BUTLER, Pa. (AP) — When gunshots echoed at the Trump rally where she was working, Butler Eagle reporter Irina Bucur dropped to the ground just like everyone else. She was terrified.
She hardly froze, though.
Bucur tried to text her assignment editor, through spotty cell service, to tell him what was going on. She took mental notes of what the people in front and behind her were saying. She used her phone to take video of the scene. All before she felt safe standing up again.
When the world's biggest story came to the small western Pennsylvania hamlet of Butler a week ago, it didn't just draw media from everywhere else. Journalists at the Eagle, the community's resource since 1870 and one that struggles to survive just like thousands of local newspapers across the country, had to make sense of chaos in their backyard — and the global scrutiny that followed.
Photographer Morgan Phillips, who stood on a riser in the middle of a field with Trump's audience that Saturday evening, kept on her feet and kept working, documenting history. After Secret Service officers hustled the former president into a waiting car, the people around her turned to shout vitriol at the journalists.
A few days later, Phillips' eyes welled with tears recounting the day.
“I just felt really hated,” said Phillips, who like Bucur is 25. “And I never expected that.”
Mobilizing in the most harrowing of situations
“I'm very proud of my newsroom,” said Donna Sybert, the Eagle's managing editor.
Having put a coverage plan in place, she had escaped for a fishing trip nearby with her family. A colleague, Jamie Kelly, called to tell her something had gone terribly wrong and Sybert rushed back to the newsroom, helping to update the Eagle's website until 2 a.m. Sunday.
Bucur's assignment had been to talk to community members attending the rally, along with those who set up a lemonade stand on the hot day and people who parked cars. She'd done her reporting and settled in to text updates of what Trump was saying for the website.
The shooting changed everything. Bucur tried to interview as many people as she could. Slightly dazed after authorities cleared the grounds, she forgot where she had parked. That gave her more time for reporting.
“Going into reporter mode allowed me to distract myself from the situation a little bit,” Bucur said. “Once I got up, I wasn't thinking at all. I was just thinking I needed to interview people and get the story out because I was on deadline.”
She and colleagues Steve Ferris and Paula Grubbs were asked to collect their reporting and impressions for a story in the Eagle's special, eight-page wraparound printed edition on Monday.
“The first few gunshots rang out like fireworks,” they wrote. “But when they continued, people in the crowd at the Butler Farm Show venue dropped to the ground: a mother and father told their children to crouch down. A young man hunched over in the grass. Behind him, a woman started to pray.”
The special edition clearly resonated in Butler and beyond. Extra copies are being offered for sale for $5 in the Eagle’s lobby. That’s already a bargain. On eBay, Sybert said, she’s seen them going for up to $125.
A small newspaper struggling to endure
Beyond its status as a local newspaper, the Eagle is an endangered species.
It has resisted ownership by a large chain, which have often stripped news outlets bare. The Eagle has been owned by the same family since 1903; its patriarch, Vernon Wise, is now 95. Fifth-generation family member Jamie Wise Lanier drove up from Cincinnati this week to congratulate the staff on a job well done, general manager Tammy Schuey said.
Six editions are printed each week, and a digital site has a paywall that was lowered for some of the shooting stories. The Eagle's circulation is 18,000, Schuey said, with about 3,000 of that digital.
The United States has lost one-third of its newspapers since 2005 as the Internet chews away at once-robust advertising revenue. An average of 2.5 newspapers closed each week in 2023, according to a study by Northwestern University. The majority were in small communities like Butler.
The Eagle abandoned a newsroom across town in 2019, consolidating space in the building where its printing press is housed. It has diversified, starting a billboard company and taking on extra printing jobs. It even stores the remnants of a long-shuttered local circus and allows residents to visit.
The Eagle has about 30 employees, although it's now short two reporters and a photographer. Cabinets housing old photographs lie among the clutter of desks in the newsroom, with a whiteboard that lists which staff members will be on weekend call.
Its staff is a mix of young people like Bucur and Phillips, who tend to move on to larger institutions, and those who put down roots in Butler. Sybert has worked at the Eagle since 1982. Schuey was initially hired in 1991 to teach composing room employees how to use Macs.
“This is a challenging business,” Schuey said. “We're not out of the woods yet.”
Local understanding makes a huge difference
When a big story comes to town, with the national and international journalists that follow it, local news outlets are still a precious and valued resource.
The Eagle knows the terrain. It knows the local officials. Smart national reporters who “parachute” into a small community that suddenly makes news know to seek out local journalists. Several have reached out to the Eagle, Schuey said.
Familiarity helps in other ways. Bucur found people at the rally who were suspicious of national reporters but answered questions from her, and the same is true for some authorities. She has tapped her network of Facebook friends for reporting help.
Such foundational trust is common. Many people in small towns have more faith in their community newspapers, said Rick Edmonds, the media business analyst at the Poynter Institute.
“It's just nice to support the locals,” said Jeff Ruhaak, a trucking company supervisor who paused during a meal at the Monroe Hotel to discuss the Eagle's coverage. “I think they did a pretty good job covering it for their size.”
The Eagle has another advantage as well: It isn't going anywhere when the national reporters leave. The story won't end. Hurt people need to recover and investigations will determine who is responsible for a would-be assassin being able to get a shot at Trump.
In short: responsible journalism as civic leadership in harrowing moments.
“Our community went through a traumatic experience,” Schuey said. “I was there. We have some healing to do, and I think the newspaper is a critical piece in helping guide the community through this.”
So, too, must people at the Eagle heal, as Phillips' raw emotions attest. Management is trying to give staff members some days off, perhaps with the help of journalists in surrounding communities.
Bucur said she would hate to see Butler turned into a political prop, with the assassination being used as some sort of rallying cry. The divisiveness of national politics had already seeped into local meetings and staff members have felt the tension.
Sybert and Schuey look at each other to try and remember what was the biggest story that Butler Eagle journalists have worked on. Was it a tornado that killed nine back in the 1980s? Some particularly bad traffic accident? Trump paid an uneventful campaign visit in 2020. But there's no question what tops the list now.
Despite the stress of the assassination attempt, covering it has been a personal revelation for the soft-spoken Bucur, who grew up 30 miles (48.2 kilometers) south in Pittsburgh and studied psychology in college. Her plans changed when she took a communications course and loved it.
“This," she said, “was a moment I told myself that I think I'm cut out for journalism.”
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David Bauder writes about media for the AP. Follow him at http://twitter.com/dbauder.
