The Kingdom and the Power

by Gay Talese

  The next morning, Tuesday, January 17, the telephone rang in Corry’s apartment. Sitton. He said that The Times was thinking of using a long roundup story by Corry, a “takeout,” in the Friday edition. The “takeout” would run approximately four thousand words, taking up a full page in The Times; it would summarize everything that had so far transpired in the Kennedy-Manchester case. Corry, knowing the work involved in doing such a long piece, said he could not possibly do it for the Friday edition. The takeout also did not excite Corry’s interest now because he was looking ahead to the exclusive interview he had been promised by Manchester on this evening in Connecticut. Sitton was interested in the Manchester interview, too, but there seemed to be some confusion in Sitton’s voice—it was as if the editors above Sitton, perhaps Daniel, were having second thoughts about some phase of the coverage. Later, Sitton telephoned Corry a second time, telling Corry to proceed with the Manchester interview, and not to worry about the takeout for Friday’s edition. But, Sitton added, he hoped that Corry would finish the takeout by late Friday afternoon so that the editors could read it during the weekend. Corry sulked. He repeated that he could not do all the necessary work in so short a time—he had to be in Connecticut with Manchester on this evening, Tuesday; on Wednesday he had to organize his notes and write the interview; on Thursday, in preparation for writing the takeout, he had to check back with all the principals involved in the dispute during the last several weeks—the Kennedy people, the Harper & Row spokesmen, the lawyers, the agents, the Look editors, the people who could evaluate the political repercussions at home and abroad—he could not possibly finish the takeout by Friday afternoon. “John,” Sitton interrupted softly, trying to conceal the pressure that he was apparently feeling from above, “John, you’re working for a daily newspaper, not a magazine.” Corry continued to sulk, then hung up. He got out of bed and took the subway downtown. Soon he was riding a big Trailways bus upstate to Middletown, Connecticut.

  The interview with Manchester had gone fantastically well. Corry had had dinner with Manchester on Tuesday night, had talked afterwards at Manchester’s home, receiving from Manchester stacks of documents and letters to use as he wished—no conditions had been set about preediting what Corry elected to quote, and Corry did not dare bring up the question. Manchester had seemed delighted by the opportunity to finally open up to a Timesman, to present his side of the story after the weeks of restraint imposed on him by his lawyers. Corry spent the night at a motel in Connecticut, had breakfast with Manchester the following morning, talked with Manchester through the afternoon. Corry had a great interview, he knew, and he contemplated the reaction it would get when published in The Times. As Corry sat in the Trailways bus bound for New York City that night, he was very tired but very happy. He had done his job, had gotten an exclusive interview with the most-talked-about writer in the world. At 2 a. m. Thursday, instead of going directly home after getting off the bus, Corry walked across Eighth Avenue to the Times building. There were only a few rewrite men and copyreaders on duty then. Corry sat at a typewriter in the front row and prepared to leave a memo for Sitton describing the extraordinary interview. Corry pecked at the machine but seemed to miss the keys. It was as if he were drunk, although he had not had a drink all day. It was possibly the combination of fatigue, tension, excitement. He finally managed to type a single paragraph telling Sitton that he was back in town, had gotten the exclusive, and would telephone him later in the day after he had gotten some rest.

  Later in the day, Corry telephoned Sitton, and Sitton told him that The Times did not want the Manchester interview. The words did not get through to John Corry. Sitton repeated them, gently. There was now “resistance” in the office, he explained, to doing so much more on this Manchester-Kennedy thing. One big roundup story, the takeout, should cover everything nicely, Sitton said. No need for Corry to write a separate interview with Manchester; he could weave some of the Manchester interview into the takeout, which was now due after the weekend. Corry was despondent. He mentioned that Newsweek magazine was on Manchester’s trail and would probably publish their interview with Manchester in the next issue. Corry had heard that Newsweek was after Manchester but he had never thought of mentioning it until now. This tactic is common among reporters—whenever an editor is reluctant to run a story, they counter with the threat that another publication is onto it, and this usually frightens the editor into running the story right away. Sitton was onto this trick, of course, having probably used it himself many times when he was a reporter. And yet, there was the possibility that Corry was telling the truth, and so Sitton said he would discuss it with Clifton Daniel at lunch.

  Corry called back after lunch. Sitton said that Daniel was still opposed to the idea of the interview. Corry quickly got dressed, appeared in the newsroom, and pleaded his cause in person—but unsuccessfully. The Times just wanted the takeout, Sitton repeated, adding that Corry would have to give equal space to the views of all the principals—there must be balance. Corry walked back to his desk. He thought of turning in his resignation. He had talked to his wife about it earlier in the week, and she agreed that this story was taking its toll and perhaps he should quit The Times.

  On Sunday afternoon, January 22, Corry was at home organizing his research to write a first draft of the takeout. He had had several interviews during the last few days, and he was very tired. The phone rang shortly before 5:30 p.m.—it was the office. An editor on the national desk was on the line now asking Corry to please come into the office right away. They needed him to write a story for the first edition of Monday’s paper. An advance copy of Newsweek had arrived, the editor said, and it carried an exclusive interview with Manchester, and would Corry now cover The Times with a story?

  Corry wanted to cry. He held the telephone away from his mouth for a moment, then rested his forehead against the butt end of the speaker, tapping it lightly against his skull.

  “Go to hell,” Corry said quietly. He hung up. Then Corry called Sitton at home. Sitton called Daniel. Sitton then called Corry. At 6:30 p.m. Corry was in the newsroom at his typewriter scrambling through stacks of notes trying to carve out a story based on his earlier interview with Manchester. It was all very disorganized, imprecisely recollected in his mind, and Corry was forced to spend valuable time separating his Manchester notes from all the other notes he had collected during the week. Later Sitton appeared in the office. A six-column hole had been opened up in the paper by the bullpen. Corry was told that after his first-edition story was completed, he could then write more expansively for the second edition—that would be the takeout. Corry said that he could not do it. There must have been something in his manner at that moment; nobody argued with him.

  He wrote a first-edition story of a column and a half, about 1,100 words, and then Sitton told him that a “hard” lead was needed for the second-edition story. Sitton suggested something that had appeared near the bottom of Corry’s first-edition story—Senator Kennedy’s telling Manchester to “shred and emasculate” the manuscript so that Look could not print it. Corry began his second-edition story with this in the lead, but later an editor in the bullpen came over to ask Corry if “shred” meant that Senator Kennedy had wanted Manchester to literally tear the manuscript to pieces. Corry, numb, said no it did not mean that.

  He continued typing, completing a two-and-one-half column story, about two thousand words, in time for the second edition. It quoted Manchester, related the author’s sadness that a controversy had arisen through a misunderstanding—it was a case of too many people becoming involved, of emotions gone rampant—but Corry could not properly convey all that he had hoped in this story. The story was out of focus, badly organized, awful, he thought. And the next morning when he reread the story on page one, Corry was sure that it was awful. But this did not really upset him. He was so tired, beaten, it was all so laughable in a way, that he got out of bed on Monday relieved that the nightmare was over, and, by rote, continued his research on the
takeout. He had an interview with Evan Thomas at Harper & Row; Thomas sat with his lawyer, Nancy Wechsler, on one side, and his publicity man, Stuart Harris, on the other. Corry heard Thomas say, “I’m deeply distressed by all that’s happened,” and then Thomas turned to his lawyer and asked, “It is all right if I say that, Nancy?” Corry wrote this in his notes, thought it was funny, but did not smile.

  He returned to the office that afternoon. Sitton came over, put an arm around Corry, and suggested that Corry write a follow story on the Manchester interview. Corry said he did not know how to do it. The next day, Tuesday, Corry was asked to do a short piece about the Kennedy dispute with Look. Corry tried, but could not get past the third page. Corry’s first lead was returned, not “hard” enough. His second lead was rejected, so was his third. Sitton spoke to Daniel. It was decided to hold off and give Corry another day on the story. The next day, Wednesday, Corry appeared and began the story with the first lead that had been rejected the day before. He had kept a carbon and copied it word for word. It got through.

  Then Corry resumed work on his takeout. At the end of the week, he had finished it. It had grown to six columns in length, and he finished it on Friday, determined to stay out of the office the rest of the weekend and let the editors do whatever they wanted with it. Corry went home. On Saturday, the phone rang. It was the office with many questions on his takeout, and he was asked to return and to help answer them. When he arrived, he saw that there were between thirty and forty questions to be replied to: Claude Sitton had written some questions on the margin of the piece, and Clifton Daniel had answered some of the questions himself just below. Eerie, Corry thought—here are two top editors writing notes to themselves on the margin of my story. Here was Sitton’s handwriting in the margin asking, “Why did Life get two copies of the manuscript?” and below it Daniel had written, “Because one of their editors was sick and wanted to read it at home.” On another spot Sitton asked, “Why did Kennedy call Harding?” and Daniel answered below, “Because Harding is the general counsel.”

  On Sunday afternoon, Corry was asked to come into the office again. Daniel had requested that the galley proofs be sent to his home. He had a few more questions. So did Sitton. On Monday, the takeout appeared in The Times. Corry read it. Deadly dull, Corry thought, shaking his head, deadly, deadly dull.

  Corry thought that he had to get away, now, far away. He conveyed this to Sitton, who gave Corry five weeks off. Corry had meanwhile received a call from a book publisher, Putnam, asking Corry to write a book about Manchester’s book. Corry was intrigued, although he was quite literally sick of the story. He had kept a little diary of sorts during the past several weeks, a therapeutic dodge to release some of the venom that The Times would never print. Yes, Corry finally said, he would be glad to do the book. He saw it as an opportunity to write something that he had so far been unable to write, and which might say something about America in the Sixties, its fascination with glamour and trivia, its vulgar commercialism, its hypocrisy. So he signed a contract with Putnam, and left word with his wife that he would be unavailable for the next five weeks. He moved to another apartment within the same building on West End Avenue, an apartment temporarily vacated by a couple visiting Corpus Christi, and Corry began his book. He flipped through his diary and his stacks of notes accumulated during the long assignment. He reread his comments, his day-by-day experiences. Here was a copy of Seigenthaler’s telegram to Turner Catledge complaining about one of Corry’s stories, and here were memos on telephone talks that he had had with Richard Goodwin and assorted lawyers, with friends of friends and political tipsters with axes to grind. Here was a comment he had made about Mrs. John F. Kennedy, doubting that she really wanted privacy, but rather enjoyed playing at it—liked appearing in the smart ski resorts, on yachts in the Mediterranean, titillating the papparazzi. The press was as much to blame, Corry conceded, including The Times; the press built her up, we built her up, and so did the fashion magazines photographing her in every mood, and peddling pillbox hats and bouffant hairdos through the advertising—everybody had a piece of the action, it was a very big business, and I am now part of it. This book he was beginning, he agreed, was part of the whole scheme. Okay, Corry thought, so how do I begin?

  At first he planned to begin the book in the form of an open letter to his younger daughter, Janet, not yet one year old. Many years from now she might like to know about the ridiculous fuss made over this episode—but on second thought, Corry did not really want to get his daughter involved, did not want to begin the book “Dear Janet.” It was an invasion of her privacy, he thought, and as he thought this he was amused. Yes, here I am, part of possibly the biggest invasion of privacy of all time; I am taking advantage of it, making money off Jacqueline Kennedy, parlaying Manchester’s misery into a book of my own; but when my privacy is concerned, or that of my daughter, I behave as badly as the others. I am no better, Corry conceded: but who said I was better? he asked. So he tore up his first page, put another piece of paper into his typewriter, and began his book again.

  John Corry’s book, The Manchester Affair, would not become the big best seller that Manchester’s own book was destined to be, but Corry would receive respectful reviews, would make some money, and would derive professional satisfaction from seeing his work between hard covers. After finishing the manuscript, Corry thought that he had gotten the whole journalistic nightmare out of his system, and he returned to The Times. But the thought of resuming his career in the Philadelphia bureau filled him with gloom. He also discovered that he was no longer enthusiastic about newspaper reporting. He seemed stricken with inertia, confusion, conflicting values. He did not know precisely what was wrong; he merely felt that he was changed from what he had been.

  He confessed this sense of confusion to Sitton, and Sitton was very concerned. Soon Corry was in Clifton Daniel’s office, seated across the desk from the managing editor, and Daniel also seemed troubled and sympathetic.

  “What would you like to do on The New York Times?” Daniel asked, as if Corry had his pick of any job.

  “Well,” Corry said, thinking about it, “nothing, really.”

  “What does that mean?” Daniel asked.

  “Well,” Corry said, “I … I can go back to the copydesk.”

  Daniel looked at him, curiously. Then Daniel, trying to relate to Corry, recalled his own despondency during his assignment in Russia in 1954, his last tour as a foreign correspondent before returning home and meeting Margaret Truman; Daniel remembered his loneliness as a forty-year-old bachelor in Moscow, how fatigued he had become from overwork, how ill he had been from an ulcer … and Daniel wondered if Corry might also be physically ill. Before Corry could reply, Daniel was saying that he wanted Corry to go up to the thirteenth floor and visit The Times’ Dr. Goldstein—Daniel himself picked up the phone, making the appointment. Corry, thanking Daniel, left the office and took the elevator to the medical department. Dr. Goldstein was waiting for him, smiling, reassuring, saying to Corry, “I’d like you to meet our Dr. Hess.”

  “Who?” Corry asked.

  “He’ll talk to you,” Dr. Goldstein said, guiding Corry softly toward another office, and it suddenly occurred to Corry that Dr. Hess must be The Times’ psychiatrist.

  “Is Dr. Hess a psychiatrist?” Corry asked, in a voice rising with suspicion, but Dr. Goldstein seemed not to hear the question—he merely said, comfortingly, “Dr. Hess is a wonderful man … some of our top executives see Dr. Hess.…”

  After seeing Dr. Hess, John Corry was apparently discovered to be in working order. He returned to the newsroom, but he felt no better than before. He continued to resist the Philadelphia bureau, and it was eventually agreed that he could remain in New York, working once again as a deskman. For the next several months Corry worked quietly in the newsroom, writing on rare occasions—one notable exception being a long profile on Cardinal Spellman for Harper’s magazine. Then one day, John Corry’s feeling of indecisiveness left him as i
nexplicably as it had come—suddenly he wanted to write long pieces of more depth and emotion than he thought was permissible on a newspaper. When he received a contract to write for Harper’s, Corry thought that this might be the challenge and the change that he had been seeking; and so deciding to find out, he summoned the courage and he resigned from The Times.

  17

  As the Times’ managing editor, Clifton Daniel is often invited to deliver speeches around the nation, and whenever his schedule permits, he accepts with pleasure—he enjoys appearing at banquets as a featured guest, likes traveling first-class by jet, is soothed by the tidiness of terminals, the well-dressed people, the muted sounds of women’s heels and soft music; he relishes the two drinks before dinner served by winsome stewardesses who appeal to him not only because of their good grooming and precise tailoring, their pleasant smiles and desire to please, but also because of their almost ritualistic movements as they bend to serve, so graceful and controlled. They are America’s geisha girls, he once thought, flying back to New York after a speech in the Midwest, and then he remembered, almost wistfully, that he had never known an airline stewardess. A few of them had once lived above his apartment in London years ago, and he used to hear them at night, but he had never gotten to know them.