by Megyn Kelly
I was ecstatic about my budding broadcasting career, and threw myself into it with everything I had. At the station, Bill assigned a staff reporter to show me the ropes. She didn’t seem too keen on the mentoring job.
“I had a talk with Bill today about your hair,” she told me. “He wants you to cut it off. All of it.”
I loved my long blond hair but had vowed to do whatever it took. I got my hair cut in a short bob.
Bill was not pleased. When he figured out what had happened, he called in my “mentor” and chewed her out. I felt betrayed, but not all that surprised. This woman was another Jane: someone I thought of as a friend who was actually working to undermine me.
Fortunately, for every Jane there is a Meredith, who went out of her way to give me a new lease on life when there was no reason for her to do so except generosity and kindness. In my own dealings with other women, I try to be a Meredith. In fact, when I said good-bye to Bond Lee before moving to Baltimore, I asked him how I could ever repay him. His parting words were, “Pay it forward.” I’ve done so many times, and when I do, I think of him and Meredith.
Bill Lord kept finding me work—first on NewsChannel 8 mostly, but soon enough on the flagship property, WJLA. My first live report was from Reagan National Airport. At the end, I heard in my earpiece, “Great job.” I remember thinking, Really? (The truth was, no, not really.) Bill told me I was coming along, that I just needed to relax more.
“What you have, I can’t teach,” he said. “What you need to learn, I can help you with.”
One time in the field, the producer said to me, “Okay, we need an intro and a tag—your standard doughnut in one-twenty. Got it?”
“Yes! Got it!” I responded, wondering what the hell a doughnut was. Thank goodness for the cameramen, who taught me a lot.
Another time my photographer and I were exiting a subway station after wrapping a story when a bunch of cops ran toward the trains, guns drawn.
“We gotta get out of here!” I said.
“We get paid to go in there!” he said, pointing toward the danger. And off we went to chase the cops. It was a lightbulb moment for me as a young reporter.
I was excited to feel my TV career coming alive. It was as if it had been waiting for me all these years, lying dormant, and now I’d found it. I was energized getting out of bed each morning. Here, again, was that familiar feeling—the same confidence I’d felt doing moot court in law school: I got this. That sense of pride and delight, drained from years of overwork, started to seep back into my life, and I could not get enough of it.
As well as things were going for me professionally, my new undertaking only exacerbated an already difficult schedule for me and Dan. Dan was now the chief fellow at Johns Hopkins, which required—again—a lot of hours at the hospital. Between Jones Day and WJLA, I was commuting from Baltimore into DC just about every day of the week, which meant nearly three hours in the car a day. Two years into marriage, and Dan and I barely saw each other. We were focused on our careers, not on each other—a situation we had both accepted for years.
Still, we held out hope that the end of Dan’s residency would bring about a change. In the summer of 2003, Dan finished his fellowship at Hopkins and took his first real job in Northern Virginia as a pain management doctor, and we moved to a small town house in Alexandria. Dan was now working as an attending physician, in a great but demanding specialty. This was what we dreamed of, but it felt much different once the dream came true—the beginning of yet another endeavor in which he had to prove himself (and would), just as I had done a year earlier. We made too little time for each other, and we were too busy to see it for the problem that it was.
Adding to the challenge was the fact that I was in the process of making another switch of my own—one with potentially life-changing consequences. In March 2004, Bill Lord invited me to the Radio and Television Correspondents’ Association Dinner—and a seat at the WJLA table. I had seen this party memorialized in the movie Broadcast News, which I’d watched a hundred times. In it, William Hurt’s anchorman character approaches his neurotic executive producer, played by Holly Hunter.
“It’s incredible who’s here,” he tells her.
“Who?” she asks.
“Me!” he responds.
I’ve had that feeling dozens of times since starting in TV, but that night at the Washington Hilton was memorably the first.
I wore a hot pink dress, because I realized no one would know me, and I wanted to stand out. At the bar, I made my way over to a couple of journalists and started making small talk. One of the guys there was Bill Sammon, then a Fox News contributor. We got to talking, and he encouraged me to send my résumé tape to Kim Hume at Fox. At this point I was eight months into part-time reporting, and wasn’t at all sure I was ready for a national position. I didn’t want to shoot and miss. But I kept Sammon’s card.
And then a critical thing happened: a couple of months later, just as Dan and I were moving to Alexandria, Bill Lord made me a full-time job offer at WJLA. It was just the boost of confidence I needed. A real TV job. It was official: I was going to do this for a living. But rather than simply say yes, I decided to roll the dice. I figured, if I was good enough to be full-time there, maybe I was good enough to be full-time someplace even bigger. I contacted Sammon for Kim Hume’s address, sent her my tape, and hoped she would call.
Within twenty-four hours, she did.
10
Lawyer, Broadcaster, Journalist
Meeting Brit and Kim Hume, who were then the managing editor and bureau chief of Fox’s Washington Bureau, made me feel like Little Orphan Annie seeing the mansion for the first time. I was determined to work for them. They were gracious and fun but also tough and smart. We hit it off so well that I wasn’t surprised the next day when they invited me to meet with the company’s then executive VP of news, Kevin Magee, and then with Roger Ailes, the Fox News chairman and CEO in New York—and the person repeatedly recognized as the most powerful man in news.
Magee told me in the interview, “So, you want to be at Fox. Everyone wants to be at Fox now that we’re number one.”
Holy cow, I thought. Fox is number one? I hope I get this job! I hadn’t even considered checking the ratings in my overpreparation; I was focused entirely on the news.
He had no idea I wasn’t a die-hard Fox watcher, nor did I want him to know. I watched the news, of course. And I had always liked Fox News. In particular, I loved how all of these beautiful female anchors and reporters seemed so strong and smart. I remember admiring Laurie Dhue and her air of authority. Also Catherine Herridge, who seemed to have Audrey Hepburn’s face and Margaret Thatcher’s brain. I also watched CNN and MSNBC and the networks, but I had not applied anywhere else but Fox at that point. If Fox had said no, I certainly would have.
Soon after my exchange with Magee, I went into Roger’s office. Here he was—the legendary Roger Ailes. Heralded throughout the industry as a television genius, Ailes had made people like Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity household names. He was well known as a developer of talent. He was also well known as a fighter.
The previous year, after then–Fox News anchor Paula Zahn received an offer from CNN, Roger fired her, sued her, and publicly ridiculed her (saying “a dead raccoon” could have outrated her). The Associated Press ran a story about the bare-knuckled campaign against Zahn, concluding, “The underlying message seems clear: It’s not wise to cross Roger Ailes.” Got it, I thought to myself. Not planning to do that.
Roger and I hit it off immediately. We talked about the news. He asked me if I understood the company’s mission statement and what fair and balanced news meant. He asked me how the daughter of a nurse and a college professor understood anything other than left-wing dogma.
I told him the truth: I was raised in a Democrat household but was apolitical. I had been for my entire life. We just were not a political family, ever. As I wrote in my journal in 1988: “Am I a Republican or a Democrat? I seriously d
on’t know.”
I also said to Roger that nine years of practicing law had exposed me to other views and taught me how to argue and understand both sides. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t looking for a Republican reporter—he just wanted someone who was open-minded.
He and I got on the topic of life around New York City, and I told him I enjoyed New York and had actually visited Hogs & Heifers—a famous dive bar on which the movie Coyote Ugly would later be based—that weekend. He asked me what I ordered. I told him Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can. (They yell at you there if you order anything too fancy.) We laughed and challenged each other. I tried not to take myself too seriously. When I walked out, I knew I was getting that job.
Still, Ailes had left himself some wiggle room. While the Humes were pushing hard for him to hire me, Ailes’s final message before I left was that he needed to check the budget to see if they could afford a new reporter. I felt certain this was just a formality. I was getting this job.
Then Magee called.
“We’re passing,” he said. “It’s a no.”
What?
“Yeah, I have to meet with Roger, but it’s a no.”
I hung up the phone in disbelief. My exchange with Magee had been fine, but the interview with Ailes had felt like a home run.
Stunned, I got in a taxi to the airport. I was on my way to Spain for a two-week vacation. The whole cab ride, all I could think was: How could they be saying no? This is not possible. What did I do wrong? And then the disappointment set in: How close I’d been to national TV! To being on the number-one channel! To working for a boss with whom I’d obviously hit it off! What could I do?
I was at the airport in DC when my phone rang again. It was Magee.
“Well,” he said, “Roger definitely wants you.” And that was the beginning of everything.
A word on my first contract negotiation: I hired an agent to conduct it for me. Now that I had an offer, it was no problem finding an agent. I told him the number at which I wanted to begin. It wasn’t a big number—after all, I had only been a journalist for less than a year. But it was respectable for someone with nine years of legal experience under her belt. The job wasn’t about the money for me, but I knew what I was worth.
The agent told me I’d never get it. “Just ask,” I said.
“A million girls would kill for this job,” he said dismissively. “Just take what they’re offering.”
Well. As you might imagine, that pissed me off. I wasn’t a girl, first of all. And I wasn’t like a million others. This wasn’t some casting-couch moment where the ingénue is given a chance she has no business getting. I’d been a high-powered lawyer for a decade, on my feet arguing in front of juries and some of the best and brightest and sharpest judges in the country. I’d also spent ten years working harder than just about anyone else they could possibly be considering—an ethic I would clearly bring with me.
“Demand more,” I told him.
“You’re going to lose this offer,” he said.
“Do it,” I said. “If I lose it, I lose it.”
Sure enough, Fox paid the number I requested.
It’s not a bad lesson for young people starting out: trust your instincts. Sometimes even those who are supposed to be looking out for you can underestimate your value. Often you are your own best advocate. I wound up firing that agent right after I started. I hired Kenny Lindner, who was my agent for years (and remains a friend), and for a better-than-usual split, given that his office had hung up on me a couple of years earlier. Kenny and I had a laugh about that.
I have negotiated every contract of mine at Fox ever since.
Once I left the law, I never worried about money again. It wasn’t because I had a ton of it. At the beginning of my TV career, I certainly did not. It was just that I had learned—the hard way—to value other things above money, things like time to myself. That’s not to say I would ever agree to be paid less than I know I am worth. I’m not stupid. But I saw for myself that being a moneymaking machine is pointless. It pays the bills but leaves no time for deposits into the You Fund, which doesn’t need money when it’s depleted.
With the offer from Fox, the day had finally come when I had to walk into my boss’s office at Jones Day and quit. I felt a sense of relief. I was officially off the path I now knew was not for me, and onto something exhilarating. There was a lot less certainty in news. I’d gone from being on the brink of making partner at a great firm to something far less clear, but I knew it was the right choice.
Even so, when I told my law boss I was leaving, it was hard. It felt like saying good-bye to family and, in a way, to my former self. They had been such supporters of mine, up until the last minute. What other law firm would let its associate become a part-time journalist while still lawyering? I was grateful beyond measure. I was also a bit choked up at the official end of my career as an attorney. I got the words out, and my boss was sad, but understanding.
I’d say the biggest reaction I got from my lawyer friends was deep disappointment, coupled with disbelief that I would leave the law for TV.
“You’re leaving the practice of law?” they’d repeat back to me, baffled. “You’ve worked so hard to make it this far. You’re about to make partner!”
“But I get to be on TV!” I would exclaim.
There were a few people who seemed genuinely happy for me and even, in one case, predicted great things. Willis Goldsmith, a partner with whom I’d tried a case, said, “You’ll have your own show before you know it. You’re a star. I’ve seen it. Now everyone else will.” To this day we’ve stayed in touch, and he’ll e-mail me sometimes, saying, Remember what I told you? I do indeed.
I started at Fox News in August 2004. I was hired as a general assignment reporter, which in the DC bureau meant covering mostly politics, but given my legal background, they also assigned me the US Supreme Court. I used to love sitting in the High Court in the media box, watching the attorneys make their cases. A part of me felt a pang of nostalgia, but then I’d remember how much work goes into an argument like that, and I’d be happy I was in a different arena now—still a player, but on another field.
The job brought with it a steep learning curve. I worked hard and got the hang of things fast, but I humbled myself plenty in the process.
I also quickly realized that TV people may be even more colorful than lawyers. On my first day of work in the DC bureau, then deputy bureau chief Bruce Becker showed me around and walked me to the office I would be sharing with Major Garrett, then our Capitol Hill correspondent. Major was on vacation that day. When I first entered the small space we would share for nearly three years, I saw pictures of his kids all over the walls, and a huge stack of Maxim magazines with saucy cover girls that had spilled over, covering the entryway to the office. I laughed. Bruce looked embarrassed. He didn’t know at the time that I wasn’t someone who would find that kind of thing offensive, so he was probably hedging his bets.
Two weeks later, I finally met Major. He was a tall, gregarious, warm guy—quick to laugh and a fantastic storyteller. He has a delicious vocabulary. I used to keep a list of Majorisms. You’d be sitting in the office watching some press conference or roundtable discussion, and you’d hear Major bust out: “Rapacious plutocrats!”
I’d politely laugh and then quietly Google “rapacious plutocrats.”
He was finishing up his book The Enduring Revolution, about the Republicans’ 1994 Contract with America. He used to mess with the summer interns by asking, “How many of my books have you read?” And then he would tell them they should get them at the low, low price of one penny on Amazon.
Major was my sounding board on everything. He knew all there was to know about Washington. He had covered Capitol Hill for U.S. News & World Report before starting as a broadcaster. He had no ideological agenda. He’d written for the left-wing Mother Jones magazine, and worked at CNN before Fox News. He was the perfect professional roommate for me, and taught me a ton, like how nec
essary it can be to drink a shot of bourbon at the end of a hard workday.
“It’ll put hair on your chest,” he told me.
“Think of a different lure,” I responded.
My first day of being assigned to a story, I walked into the morning meeting for Special Report, a show originally launched and hosted by Brit Hume. Brit introduced me to the group by saying “Everyone, welcome Megyn Kendall: lawyer, broadcaster, journalist.”
I loved the sound of that. From day one, Brit and Kim were actively involved in my development. They were kind, but honest. If I screwed up, Brit would tell me. If I did well, he’d tell me that too. In those early days on the air, I was very green, and very stiff. The truth is, I wasn’t very good. But I had confidence I would be good. TV is like typing: you can’t get better without practicing. (I know this because, as you may recall, my mom made me take typing twice.)
This was an advantage of starting in cable: you’re on TV all the time. Unlike on a network, where you may have an appearance on the morning show or the evening news, we are 24/7. The first significant story they put me on was the journalistic failure of CBS in reporting a story about George W. Bush’s service in the National Guard just before the 2004 election. The program 60 Minutes II was being humiliated for failing to follow fundamental journalistic standards. Four producers wound up fired as a result of that debacle, and it was effectively the end of Dan Rather’s career.1 In reporting on the situation, I had hits every hour all day long.
It was great practice for a young reporter. My shift for a long time was 5:00 a.m. three days a week and then two weekend shifts. People are so casual and relaxed at those hours. I became close to Kelly Wright, who worked a similar shift and was generous in helping me learn. It was great practice for me. I learned quickly the need to work hard—and fast—in television. Unlike my law days, there was no getting an extension if you needed more time. It was fun figuring out how to work more efficiently. I had to start letting some of my perfectionism go.