Mentor Me                                                      

Over the years, I searched for a mentor like most folks look for deals on eBay. I clung to Hunter S. Thompson’s every drunken move when he showed up comatose at the Berkeley campus. After co-authoring the Doonesbury Game with Garry Trudeau, I begged him to get his nose out of his own book and blurb mine (he passed, saying he was too busy). And for several years I worked under Ralph Nader, hoping that some of his mad civic brilliance might rub off on me, only to find the consumer advocate goes through organizations, interns and ideas faster than Diddy changes nick-names. Turns out there are two types of mentors in this world: ones you wish for, and ones who actually turn out to be invaluable advisors. Ed Guthman, was one of the latter.

I first met Ed in 1989 as a staff writer for the Commission to Draft an Ethics Code for the Los Angeles City Government. Superlawyer Geoff Cowan had been appointed to put together a tough new ethics package after Mayor Tom Bradley - and pretty much everyone else in city hall - had been using the legislative branch to remodel their houses and buy Ferraris. Cowan’s genius was in recruiting experts in various fields to help his staff come up with the best regulations possible. If you ever wanted something hard-hitting, honest, and well-researched, the guy you brought in was journalist Ed Guthman.

In 1989 I was a 25 year old graduate of the Coro Foundation, with no idea where to begin writing a code of ethics, much less my own moral code. Ed cleared that notion up in a hurry. “Ya get out there, talk to everyone you can, and sort the details out later. Now let me see your interview list.” My list – made up on the spot – included the Mayor, his chief of staff, and a couple of shady city council members I’d read about in the paper. Well these people were fine and dandy for background, according to Guthman, but only to cover your ass once City Hall found out how tough the new rules were going to be. Ed had our staff meet with the most corrupt lobbyists, real estate tycoons and sleazy schmoozers in California, Republican or Democrat, in order to discover how the game was really played. (Handing out cash, and having worked for the Mayor was the most successful  way to do business at the time.) Only then could you find a way to close revolving door loopholes, “gift exchanges” and pay-for-play schemes being used by those in the know. Turns out, people love to talk, and better yet, will actually answer pretty much anything you ask them. Ed knew that, I didn’t.

It wasn’t until almost six months working with Ed that I found out - from my mother (who had watched him win a Pulitzer-Prize at the Seattle Times ) - about his amazing credentials. Not only did he stand up against McCarthyism in the 1950s (saving an innocent professor’s career), but Capt. Guthman was a decorated veteran (yes, a Purple Heart and, though he’d never show it to you, a Silver Star), RFK’s press secretary at the Justice Department, and #3 on Nixon’s enemies list! In addition to a wonderful social conscience, Ed had a warm-heart, a huge laugh (always a pleasant surprise when dealing with an intimidating and gruff fellow) and a work ethic that would make an over-caffeinated mule look lazy. Any time I had a meeting with him, it would have to be me who called it quits; Ed would stay on a topic or project until every last question was answered. “We done?” he’d say. “OK, then let’s eat.”

Unless you’re dealing with Donald Trump clichés, professional wisdom often needs to be culled over time. Just once, I longed for Ed to say, “Son, let me tell ya how we broke the Watergate story wide open.” But the man was too modest to tell tales of yore or give straight-on advice, so you had to dig for it. Show him your work and ask for feedback, and he’d happily provide it, red pen and all. One rule I learned from Ed was that the moment you’d finished your research and assumed the job was done was precisely the time to make another round of calls. There was always someone you’d forgotten to talk to, an item that needed clarification, or one more line of questioning that would surely arise after sitting on the info for a night and pondering the big picture. Ed got his discipline from his service in WWII and tracking down leads during Watergate for the LA Times.  Though my own resume is far less star-studded, the concept is something I practice to this very day, whether it’s writing an Op Ed essay, interviewing a graphic designer, or shopping for a vacuum cleaner.

Our Los Angeles ethics code was eventually packaged into a successful citizen’s initiative, leading to the creation of a new watchdog agency. Ed served a term as president and was a board member on the committee from 1991-98.  For Ed, the road was a rocky one; he had no patience for the infighting from council members who felt the conflict-of-interest and campaign finance laws were too stringent. (No surprise there, Ed told me.) Luckily, Ed had another gig to distract him, teaching students at USC how to be journalists with integrity and a backbone.

When I moved back to Seattle (where Ed was also born and raised), I picked Ed’s brain about who I should meet with. “Everyone,” was his response, and rather than give me names and numbers from a Rolodex, he spouted off the top dozen or so movers and shakers in the community. “Just call ‘em up, tell them you want to talk about what’s going on, and go from there.” Could I drop his name? “Sure, if you think that’s really going to help.” It did.

I soon found work on another citizen’s initiative, attempting to create a Seattle Commons – sort of a central park funded by taxpayers. I knew the reasons I supported the plan (green space, anyone?), but didn’t quite have a hook for our publicity campaign. “Go walk the damn thing,” was Ed’s advice. “Have a look around, talk to a few people, see what’s there now, then convince other citizens to do the same.”  The suggestion was classic Ed: simple, based on first-person investigation, and not reliant on spin, politics or other people telling you how to think. (We lost the vote during an anti-tax frenzy, and the land is now high-end condos and mini-markets.)

A few months back I met a young salesman at the Apple store. He recently asked me to look over a website he’d created for the Seattle Philharmonic Orchestra. “Where’s the information about the musician’s bios?” I heard myself bark. “And make some calls to the two tenors who are still alive or somebody who’ll  endorse the damn thing!” This kid may not be seeking out a mentor, but, thanks to Mr. Guthman, it looks like he’s got one.

Edwin O. Guthman passed away last weekend at the age of 89, but his influence on me – and perhaps the next generation-  is ever-lasting. 

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Michael A. Stusser is a Seattle-based writer, and author of The Dead Guy Interviews: Conversations with 45 of the Most Celebrated, Notorious and Deceased Personalities in History (Penguin). 

www.michaelstusser.com