The one clinic in Mississippi was in its capital, Jackson. But Susan Hill, the clinic director, told the filmmakers that she could not admit them to the clinic; she had already signed an exclusive agreement with another documentary filmmaker. “The first instinct,” recalls Fanning, “was oh dear, we’ll have to go somewhere else.” On the other hand, Frontline was accustomed to being turned down for interviews. That alone did not usually discourage them. “Journalists would really be falling down on the job if we let that stop us from doing a story,” says Wiley.

At the same time, Aronson had learned that—while pro-life advocates claimed the state abortion rate had dropped some 50 percent since newly restrictive laws went into effect—nearly 60 percent of Mississippi women seeking abortions had resorted to using clinics in neighboring states. If the Jackson clinic was off-limits, Aronson thought it might be viable to follow these women across the border to some other clinic. She and Fanning discussed whether they could sustain the narrative line if they went across state lines to Louisiana, Tennessee, Arkansas or Alabama.

Across border. After numerous conversations, they decided to try for an out-of-state clinic. “Basically, what I decided was if I could get access to an abortion clinic across the border in one of these states, then I had an interesting film,” remembers Aronson. “As a filmmaker, you have to figure out okay, if you don’t have access how are you going to make a story still?”

One clinic quickly emerged as a front-runner, but getting its consent was not easy. For weeks, Aronson and Baxt tried to make contact with its director—without success. In June, while Aronson was on her honeymoon, Baxt finally simply boarded a plane and went to visit the clinic. When she knocked on the door, the director agreed to talk—but only off the record and off-camera. Negotiations continued, however, once Aronson returned, and by late June the director had consented to an interview; she also agreed to let cameras into the clinic. But she set numerous conditions: no interior or exterior shots that could identify the clinic; no last names; no name at all for herself (although she agreed to go on camera). In late July, she added another demand: Frontline could not identify the state.

Frontline had gone along with the earlier conditions, but this last one stopped them in their tracks. What would justify making such an unusual arrangement? Again, Aronson turned to Executive Editor Wiley for guidance. Wiley “got involved when we had ethical questions,” clarifies Aronson. “He will play devil’s advocate with me… Do we really need to give her this type of protection? Is it real or is she making a political statement here?” In a July 25 email, Wiley asked for more details about what might be motivating the clinic owner. He did not want Frontline to be put in the politically delicate position of implying—unless the facts were incontrovertible—that threats against abortion clinics or providers were so serious that they could not be named. Had there been recent incidents? He added:

I wonder whether we know whether other national broadcast reports, if any, have been protecting the identity of abortion providers in these areas of the South... Do you know whether she or her clinic have received threats and whether she reported them to the police? I have been prepared to go to some lengths to protect the clinic’s name and location, and now even her name, but we will have to disclose this in our reporting. ^[9]

Aronson reported back that the clinic owner had not gone on camera for 13 years for fear of retaliation, that another clinic director in the same state had been even more fearful, and that there had been a recent arson attack against a Florida abortion clinic. ^[10] With this evidence, Wiley and Aronson agreed: The state would remain anonymous. ^[11] Meanwhile, filming was in full swing.