by Carter, Bill
A reporter asked Jay if he felt secure. “In the way that Saddam Hussein feels secure, yes,” Jay said. “I think I have a bunker.” Jay said people he met on the street had been greeting him sympathetically, as though the “Tonight” show had fallen into third place and wasn’t doing well. He pointed out how well the show was really doing in the numbers. New advertisers were coming on, he said. Then, though no one at the conference had said the show was struggling, Jay went on to suggest people look back at when Dave started and some of the things that were said, or even back to when Johnny started. “But do I feel secure? I’m a comedian. I don’t know how secure you can be. You do a one-nighter, you get paid, you go home. And that’s sort of the way it is. Yeah, I feel secure. I pick up the paper every week, the numbers are real good. That’s all we need to know.”
Leno jumped all over a question about whether he felt bitter. “No, I don’t feel bitter. Please. Not for this kind of dough, please.” When that got a big laugh, he rolled on: “You switch places, huh? No, really, please. I mean, I’ll call you a moron and then give you my check and see if you can handle it, all right?”
A little later a reporter asked if Jay would have felt better if it hadn’t taken a month for NBC to endorse him. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “But come on. I mean, nobody lied to me here. This was not a case of Bob Wright calling me up and going, ‘We love you, baby, you’re great,’ and then calling Dave up, ‘No, we love you, you got the job.’ I mean, a month ago people said, ‘Look, David Letterman is a huge asset to this company. He’s made a tremendous amount of money for this company. And we don’t know what to do,’” Jay said. “Would I have liked them to have decided on the spot? Yeah. But I mean, that’s life, you know. Come on.”
Jay said he had heard the official word only the day before in a phone call from Warren. He explained how he had called sixty to seventy affiliate managers in the preceding weeks to sound them out about the program, and he found out how much they liked what they’d seen.
When asked if he was concerned about stories that had NBC ready to “screw you out of” the penalty payments in the contract by getting him to quit, he said simply: “How do I feel about that? I don’t know. Did it work?”
Jay said he was looking forward to the competition with Dave. “I think it will be great fun,” he said. “This is what makes you better.” As Binford shooed him and his Harley out of the room—and to the waiting helicopter set to take him back to Burbank to begin taping a show in less than an hour—Jay turned back to the reporters and said: “All right, thanks, you guys. And I’ll see you in the fall when the war begins again: the late-night battle!”
After Jay left, Littlefield told the reporters categorically that NBC did not offer the 11:30 time period to David Letterman. He said it was “absolutely not true” that NBC could have prevented the outcome by handling Letterman better and “stroking” him before Leno got the “Tonight” job. “One thing was consistent,” Warren said. “Dave wanted to be on at 11:30. Anything else was window dressing.”
About Dana Carvey, Littlefield said the star had many things on his plate to consider, including feature films. And even with the flat rejection of NBC’s offer for the show earlier the same week, and the consistent message from some people close to Carvey that he simply wouldn’t do a late-night show after Leno, Warren said, “There is no deal that has fallen through. That is very much still an option for Dana.”
When asked to predict how Jay would fare against Letterman, Littlefield said he didn’t want to be in the prediction business but he tied the decision on Leno to his own security in his job, noting that “my job is performance-oriented.” As for the Leno decision, “we feel very, very good about Jay, about the show, the quality of the show, and clearly about the results, how well we are doing,” Littlefield said. “Time will tell just how bright we are and how strong a decision we made.”
NBC had piped the press conference in live by satellite to its offices in New York. David Letterman sat in one of those offices after the taping of his show that Thursday night, dreading his own press conference to come at CBS. Jay had been on for about twenty minutes or so when the Letterman group assembled for the short walk along Sixth Avenue to CBS. As he put his jacket on, Letterman could hear Jay’s voice on the monitor wrapping up. He was just saying, “Thanks, you guys. And I’ll see you in the fall when the war begins again: the late-night battle.”
Letterman all but groaned out loud. He thought: “What am I getting into here? ‘When the war begins.’ Oh God, leave me alone.”
Most of Letterman’s top staff members joined him for the walk to CBS. They went outside into the brisk January evening, a phalanx of supporters surrounding the shaky Letterman. Lassally knew that Letterman didn’t want to do this press conference and only wished for it to be over. But he knew Dave, and how his mind worked. He was confident he would get it all together. And he personally had no doubts at all at that moment that they were making no mistake in taking their future two blocks up Sixth Avenue.
Inside the elevator heading for the nineteenth floor of Black Rock, Letterman stood behind his producer Jude Brennan and his director Hal Gurnee and said, “We’re just going from one bizarre circumstance to another. I’m sorry, but this is about the strangest thing I’ve ever been through.” But then they were there, outside a room that looked like some official chamber in Washington where a horde of reporters was about to get a briefing on the Gulf war.
Every important executive at CBS lined the walls, reporters filled every chair, and dozens of others sat all around the floor. A wall of television cameras were aligned on a small platform across the back of the room, pointing lenses forward like a video firing squad. The CBS chairman, Larry Tisch, was beaming almost impishly. As the Letterman group entered, they were directed to chairs arranged on the stage: Robert Morton on Dave’s left, Peter Lassally on his right. Tisch grabbed a chair in the middle. Photographers began snapping Letterman madly as soon as he entered, shutters firing off explosively, sounding like a rocket assault. “How late is Photomat open?” Letterman said into the din. As he looked around the room, he noticed the thick blue carpet on the floor and what looked like soundproofing on the walls. He thought: “There’s too much carpeting; the walls are carpeted. You’re not going to get any laughs in this room. I’m screwed.”
Howard Stringer stepped forward to the microphone and made some introductions of the Letterman staff members, the other CBS executives in the room, and, of course, Larry Tisch. He began by thanking Michael Ovitz and Lee Gabler of CAA for “a negotiation of matchless skill and great integrity.” Then he talked about the goals CBS had in order to renew itself, and how late night had always been the “empty piece of the jigsaw puzzle that’s glared at us over the decades.” David Letterman had been the man to fill that space, Stringer said, comparing him to one of his own reference points, the British comedy tradition of “Beyond the Fringe.” Stringer said he had watched Letterman himself for years and thought “he would be a signature for this network, the likes of which we haven’t seen in years. Because he’s smart and thoughtful, because he’s original, because he’s daring, and he’s fun.” He said it was a great moment for CBS and he added that it was also worth remembering “that a long time ago Mr. Paley put up the cash for Jack Benny, at a big turning point for this network, and Larry Tisch has just done the same thing, with considerable enthusiasm and total resolution, to bring David Letterman to this network and turn another facet of its history into something special.”
Larry Tisch got up to say a few words, about how delighted he was to welcome “this great star” to CBS. He complimented Stringer for having the vision to bring Letterman to the network.
Finally David Letterman got up from his chair and stared out into the mass of news people and equipment in front of him. And playing off one of his most frequent references, he shouted: “I never dated Amy Fisher! I fixed her car! I helped her with her homework! I never laid a hand on Amy Fisher!”
And
he had them; every reporter in the room was his. The laughs were bouncing off the carpet and all around the room like racquet balls.
Letterman said he was happy to be coming to CBS, and thanked the network for its patience and the generosity of its offer. “This deal would have put a smile on Jack Benny’s face—even in the condition he’s in now,” Letterman said. Then he agreed to take questions from the rows of reporters arrayed in front of him. “And then when we’re finished,” Letterman said, “Colin Powell will come out and update you on the bombing.”
Letterman sprinkled his answers with pungent crocks, but he also answered the questions honestly, detailing his uncertainty about whether the show would stay in New York, his intention to bring most of his staff with him to CBS, his conclusion that NBC had behaved “honorably and as gentlemen” throughout the process. “I have nothing but great thoughts about my eleven years at NBC,” Letterman said, adding that if asked what he was going to miss most about NBC, he would have to say, “the back rubs from Irving R. Levine. The man is a master, yet there’s a certain gentleness to him that I find incomparable.”
Asked about the coming competition with Jay, Letterman said he felt confident his team would do all right. “We should not have too much difficulty being competitive. I mean, we’ve been doing it for eleven years.”
When one reporter suggested that the bitter and angry David Letterman was a much funnier David Letterman, the star responded in mock rage: “Well, come up here and let’s settle this now!” Then he took on the question straight. “I’ve never considered myself to be a bitter person. When Johnny Carson retired and I was not given the job as host of the ‘Tonight’ show, I was disappointed. But to my way of thinking it was not bitter. But you know there are many, many other things to make fun of in the world,” he said to the reporter. “Like, you know, beginning with your tie, for example.”
Asked if he thought General Electric made the best managers for a television network, Letterman dodged by answering, “I don’t know about that, but have you tried their toaster ovens? They’re not a bad product.”
Letterman also refused to discuss what had been negotiated with NBC over the previous weekend, except to say the talks went up to “pretty much the last contractual moment.”
Asked what rights to his work NBC might own beyond the “Late Night” title, Letterman said, “They own the rights to my old ice-dancing routine.”
The persistent question of whether his viewers would follow him to 11:30 came up, and Letterman seemed truly amazed. “It’s kind of insulting,” he said. “It suggests that people who watch my show don’t understand the complexities of the remote control.” And later when someone suggested that his humor was so hip it should be on later at night, he said, “I don’t know. You people seem to be keeping up.”
Letterman worked in some kind words about Bob Wright, whom, he said, he had grown to respect, and especially about Johnny Carson. “I don’t know of a person in comedy or television who didn’t sort of grow up with Johnny Carson as a role model. It’s one of the reasons people leave home and come to New York or go to California to get into comedy or show business.” Letterman even revealed that he had spoken to Carson the previous Sunday, though he did not even hint at the significance of that phone call. He said instead that of all the people who had been helpful and supportive in his career, the most important figure had been Johnny Carson. “The man has been encouraging and helpful to me in ways that he doesn’t know I know about,” Letterman said. “I will never be able to repay the kindness to the man.”
The reporters had not applauded when Letterman was introduced, but after a half hour of big laughs and straight answers, they cheered him as he left. In his usual way, Letterman left the CBS conference room feeling he had done miserably. No one else thought so. Stringer and Tisch were euphoric, with Stringer immediately concluding he had made a can’t-miss deal for CBS. Peter Lassally beamed with pride; he thought his boy had been absolutely perfect. Ovitz phoned in his congratulations. And pretty soon even David Letterman realized it had been fun. By the time he read the raves in the papers the next morning, he knew his backers hadn’t just been blowing complimentary kisses at him. He knew he had killed again in a stand-up when he needed it most.
Though Jay Leno and Warren Littlefield had linked their futures together through two trials of fire, first with Helen Kushnick and then with the threat from Letterman, Littlefield still had not cleared up with Leno exactly how he had broken through NBC’s security and learned everything that happened in Boca Raton. Jay had promised he would tell Warren after all the Letterman stuff was over. All Jay told him right away was that he had not gotten the information from Rick Ludwin. That relieved Littlefield, who had suspected Ludwin only because the late-night division head had argued for Jay so long and so fervently.
In late January, Jay finally felt it was safe to tell Warren his secret. He described for Warren how he had come up to the executive office suite, squeezed himself into the closet-like guest office with the photocopier and shredder, waited for the phone line to light up so he knew the conference call was coming in from Boca, and then listened in to every word being said to the other executives on Warren’s speakerphone. He told Warren how he took notes on everything that was said, waited quietly until everyone else had gone, and then walked out into the night.
As for hitting him exactly as he got to the bathroom, Jay explained how that was mostly luck, knowing Warren had left a meeting to head back to his room, then timing it so that he caught him just right.
Littlefield didn’t know quite how to react to this revelation. Here he had been in Boca Raton sitting with his pants around his ankles, listening to this verbatim account of a private meeting delivered by one of the subjects of that private meeting. Warren felt violated. But on the other hand, Jay was so jolly in the retelling, so enthused about his coup and how valuable it had been for his cause at a time when nobody at NBC seemed willing to tell him anything, that Littlefield found himself starting to admire Jay. This was a guy with his back against the wall, Warren thought, a guy who, with a stiff wind, could have been king or could have been a pauper. And he had figured out how to identify where he stood. Littlefield didn’t think Jay’s spying affected the outcome of NBC’s decision making. But it certainly kept him close to the game.
Littlefield also thought about how Leno had gone out every night during this most volatile period of his career and put on a “Tonight” show every night, a show that by Warren’s estimation Jay was simply nailing night after night. And then Warren started feeling flatout amazed. “Superman could not do this,” Warren told himself. And Jay had also just dumped his executive producer, the closest professional associate in his life, who was still calling occasionally and trying to climb back into his life.
And so Warren Littlefield got past his feelings of personal violation and vulnerability, and started to feel incredible appreciation for Jay’s sense of humor, his resiliency, and his sheer gutsiness. And he said to himself: “Street-fighting man. This is a street-fighting man.” And more than anything else that had transpired, the Jay-in-the-closet story convinced Warren Littlefield of one thing: “Bank on this guy.”
As late night preoccupied most of the NBC executives throughout the fall and early winter, other pieces of the network’s entertainment business were rusting away. NBC was dogged by bad decisions and worse luck in prime time. Few of the fall shows had worked, and worst of all, the network’s crown jewel, its eleven-year-old hit sitcom, “Cheers,” announced in December that it would not be back for a twelfth season. Littlefield had already lined up a deal with the show’s producers and studio, Paramount, but it all came undone because the comedy’s star, Ted Danson, decided he was in midlife crisis. He was leaving his wife; he was starting an affair with Whoopi Goldberg and walking away from the more than $10 million a year he was making to star in “Cheers.” The news hit the reeling NBC network like a vicious low blow. One year after its other pillar from the eighties, �
��The Cosby Show,” had shut down, “Cheers” was going off the air as well. At that moment “Cheers” was the only NBC show consistently finishing among the top ten weekly series in prime time. What more could happen to the beleaguered Warren Littlefield?
In early February he found out. Without his knowledge, Bob Wright had been looking for a new executive to help run the entertainment division. Finally Wright settled on Don Ohlmeyer, the owner of a successful independent production company that mainly produced sports programs. Ohlmeyer himself had had a long career as one of the most ambitious and most creative producers of sports programs ever to work in network television. After a long career at ABC Sports, highlighted by a stint as the best producer “Monday Night Football” ever had, Ohlmeyer had moved on to NBC, where he became executive producer of the sports division. From there he had spun off into independent production, building a powerhouse company called Ohlmeyer Communications. He packaged many sports events and created others, including, most profitably, a unique golf format called “The Skins Game.” But when Ohlmeyer dabbled in entertainment he occasionally hit a home run as well, as he did with “Special Bulletin,” an Emmy Award-winning movie about a nuclear accident.
Other entertainment projects had not worked out as well. And Ohlmeyer’s only attempt at producing a weekly series, an examination of true-life medical dramas called “Lifestories”—a favorite project of Ohlmeyer’s close friend Brandon Tartikoff—had not been a success.