America's Reluctant Prince

by Steven M. Gillon

  Snapshot 6: I turned on the television in my hotel room for the first time on Thursday morning, July 22, to briefly watch the ceremony burying John’s and Carolyn’s cremated remains at sea. I felt enormous empathy for Caroline. Her relationship with John had hit a rough patch, but their deep affection and respect for each other had been both genuine and heartfelt. If only they had had more time, they would have worked out their difficulties.

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  I was honored to be one of the 350 guests invited to the eleven o’clock memorial service at St. Thomas More Church on East Eighty-Ninth Street, located just a few blocks from Jackie’s old Fifth Avenue apartment and the place where John and Caroline had attended Mass as children. John’s dear friend Gary Ginsberg, who had helped launch George, his wife, Susanna, and I took a car together to the Upper East Side. As we traveled up the FDR Drive, we witnessed President Clinton’s helicopter landing along the river.

  We met with about two dozen people from George at Sarabeth’s restaurant on Ninety-Second Street and Madison Avenue and walked through a gauntlet of barricades, showing our white invitations at each one. It was a sunny, hot, and humid morning. The oppressive heat outside was soon replaced by the feeling of overwhelming sadness inside the Gothic-style church. I was immediately struck by its small size, with only fifteen rows of pews, all covered in crimson velvet cushions. An extended center pew ran across almost the entire width of the church, with smaller pews on either side that could easily fit three adults. I sat in one of the side pews near the middle of the church with a colleague from George. Just as the service began, a tall man knelt down, crossed himself, and gently pushed his way into the pew. It was Senator John Kerry, who ended up weeping throughout the entire service. I understood how he felt but had no tears left.

  Famous people from the world of politics and entertainment poured into the church and maneuvered for seats. I noticed that many guests had square jaws and big teeth, so were probably part of the extended Kennedy family. Sitting across from me in the center aisle was John’s childhood idol Muhammad Ali.

  After everyone had been seated, President Clinton, Hillary, and their daughter, Chelsea, entered the church and took seats directly behind the Kennedy family in the center aisle, near the front.

  Readings and prayers soon filled the space. Anthony Radziwill read Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” RoseMarie, Sasha Chermayeff, and Caroline also did readings. A gospel choir sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Wyclef Jean performed the reggae song “Many Rivers to Cross,” which was one of John’s favorites.

  The eulogies were reserved until after Communion. The family had hoped that Anthony would deliver John’s eulogy, but because he was too weak, Caroline enlisted Ted Kennedy, who had become the family mourner-in-chief. The senator turned to his favorite speechwriter, Robert Shrum, who recalled getting a call from Ted early in the week before the coast guard had abandoned the search for survivors. “There’s no hope,” Teddy said before asking Shrum to start working on the speech. “The words almost wrote themselves,” Shrum recalled.

  Not surprisingly, Ted rose to the occasion and offered an eloquent farewell to his nephew. He delivered so many lines that reverberate in my head to this day. He eulogized John for “seem[ing] to belong not only to our family, but to the American family. The whole world knew his name before he did.” Everyone had hoped, Ted continued, “that this John Kennedy would live to comb gray hair, with his beloved Carolyn by his side. But like his father, he had every gift but the length of years.” I was also stunned by the eloquence of Hamilton South, who spoke about Carolyn. “When she was your friend, it was like having a lion in your life,” he reflected. “She was protective of her cubs, and woe to anyone or thing that would do them harm.”

  The whole service ended after ninety minutes.

  I walked out of the building next to Theodore Sorensen, JFK’s wordsmith, who had written many of his most famous speeches, including his inaugural address. Now nearly blind, he gripped the railing with his right hand as he descended the steps. I greeted Arthur Schlesinger Jr., whom I had come to know over the years. It occurred to me that these men had buried John’s father and now his son. A few of us lingered outside the church for a few minutes. I walked over and hugged RoseMarie, who remained in a state of shock. Rob Littell, who had been John’s Brown roommate and dear friend for two decades, stood alone, staring in disbelief at the church. He had lost his closest friend.

  I walked the two blocks up Madison Avenue to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, a girls’ school that Caroline Kennedy had once attended and where the reception was being held. I had shut myself off from the news for the past week and thus had been oblivious to the scale of public mourning. Now I experienced it firsthand as I passed hundreds of people lining the sidewalks, standing in the hot sun, wishing to say good-bye to a man they had never met. Though the crowds were large, they remained remarkably solemn. The city itself seemed uncharacteristically quiet and still. Because of the police blockades, no vehicles filled the streets. Without the sound of car horns or sirens, just an empty silence hung in the air. All week I had been mourning the loss of my friend, not realizing that the entire nation was grieving the loss of its reluctant prince. As I looked around I thought, “Yep, you really were special.”

  We entered the school through a side door and mounted a flight of marble steps to the auditorium. Caroline, looking pale and drawn, stood at the top of the steps greeting everyone as they filed in. I don’t think I had ever seen so much sadness on anyone’s face as I saw on Caroline’s that afternoon.

  There was nothing fancy about the reception. The room had round, cloth-covered tables and metal chairs. Along the wall, long tables offered assorted piles of food—slices of salmon, bowls of pasta, and salad. I rarely walked past a dessert table without eating something, but on this day I had no appetite. Off to the side of the larger room, a small sitting area had been arranged with a comfortable sofa and fireplace. While many people mingled, I parked myself on the sofa for the next hour. People would come and go, sharing stories about John. We talked about our plans for the future—a future without John.

  Up to this point, I had never met Anthony, and I was determined to say hello and tell him what he already knew—that John loved and admired him. I dislodged myself from the sofa and walked into the main room. I was shocked when I saw him: frail, alone, sitting in a metal chair, leaning forward on a cane to support his weight. I decided to leave him alone. I was struck by the tragic irony. John had spent the last few weeks of his life writing Anthony’s eulogy and here Anthony sat, clinging tenuously to life while mourning his best friend. A few weeks later, Anthony would succumb to the disease he had fought so gallantly for nearly a decade.

  I learned later that the reception turned into a traditional Irish wake, with Teddy leading the group in song. But by then, I had left. It was the saddest week of my life, but I finally made the decision to stop mourning and try to move on.

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  “Will a magazine die without its editor?” asked The New York Times. That question was certainly on the minds of heartbroken editors and staff at George. The future of George was now in the hands of Jack Kliger, who had been on the job for only a few weeks. On Thursday he had told John that Hachette would not be renewing its partnership with George but would stick with him until John found another partner, at least for a reasonable amount of time. Now, however, Kliger was telling the media a different story, claiming that John had still been working on a business plan and that their last meeting had ended on a positive note.

  On Monday morning, July 19, Kliger organized a meeting for George editors in the forty-first-floor conference room, where they often held editorial meetings. Kliger arrived with a retinue of about a dozen people who filled most of the chairs around the table. “You had crying and pregnant people forced to stand around the outside of this room because
his people came in and took the seats,” recalled Sasha Issenberg. “It was just the first indication that this outreach was not infused with compassion.”

  George editors present in the room described Kliger’s presentation as “cold” and “businesslike.” RoseMarie claimed that Kliger “addressed John’s death with all the sensitivity of a serial killer.” Such assessments, however, were too harsh. George editors wished to commiserate and share their grief; Kliger convened the meeting to provide a clear assessment of where the magazine stood. He bluntly told them that he could not give specific answers about the magazine’s future. “I wish I could tell you, but we just don’t know. This is a business, and for now, we have to keep going.” One big unknown was what Caroline planned to do with the 50 percent share of the magazine that she had inherited from John.

  John’s death complicated Hachette’s plan to pull out of George. According to Kliger, on the same day that he met with George editors he received a call from Jean-Luc Lagardère, the CEO of the French conglomerates that owned Hachette. “Look, Jack,” he stated, “I am not just the head of Lagardère. I am a citizen of the world, and I am not going to be the man who shut down John Kennedy’s magazine. You will continue to publish it for at least a year.”

  Oddly enough, John’s death inspired new interest in George, producing a brief glimmer of hope that the magazine might have a life post-John. The July issue sold 493,000 copies; August, 582,000; September, 625,000; and an October memorial issue sold an estimated 707,000. Hachette decided that with some marketing changes, it could salvage the magazine. In September, it purchased Caroline’s 50 percent interest. She had no desire to be involved in the magazine business and never really approved of John’s being in it, either. The purchase marked an unusual turn of events. On the day before John died, Hachette had been prepared to pull the plug on George. Now, less than two months later, it bought out his share and owned the magazine outright.

  Hachette started interviewing potential candidates to assume John’s role as editor in chief. Rich Blow, who filled the role until someone new took over, recommended Al Franken, a comedian who made a name for himself on Saturday Night Live and had also written a bestselling, highly critical book about right-wing radio host Rush Limbaugh. Franken expressed interest in the position and sat down with Kliger and Jean-Louis Ginibre, the head of editorial for Hachette’s publications. Franken talked about giving the magazine more of a comic flair. Then Jean-Louis, who spoke with a thick French accent, talked for a few minutes. When Jean-Louis finished, Franken responded, “Monsieur Ginibre, I don’t understand.” Surprised, Ginibre asked, “What don’t you understand?” Franken, with perfect comedic timing, said, “I don’t understand one word you just said.” Ginibre did not appreciate Franken’s humor and ended the meeting abruptly.

  In late November, Kliger named Frank Lalli, who had previously served as managing editor of Money magazine, as the new editor in chief of George. He proved an uninspiring leader, but it was unclear if anyone could have saved the magazine. George struggled through eighteen more months before being shuttered in March 2001. There had been “a softening of the advertising market,” Kliger said in announcing the decision. “The likelihood that George’s prospects will improve in this environment has become remote.”

  However, the demise of the magazine should not detract from its significance. When they developed the idea for George in 1994, Michael Berman and John understood the importance of the convergence between culture and politics. John, in particular, saw the trend as a positive development that could motivate apathetic citizens, humanize politicians, and engender a postpartisan future. But John failed to appreciate the seismic political shift pushing American politics in a much different direction and underestimated how culture could also be used as a political weapon to demean public figures and accentuate partisanship. While George never truly succeeded, it was indeed prescient.

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  News of John’s death sparked an eruption of grief and nostalgia. In New York, where John sightings had been common, strangers shared stories of their encounters with John—picking up bagels at the market, walking on the street, playing in Central Park. Newspapers published numerous on-the-street interviews with people who praised John for being unfailingly polite and respectful. Mourners turned John’s North Moore Street apartment into a makeshift memorial, bedecked with flower bouquets, candles, and handwritten notes. John would have been appalled at these expressions of sorrow, but he would have chuckled at one note left on his steps. “Thanks for the inspiration, from someone who also passed the bar on the third try.”

  Television provided saturation coverage from Saturday morning, when it was first learned that John’s plane had gone missing, until Friday afternoon following the memorial service. Between Saturday morning and the funeral on Friday, television news magazines—20/20, 48 Hours, Dateline, Primetime—devoted forty-seven prime-time segments to the story, representing 66 percent of all stories. The three morning shows—This Morning (CBS), Today (NBC), and Good Morning America (ABC)—aired 224 stories, beginning with the search and ending with the funeral, making it the most intensely covered topic that year. Newspapers and magazines followed suit. Polls showed that four out of five Americans followed the coverage of John’s death and funeral. Women were more interested than men. Not surprisingly, those over the age of sixty—the ones who remembered John’s famous salute—showed the greatest interest.

  Looking back at the coverage two decades later, it is clear that editors and producers desperately searched for a new angle on John’s life but ended up returning to the same themes. An older generation recalled John’s salute and reflected on the enormous grief the Kennedy family had repeatedly endured. “Not this family. Not again,” declared NBC’s Tom Brokaw. “He was the prince for all of us,” proclaimed ABC News anchor Sam Donaldson. The New York Post headline read “More Tears.” Most commentators and writers highlighted the connection between John’s death and his father’s assassination. “Even now, no words prompt so much anguish, so much grief, so much disbelief as these: John F. Kennedy is dead,” observed The Boston Globe. “Those words flew around the country yesterday in frantic electronic pulses, though this time it was not news of the death of a president but of his son.” Inevitably, commentators noted the many tragedies that had befallen the family and speculated about a “Kennedy curse.”

  The rest of the world also mourned John’s passing. In Brazil, television networks preempted soccer to provide coverage of the search for his body. The British mass-circulation tabloid The Sun described John’s death as “an utter tragedy.” The French Le Figaro described him as “the symbol of a lost Romanticism.” The Sydney Morning Herald wrote that John “had yet to make his definitive mark,” but “when he did, it would be a mark etched into the core of the nation’s destiny.” The editors of The Philippine Star observed, “This is not the way fairy tales are supposed to end.”

  Commentators and editorial writers both at home and abroad struggled to explain why John meant so much to the nation and why he deserved such nonstop coverage. In trying to answer that question many overreached, assigning John a significance that he did not deserve. “The news that John F. Kennedy Jr., Carolyn Bessette Kennedy and Lauren Bessette are missing at sea and presumed dead has struck such a crippling blow to my generation,” the historian Douglas Brinkley wrote in The New York Times. A CNN commentator described John as “the moral leader for the next generation of young Americans.” None of these estimations were true. John was not—nor did he ever strive to be—a “moral leader,” and it was simply silly to characterize his death as a “crippling blow” to any generation.

  The Clinton administration, which took the unprecedented step of ordering the coast guard to spend days searching for the bodies and then enlisted a navy destroyer for the burial at sea, struggled with a similar question. Why should coast guard and navy resources, along with taxpayer money, be spent loo
king for someone who never served in the armed forces? The government estimated that the recovery operations cost the coast guard and the navy an astonishing $1.2 million.

  A handful of people criticized these decisions. They pointed out how uncommon it was for the coast guard to conduct such an extensive, five-day search to find a downed plane, remove the bodies, and then send a navy ship for the sea burial. “Who was Mr. Kennedy that he should rate a U.S. Coast Guard Cutter and a U.S. Navy destroyer to be buried at sea?” a Louisiana resident wrote Senator John Breaux. “He never served in the armed forces, nor did his wife or sister-in-law. A veteran of the armed forces would not have the same offer to his or her family if they wish to be buried at sea. It must be nice to be a Kennedy and have the whole nation bow at your feet.” In a similar vein, a Texas resident told his congressman, “It is beyond my comprehension how our government could spend literally millions of tax dollars to find the bodies of private citizens.”

  These observers had a point. Every year the navy buried five hundred service members at sea, but at Portsmouth, one of five navy sites that handled the remains of individuals who qualified for such rites, the waiting time stretched to six months. Furthermore, no special provision existed to have these service members buried individually. Instead they were buried en masse, with their ashes scattered during normal military operations. Family members were not permitted on board and instead were sent a videotape, along with the flag and a letter from the ship’s captain. “I can’t square how Kennedy, who never served, got special privileges,” thundered the highly decorated colonel David H. Hackworth. “It’s a national disgrace.”