted, with no oversight.”
Police commissioners had used the fund for generations. Norris insisted to everyone that he did nothing wrong.
The pricey steak dinners? Not so pricey when you consider he brought along four staff members, he said. One New York trip was to attend a funeral. He paid for the O’s tickets himself. The souvenirs were inexpensive trinkets he’d give to out-of-town visitors as a good-will gesture. Most of the money that was spent—some $179,000—was determined to have gone toward legitimate departmental expenses. But some $20,000 was red-flagged. Norris agreed to pay back the money he’d spent on alleged “personal items.”
Still, the allegations and intense scrutiny were wearing on him. So was the job itself. At a meeting with Gov. Robert L. Ehrlich to see how the state police could help the city, Norris says Ehrlich popped the question: “How would you like to be the state police superintendent?”
Norris was immediately intrigued.
“A lot of stuff was going down in Baltimore,” he told me. “Racial politics, everything else…I was under tremendous stress there. Because we took such an aggressive crime stance, I buried seven cops in three years. That takes a toll on you personally.
“It was very hard for me. I never slept. I tried to appear like I was everywhere. I’d go home at 8 at night and be back out at 2 in the morning. I was exhausted. This was a chance to not be exhausted.”
In December of 2002, Norris agreed to head the Maryland State Police. O’Malley was upset, Norris says, but sent him a beautiful framed photo of Ulysses S. Grant as a going-away gift.
This was an inside joke. When crime in Baltimore was down, the mayor would refer to Norris as General Grant, the Civil War hero for the Union. When crime spiked, Norris became Gen. George B. McClellan, whom President Abraham Lincoln replaced for being ineffective.
Critics immediately accused Norris of abandoning the city. Things soon got worse for the swashbuckling new state police boss. Weeks later, federal prosecutors began their own investigation of his tenure in Baltimore.
The U.S. Attorney’s office seized files from police headquarters as evidence. Now the feeling around Ed Norris was that of a gathering storm, one that could sweep in and batter him at