This is an opinion column.

July 25 was the day someone first told me Gov. Kay Ivey had cancer, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I could print yet because I needed more to run a story — proof. Clearly, it was something the governor’s office couldn’t hide forever, even if they wanted to, but I needed an acknowledgment that she was sick or evidence, at least, that something was wrong.

This isn’t a column about that, though. It’s a column about public records.

Also, it’s about a silly nickname the governor has for herself that her staff tried to hide, too.

But before any of that happened, it was about the cancer.

I didn’t play games with the governor’s office or try to be sneaky about it. I called her spokeswoman and asked her the question directly. There were rumors the governor was sick, I said, and if those rumors were untrue, it would be well to put them to rest. If they were — well, we could figure out how to take things from there.

“The governor is in good health and she is working hard,” press secretary Gina Maiola said. The rumors, she said, weren’t true.

However, my intuition said to keep going, so I requested Ivey’s calendars for the past year. This was something I had in mind to do even before the rumors about the governor’s health, and it’s something we’ve asked of past governors, too. It’s never a bad idea to see how our public officials are spending their work hours.

First, the governor’s office told me the request was burdensome and they asked if I could narrow it. I insisted it wasn’t burdensome and we’d asked previous governors for the same sorts of documents and gotten them. Next, I was told the governor’s office would have to go through the documents to redact confidential information and that might take a while.

Under Alabama’s Open Records Act, all citizens — not just people like me in the media — are entitled to inspect public records and take copies upon request. Unless a statute or legal precedent specifically protects information, they’re supposed to give it to you. They may black out information, but only if it’s exempted by law.

A couple of weeks later, after sending them a check, I got my documents. They came by email in three batches, only one wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t redacted. The governor’s office had sent the unredacted version by mistake.

Oops.

Accidental transparency

A member of the governor’s legal staff asked me not to read the documents and to delete the email.

Uhm, no.

Those documents had sensitive information that could hurt people if they were published, I was told.

I said we’d review them and decide for ourselves.

First, here’s what they showed about Ivey’s work habits and time (the thing I was after in the first place).

Between June 2018 and May 2019 Ivey averaged about 16 hours per week of scheduled work time. That includes meetings, public events, photo ops, press interviews, and travel to and from out-of-town events. To be clear, it captures only what was on her calendars.

For comparison, I compiled the same data from Bentley’s 2015 calendars. He had about 24 hours a week of scheduled work time. (I excluded blocks of time labeled “hold,” which his staffers told me was either there for family or for Rebeccah Caldwell Mason.)

I attempted to find similar data for Gov. Bob Riley, but I couldn’t find comparable calendars in the state archives and his administration predated the ubiquity of Outlook.

Citing record low unemployment and new infrastructure spending, Ivey’s spokeswoman said the governor’s record speaks for itself.

In Ivey’s calendars, I found what I had been told might be there: For about two weeks in late June and early July, Ivey largely disappeared from the office. In those two weeks, she had about nine hours of scheduled work time. The calendars also showed she took many of her meetings then at the executive mansion.

Those two weeks were not blocked off as vacation, unlike other places on her calendar when she was out of the office for long stretches of time.

Now, about those redactions.

Ivey’s staff only cut two things from her calendars before sharing them with me.

First, they blacked out the names and dates of birthday reminders. The governor’s office said this information was sensitive and potentially could be used for identity theft if it were public.

I’m not going to waste energy arguing against that. OK.

But the other thing they redacted was just … weird.

Ivey’s calendar doesn’t refer to her by her name but instead calls her “Susan Anthony.”

Like Susan B. Anthony, the suffragette on the old coins everyone mistakes for quarters.

When the calendar lists her among attendees at a meeting, it calls her Susan Anthony. At the bottom of each page, it says “Anthony, Susan” to show whose calendar this is.

On background, a senior member of Ivey’s staff first told me this was something the Bentley administration had nicknamed her in Outlook and during the transition the Ivey crew never changed it. Later administration officials insisted it was some sort of security measure.

There are at least two problems with those explanations.

First, I have Bentley’s Outlook calendars and they don’t refer to her as Susan Anthony.

And second, I also have documents showing Ivey’s office used that pseudonym when she was lieutenant governor, too. In the earliest, a 2011 email Ivey wrote to her administrative assistant, the “from” line shows “Anthony, Susan.” Those emails are kept at the state archives where anyone can see them.

The explanations just don’t wash.

Trust us

If all this seems silly or weird, you’re right.

But here’s the thing: The public records law doesn’t give an exception for information that’s silly or weird. And if the governor’s staff is willing to black out things that are silly or weird, what happens if there’s something they really don’t want anyone knowing?

One of the great weaknesses in our open records laws is that the effectiveness of those laws is built on the “trust us” rule.

How do we know public officials turn over everything they’re supposed to?

Trust us.

How do we know they only redact information that’s protected by law?

Trust us.

And the very reason these laws exist in the first place is that trust alone is insufficient. Public records are the only tools the public has to hold its government accountable. They are our only tool for following that old Ronald Reagan adage, trust but verify.

Earlier this year, state Rep. Chris Pringle, R-Mobile, and state Sen. Cam Ward, R-Alabaster, proposed a comprehensive rewrite of Alabama’s Open Records Act to make the verification part possible.

Among other changes to our law, that bill would have created a public records ombudsman — a public official whose job it would be to make sure other public officials obeyed the law.

That bill died in committee, but Ward has promised to reintroduce it next year.

Two months after I got that initial phone call, Ivey disclosed she had recently learned she had cancer. Since then, she has received treatment at UAB and Ivey has recently attended several public events. She certainly looks to be in better health than she did before. Her office says she expects a full recovery.

I don’t know whether her office is telling the truth this time, but sincerely, I hope they are.

Kyle Whitmire is the state political columnist for the Alabama Media Group.

Come follow me on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Not on TikTok yet.

Do you have a public records or open government horror story? I’d like to hear from you. Write to kwhitmire@al.com.

Here are Gov. Robert Bentley’s 2015 calendars for comparison.

More by Kyle Whitmire on Alabama’s not-so-open records