The Power That Was

Imus may have come off as your deranged, half-addled uncle (he kicked booze and drugs years ago), but he also came to the microphone each morning carefully prepared for battle. He read more books and newspapers than most of his guests and was a formidable interrogator who could cut the powerful down to size. On a recent show, Imus badgered Democratic Sen. Chuck Schumer, a frequent guest, about the deplorable conditions at Walter Reed hospital. Schumer tried to go for the high-and-mighty approach, castigating Republicans for failing the troops. Imus pounced. When was the last time Schumer visited the troops at Walter Reed? Deflated, Schumer haltingly admitted he hadn't been there in years.

Now and then, Imus was called out as a bigot. He denied it. His show, he said, made fun of everyone. The accusations seemed only to embolden him. It was the reason many listeners tuned in. What was he going to say next?

In fact, unknown to Imus, one of his most loyal listeners in Washington, D.C., was watching, and taping, the show every day for just that reason: to make a record of everything Imus said. But 26-year-old Ryan Chiachiere wasn't a fan, and he wasn't tuning in to be entertained. Chiachiere is one of a handful of young activists who spend their days wading through hours of radio and cable shows for Media Matters for America, a liberal group whose sole purpose is rooting out and "correcting conservative misinformation in the U.S. media." Wired on coffee, Chiachiere was watching a recording of Imus's show when he noticed the "hos" remark.

It was a big hit at the group's morning meeting. The Rutgers players weren't well-fed journalists or posturing politicians, public figures who could fend for themselves. They were just a hardworking team of young women who had done nothing to draw his ire but play college basketball while being black. "They weren't involved in any barroom brawls. They weren't part of this conversation and they didn't ask for this," says Jeff Greenfield, now of CBS, a political analyst and longtime Imus guest who says he appreciated the "weird" mix of high and low. "It was a crude slur, and it was also cruel. That's what tipped this whole thing over."

The group posted a video clip of the exchange on its Web site and put it up on YouTube. It sent e-mails to journalists and civil-rights and women's groups.

The word, and the outrage, spread quickly. A week later, Imus was gone, banished from his multimillion-dollar television and radio show even before he had the chance to complete the all-too-familiar cycle of public penance that high-profile sinners are usually granted.